Lunch with James Schuyler

and then your guest arrives
more brilliant than you
and kind of shiny and
now there’s water with lemon
and tea with lemon
and a woman with a lemon
who sits puckery and tart.

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They Don’t Hang a Man for a Stage Name

Some might read this as romantic—the combination
of an open jar of pickles and need as he removes a single fermented slice with a clean
fork and feeds himself, then hands the jar over to me with the fork so I can fish out
my own.

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At a Brewery in Florence, Colorado, I Try My First Craft Beer

It’s my first time sipping beer, a hearty blonde at my side and in
my frosted mug. I talk travel with my new companions and compliment
the bright yellow aspens and the spirit of the place as my blonde
downs four beers to my half.

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name me

name the beginning what it was; the birth of a life sentence.
the start of an ending. the sun rising to meet me,
not the other way around.

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When I Go On Dates, I Eat Men 

There’s a dock that stretches out over the reservoir, a straight path that doesn’t quite touch the low-hanging crater moon. It’s beautiful and eerie. I could crane up my neck and let out a lonely howl. That would freak Daniel out, I think, although I’m not the oddest one on this date.

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Erin

The old house is haunted by you. Dusty sheets cover the furniture and the art like ghosts. Long hallways lit by sconces display portraits of you and your father and other family members I don’t recognize. He was the youngest of a large family. You were his only child. Your face, smiling in the photos taken when you were a child and somber in the ones taken when you were older, watches me, follows me, as I walk through the house for the first time.

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SCRAPS

Last night I met the old poet.

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MULTIVERSE

in fevered will
to spill god’s black blood
upon your parcel of dust

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