never sipped milk from a sunglass lens,
but it’s always been an idea.
she leaves her coffee on the window ledge,
and tells me, it’s been since Friday.

no insurance,
no matter.
builds your immune system
like it did George Carlin’s
and his friends,
in their infancy.
swimming in the cringeworthy opacity
he referred to
as the Hudson Bay.

in the shadow of a stem,
thinner than celery.
a bit too flimsy,
tipped over flagpole,
imposed on peanut butter.
spreading across the graveled and gray
that I once again resuscitate.
with chalks unwieldy.

the morning

stay clean.
the painstaking task
we accept.

wading along
multi-tiered sidewalks,
uprooting parasols
and laughing
as dew
passes the ball
to drops of June,
rippling near.

an alarm clock’s song

placing your ear
to a fan’s white panels.
tugging the chord,
taking flight
while folks out the window
nuzzle black pillowcases.
Austin, Dallas.
nap time’s away.

what you do
with dimes in a jar.


“We’ve met before.”

We have?

Perspiration’s hotbed,
handfuls of hay
not at all synonymous
with the feathers
we’ve plucked
from pleading pillows
in three-star hotels.

He hands me his breakfast tray.
in 2008,
we had our scares.
first love called, eleven at night.
the economy’s crashing,
let’s flee to Cuba.

A burned English muffin
was sweeter at the time,
and I nodded my head
so he returned to the line.

“I’ll get you more.”

No, really, you don’t.

No dialect of love’s
understood in full,
and shivering, hungry,
I took another bite.

Shook his hand,
made a friend.

New Zealand,

Baby, give me a moment.
a moment to set it aside.


to go fishing
four feet deep
into a pile of leaves,
blackened with the fungi
of a generationally bad joke.

I called it a futile Friday,
while Veronica in her Crocs
reminds me, that once a day,
a chance has been manifested.
a lesson in tactful tolerance.

she hands me a transfer slip
today, she doesn’t need.
and Alex writes down all,
everything so dear,
that he’ll take to North Dakota.

promise scampers
to the sky-gray cold,
and flowers drenched in
family store beer
lie flat in their familiar patience.

Alex waves goodbye,
and Veronica sips her water.
my toes wriggle in rotten cloth
and I imagine these balconies
humming in perpetual acquiescence.

after five

the panels which make
a picket fence
often come not sanded

while the bagel served
after seven
softens with Nutella’s crescendo.

angles that signal
a walk’s dead end
wring their hands,
quarreling with tired lights,

and lampshades
darkly tinted,
swing right and left,
looking out another unamused window.


ever similar to chocolates
and honest wine
that somehow tricks you
into thinking it’s a child.

strawberries, freckled with life.
grapes, suppressed and bitter.

these aren’t alike,
and I fear my sight’s gone myopic.
it always has,
since I cried at twelve
when my father found duty
in telling me,
“You’re living a fantasy.”

she thinks she can go to Hollywood,
but the girl’s not pretty enough.
I guess I have me to thank.

in just a few years,
I confidently boast
my abilities to fit
into sadly upholstered suitcases.

sleep in a doghouse,
argue with squirrels.

every day I’ll pour my tea.
especially if I’m the only one here.


halogen bulbs
hang low, at the ear.
swinging, taunting.
this aluminum rhythm
lulling you to sleep,
however cautious.

paper unicorns,
round and round.
gray and meek.
glistening like a soap bar
after July’s rain.

the burn of reliance
comes to a dim
and shadow puppets relish
the truth of an unpainted wall.
to collide, and disperse
in awesome form.