The poems are still available on the magazine’s website.

I wrote “You must be a Libra” after watching Alex Winter’s Zappa doc. The documentary itself was wonderful & I deeply enjoy it but I have a tough time emotionally thinking about the brilliant shit left on the table when Zappa died. & then I started void gazing over how useless my life is in comparison & how little I write, how shitty it is in comparison & then I wrote this poem.

You must be a Libra

You were alive
when there was more
meaning in the stars —
& you would make sure
details were kept,

& the transits,
in their meticulous order,
would echo your will;
the bow-string winds
like tension in retrograde,

stubborn as the notes
that were inferred
but never heard
played close to your burnt
orange corduroy jacket.

You were alive & you heard
the universe as a symphony
that plays only if the right
wheels are greased —
each star a throat

blowing notes of wind
through an empty belly,
as hungry as any song
could be, you’d wait
for the right stars to cross,

the right silences to be filled.
You were alive
& you dragged your hand
through those years
as if you could play them,

as if they would sound
same as the melody
that never left your head
synched in silence, in transit,
Taurus steps back, the universe

dances in the empty library
where you live in boxes
of reels & yellowing pages
& the universe speaks
to all who can

prop open a window
but still, who the hell
can be bothered to listen?

I wrote “Ace of Wands / Rainier & Hudson” back in 2019 after a trip & I wrote “Ace of Wands reversed / 36th & Francis” after taking another trip. No further elaboration at this time.

Ace of Wands reversed / 36th & Francis

I can feel the words, they are a catch
in my throat, a slight cough. I have swallowed
them sideways too many times
& it has gotten to where it’s hard to sleep,

to lay down & rest my eyes, without feeling
as if my throat may close around them —
it’s just that I love you as I love everyone,
as I love the breaks in the clouds & imagining

that the light that touches the ground
is a nerve, is a life; that the world has a way
of scattering things that would work better
together. & I admit I’ve had conversations

with myself, imagining what I would say
if we were to speak beyond a few words
typed to pass. I imagine the way it would sound
if you ever were to say my name & I think

that I might die if I heard it & it makes me believe
I’m a stupid romantic asshole & I can’t help
but love myself the same as I love you, as I love
the world – distant, as new as the day

you were a nameless stranger leaving
a coffee shop, with eyes like poetry, eyes like
the songs I knew but had not yet known
were yours. It catches in my throat — the world,

these songs, the people I have yet to meet.
& I love you as I love it all — a nerve, a song,
a flower with an odd number of petals willing
to be plucked clean, if only to prove that the light

can be fluent, that nerves can sing fine songs
of heart & dopamine, that there are yellow petals
everywhere, & I love you as I love the world.