to address concerns
Thursday yields

left to dreams: the sixth day of the summer
Sarah said the air suffocated

and the clouds
sink into your lungs

to drown as people
turn left on Woodland Park

yellow lights guiding us
to summer death

where we turned left last time
do you remember?



A night starts with a drink and ends with a kiss
ghost lips vanish into a cloud of lilac
when perfume fucks nicotine in stained glass

exposed shoulder, she parts her way
through the middle of conversation, half-thoughts
half-empty bottles and Andrew Jackson buys a song

someone else pays the cover and leads a trail of ideas
immaterial pickup lines (Lucifer fell from heaven, too!)
and you are a flower, fractal in heels

the wages of sin are served over whiskey served neat
and we are intent on playing our roles in retreat
into our own mind, underwater

muffled voices--heartbeat of conversation
and courage is gambling that asking will lead to something
and nothing and everything to wrap myself in satin

collapse in thin paper, courting disaster and I pulled my hamstring
as I fell to my knees in a prayer
a submission

to that smoky perfume now stringing the chords, chamber music
for a streetlight, yellow warning hazards a guess to our markings
drop of sweat and torn flesh

Rorschach patterns are blood cross-stitched through concrete
sidewalks leading up to a quetzal foundation
his wings mark the beats of our heart, of our night, of our time



When she watches her shows she disappears
in thought and time
cold cases, undying love threading
a needle in a feather
green, now blue
art in black leather,  comfort
silence is pierced in metal, an eye
crafting an image, a story spun inside a frame

When she watches her shows, it's murder
boredom killed, knot and stitch
buried time spent on fruitless endeavors
by creation and slow growth

When she watches her shows she sees a sapling
that hides a tree, an egg that hides a peacock
as it cracks her shell
white static until she shuts off

the television for the night


The deserter does not turn
into a pillar of salt—only his skin

shivers a little as he looks back
through the watery gates, where a boy

who thinks he’s a soldier is shaking
a gun. What can this man say to that

boy now, about breath, and the gray soot
of memory.  City ruins, crumbling riverside towns

and the setting sun as the man walks
away from home and family

selfish, arrogant and proud
fingers brush Sabal palms and steel as he

tears and turns
his sight from the boy

and the lingering past

Originally published in The Brevity Poetry Review



I learned about love from a woman
who loved women
her hands were rough
when she grabbed my face and kissed my left

she was writing a book about romance
about being misunderstood

she sat next to me on her coach, her purse-sized dogs dollies
napping between us when the lesson began

To love a woman is to have warm hands, she said
To hold, to caress, to scratch that itch in the back of her bra strap
that she quite can’t reach

Love was looking at the girl’s eyes and just knowing right then and there
that she was the one

“Was she the one?”
“How did you know?”
“I just told you.”

She told me love waits for the opportunity, the brief window of time
when two heavenly bodies align and the sun casts the right shadow
the right spot

“The G spot?”
“That helps, too.”

She told me love was entertaining temptation
but knowing how to keep it at bay, turning supermodels
and curious experimenters down with a hard smile.

“A drunken smile?”
“A half-smile.”

Flirting with disaster without fiddling with the
jean waistline but holding out, because
true love isn’t hunting
it’s waiting

Originally published in Siren Zine



“Remember me” – past whispers in my ear
echoes from the blackness of sleep  

From a time when I was down
and out and reeling face

flush with niacin warmth
and youth, once blossoming –withering now

older with each step with each mile
traveled in the desert

 Four months, four thousand miles
thorny steps and restless sleep

seeded restless days
In which I yearned


A drop
of water.  

Time falls petals
in the sand

obelisk rising out in the desert air
greenery and water

new spring
a new body

different source of heat
bristling with thorns, I rose  

to find her, to touch her,
and draw nourishment

from moisture of sweat
nectar of passion

petals bloomed
rosy lovers embraced

Originally published in Dead Flowers