Poetry
New Hope/40° 39′ 0′′ N, 92° 50′ 24′′ W (forthcoming in High Plains Register - Fall 2020)
Stairway to the Stars (originally published in The Wax Paper V. 3.1)
Ptolemy raises a hand
expectant gesture of key in lock
the stars sonic ravel
skimming dark matter with light
as it always has gravity whooshes
a parabolic bow
its tenor the vibration of heat
over the hollow deep
so much space between thing and thing
so much room to fuse or sound a wave
if the stars have not yet finished
consuming themselves
burning the churn deep within
flying through the open door or window
isn’t it because we need them to
stay to point up and out
of ourselves?
isn’t it because we feel
less alone when we watch
something that isn’t us burn?
each star rounding in and out of view
making a music that sounds
faintly like the steps of a loved one
ascending slowly out of earshot
expectant gesture of key in lock
the stars sonic ravel
skimming dark matter with light
as it always has gravity whooshes
a parabolic bow
its tenor the vibration of heat
over the hollow deep
so much space between thing and thing
so much room to fuse or sound a wave
if the stars have not yet finished
consuming themselves
burning the churn deep within
flying through the open door or window
isn’t it because we need them to
stay to point up and out
of ourselves?
isn’t it because we feel
less alone when we watch
something that isn’t us burn?
each star rounding in and out of view
making a music that sounds
faintly like the steps of a loved one
ascending slowly out of earshot
Sleep Study (originally published in Talking Writing May 6, 2019)
Marisol informs me I stop breathing during sleep
throwing the lungs into a fit
the riotous bleating of life pulling at life
awakens her frightens her
I say it happens in my roused hours too
when the stars are present even if difficult to see
and the negative scene oxygenates my brain
when the inanimate parts the surgeons placed in me
singe the air with ache and disconnection
and the inward stare forgets to respire
when a poem I read thumps the wind from me
and like the printed page
its transmission requires no breath
She feels the need to nudge me
back into being
away from the precipice of drowning in dreams
she’d like someone to drink her morning coffee with
I think my reptilian brain has never quite worked properly
survival eyes and rote movements couldn’t ever fully be trusted
instinct without thought in a world this alive
I like how the light fades slowly
from my closed eyes
forms a green darkness from concentric stars only I can see
how the moment hypothesizes itself
stitches together a blank quire
how it risks meaning nothing
Marisol knows the limits of breath
how there’s only so much outcome in our effort
she remembers the tube down my throat
the nineteen hours of surgery that for me did not exist
I tell her it’s taken me the last hundred-fifty years of human history
to find my voice
somewhere between ‘you’d be dead if not for’
and ‘sorry for not meaning to say’
not yet a storm, just a depression
that I submit to historicity
in a way that ensures our mutual misunderstanding
how all things move glacially, even my teeth
blessed are the well-armed
the sound of hearts opening and closing
throwing the lungs into a fit
the riotous bleating of life pulling at life
awakens her frightens her
I say it happens in my roused hours too
when the stars are present even if difficult to see
and the negative scene oxygenates my brain
when the inanimate parts the surgeons placed in me
singe the air with ache and disconnection
and the inward stare forgets to respire
when a poem I read thumps the wind from me
and like the printed page
its transmission requires no breath
She feels the need to nudge me
back into being
away from the precipice of drowning in dreams
she’d like someone to drink her morning coffee with
I think my reptilian brain has never quite worked properly
survival eyes and rote movements couldn’t ever fully be trusted
instinct without thought in a world this alive
I like how the light fades slowly
from my closed eyes
forms a green darkness from concentric stars only I can see
how the moment hypothesizes itself
stitches together a blank quire
how it risks meaning nothing
Marisol knows the limits of breath
how there’s only so much outcome in our effort
she remembers the tube down my throat
the nineteen hours of surgery that for me did not exist
I tell her it’s taken me the last hundred-fifty years of human history
to find my voice
somewhere between ‘you’d be dead if not for’
and ‘sorry for not meaning to say’
not yet a storm, just a depression
that I submit to historicity
in a way that ensures our mutual misunderstanding
how all things move glacially, even my teeth
blessed are the well-armed
the sound of hearts opening and closing
[People Tend] [originally published in Brushfire Literature & Arts Journal, 71(1)]
People tend
to fall apart or hold it together
in nature
as a rule
things fall apart
in closed systems our eyes closed
some light never still
makes it through
doom is not absence
as we are told
it is unrecognizable presence
subservient
in nature
there is no absence
only what is what it is
tomorrow is not yet here
tomorrow
when I will fall apart
or hold it together
it is not yet
here
to fall apart or hold it together
in nature
as a rule
things fall apart
in closed systems our eyes closed
some light never still
makes it through
doom is not absence
as we are told
it is unrecognizable presence
subservient
in nature
there is no absence
only what is what it is
tomorrow is not yet here
tomorrow
when I will fall apart
or hold it together
it is not yet
here
Moscow/41° 34′ 30″ N, 91° 4′ 58″ W (originally published in Midwest Review, 6)
my Father
the angry old soviet
if the union consisted also of Iowa
watching it all crumble
dilapidate philosophy first
consequence later
what to do about this view
from the drab paint peel exterior
and I his son
