Yes, my mistress is a sonnet,
tight in her lines. Frugal words color her ends
as she gives meaning to mundane events.

I hide her and wait patiently
while you harrow at the dishes behind me.
These late nights, our evading eyes,
you ask me when I’ll marry her,
consummating that fickle form ’til death.
But I take her hand anyway,
knowing the fate of a man who hears voices.

– Palos Verdes, CA


Taken in Amsterdam

Christmas Past

Must you ask me more than once
if I like your gifts? Your neglected
teeth stained with wine, we watch
from the kitchen while you lean
into the couch, one shoe missing and your bleached curls
parted on the arm rest.

Your little family of women in love.
My aunt laughs at your shuffled gait,
her wrist elegantly holstering another cocktail,
and my mother retires to the bedroom to pray to Jesus
as if he were dying.

Excuse me while I step outside to smoke,
landing on the hard winter and looking up
at the planes forever
fleeing our bliss.

– Los Angeles, CA


Taken in Chicago, IL


Look down at your shoes
on pavement, running toward home
from a stopped school bus.

∙ ∙ ∙

Grade school romance lasts
a day or two; you have friends
everywhere these days.

∙ ∙ ∙

The orange evenings
of sublime July summers
by the pool with her, alone.

∙ ∙ ∙

Throbbing innocence
fades as you give your life to
lust’s repetition

∙ ∙ ∙

Golden lamps and white
bulbs drown the night. A dark bench
clutches callow thoughts.

∙ ∙ ∙

perspiration upon strobes
and jeans in the gym.

∙ ∙ ∙

The humid kitchen
stocked with those burning their past
and teaching contempt.

∙ ∙ ∙

Sitting on a bed
with teary vision, a dropped
call lay beside you.

∙ ∙ ∙

Yellow headlights and
hazing rain, speed through the night,
look down at the pavement.

– Los Angeles, CA


Taken in Long Beach, CA