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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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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Delusions

Mystifying the patient, apocalyptic endowed
A thought or memory passing through.

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Beer Run, Good Friday

If a Friday
is truly good, it ends at dawn.
The cedars cast shadows in your driveway
spindly as Giacometti’s men.

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