The potential is sunrise & I refuse
the window’s jewels
I scalp the earth
for my own voice
I feel full of shining & sun
& so, money. I am envy &
the clock, gales of fingers
no longer keeping time,
rustling through my formal shirts,
wondering which will suit me best–
whichever will shatter
my edges & begin
at the origin of roses, from where
they were abandoned
the why I’d never give.
(originally published in Light: A Journal of Photography and Poetry, Summer 2017)
(originally published in The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Summer 2017)
If time isn’t infinite,
why do memories
with greased black hair,
and this whiny voice
like pipe hitting gravel,
a gaping core
won’t go away.
to bury you alive.
You can’t dig
beyond the dirt
beneath your fingernails.
(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Summer 2017)
it took reshaping the lawn
into something a family could admire
to hack through the underbrush
of silent years–
sawdust in grass
a dull branch brown
(originally published in The Borfski Press, Spring 2017)
I hiked through the backwoods of Yellowstone
wondering why my life did not change
with every step. That beauty could
become so manufactured. Looking over
another massive canyon– my third in the west
in three days– what’s so good about it?
You could fall into adventure, sure.
You can fall into anything.
Love, of course. Art.
I drove aimlessly for three months,
watched landscapes lose their painted strokes.
The bristled edge of sky inside me turned
and dried, brought me back to deserts I camped in
on the side of the road many freezing nights,
my breath the hot air on windshield,
blocking my sight of stars,
those lost things guiding me
that smog made me forget.
(originally published in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Summer 2017)
After the breakup, our phone conversations
become space debris, steel pieces hardly
discernible hurtling haphazardly at five miles
per second. Where do the scraps go?
The gold taste of summer will impact the brain
and puncture, enflame. We wish to assist
the start-ups who seek to construct
machines to eliminate wayward spares
of satellites trapped in the gravity of a body,
propel its dust into the atmosphere to burn.
We drift wary of small artifacts
from failed missions to emerge
in the distance of night to strike
and make split into fragments
we will never assemble again.
(originally published in Allegro Poetry Magazine, Spring 2017)
spare a key
you need the split
not the forest
not the wood
not the temple
not the gate
unlock the room
you need you
(originally published in Randomly Accessed Poetics, Spring 2017)
My father often mourned
the mortality of grass. I never
want to grow accustomed to the mower’s
tornado roar then limp drawl
that crumples summer’s green
into bent xylophone. I wonder
every morning why I’m there, or here,
and never sure where I ever
relinquish my shed skin for dust
blowing out into the wellspring of time.
(originally published in The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology, Summer 2017)
& I’m talking to this
video student at OU
who still dreams
but I’m jaded
& her boyfriend is jaded
‘cuz we both lived in L.A.
& he’s the type
I tried to avoid
that sneering type
who is “always correct”
he shows me his art
a painting of a blue
stick figure hanging
the best thing I’ve ever done
but in no way does this
my finer works
(originally published in #thesideshow, Spring 2017)
(originally published in Belletrist, Summer 2017)