got a heinz bottle full of regrets
but it’s dried up as the crust of red’s
lost its use you try to squeeze something
from an old heart and look how flappily
it beats sags and wheezes yet I got a cold bag
of wendy’s to share salted and soggy
on our porch in december rain I said
to go to be tax-free and carefree yes
but on the swinging bench white-bagged I see
your face in wendy’s and your eyes some
sad fake black pocket’s full of lint and loose change
and can’t stop sliding my hands in to feel my legs
burning with desire to get up and build trash
cans from scrap at the edge of the yard
then wait for the passersby
to throw their guilty pleasures in
(originally published in FLAPPERHOUSE, Fall 2017)
Work. Sex. Tacos. My everyday experiences
recorded in detail. Life now is a notebook
in which I don’t write anything down.
The callus on my middle finger used to be
stained with 2 A.M. ink after my days fluttered
vividly into pages before sleep. In one entry,
I recount a dream with my friend Alyse where
we’re in a forest digging morning soil
shouting, save the earth! save ourselves!
Today I sit with laptop at the mantle
of my past, sipping hot coffee to thaw
the winter-frozen ground of yesterday.
(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Summer 2017)
(originally published in Neologism Poetry Journal, Summer 2017)
I crave the steady and the swing.
I crave the crystalline trampolines
that hurtle me seven hundred feet
into glimmering onto an Eiffel Tower
stage before the work of Einstein
activates and demands ricochet.
(originally published in 1001 Journal, Spring 2017)
I want a mountain
in this Midwest,
to wake and find
a seed of good
in looking up.
I want to drive
into these clouds,
then sew its holes
to hold the rains
(originally published in Right Hand Pointing, Summer 2017)
we walk parched lips from downtown
to the jazz & rib fest you tell me
you love too many at once
I count the number I love at the moment
but we lose track of headlights
following the other’s every move
neither of us know how to get there
how to make music & when we arrive
jazz is faint & we don’t listen to sporadic notes
choosing to walk the bridge over the river
under spotlights of webs of moths
between railings & you say insects
are the most important creatures alive
the more of something there is the better
all these millions of arachnids spinning
webs to eat the hearts of bugs they always catch
we stand away from the railing because we
don’t want spiders to creep onto us & start
the work of eating through skin to dig to heart
we don’t look at each other because
you can be in love with so many at once
but not the ones who want it most
(originally published in Edison Literary Review, Summer 2017)
A butterknife has potential.
Voila! Cream cheese
on an everything
The microwave beeps.
The ceiling fan spins.
at the bottom of the fridge.
Throw out the bag.
Then throw out that bag.
off the floor.
Take your shoes off
Catch the mouse before
though you know
that means to snap
Summon all the light
(originally published in DMQ Review, Summer 2017; featured later as a Verse Daily “Web Weekly Feature” the week of July 24, 2017)
(originally published in minor literature[s], Summer 2017)
The universe ends
or is supposed to. It lives
in your bed– mornings tangled
with laughter. In a week you will move
to Florida. A week ago we swayed
on swings away and toward each other.
A fling from disorder, we are no longer bound
to orbit. Still, I swat the air
in your fourth-floor apartment
overlooking the river to follow its movement
to determine when a body is real
and to what mouth it goes. For you,
it’s an airport. Until then, we hike
through forests building tree forts
to wooden-house our hearts.
At night, I search the stars for words
but can’t make sentences you tell me are there.
All I find is the slow motion of time,
then distance– since time’s beginning,
the universe took many small steps toward us
so let’s walk that way together.
If you lose me from great distance,
I will build a bridge so short
you’ll be right here from that far away.
(originally published in The Write Place at the Write Time, Summer 2017)