Father and Son

Dreamers Are Gluttons




Over  A Bowl Of Potato And Corn Soup, Mr. Marvin Tells Me How He Castrated Baby Goats


Love Poem #1

Leather Death Fruit and Flying -- A Consideration

The Mechanic Takes on Language

135th & Crossing

It Could've Been

Kermit's Jazz

The Muse



In Time

Bottomed Out Language

Such Fears

Spreading Out Histories

Days Unfold

There is a Flutter of Noise in My Head


The Muse


“...just as, for all practical purposes, there are no more readers of poetry.”

-           Flannery O’Connor


“I’m moving from the inertia of something started long ago.”

            - Scott Gallaway


When I find her, her eyes

are the color of rotting apples,

her clothes smell of urine and stinkweed,

and her hair, a brown field on the brink

of turning to dust.  She crouches

in a shadowed doorway, the bar’s neon beacon

flashing off  her eyes.  I hold out my hand

and she accepts it like a child

taking a gift from a someone she despises.

At home, she showers and I make coffee.

I feel on the verge of something important

like a thick lather of soapy water

streaming from a stained chin. 

As she steps from the water,

her bare skin shines, a ripe peach

dappled with rain.  When I look up,

I’m alone, eyeing the steamed mirror,

the moist fern next to the sink.

Then she glimpses me, sealed within

a droplet of water dangling

from one wet breast.  My eyes are open

when she pats herself dry.

Originally published in The Comstock Review

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