• Poetry & Other Writing

    Sixty

    My poem, Sixty, went live this week on “More Truly, More Strange, an Anthology of Poetry In Augmented Reality”. It’s a Snapchat-enabled project. Link, here. Here’s a written version: Sixty Standing in mist that autumn evening, waiting to go,  suddenly sixty snow geese overhead, a vast hushed company,  swirling clouds together. Muted wingbeats thrumming,  potent as a divination,  I could not leave them,  could not move as their wings brushed winds  upon my upturned face.   photograph: Snow Geese Flying by Ken Archer | Art.com

  • Poetry & Other Writing

    I’m in “The 64 Best Poets of 2018”

    Two of my poems were chosen for inclusion in Black Mountain Press’ “The 64 Best Poets of 2018” international collection. I owe a profound debt of gratitude to poet Bruce Beasley for working with me on these poems, part of a manuscript that is currently out to publishers. Solicitation Come now. Pull me into you as wind lures leaves into a vortex, reeling. My skin remembers fingers trailing and the touch of someone’s tongue. If you push your breath across my wrists, I’ll feel your most sacrificial secrets brush me. Betrayal and devotion, both. I will allow your breathing message to be borne to me the way a tiger carries…

  • Art & Design Projects

    Logo design for Pakistan Orphans Project

    My lifelong friend, Barry Casey, and his friend Wahab Sharoon, work with 35 orphans in a village in Pakistan. Together, they raise money to buy mosquito netting, tents, and cots, as well as organize projects for things like building toilets, for the children. Barry reached out to me, asking if I could design a quick and simple logo for their tiny organization, and of course I said yes … how could I not?

  • Poetry & Other Writing

    The Days Pass, Heated

    I water wilting plants, consider how the seasons tilt in this new age we’ve made, unroll the hose, watch insects rushing to wet pools. I consider my back fence, the possums, squirrels, and feral cats, the raucous crows who use it, running through dense maple leaves. I consider thirst and buy a water fountain for them;it’s said in 30 years there will be food and water riots. My hands are scented with the urgent hopes of new-planted herbs.

  • Poetry & Other Writing

    Pablo Neruda

    The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues,the journeys go and come between honey and pain.No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves,or action, or silence, or honor;life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones.