"Life Direct" Published in Southwestern American Literature

Proud to have my poem "Life Direct" in the latest issue of Southwestern American Literature.
The poem itself is a result of rough writing through my "Give me This Day my Daily Spam" project.

Holidays on Fire

(a poem ending with a line from Milton)

yet in the August sun, you desire weight, skin

for shedding, dripping in salty constellation

their swollen fetuses falling around you, the medical

names for flesh inspire necrotic scabs

turbulent angels worm into your mind

to wonder what flies are worth

each a ghost lifting the bubble of disease

around the world, how the nets are torn

not only in a chorus, but a choral echo

of buzz and hum, and on your masterful lips

a prayer, bloated, illuminates like a cautionary tale

the hailstorm is bitter, expletives drop to their knees

in a skewered communion, liturgy is red meat

lift your voice with the bench of fire-breathers and all

the candles you burn assume the shadows,

from those flames, no light, but rather darkness visible

a poem for dverse candles and light

parcel

deliver me

the details, number

the legs, trace your fingers

around the space

where loneliness takes it

the hardest, lonely teeth

mouth our bodies, let

our elephants trek

the folded skin

of Hannibal’s escape

march me

through your pass,

let us screw

this up, leaving

crumpled satin trumpets

along the toll roads

of our retreat

fifty-five words for gman 

& dverse

Backstory

The first snow combs the sky.

Under a cotillion weight of so many icy maidens,

branches dip with their scores of graying juniper.

Crystalline blooms huddle

on the rotunda. These ladies bring nothing

but myths of symmetry. Maybe

midweek, sun enough will

drop them, bring them to tears

among the stones. May's thaw

will wrestle the gin from the conifers.

They’ll compose a fable

in the slope

of my nose.

open link night 125

First Things

we call him

Morning Report, and he is  

frailer than I remember,

  

he taps

the open gourds

with his cane

tells me

where the elk went,

how many golf balls

he held, quail

how many

and how young, do I

recall the wildfire

that peaked the ridge

and the goats

imported to clear

the underbrush—was it

willow? did I know

a tree can still burn

underground

creating a bowl

of embers, like

a heat puddle

capable of cooking

a javelina, step

carefully—even days

after the smoke clears

but the roses

did so well

that summer, 

the ashes

do it

daybreak’s

watchman walks  

with phonetic

patience

past the Pioneer

Cemetery

eyes the stones

like a bachelor

pondering

his dance card,

building

tomorrow’s

report should he be

blessed 
with one more
morning

Walking in Gratitude, Poets United