Show poems

Why I Can't Sing to You

we stare forgivingly

cheap neon stars

growing faint

that feeling you slipped about me

my disposition to nervous laughter

worn-out pages of exhausted excuses

free-falling face down 

the obsession of wordless songs 

and the overwhelming traces of our choices

drowning each lobe

parallel figures white flags 

and I wish there were lyrics to sing to

[no title]

your eyes can't help but close

they've left us in this room alone

your bed is stiff

don't struggle to move for me; I'll fit

each breath brings 

this overactive nausea

closer to my mouth

I convince myself I smell

your high school cologne

July heated pavements on our backs

a kiss in Zippo-lit garage corners

this time I wish your mom would walk in on us

your words blocked 

by a deafening rattling in your lungs

my words blocked

choking cowardice

so I run most fingertips

back & forth on your knee

hoping it will pinken

ignoring its resemblance to my bent elbow

wake up, wake up

I'm enveloped in lines of panic

trying to make up for the last 1,384 days

and I breath so deeply

I break through all fabricated familiarities

the smell of 

empty Kleenex boxes

monitored room-temperatures

bleach white pillows

enables instant paralysis

I silently plead

wake up, wake up

so I can continue to not say a word to you

Taking Pictures at the Ocean

with each step we take

two to your one

grinding salt and sand

I wonder if you're thinking

about the space between your toes

I try to fill the empty space 

between my first two toes 

clenching them tight 

forcing closure to this humanly void

the first overlapping 

strangling the second

because the phantoms between

remind me too much 

of the lack of us

Wrong Turn

slick fingers 

retreat through yours 

to race to my mouth
to tear at the anxiously red bits
of my bottom lip
your questioning fingers are rough with mine
strangling them again
if these knuckles were necks
they’d go limp
you’re trying to manufacture
a sense of security
I feel your heartbeat against my pinned wrist
You’re feeling my pulse, not my heartbeat.
my pulse buried itself
in my eardrum
banging on it
begging to it
spelling out arbitrary words
and I’d choke on my own breath
if it wasn’t holding those words back

Are you sure we’re here? 

Appointments

“She”

the name casually assigned

by your shrink

twice a week

this damaging orange bottle

chemical assurance 

why you've been placed

in this morbidly tidy space

for the last 42 minutes

two undiagnosed 

broken right hands

two unhinged

broken bedroom doors

two less-than mutual

mutual separations 

one bottom-heavy list of

things thrown against a wall

defense mechanisms 

against retaliation

her tears, your targets

and any chance of a clinically

healthy approach at intimacy

for either of you

suffocating under the debris

“She” 

chokes down guilt 

a few times a week

but she doesn't have to come here

Shoot-out

I cry just to calm you down

and don't worry about your grip

that chair clearly aimed for

wreckage or my dropping jaw

I begin to shake

the buckles on my boots echoing my movements

I'm wearing weathered cowboy boots

the spurs fall silent

I don't shoot

but you fall to the ground

I pray you never get your hands on a gun again

[no title]

it lines

her teeth

her mouth

her tongue

tipping the 

crest of her
top lip
when she
tells you
her name