seated on the floor
playing cosmonaut
fishbowl fogging with each breath
but we had the world
he bellows at state tv
half of europe anyhow
what good are walls
if you’re not also prepared to shoot
wither the trespassers
I play too pick up sticks on the moon
pretend I don’t understand
politics nuclear annihilation
pretend I rescue Laika
pretend we rescued each other
from these wistful streets
Father is cursing
western religion materialism sans materiality
we are so misunderstood
he bawls at state tv
Laika barks too
she has seen earth from space
the angry old soviet
if the union consisted also of Iowa
watching it all crumble
dilapidate philosophy first
consequence later
what to do about this view
from the drab paint peel exterior
and I his son
seated on the floor
playing cosmonaut
fishbowl fogging with each breath
but we had the world
he bellows at state tv
half of europe anyhow
what good are walls
if you’re not also prepared to shoot
wither the trespassers
I play too pick up sticks on the moon
pretend I don’t understand
politics nuclear annihilation
pretend I rescue Laika
pretend we rescued each other
from these wistful streets
Father is cursing
western religion materialism sans materiality
we are so misunderstood
he bawls at state tv
Laika barks too
she has seen earth from space
Clutier/42° 4′ 44″ N, 92° 24′ 12″ W (originally published in Midwest Review, 6)
Elsie stayed out
past the time cows come home
sauntering over winters muddy conclusions
always without explanation for where they have been
you have to drink
grandma would say
to survive the winters
the holy rollers the draft the grift of the almost never sun
and here we all are
cooped up inside hens and roosters calling at the shadows
the candles angle spills the drafts secret
outside always finds a way in
shapes us while we presume inattention
buries us while we lay another to rest
Elsie brings a plume of electric light
back from town
stolen off a moment
at the VFW dancehall
when she twirled so fast
she counteracted the movement of the earth
around the almost never sun
and now nothing looks the same
faster she said spin faster
past the time cows come home
sauntering over winters muddy conclusions
always without explanation for where they have been
you have to drink
grandma would say
to survive the winters
the holy rollers the draft the grift of the almost never sun
and here we all are
cooped up inside hens and roosters calling at the shadows
the candles angle spills the drafts secret
outside always finds a way in
shapes us while we presume inattention
buries us while we lay another to rest
Elsie brings a plume of electric light
back from town
stolen off a moment
at the VFW dancehall
when she twirled so fast
she counteracted the movement of the earth
around the almost never sun
and now nothing looks the same
faster she said spin faster
Inheritance (originally published in The Remembered Arts Journal, Spring 2018)
These silent words arranged on this page
shook from places I trod
& cut from what I had in excess
from what I wish I knew
alas there is nothing unless we create
wrap warped hands around life
choke it into being
something hungrier yet
less vision than gut
more aural than vomit
lifecycle of a gambit
release the tourniquet
welcome the tick of time
itself an illusion erected upon illusion
don’t rebuild the roof
let in the elements
I fear for your safety
that is all my love
be love my love
all things fade
tarnish rests everywhere eventually
on memory especially
that tease of pseudoknowing
a collection of coins
cut wistfully by a sword shimmer
water and light
into refracted newness
on a name handed to me
to you
it too will fall
silent like virulence and hesitancy
but you
be love my love
La Salle Street After Hours (originally published in Chicago Literati, 7/11/17)
blue in the lamplight
unmistakable soul
canyon wide
foreboding city walls
O Chicago
hidden hands knees worn out
on elevated track
hurricane gale jericho looping
round an I beam center
of concretized lust
back to walls that should have collapsed long ago
colder now even without valleys
wind raking through shuttered row houses
where people dare to live
harder to believe in Heaven
her hair perfected for disneyland
(did the mortician dare touch it,
even to pick the grass out of it?)
pigtails following her winsome cheeks
there are no hills
but those made by skyscraper ethos
train catacombs
magnificent miles
running into hollow orange glow stations
& sleepless intersections
in Back of the Yards
working men rioted for the hope of a better life
long after Union folded their mausoleum walls
in upon themselves
the too-young calf slaughter proceeds
O Chicago
is there resolve enough to congeal
into a scab of a hill
Heaven reminds me
of a girl I can’t find
bullets gnawed her bedroom wall while she slept
what I’d give for a hill
to escape
their faces
the heaving congestion
unmistakable soul
canyon wide
foreboding city walls
O Chicago
hidden hands knees worn out
on elevated track
hurricane gale jericho looping
round an I beam center
of concretized lust
back to walls that should have collapsed long ago
colder now even without valleys
wind raking through shuttered row houses
where people dare to live
harder to believe in Heaven
her hair perfected for disneyland
(did the mortician dare touch it,
even to pick the grass out of it?)
pigtails following her winsome cheeks
there are no hills
but those made by skyscraper ethos
train catacombs
magnificent miles
running into hollow orange glow stations
& sleepless intersections
in Back of the Yards
working men rioted for the hope of a better life
long after Union folded their mausoleum walls
in upon themselves
the too-young calf slaughter proceeds
O Chicago
is there resolve enough to congeal
into a scab of a hill
Heaven reminds me
of a girl I can’t find
bullets gnawed her bedroom wall while she slept
what I’d give for a hill
to escape
their faces
the heaving congestion