Koss Works
Writing | Poetry | Art
Honored to be included in this cool anthology along with lots of edgy writers. Bonemilk II is the second anthology from Gutslut Press, edited by Aimee J. Sanghvi and P.D. Hogan. I have a poem, “You, Drawing” in this issue, along with a longer, experimental grief piece, “Dreaming in Tongues” and a caged angel photo. I’m grateful that the gut sluts at Gutslut Press have the courage to publish the hard stuff. Buy it here!
Honored to have two poems published in Bending Genres Issue 30. I’m also happy to be in the company of so many great writers including: Kim Magowan, Quinn Rennerfeldt, Hannah Greico, and many others. I’m behind in my posting and Issue 31 is live, so be sure to check that out too.
Very happy to have some asemic writing published in diode poetry this past December. This is the second batch of visual poems Patty Paine published (see previous issue too). For more information about asemic writing, check out this book review in Art News.
Honored to have some visual poetry in Harpy Hybrid Review (three pieces included). This is my second publication with them, so I’m thrilled to be invited back. They include questions for the artists to complete describing their process, so I did my best to shed some light. This is a great issue with lots of visual poetry as well as writing. I love this ‘zine. Find my work here, and read about my other Harpy Hybrid publications here.
So happy to be among the nominees in Gone Lawn’s Pushcart Nominations 2022 list. Very grateful to Owen Wyke and Amy Copella Barnes. The piece was a flash called The Dictations of Cabbages. Other nominees include Susan Triemert, Betsy Finesilver Haberle, Kim Magowan, James Montgomery, and Olga Musial.
In the alternate universe, we dwell—early morn—in the ironies
that are Thanksgiving, discussing abundance
and at whose expense. I am your “Cherokee dude”
and in kindness, you pull a comb through my wet tangled
hair, wresting the handle with your weight.
You wouldn’t mind my pounds of grief, speaking of weight,
as grief would be a fogged imprint in the startling ever-now
in which we live big, love each other as geese,
tumble into each day as feathered clock hands,
but with no regard for—or awareness of time’s dreadful ticking.
As the sun rises, we open the doors to the coffee shop, fire
the grill, make Jesus-faced pancakes for tickled Brits,
who trickle dependably through our door, eager for pastries,
for Deepak Chopra-blessed rolls, marveling at each
ordinary miracle. Customers fawn over your hand-drawn cards
with happy bears or devastated girls with weeping magpies nested
on their heads. The smell of coffee stirs me through associations.
You prefer tea, but always pour me a cup, and I’m in love
with the rising steam, and your hands wrapped around the bone
China, the ritual of it, that you do it each day, and it’s an act
of kindness I can count on . . .
In the lull of late morning, there is time to fuck you in the kitchen
as lunch soups bubble on the burners, and bread you kneaded
rises in a lone corner oven . . . Our kitchen, we run as we please . . .
On this particular Thanksgiving, there is none, as I am no longer
American, and you never were. The bells bang the glass as workers
arrive for lunch. We work, our faces aglow in our secrets. Just the two
of us, yet it is not work, and no one gives a shit we’re gay. The town
is small, people are lost in their habits. We serve and pamper them.
Make idle chat—or you do, as you are like that. They are passing
tourists in a queer world that belongs to us, our coffee shop—with beaten
wood floors, and food we craft by hand, and our kindness and attention.
When four-thirty arrives, we lock the peeling door, you pour us
coffee and tea, and we rest, knees touching, as our breaths
slow for evening. Steam again rises from our cups; we sit in silence
as traffic rolls by, and the sun begins its early departure.