disaster bisexual buys an iced-coffee

Photo of an open notebook with handwriting on its pages, a pen, and a plastic cup sitting on a table. The notebook is being held open by a hand in the bottom left corner. Pink filter over image. White text in the centre reads: "disaster bisexual buys an iced coffee".

disaster bisexual
buys an iced coffee in february
with the intention to discreetly
slip a straw under their mask
and sip it while riding the train
disaster bisexual
orders in english
to be considerate of subjecting the barista
to their pronunciation en français
so early in the morning
disaster bisexual
orders an iced coffee
et un wrap-matin du travailleur
sans la saucisse
sorry, with sausage? you said sausage
no sausage
eggs please, cheese please
ok, with the hashbrown?
, please!
the wrap, the hashbrown
the iced coffee with caramel (we’re out of syrup)
is passed over the counter to the disaster bisexual
who looks at the funny lid
and remembers that straws are illegal
with their plan gone out the window
they find themselves consuming
their cold caffeinated drink
completely naked
in the face

rough red patches

Photo taken through store window with bars crisscrossing over it of a large red pocket knife on a stand with several blades and pieces coming out of it. The store contains many other miscellaneous items and boxes on tables and shelves. There is also an apartment building reflecting off of the glass window in blue light.

rough red patches on our hands
irritated dry skin
signs of pandemic wear on the body
doesn’t matter how much you moisturize
clean your hands clean your hands
clean your hands
wash them until they crack and bleed
stay healthy stay safe
while we run out of tests run out of vaccines
run out of doctors run out of time
while you run and slip on the sidewalk
fifteen feet from home
fifteen minutes after curfew
slip on the ice
land underground
close your curtains tight
not allowed to go outside
not allowed to be outside
not allowed to look outside
stay safe safe safe

I’ve Never Allowed Myself to Only Be a Poet Because I’ve Always Felt That Wasn’t Enough

Photo shot from above of a pile of cigarette butts in a can filled with snow that is sitting on the ground in dirty snow.

I wonder if there’s a difference between a poet and a writer.
They speak of the poet’s heart, but what do they mean?
There are times when prose feels so stilted to me,
When I crave the fluidity of line breaks,
The freedom to not be understood fully,
The convention to break convention,
The magic of diving underwater
To retrieve a poem from within the weeds,
Rather than sitting at a desk,
Keyboard at the ready.

I’ve never allowed myself to only be a poet
Because I’ve always felt that wasn’t enough,
But I am starting to wonder if I’ve been wrong.

I Must Write

Photo taken through a store window of an old toilet surrounded by a bunch of stuff, such as a mini toilet, pipes and parts, a faucet, a pair of glasses, a pipe wrench, a rotary telephone, and more. There is a wooden box at the back of the toilet with the top half of a toy Santa sticking out of it. Apartment buildings are reflected on the top right part of the window in blue light.

I moisturize, prepare my tea.
I turn on my music, put my phone on a box of salt.
I send my cryptic messages about the moon and rust.
I change into clean clothes, remember I have laundry to do.
I allow a song to play through in its entirety.
I open my notebook, realize my lips are chapped.
I get up and go to the bathroom.
I check my phone again even though I know better.
I pause over my desk, lost for a moment.
The blank page is daunting,
But I cannot avoid it any longer.
I am faced with what I have to do.
With every distraction but my mind removed,
I must write.

S-Hooks on the Baker’s Rack

Photo of s-hooks hanging from a metal bar shot from the side and moving away from the camera at an angle to the left. There is a small metal strainer hanging from a hook on the far end. Behind everything, there is a beige wall.

You hang s-hooks on the baker’s rack
One after the other, quick quick,
Before running out the door
With another bag packed.
I look at the hooks rocking in place
And want to see them as a sign that you’ll stay,
But of course, the message I know is coming
Arrives on my phone a few days later.
You’re moving out.
Once again, I’ll have to look for someone else.
The baker’s rack and its rocking s-hooks
Will be going with you.