Events · Feature Readings

Poetry Bleeding #3, 2018

I really exicted to be doing ONE MORE last co-feature with my dearest poetry dad, G. Murray Thomas at Poetry Bleeding on Friday, April 6, at 7 pm. This one will have special guest host, Dave Russo, while Alan Passman recovers from a kidney transplant (GO ALAN!!). The divine, Robin Axworthy will also be joining us. The event will be at Viento Y Agua Coffeehouse, 4007 E. 4th St. in Long Beach. Check out the FB page for more details.

Poetry · 2010s

To Hello Kitty From My Little Pony at WE Labs

It’s Christmas outside, green/red lines stretch out like a cat at noon. I am galloping in the stars, cutting holes in the sky like crescent moons. But it’s almost morning and I need a place to rest, be quiet and color my pages in rainbows, like silver trees in purple lakes. Hey, Kitty, did you get over your grudge? Green/red eyes you keep blinking at me. I’m not listening to it anymore. I’m choosing to throw my reins out the window and not look back. I can bring you back flowers from windowsills stolen from dreams of honeycombs and lucky charms and horseshoes (yes, I get the irony. I always get the irony, it’s what I do). So are you in or out?



First published in Pyrokinection.

2018 · Publications

Carnival Poetry Anthology

Honored to have my poem, “5:38”,  included in Picture Show Press’s first anthology of poetry from the best of Carnival, the online literature magazine. Edited by Shannon Phillips, this beautiful book includes my poetry friends, Karie McNeley, Zack Nelson-Lopiccolo, Scott Noon Creley, K. Andrew Turner, Alexis Rhone Fancher, Thomas R. Thomas, Kevin Ridgeway, Suzanne Allen, and many more. Find out more on Picture Show Press.

17 Poems Not About a Lover · 2010s · Poetry

What I Mean When I Say My House Is Now a Park

I stand on cinderblock walls barefoot
holding my hands out
over the edge.
He says he gave me his eyes
so I close them, walk brick to brick.
My heels, calloused, a line of infection
is growing. If it reaches my heart,
I will die at age seven.
I count to ten, then one hundred seventy.
South of me is demolition, a chain
of commune houses sunken into grass.
It is always so tall here.
The pain in my foot is muffled, a woman
held captive, screaming silent.
I toe-to-toe down the cinder line
towards our junkyard neighbor.
We built a fort into bamboo soldiers.
When we leave here, we will forget how
we need to burn everything still standing.
This place will not be for children, but
black tar parking lot.
That way, it won’t have to remember us.
Remember my seven-year-old hands digging
nails from my feet. A tree house
of death threats can die here or
lie buried under asphalt.

First published in In-Flight Literary Magazine.

2010s · Poetry


I am wet paint
shine on the edges
round with anticipation

I am smear
brush stroked
dragged up and across
the pores of daylight

I am gradient
my density spread
transient as lost family

I am blend
black father
blue mother
my purple sister
always yellow brother
red child unborn

I am gel thick
squeezed from tubes
swirled and diluted
still knowing my name

I am image
landscape and portrait
abstract or Dutch photographic

I am frame
wood carved and gilded
mat-less and bare skin
open to the elements
dust and finger oil
sunlight, loving sunlight
brings permanency

I am dab and dribble
splattered and flick
I am classic Nuevo
I am rainbow and cloud
I am brush desire

First published in In-Flight Literary Magazine.