I steep myself deeper
into the capitalist game
the rubber hoodoos
of the rack
complicity is my zippered mouth
and I walk with papercut
cardboard out through
a parking lot of gnats
I open heavy squealing doors
to place waste in a dumpster
floating on a non-potable puddle
(originally published in borrowed solace, Winter 2019)
Funny, thinking back, the restaurant– hell,
the industry, those incessant phone calls
in the midst of rush, my snaking past
corners with three plates of hummus
and shawarma in aluminum, warm
from the kitchen, only to waste
in a stranger’s presence, scraps
on porcelain I’d bus, then zigzag
through the floorplan of tables.
Funny, thinking now, how little has
changed– insecure in economics,
I’ve jumped the lilypads of job
after job, the backbreaking work
of conforming, of each return home
with something new to say but I’ve
said it, I’ve said my best, my cap-
stone thesis shredded in California,
back when full of possibility–
I desire a bowl of time
loops. Cereal in my milk.
I didn’t even use silverware
in college, a joke inside a riddle
presented as a gift I constantly
unwrap, umbrellas of green
folding into myself in the rain,
suffocating, blinding, this pirouette
of place, this unfixable sedan
screaming off the shoulder
of the highway, smoke
signals ablaze and late
for work.
(originally published in Little Rose Magazine, Winter 2019)
for Mary Oliver
We walked along
the gray edges of
the river. And my
glasses had shattered.
This removed
the shape of things,
the perfect barren limbs
now perfect trees,
what I thought were boats
in the distance you told me
were wild geese going home–
and where else to go
but deeper? I wanted
to see what might be
around the bend, always
something– exactly the
grass we could not know
we needed, pines
that waved us
further into forest.
(originally published in Pacifica, Spring 2019)
the cicadas are out
early don’t be
alarmed by the
coming swarms build a memory
of winter build
a memory of here
I loved what we had
cold glove
in warm hand
but now when growing old I know
I didn’t do enough to do my part
the wandering joyrides burning ghosts of
dinosaurs from gunky lungs of millennium
sedans cigarettes in our mouths tv the endless
bedlamps they say sleep is best in total
darkness o how I wasted more than I knew
on those daily long commutes
(originally published in Orange Quarterly, Winter 2019)
After reading five food poems in a row,
I paused, told the audience I get inspiration
from food. I meant I get energy, really.
At home, sometimes, I sit at the table
eating noodles and suddenly
I am at the table eating noodles!
I look at the floppy strings
on my plate and ask myself
what I’m doing. Converting
loose ends to energy, according
to education. Google tells
me to stop eating so many noodles
but to stop means less
energy– the will
to go on. These laces
tying my stomach
consumed by gastric acids
transform into aminos
that fuel me, somehow,
these noodles that don’t
make sense but somehow
allow my string of days
to keep dangling, serve
me on a plate so that
I may exist, so I can fall
in love with someone
and they can fall,
too, and steam
until we cool enough
for them to stick
their fork in me,
then wonder, what
are we doing? The
fork swivels,
gathers
a tornado
of noodles.
(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Winter 2019)
I am cooking on the half-broken grill– knobs
stuck, burner busted– you left when you moved
out. This rack of ribs burning on foil– that’s you.
You and I are through. Perhaps not; I’m famous
(in my mind) for my inability to settle a squabble,
however small, how I raise the temperature until
the whole meal’s scorched in this final summer
on the heat. The charcoal smoke remains nostalgic
in the atmosphere but this pig is dead, has been,
and the house hasn’t felt the same for months,
weeds crawling around the wooden baseboard,
the dishwasher sobbing in the clutter of its mess.
I am throwing everything I own into black bags
to be disposed of Thursday, on the precipice
of a move, how much grease I’ve scraped from this
squealing machine, all this hunger turned to waste.
(originally published in Juke Joint, Winter 2019)
Last summer, clunks of glass,
grapefruit juice across the veiled
table. We stayed drunk
through sweltering June, to cool
off with Bella Sera pinot grigio,
Tostitos, queso. How much is
too much pleasure? These half-
empty days of water we are
not eager to drink. Sit in shade
til sundown, table umbrella up
to block the cancer sun we
know. We know.
(originally published in Kissing Dynamite, Spring 2018)
voila! magic! mcnuggets
at the front door a knock-
knock and bag grab
now alone at the edge
of the long kitchen table
the a/c roars on lukewarm
meat between my teeth
*
voila! magic! blood struggles through
breathing’s become an hourglass
my girlfriend says her dad had a heart
attack at thirty then gave up meat
I press a button the heater burns on
(originally published in Hamline Lit Link, Winter 2019)
same as spit
on a band room floor
poolside
without knowing we are all
skeletons
holding information too
great to actually understand
trombone blaring
mouths into the sea
flute-marching
to conformity’s beat
suntan lotion and absurdism
smother meaningless philosophies all
over your skin and block out the rest
(originally published in Ghost City Review, Winter 2019)
you told me Friendship is a road
split by two roads, parallel to Liberty,
and I told you that was a poem,
but you said, no, I’m just giving you
direction, and I looked up from your eyes
to the green sign reading Friendship Ave
and knew what you meant. Friendship–
we had yet to spend our first night
in the city, one that would end in
a dark cocktail bar for a dance party
that never materialized. In the morning,
we rode rented bicycles with bent
spokes and a click in their spinning
and I could only follow your lead
and cycle through streets still unfamiliar
to me– we weaved through lonely roads
to the Strip District, then stopped
at the Sixth Street Bridge to admire
the glimmer of the river that warm
winter day and continued until
we found the hill to Randyland
too steep to ride so, off our bikes,
we walked side-by-side up the path
until reaching our destination;
we locked our broken bikes
and kept walking.
(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Winter 2019)
