in autumn
yellow moon
becomes
amber mum
becomes
question of bridges that go nowhere
becomes
smell of paper, hot out of the printer
becomes
something golden that
was alive just yesterday
but today smells newly, richly dead.
Originally published in Door is a Jar (Spring 2019.)
Published on The Laundry Line, Sept 16, 2025.
Jackass Flats
is just that sort of town.
Airless summers,
broke down cotton buggies,
a faded Texaco sign
outside a
cinder block building.
Two work bays and a
service counter with a
rack of slumped candy bars and a
stack of Skoal tins
all but one of them wintergreen.
You can get gas in Jackass Flats
if you have cash and luck.
Luck is always standing on the side of the road
with its thumb out
looking for a bumper to ride
to some other town with a
Conoco station and
unflavored Skoal in the mechanic's back pocket.
First published in PanoplyZine, 2017.
Published on The Laundry Line, September 9, 2025.
Slam
We're supposed to go to the poetry slam,
but no one can find a ride uptown.
Damien wants to go see this arty foreign film
that had been released in, like, three markets.
We say, no, what's the point?
Maria comes in and stops next to Damien's brother.
Hi, she says and blushes.
It's not pretty on her.
Damien's brother snorts
and goes to the kitchen for a beer.
Jason pulls out his phone and
starts looking for good Chinese food.
Kelly asks, can we get Cuban sandwiches instead?
I'm bored with all this, so I say
We should all just go to the Tastee-Freez.
Stephanie stands in the doorway.
Hints, she says, cost a nickel.
Then she laughs
and no one knows what she's talking about.
Damien's mom just stands in the kitchen -
holding that big spoon in her left hand.
Originally published in the American Journal of Poetry, July 2021.
Published on The Laundry Line, September 2, 2025.
Lit
The sun returned this morning.
It lit the dog from within,
yellow rays blowing
out of his rib cage,
throwing light under the edge of the counter.
It polished the kitchen with buttercups and
shattered on the refrigerator door
where the risen Christ figure
flared blue hot with
an orange lemon yellow halo.
When the sun returned this morning,
I swallowed it whole.
It lit me,
streamed honey from my fingertips,
flashing off of the coffee pot
which slammed its lid
on the marmalade glow of the toast.
A grapefruit of uncertain sweetness
flushed coral and,
Guadalupe, bending down
under a thousand radiant sequins,
wondered what had become of Catrina
and her marigolds.
First published in the American Journal of Poetry, July 2021.
Published in Loose Change, Ghost City Press, 2023.
Published on The Laundry Line, August 26, 2025.
Cloud Bellies
such a violet ritual
some bluer skies
some yellowing cracked sun
above a maddeningly green
never sleeping world
the little sheep baa
at the fast
arriving rain clouds
with overhanging bellies
if you hate being told to breathe
just stand there quietly
amid the tumbling corn stalks and
hay bales stacked in interlocking patterns
Published on The Laundry Line, August 19, 2025.
