Hippie Van Poem

Dating you across black death quarantine lines
was like trying to shave in a curved mirror
with three life-size crucifixes behind me,
each distorting the perspective exponentially.

Kalamata Olive Poem

You had one of those wheel/needle apparatuses
that tortures lawns in order to aerate them.
All the Home Depot experts in the state
couldn’t convince you that it was impossible
to grow Kalamata olives in your front yard
in the western outlands of Texarkana.

Vegan Easter Poem

A vole nibbled on the collar of a dead corgi,
feet vertical on the greens of a retirement home.

He saw clouded shades of silver
with the tags between his eyes and nose,
like a kid lost in a View-Master by Fisher-Price.

Australian for Beer

In a pristine alley, I screamed, “Foster’s, it’s Australian for beer,”
hurdled a solar recycling bin that crushed cans into squares,
and spun around to fight a pickpocket (happened to be security):
a strip mall predicted by sheep’s’ bladders.

Game Day Poem

Near the drainage creek filling with sand,
the International Space Station was visible.
It blinked like a cat testing new eyes
while realizing it had been declawed last night,
and I remembered some relative say
he missed the moon landing while away
at a camp that taught kids not to masturbate,
the hard…

Bowling Alley Poem

Like that continuously burning crater in Russia,
you fucked up with a natural urgency.

You used to live in a bowling alley
with no thought of the shamelessness
required to black out in the ether of wood oils.

Dried Pork Poem

Under one of those trees with peeling bark,
you hummed “Cheeseburger in Paradise”
as if it were the rapture.

You were sick of vacation since it was fake,
“Just move there if you like it so much;
your shit is broken if you…

Clear Plastic Jacket

The roller skates blew to pieces in a driveway, crumbling;
could Buzzfeed every listen in over all my mumbling?
Then you wore that clear plastic jacket from Blade Runner.

Legit Discography Poem

The grand, old sun turned out to be nougat, delicious.
The ozone holes had the feel of a mandolin A string
and were equally rusted, worse at one end.

PSA-Style

Being the hotter of the twins is tough
since there’s always someone peeking at your screen
with way too much blackmail fodder
ready to go at a moment’s notice.