And my eyeballs
are on fire.
I used to like the sound
of a brush in flames,
and this is the same
thing. The burning
beneath me,
molten soil.
Running is my prerogative,
but my heart has to be
a certain way,
not not.
(originally published in Monologging, Winter 2024)
shielded from torrential downpour I count each privilege
in the rain the mailman with the bad knee runs up our
stairs to deliver corporate marketing I sit in my
comfort watching heavy mist float float off the parked
cars and wonder as the sidewalk’s sea level
rises is this a flash flood? then it lets up when it
resumes intensity I wonder if this is hurricane weather
this is Pittsburgh this is no hurricane though Laura
makes her journey up the Gulf Coast another storm in
a sky of storms I observe seemingly unlimited
(originally published in Poetica, Spring 2024)
I am shirtless. I am thirsty.
I drink an eternity
from my full glass of water
while my two friends kiss.
In the old house. The kitchen
with the steel island
I had lifted my glass
from. New lovers!
I stand
by the sink
filling my glass,
over and over
again, the faucet
a waterfall,
bountiful,
something like love–
it quenches,
but you must keep filling.
(originally published in BlazeVOX, Spring 2024)
I could be walking
on water down
the beach minding
my own business
a heron Jesus
and still at the splash
of your all
encompassing wingspan
I would not know
the difference
between a wave
and awash
(originally published in Avalon Literary Review, Summer 2024)
Black wig and grimebrown,
reach your hand to my hand.
Mimic a person (sooner and
sooner no one remembers) in
pretend interaction (if I could
color wry smiles I would
cover the world). Your old
dweller hobbles to mine,
withered from the silence.
We guess at the true age
of this era (graininess
invisible and anxious).
This is no old film.
Stuffed in sneakers, we act
through dilapidated cotton
(too far away, too tight a fit).
Let us breathe.
(originally published in The Globe Review, Summer 2023)
Food being energy–
that I eat and feel sleepy
is some sick joke. God
the jester in
his birthday suit,
blowing out the
candles
in the unlit
universe,
this small corner
of it, anyway,
where
I have turned
my back
on everything.
(originally published in Taj Mahal Review, Fall 2023)
I look for the endless
tunnel highway of light
if I see the golden
triangle pointing east
painting the far wall
spilling into another bucket
you are close enough to okay
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Fall 2024)
I have been that guy
sitting in his car on a dark
street headlights off in
the company of siren
cicadas during a festival
down the street its residents
wanting sleep I have been
that hungry that listless
that finished within porch
light of someone else’s home
while people who look
like your past
walk on by
(originally published in The Kolkata Arts Blog, Summer 2024)
Michael says actors are delusional–
the ones who star in poorly-scripted
films, over and over. How can they
live as soft-boiled eggs? I want to believe
in excellence, too. That love of craft–
steering ships– can navigate
to where one needs to go,
even when relentlessly punched
in the ring.
I, too, am weak, having
said the words of Winkler
for free
just to get on screen.
And the cost was
stock-video explosions
that were copyright
violations.
But to live a dream
(and dream
I do)
one must wake up
and say the words
to anyone who listens.
(originally published in Rind: An Online Literary Magazine, Summer 2024)
This could be the last weekend
before certain uncertainty.
Yes, I am a secret pessimist.
This year has been good
for that. I lost my line
of work due to pandemic,
but started a new one
born from it. When you
were crying from your
campaign job, worried
your boss might not
let you go to your
needed appointment
on Thursday, I told
you what you’re
crying about isn’t
your Thursday
appointment.
We’re afraid
of what we
may be living
in on Wednesday.
(originally published in Setu, Fall 2024)