Time Apart

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

& wonder,
the why I’d never give.


(originally published in Light: A Journal of Photography and Poetry, Summer 2017)


Storage Space

If time isn’t infinite,
why do memories

Fifth-grade science
with greased black hair,
and this whiny voice
like pipe hitting gravel,
tectonic shifting
to leave
a gaping core
for earth.

The shovel
won’t go away.
It works
to bury you alive.

You can’t dig
beyond the dirt
beneath your fingernails.


(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Summer 2017)

To Never Return to L.A.

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)

Space Junk

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)

Slow Bullet

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 Used to Film the Ocean

& 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”
supreme confidence
& cockiness

he shows me his art
a painting of a blue
stick figure hanging

on canvas
the best thing I’ve ever done
he says

but in no way does this
my finer works


(originally published in #thesideshow, Spring 2017)