Bushwacking in Cleland Park

Cleland Park has been a haunt of the town’s latchkey children since the sugar boom of 1920s when one Dr. Cleland, whose disdain of canals is well documented, and one Clarence Riley, well versed in the invasive propagation of canals on account of his southward penetration from Illinois, were hired by the town to drain

Remember the Woodpecker

if you ever feel guilty of anger and the bridges you burn take flight to the forests remember the woodpecker carving its ruckus and building its home in the kind of damage only you can sow 1.16.2023

The Haunted House on Willow Wood Lane

there is a band of boyhood infamous provincial marauders all bike spokes and radio static all pockets full of snake skin all street lit scraped knees pedaling past curfew there is a bolt-hole cul-de-sac burrowed in cypress all wasp nests and stolen valor all PlayBoy pornographic awakening all rough-and-tumble sleeping bag slumbers there is a

The Dance Floor

Watch the accompanying video here. — if I die on the dance floor tonight know that I did not go willingly that tomorrow I had dreams of morning breath kisses from a boy I pray is left behind if I die on the dance floor tonight console yourself that it is how we wish for

Gay Standard Time

the gays make plans for brunch and when the heteros are upsettero because said gays are late the gays explain that they meant 11 AM G.S.T. G.S.T. is a queer unit of time which means Gay Standard Time or whenever is convenient for my gay ass G.S.T. continues to perplex horologists (horologists are time scientists

The Crucifixion

Monday Night Dive Bar

entourage of one he sings a karaoke Hallelujah a Monday night mass a church under new denomination faith gave me up over a decade ago but the rituals beg to be remembered the body of Christ as overpriced Pringles grape juice blood as pickle-pear shots this fraternity of broken singing to fill the neon lit

promise: (v) to let go

(a pleasure activism exercise) I’m at a Marriott in Pueblo putting lotion on my nipples before bed when it hits and I’ve learned I’ve got to write it down when it hits I’ve lost too many poems to I’ll remember it in the morning and, like, I don’t know if you know this but it’s

Heirloom Tomatoes

I’ve been spending a lot of time with the word unravel I like the way my tongue tosses the syllables holds the spool tight on the roof of my mouth flicks it into the universe off my bottom lip my great-grandfather, Gilpin Red was Colorado’s middleweight champion made a name for himself giving blokes a

The Uncertainty of Our Futures

For Taryn Kahle sweltering hour beads of sweat lick my sunburnt nape paddle and soap dish in hand off some nameless bank I slip into the Colorado the Grand the Rio del Tizon the Maricopa the cool lifeforce of this southwest desert as easily as I do into freshly washed sheets naked embraced sweet surrender