my body is at war against my mind
the soldiers are pleased
they feed at a nearby Wendy’s
if my body the inherited god was a temple
it is no longer
and if I am the only existence I believe in
the war is warring against the concept of self
antibodies against anti-bodies
from one end of the universe
to the other
I am no longer
(originally published in OVS Magazine, 2017)
on my scalp
in your laugh
on our tongues
(originally published in Gnarled Oak, Summer 2017)
Listen: the Earth’s siren wails
in tones only animals like us can understand.
We are pretending we do not caress ourselves
on the bed of feather blankets.
Wings– and we call them feathers.
Our weightlessness is contagious.
A broken Bob Dylan vinyl.
Tender was the night until the day absolved it so.
If a wolf sleeps through whistle
has he lost his lust? The life
of choice. We are obese with wrong decisions
and our belts contain the weight dribbling
past our buckles.
Kentucky Fried Chicken. Kentucky annexed
by memory. Junebugs live there in relative obscurity.
Junebugs. June bugs.
(originally published in The Oddville Press, Summer 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)
The map leads from bloom to wing
to sky– we followed gracefully before
black swan wings haunted our spines.
I was tangled in the garden of words
and you did not believe a thing
I said. I cowered in sagebrush
to study flying squirrels (the wingless
claim the sky). I told you I would never tell
another lie because what is truth
in an ephemeral garden, where the birdsong
of thrashers becomes language?
I attempt to look away from truth
but the truth is, nothing in this world
shocks me any more than when I crane my head
to see the nightmare we have become.
(originally published in Zany Zygote Review, Spring 2017)
(originally published in Mannequin Haus, Summer 2016)
ambled through snow to my bowl of ice
my calloused tongue on her cold
the bowl’s organ
I was a white door
textured and crumbling
in that manticorean dumpster
buds of teeth and name
where that doorknob would have been
the park on a picnic
her triangular table limbs
white oaks unhinged
and her cold drooping javelin wings
(originally published in Peculiar Mormyrid)
(originally published in WOLVES, Issue #1)
from a high rooftop after rain,
headlights lead their drivers
to safety in a grid of electricity;
slick, mighty towers surround
and glisten from orange streetlights;
the harbor, an unending cascade
of dreams painted
in reflected, rippling stars–
you can hear, from outside the metro,
a shrieking man in an aureolin raincoat,
several hurried severities of shoes
clopping on sidewalks
still I will tell you the city is beautiful
when far enough away to never see
and I’ll hold you close,
hands clasping your ears,
our own static to block
distractions which, for the beauty
of this moment, do not matter–
(originally published in Random Poem Tree, February 2016)
You always have to run.
Short North to downtown,
city to city, Indiana
one shoe on gravel,
the other careening
through time and space
into a green
where you are unknown
and your running shoes are empty
at our red swing’s feet.
I know you never run to leave,
driving your horizon eyes
miles to sun– and you, after its setting,
glide beside each highway’s unlit rivers
on the bridge of the median, drunk
from driving so long under moon,
far from where our empty bottles
collect in a skyward infinity,
a mountain of clinking memories–
a marathon, a gap traversed quickly.
(originally published in VerseWrights)