His work will or has appeared in The Moon City Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Unavoidable Disaster, Contemporary Haibun Online, Thimble Literary Magazine, Poetry Flash,The New Southerner, Pegasus, Antique Children, The Smoking Poet, The Dispatch LitaReview, The American Mythville Review, The Licking River Review, Inscape, and on semantikon.com. He is the author of two poetry collections, several chapbooks, a collection of short stories, and a novella. He’s organized open mics and readings all over the Midwest. He publishes new work often on Instagram (@dirtysacred). He is also the host and producer of the travel story podcast, Record of a Well-Worn Pair of Travel Boots. He lives in Louisville, Kentucky where he fails spectacularly at gardening.
she waters the trees
we hole up in the bedroom against the heat & find our selves as the new season attacks unwilling to behave like proper prey insisting over the garden she waters the trees in defense of oxygen while the dogs make more methane among the honeysuckle vines between hunting for rabbits to friend chasing squirrels & downing birds careful to avoid the droopy ones last year we told one another nature was coming for us some vendetta for smog, taking the impersonal personal or worse not taking it at all & playing pretend like ants angry after the boot smashes the ant hill
on a Tuesday
the entire house exhales relieved this Tuesday morning like any other maybe music playing the dogs napping full-bellied i have been told i mention them too much the hounds 3 but there are days weeks like this very not abnormal Tuesday when it feels we are locked together the futile war against tumbleweed shedded fur too big for the vacuum cleaner resentment "accidents" in the library should i leave for too long & the cat's endless manipulations there are mornings, like this very breathable Tuesday in June when it crosses my mind to question who is herding who & which reality exactly i woke up into or if i'm still dreaming or if the coffee just isn't ready yet
Here until last call
anyway. May as well record the numbers, too. Not making it more real doesn't make it not real. It does no good not to hear. At last call we all end up digging into our pockets searching our drunk memory for those lost numbers to old girlfriends and ex-wives, one-night stands who hated being our last call before stumbling somewhere alone with all our numbers -- too many to keep track of really. But writing them makes them real and since I'm here anyway, might as well til the end of last call may the weight, may these numbers not be too heavy that we forget their names like all those failed connections at last call.