Black Iron Lung 

It squats in the corner like an anchor—
black-ribbed, unyielding,
a heavy geometry of iron.
To me it is a black iron lung.

It draws in the world’s bituminous panic,
filters the grit,
and exhales anthracite warmth.
Soot thick in my throat—
I stomach it at last.

I pull on thick leather gloves,
a hide barrier against the heat’s liability,
and reach for the brass coil.
The wire gives with a springy heartbeat
before the true weight of the iron takes over.

I yank the lever—
a gritty, metal-on-metal groan—
turning the act of opening the furnace
into ritual containment.
A harbor
where other people’s chaos is mastered.

Sentience is the anthracite I shovel in—
heavy, inherited malediction.
It warms the room
but leaves my hands stained black.

Now the iron wakes with a tock-tock,
expanding, contracting,
bleeding the sulfuric choke of swallowed pride
slow through the ash-caked mica.
Inside, a phantom flicker —
the illusion of fire burning in shadow.

The heat lingers long after the coal dies to a whisper,
a dull bruised red that refuses to let the room go cold.
I feel the throb of resentment through the iron—
the furnace-born slump of steel.

I have learned how to hold the ash
until the sun finds the garden.

I never wanted that little truck
And only had her because you 
Couldn’t manage to keep her

Like most things in your life
You started big, talk and promises
But couldn’t follow through

And when your deeds didn’t 
Match your words, as always
I was your net to catch it all

So I took her and her payments
Saving you from yourself
And from your latest vice 

She became the part of you 
I could still take care of 
And protect from life’s wear and tear

I washed her and buffed her paint
I checked her oil, changed her tires
I kept her running for years

But eventually trucks die…and so do little brothers

I love calling myself a poet.
Having that sense of vulnerability,
A soft interior,
With a heart of stone,
Tears of gold,
Words that heal wounds,
And thoughts that go for days.
I love being a poet.

Sunday near the bar
A four leaf clover—
Let it be

Death is one, of course
And taxes, second—almost worse.
But the third—
Oh, the third—
Such a horror, unnamed
Yet inevitable curse:

You’ll return to the dorms from a night of fun
Seeing flashing lights while firefighters run
Then be forced to stand amidst the throngs
Of fellow students in the cold,
At least three of whom shiver
In naught but a towel’s hold,
One with mid-shower soap still in hair

Because someone, who has no excuse,
Forgot how to read
Or pour water
Or perhaps had too much illicit “juice”
And put a dry mac n’ cheese cup in their decades-old microwave

Then pushed Start

my eyelids droop 
concrete blocks on my eyelashes 
    p
        u
            l
                l
                    i
                        n
                            g
                                d
                                    o
                                        w
                                            n
my legs thump 
    thump 
        thump 
            to no specific rhythm 
                nor the sound of my heart        
                    just restless, so restless
                        yet tired, so tired 
i exaggerate the way the sleepiness 
    falls on top of my body 
        like a weighted blanket,
            with no escape     like 
                                                    sleeping with cats
                                                        on your feet
                                                            too kind to get
                                            up
                                                to disturb 
                                                    the peaceful 
                                                        creature
i wish i were a peaceful creature 
    with big green eyes 
        to observe with
            knowing every movement around 
                                                            me 
i am too traumatized 
    to be so oblivious 
        maybe it’s my optimism            shining             ,or dimming 
depending on how you            want to look at             it 
i wish someone was 
            too kind             & let me             rest             at their             feet             unmoving

Cowboy, knuckles bruised from yesterday’s fight, rivers shame shine cannot blur.

The baby in the cradle will resent you one day
for missing out on soccer practice
or teaching them to love the wrong way
or loving them too much, too closely, for too long.
They will curl their fist once they gain the strength to
and wander against your word
they will squander all your efforts
with apathy and spite
and you will hold them dearly still
whenever they come home.

Happy, I notice everyday,
with gratitude you haven’t 
left like you’d promised. 

Today as you stir the salt 
caramel syrup into coffee, light 
rays breach Mercury, strike bright

radiographic violet-blue hues
that reach us as the image of
our raging red sun. 

This morning, Sze, the Poet Laureate sings—
hearkening to last night. The play 
on distance in Arcturus broods me.  

Arcturus remote, reaches beyond 
to kiss autumnal earth, and you roll away. 
I can’t touch your shoulder. 

I’m trying to reach you. 
You emerge with Samsonite bag, dressed 
to go, two shades of eyeshadow, just so.  

Far-out babe—! but wait, 
you never wear makeup, or visit 
a public bathroom, without a plan. 

I’ve shined down on this home of azure
for two years. Now, I cannot trust 
your hues when you leave. 

You still sit mighty high
on the windowsill.
Even though you are marred
I couldn’t find your missing piece
and mourned the loss. 

Proudly you mount the sill
with his name emblazed
on your front.
He no longer drinks from you.
You serve a different purpose now.