in a moscow hotel room
shadow brokers partied
with stolen american
cyberweapons over the
counterintelligence
they wanted public
the americans
drank everything
and partied through
the night
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Summer 2018)
Build bridges, not walls,
though bridges ice faster
than roads we traveled–
hundreds of miles,
only to boomerang back
to before, while thousands of
armed windmills gasp for air–
the sunset through the bug-
stained window moves faster
than us toward a semblance of home–
swirls of clouds quivering
into the arms of weeping
willows simply
weeping–
(originally published in The Wayward Sword, Summer 2018)
i carry infection in saliva
like a point of pride
see, my city reeks of bone
tall skeleton skyscrapers
i’m numb again
as dental drill enters me
year after year
what birthed my decays?
raised to desire new
wants every day
wanting even wanting
my dad worked at a ford factory
after the great depression
churned out a new kid
every few years
seasons of rust
spreading on steel
here’s the sunset
he’d wake us to say &
spend the days molding
the yard
rough hands on saw
that was satisfactory
to him
for me oaks are cold towers &
grass not godmade
took a clump in my mouth
from the graveyard as a child &
i swear i tasted
death
but could not digest it
i’m but a skeleton
all life’s experiences
slip through me
masticating childhood
no pondering
the future with mom and dad
scooping fries at ponderosa &
we’d always go for seconds &
mint ice cream after
(originally published in Burningword Literary Journal, Fall 2018)
Broken bottles on the bridge
above the blue Olentangy.
My time in this city is
limited, as is my body,
the future a compromise,
shards from the persistence
of believing in transcendence.
The sweltering sun pummels
my skin, exposed, as I wait for
a sign to cross the river road.
(originally published in indefinite space, Spring 2019)
I am a tin pen
so you ask when?
I write on the floor
kissing the spot
where dancers writhed
in a style I cannot recommend.
Bodies bent like thin trees
in a hurricane. A reporter standing
in the midst of ominous gray
waiting for the signal to speak
so she can get out soon,
roads slickened with saliva.
(originally published in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Fall 2018)
the raindrop
life (transience
is a home)
loneliness
forms
on clear days
rising out
of reach
& always
when you wake
(originally published in Literary Yard, Summer 2018)
It is possible
for electrons like you
and me
to have a long-
lasting interaction
before the transition
to zero.
Start strong,
move fast,
conserve energy
through longer
wavelengths,
whale songs, wet
lips. Hold
until light slips
through the spaces
of our fingers:
phosphorescence.
Glow. We know
probabilities
for starting and ending
are the same.
After the initial
burst, let’s become
a more stable state
we won’t gradually
weaken.
(originally published in Thirteen Myna Birds, Summer 2018)
At thirteen I awoke to a man-sized bat
waving black-eyed wings at the edge of my bed.
Back then, I believed there were unexplainable things
in the universe. Dad would talk about guardian
angels when he meant luck explains
a kinship with the divine. He still
drove his motorcycle beyond
the age of seventy. He fell asleep
one time in the green countryside
and awoke to blurry shoelaces
of the trucker who slammed into him,
amazed my dad still alive
and the proof in scraped knee
and a busted motorcycle somehow still
operational then driven home. Dad attributed
this, like most things, to angels. I could have believed
for much longer. As a kid, I watched E.T. ride
a bicycle in the window in our lawn every day,
his brown eyes never noticing me. Always
when I pointed this presence to my sister,
he was past the point of seeing.
Soon I stopped believing.
(originally published in The Tau, Summer 2018)
he says
I’ll do the hard
part not that you
can’t then cuts
a plastic bag
with scissors
and syrup
goos out
into a metal
cylinder and
I’d rather you
do the time
intensive part
of mixing
with hot water
and hands
me a white ladle
so I begin
in slow circles
when Monique
walks over
and whispers
you’re stirring
the pot
and stays there
beside me
these last weeks
of working
there umami
broth burning
steel I lift
the red
handle up
to stop the
flow
just past
the line
(originally published in LEVELER Poetry, Summer 2018)
driving in circles
around the city
snow caps on all cars
little mountains shivering
tiny motors no one knows
the name of anyone
only a word on a screen
a face forgotten
and city lights
there’s a light rain mixed
with snow
the roads not slick
I am picking
up passengers
at the end of the night
and no further
than I was
at the beginning.
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Summer 2018)
