Love that is no love
at all I park in the
sun I feel the old
city meander and
breathe around me
like the open river
in a wind storm
(originally published in EAP, Fall 2021)
Writing
Passing Claudia
in this city is a familiar intersection /
brick / unlike the old: stone / spotted
your doppelganger waiting the stoplight
/ stalled behind a truck and called your
name / as I drew closer / turned green
you waved back / could not halt my car’s
slope southbound after hello / goodbye
all acquaintances become ruins / friends
who shift faces / places to call home first /
my mother’s / my skeletal wandering to
belong / shell possessing consciousness
beneath acacias / humid summer of moss
between the cracks of historic buildings
(originally published in The City Key, Spring 2020)
Inadequate Help
I counted twelve hundred drops of rain
to cull the drought in the desert
but at some indeterminate future
coordinate. There isn’t even a crowd
to be lost in anymore– human bodies
dissipate into pixels on a stuttering
screen. Listen to her voice. Listen
to his voice. What we are drinking
when we speak is a potent purple
cocktail: dragonfruit, chia,
pineapple, banana, ginger,
vodka, rum. I know you
are close when you made it
but the rain’s still far away.
(originally published in San Antonio Review, Fall 2020)
Shadows
we are shapeshifters we believe
in the magic of night we blend
into shadows no one knows our
lust ogling us glowing knowing
yellow eyes watchful this world
we make our decisions the love
we choose to give and leave (oh,
the love we leave) in the light we
thought would blend into other
light but that is not the way the
sun operates it glints off car hot
metal to momentarily blind you
back into the shadows
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Spring 2020)
The Curtain
Three shades too light,
I don’t have the strength
to lift myself to the balcony
where I’ve gazed out a thousand
times, though the curtain has
always been there, the glass
looking out into the future,
the sun. Never set a small table
in its soft light, the gray–
a little breeze, barely there.
(originally published in White Stag #SPIRIT Anthology, Winter 2023)
Zoo / Depression
your nephew said I was the cool one
(ripped jeans) it gave me a kind
of complex nothing was the same
after that day at the zoo an old
chimpanzee contemplated death in
the corner of his cage how life
knows a multitude of ways to restrain you
I considered myself lost
in the crowd not answering my phone
nor trying to find you I know
that’s not feasible I mean we were kids
pushing kids blue by the aquarium
glass big-eyed fish couldn’t notice us
if they tried the big room shimmering
in the gray January light we trapped
(originally published in Visceral Uterus, Winter 2021)
The Days Are Bored With My Language
we are sitting closer
to the television in a brand
new bedroom not
that we bought a new
house rather rearranged
everything the television
Playstation mini
tables dustballs morals
we never labeled
outside obvious
corners the air
conditioning vents in the faraway
summer I hope never
comes yes I am this
amount jaded the new colorful
reflections of the TV
beside its fresh horizon
almost like the screen’s
outside where I can finally live
my real life in pixelated terms
I know I know I am
conflicted about even
the architectural oxygen the wood
was inspected man just not
by me I mean girders in the semi
shallow underground been
scrubbing raw potato skins
only still to grok the boiled
intentions steaming the
mind’s kitchen I don’t got
knives I don’t got any
memory of the chicken
carrot stew just I often
feel infinitesimal I can’t
stop filling overfilling
the pot hot water simply
abundance very thankful
for plastic bags stuffed
in the cold seam of the
world our window
won’t open
(originally published in datura, Summer 2021)
Spring, 2020
Spring’s to bring the beacon.
This year, just pollen
after dead leaves.
(Crust of another burnt
baking pan). Look
how inside you are.
Time rolls down
the verdant hills
we left behind.
The empty storefronts–
now the scene of a tripod
positioned to catch a dance
party of one. Backdrop
of dark, grimy windows.
Still, the sky stays blue.
No molecule of spikes
replicating itself endlessly
above. Just the days.
All the days
become the one
before – a billion more.
(originally published in Marias & Sampaguitas, Summer 2021)
Viola
In the grass, at the top of a steep hill
off Route 28, a viola lays in open case.
Panes rattle from the wind, cold
shivers up and down the spine
of the landscape, a cartography
lacking names of streets I know
I walk each day without
any kind of passion.
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)
St. Petersburg, 2015
I took a photo of herons walking in Pioneer Park.
Followed them through grass to the St. Pete Pier,
sunrise blue reflecting forever upward. I thought
the road trip would last an eternity. I asked Tracy
if I could stay. Now I am in Pittsburgh, reflecting,
without yachts and breeze, just beside the living
room window. A gray-haired man drives by in
a silver Toyota Tacoma, heading to wherever.
In those days I followed everyone, every whim.
Tracy had other plans. These days I rarely drive,
and when I do it’s up a hill, over ice, or out of
hunger. The cool emptiness I used to carry
to bars, leather wallet bursting with receipts like
unkempt hair– I’d drink until finding purpose,
the familiar, unpaved road to drive on.
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Spring 2022)