i was just sitting in bed with my laptop and an internet connection so i put all these impossible but possible  trips into google maps like Montreal to Houston, 667 hours to walk there and then it hit me  i could go in search of the roots of Rusty Staub both as a baseball player and where he was born in new orleans, louisianna…and on the way….well,  i hear past...

he started passing out drunk on her lawn and so she installed a cat crawl space so he could put his drunk poems in the house and they were always love poems for her and the neighbors were pissed off at first seeing him all drunk and disorderly but then they sort of liked the expression of it all and the Mason’s boy spread car parts all over their lawn and worked on cars and D...

what i love about poets

poets write in a dialect i don’t often understand or maybe it’s not a dialect; maybe it’s new and exciting ways to use language and manages to avoid old and tired cliches and I don’t really know for sure but when i do understand a poem or think i do, it’s exciting and other times i realize it’s not necessary to understand the poem because even i...

but then a thought comes – what if i never write again? what if i never even try? what if i burn all my pencils and papers and leave my laptop outside with a sign attached to it that says,

“Beware. It still works!”

Just thinking about it now feels like a nice breeze on a hot, humid, unbearable day, and to think how much i used to love days like that, all sweaty ...

he has worldly things like meat and potatoes and vodka and cannabis and books and cutlery from another century, paintings of anonymous painters, piles of old clothes from seven siblings which include a persian hat and over one hundred keys on a chain, an old wood bucket of nails, a metal sled, and a letter opener as the captain announces that the seat belt sign has been turne...