sometimes curtains blocking sunlight
are only ghosts sometimes ghost light
in windows only a brightness beyond
the blue bridge I work beneath only
the bridge will lift us over the Allegheny
only the bridge will float us into the grit
of the city the people I used to know
I don’t know them anymore what is
a bed but unmade sheets soft silk
I must become a bridge to get
myself out of bed in morning sunlight
beyond the ghosts of days
I used to possess I was
a curtain blocking the trajectory
of my own light
(originally published in indicia lit, Spring 2022)
work
Disc Golf
My excuse for a poor score:
the frisbee has teeth. And a mind.
It chose to rebel inside the wind–
I agree, of course, when you say
our food delivery job is temporary.
We have hours before we need
to clock in– an ordinary morning
straddling the Olentangy river.
Any way to get our minds off
routine: when scanning the field
for ticks, I find nothing but
excuses, for never becoming
the suit-and-tie my parents
wanted me to be, my score
well over par, another
wayward toss into the breeze
hopes for clarity on a journey
I know not where will lead.
(originally published in Penmen Review, Fall 2020)
Early Twenties
At Giesen Haus late, we drink long
islands on empty stomachs until
we make nacho shots – chips loaded
with beans, jalapeños, cheese, the finisher
being the rest of our twenty-
two-ounce Doppelrocks. Because
the Haus is closing (we do not
know soon, for good), we
walk the blurred street to
The Basement, get another ale,
maybe two. We tweet Rob
Delaney when we decide we need
thirteen more drinks before the end.
We make another shot, the Dog Blowjob–
Raspberry, Blue Raspberry, Jameson–
IHOP at 2 AM, our waitress tells us a time
she was stuck in the snow, drunk, and a
customer paid her for sex. Cinnamon
pancakes, hash browns, we wait what feels
like forever amid endless summer now
that we are adults. 5 AM we walk back
to Giesen Haus and somehow, I drive us back
now. We cruise down Whipple to Bloom’s
hypnotic Wild, witnessing the sun attempt
to rise from the depths of night. In a few hours
I finish reading Conrad’s Heart of Darkness,
which I want to like, then watch birds
in branches with binoculars received
in the mail. I peer through all the nothingness
green. I start Siddhartha, play Skyrim, binge
Breaking Bad. Later in the week, I put in
thirty hours of restaurant work with
all the time in the world.
(originally published in Dreich Magazine, Summer 2020)
28th Street Bridge
Every time I drive the 28th St. Bridge I always make the joke
to myself– should I really be driving on this?
It’s a paunchy punchline to no one and still I apologize for it–
a comment on the bridge’s chipped green paint and rusted
hinges, the (perceived) rickety short-distance, its creaking (I
don’t hear a thing). How close I’ve been to a laugh, some snicker
into an abyss– I’ve said much worse to people and not apologized,
driving over the strip after a fight with my lover, suspended
in the air a silence like tracking a FedEx truck with a package
you know will reach you but when? That apology– the tethering
between the space of sound, the hum of a hungry engine,
covalence of steel and structure bonding across a void.
(originally published in where is the river, Winter 2021)
The Continuum
Jobs– the real number field (unlimited
digits between two dreams). Your hard
work amongst the wolves– howl-at-the-
moon simulations, projections of progress.
Semantics, dynamics. You needed to feed
yourself systems: fluid flows, fluctuations,
heartbeats, celebrity. Your models are based
on the old scientists, to whom greatness
we all equate (implicit assumption of a
linear progression, your rate of desire in
lieu of time, space, and all its constraints).
Traditions are the equations to overcome.
(originally published in Magnolia Review, Summer 2020)
Sixty-Hour Workweek
the work never ends got slurry
in my mouth called schedules or
points of reference for words
beyond words I say can’t
capitalize on limited resources
I have a tiny appetite you said
after twelve hours repeatedly
you are disappointed in the
remaining hours what’s sunlight
what’s wind got to do with well
being the highlight of my week
was assembling a black leather
gaming chair I like to wine
and dine in slow interior dying
(originally published in Rabid Oak, Summer 2022)
Ladder
Asking where
the ladder led
was stupid
you said up
to the roof
and of course
it does
I guess I’m
saying we both
work at Panera
and when
thinking about
my prospects
they are not high
because if I were
to grab a rung
and lift myself up
I would probably
fall but if I didn’t
the locked door
at the top means
I’d struggle for an
unspectacular view
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Summer 2020)
Endless Twine, So to Speak
every sentence can rebirth
a hundred times correction
fluid applied to my tongue
I gag paint thinner thinker
emotions, I’d say what
a wondrous gift, a paperclip
glinting in fluorescent sun,
how endless sky turns fake
the longer I stay inside
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Winter 2022)
Factory Friend
we live the same lives
one limestone the other
the mountain gray clocks
hold hands in concentric
routines using boxcutters
to slash tape off freights
of textbooks the insular
world blurs platitudes
won’t make the day run
faster as the forklift as
convertible into stacks
of cardboard papercuts
eats away at my flesh
you lend me an apple
in leather gloves lunch
for the weary cores of
a warehouse we drive
away to separate lives
(originally published in Otoliths, Spring 2020)
Endless Imagination
The bowtie light switch has a mustache.
What does that say about me? I’ve spent
too much time seeing whatever I want
in office objects. Tape gun forklift.
Soap giraffe. All I want is to love
what I have however diminutive
the love, however diminutive
the day stretches out in consuming
all other days. My endless
imagination boards me
on its paper airplane,
the rock slungshot the first
time I read a book and never
arrived at my destination.
(originally published in OpenDoor Magazine, Winter 2022)