driving in circles everyone talks
about the same thing love weather
politics rain this summer gone
in a flood another day awash
in the lust pitter-pattering
off the black hot concrete
incalescent the days we
drive in circles around
each other lip symbols
tiny trinkets the tiny purple
piggy bank I bought for you
from a quarter-slot machine
in a mall outside Youngstown
(originally published in The City Key, Spring 2020)
Catcall / Catastrophe
So you made a carrot soufflé–
no one cares about the mush
orange and earthy you made
in the oven. That shit is under
control. Look instead at Joshua
trees burning down the desert
runway. That’s a catwalk. A
catcall to the Earth from
your rolled-down pickup
truck window. See
how hot they are? It’s
like those cruel videos
where the cat’s caretaker
places a cucumber
behind the off-guard animal,
and people laugh
as the creature flees in
surprise terror.
These videos were big
for a summer. This
slideshow of tiny
cruelties– it’s harder
to find new spaces
to hide.
(originally published in G*MOB, Spring 2022)
Before Coronavirus
We would shake hands in public but embrace
in private the kitchen counters I’d pour myself
a purple punch. Slung ear ice. Not much music
from the grass but songbirds chatter refrigerator
hum. My speedometer reached a hundred barren
roads leading to summer rooms. Fingerprints
everywhere. We touched everything tortillas
knobs ladles. We even touched each other’s
faces, then inhaled.
(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, 2021)
Buzz Burn
glass of prop champagne could
be a three thousand dollar shot
I can’t pay these costs the
moving parts all I want
is to buy you liquor an
André for us to drink
such fine and cheap champagne
in front of the camera I turn
to improv heroes and beg to
break the bottle I am stuck inside
of work yet warm in winter when
the bottle breaks I always crave
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Spring 2020)
Kodak
camera closed and open in a
quick capture one moment
standing ghastly in your drive
awaiting your fishnet in the
next my buzzing body propels
out into the canyon of distance
how immortal I can be in end
-less dreaming I brim alive
in the sense that life brims
with bacteria I thrive off the
gunk each new love brings
(originally published in Nauseated Drive, Winter 2022)
Kusama
Opening blinds in the morning–
infinity mirrors. Sunlight off passing
cars a recollection, each yesterday
our mirrored era. To become
so ubiquitous in the freckling
of city streets, the raindrops
forever dotting concrete–
momentous the window
I each day enter, the full
world a symphony of
repeating balloons.
(originally published in Trouvaille Review, Fall 2020)
Melted Plastic
I made a mistake– chopping
onions and mushrooms
in the house
we both live I wanted to
cook us a meal
to forgive a prior mistake
though you say that’s not
how it works. Nothing
works since the new year
when I blacked out
and fell for another
in front of you
and everyone else
so we both rode
home crying in
subzero darkness
and snow and we
haven’t stopped since.
It’s the coldest week
in Ohio in years
and today we want
to stay in. We can’t
think of anything
else. Which is why
I didn’t notice
the plastic spatula drop
into the stovetop flame
and melt into an air
of a future cancer
how I only noticed
from the toxic smell
burning my nose
and though I cleaned
up the black scraps
with Goo Gone,
heat, and spoonscrapes,
the smell lingers
in every plastic product
(the new shower liner,
the Ziploc bags to carry)
every time we step
onto the white
tiles of our kitchen
(originally published in CERASUS, Summer 2021)
After the Election, 2020
it’s OVER
whelming
darkness
the creeping red
into the garden. the blossom
I align with the ocean
in its magnitude of idealism
I align with my self-
deprecating friends
my honest to
whatever god makes
them actually brings
them happiness I want
to live a little less
for my own interests
if I can help
you bring yourself
to light instead I
think you can call
the results
a little more
often, the god
of who we want
to be, the presidents
we are
(originally published in The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Summer 2022)
Raleigh Times Bar
loud darkness waiting
for the party after
a friend’s wedding
and her people come
to the table I saved
for an hour however
they sit at another table
and an old man
I don’t know
sits at the one I am at
in so many ways this party
part and parcel
merely a box
I open for
connection
(originally published in Monterey Poetry Review, Summer 2020)
Cleaning a Room Is a Tornado of Cords
right now the animal sits on a paper leaf
bells in the other room
and a TV remote’s button-presses amplified thousandfold
sometimes heartbeats in the walls
tell me: is that faucet water or white noise machine
plastic bags on plastic bags on
you bring me a handful of cat toenails in your palm
(originally published in Marias & Sampaguitas, Summer 2021)