I’m pleased to announce that my collected poems are now available for purchase as Still Missing Flight Myself.
Some of the best cautionary advice that could be given any writer—young or old, famous or obsucre—is to never forget that not every word you write will be worth preserving. Much of any writer’s output is . . . → Read More: Still Missing Flight Myself
You have a photograph of me that I don’t remember. You offer it up and tell me that it’s you behind the camera. I am giddy, dapper, Devil-eyed. You say it was your il a maturé birthday in a walnut-paneled room. And it doesn’t matter that neither of us is sure we’ve met before now, . . . → Read More: Phototropism
Being alone for life, with no other citizen in your state of mind; no one who needs you and no one to need; no one sharing history, understanding, the full, subtle, intangible textures of your lexicon, those complicated connotations; this is a glass egg feeling, the longform equivalent of tearing butterflies in two.
Waist-deep in the broth of the Atlantic, I take a wave made of fists to the chest. Stumbling in the cockstrut way of feet on shells, I remember that eighty percent of our globe is salt water just like the eighty percent of our bodies—all saline too. Knocked to my shins by the juggernaut tide, . . . → Read More: Saline
One sure way to feel like flat cola in a wax cup, baking under July sun, is to wait six months and read what you’ve written. Revisit your own congealed feelings, words which have suffered the linguistic equivalent of an expiration date.
One absolutely sure way to feel like broken teeth in mottled gums is . . . → Read More: On Collected Poetry
She is in the passenger’s seat of her car. On break and pushing down her cuticles with the edge of a blackened penny. The oppressive air is a medley led by piss her cat left on his final trip to the vet and winter snowfall which slipped through loose-wound windows, melted and mildewed. The closed . . . → Read More: Manicurist’s Satori
Sitting in the bath, a poem written on my thigh, in water- soluble black ink, melts faster than you’d think. The first stanza into the second, pooling and becoming concentrated, thick tears the color of collected rainwater in an ashtray.
And it accomplishes nothing, except to remind that all art is quite an indulgence, senseless . . . → Read More: In the Bath