A Reason to Love my Otherwise Ridiculous Job at Hallmark (poem)

Jay B hates it
when I tell customers
he’s our Vera Bradley expert.
“Why you gotta say that?”
(Beat. He smiles.)
“Yo, I’m a guy. Why do I
gotta do the purses?”
So many questions, and I
don’t have the answers,
except he is the expert
and it’s fun to see him blush.

At least twenty-four hours
in advance, never in a rush,
he negotiates when he will take
his break and I always
say yes to whatever he requests.
He doesn’t care that I outrank
him and shakes his head when I ask
if a customer wants his receipt
in hand or in bag, barely waits
for the line to clear before blurting, “Yo,
what if he wanted it in his pocket?”
Wouldn’t we all like to know!

He often chants, “It’s getting hot
in herre” and it’s my job to add, “So
take off all your clothes.”
I suggest his rap star name
should be Jay2-da-Bzazz
but more often call him
Jay B Bo Baby. He points out
which girls are “mad smart”
(his own code for good lookin’)
before beat boxing under his breath
to his own rendition of “To be
or not to be.” He’s impressed
I’ve read Antigone, concedes that Crime
and Punishment is “aight.”

Alone in the store at night, he announces
he “needs a Lexus to start his life,”
and though he is straight-faced, he’s laughing
so when he is trapped in the elevator
a few weeks later with the store’s owner
who has more than one, I am disappointed
Jay B doesn’t ask if it’s nice driving
a vehicle with a DVD player to entertain
the kids -- and “da ladies.”
His phone sings “Better Off Alone”
one week and “Cry Me a River”
the next, but the love of his life
goes by “my girl” in his vocabulary.
I want to tell her never
to let him go. His mama raised him
right and I don’t want her to know
how rare that makes him, want to say
she’s one lucky eighteen year old

“Nah, fo real. Check this out”
(He leans in) “A lot of gay guys
hit on me.” I start to retort
it’s because he does
the purses, but he tacks on
“I’m cool with it, though,” so I tame
my response to, “Well,
you’re just a cute boy.”

at moe.down.x (poem)

Here is a face
behind old school 3D glasses
and here is an unknown
boy twirling glow sticks
between his fingers.
There is a splintering
of color, a nonlinear time
warp, a cascade of mind
blowing opportunity.
If only acid
was introduced to blood
stream, wow, think
of how far this'd soar.
Instead, the trip
is trippy but tame
and easily recounted:
Here is a face
hidden behind 3D.

This Light (poem)

Under this light, I look innocent.
I look suburban and tan.
I look well-adjusted and middle class.
Under this light, I look so everyday.
You know differently, though,
you wrote it in a song. You put me out
there, black lit my soul.
Not that I'm accusing you
of sabotage, not that I'm saying
you are wrong. But look at me now.
Under this light, I am the girl-next-door,
I am a whole slew of beautiful cliches.
I am bright-eyed and bushy tailed.
I am what every man desires --
but only under this light.
You know. You know. You know
what there really is to know
and it's not here, under this light.

Again Soon (poem)

Back again, here, perched.
Like this was a desired view.
Like this was the best place to dive.
I'm not moving, not up
or down, not an inch.
Instead, I am frozen, where did
those headlights come from?
Because. I don't need to look out.
I don't need to let go.
This freefall will grab me
when gravity gets a firm grip
on my fresh soul.
Imprints of fate wrap solidly
once more around that woeful
free will illusion.
I'll be dead again soon.
Flush these cheeks red til then.

The Hand That Feeds Me (poem)

Cornered, an animal,
I am foaming, cancerous,
poisonous, unforgivable spite.
Menace my way
into this pit where
my kind ain't allowed.
One of these days
I will bite this hand
that feeds me
and it will turn
gangrenous
in my mouth, it will
blacken and cease
to be and then
what.
Starved, I'll surely become
more dangerous than I am
now and how
can that be?
What strange creature
will be my evolution?

Where You Are (poem)

It was late night
for all of us
but seemed later for you,
down on all fours, crawling
with the dogs, drunk
doesn't even begin to cover it.
The rest of the partiers line
the kitchen walls, snapping
photos on their phones
of you -- one hot mess.
The youngest of the bunch
vies for your attention,
even though you've called
the wrong person by her name.

How interchangeable we are
where you are! Until --

I lean into you to say goodnight
and you grasp me harder
than usual and say my name.
"I'm staying here," you say.
"You should," I reply.
"You should stay, too," you say.
I look at your face, at your unfocused eyes,
and, oh, heart, broken, I can't stay
as late as it is wherever
you are tonight.

In Time (poem)

I am interested in time
and how it changes
how you feel about me.
I am interested in how
you feel about me.
Time tells the story
with an infectious laugh
and I lean in close
to hear all the tonal nuances.
I am interested in you
and all the nuances
of how time reveals us
to each other. We are timeless.
We are slowly vibrating
in space. I am so sure
of my fixed place
on your time line that I will
let this all unfold.
I will actively play out
my passive part.
I am interested in how
time will end this all.