thank fucking god for that guitar making the most of his chance in hell whiskey with two ice cubes amphetamine fiddle and impossible banj...

I wake to the wilderness in her eyes and a futile wish for cool air from the ceiling fan. Morning coffee and a cigarette on the porch. Sh...

We’re just about ready to put a fantastic – and challenging – 2017 in the rear view. It’s been a year of change for me, my family, and ma...

Not here. You fuckers cannot follow me here. His dad looked over his shoulder from the tailgate at Charlie, standing in the tall grass lo...

At first light I returned to where we had last seen blood. A sparkling sheen of frost on the fields, thin ice on standing water, and my b...

The 4th day of the new year is winding down. A couple fingers of bourbon. Leif Vollebekk singing Cairo Blues. Two dogs vying for heat-run...

Aleida shot her first deer, a healthy 2 year old four-pointer, during archery season last year. It was her first trip into the woods as a...

This past September fishingpoet quietly reached the 7 year mark. There’s nothing really noteworthy about year seven. There’s no precious ...

I closed my eyes for one inhale and exhale stood waiting and small sage on the wind reminding me that I am west again so many stars...

and the moon stuck with us a full half the day     three-quarters hanging high and quiet to the west a translucent whisper not enough...

Over the course of a summer of running trails in my favorite park in upstate NY, I had pretty much written a poem in my head. When I fina...

It was clear and cold. New snow had fallen overnight and the morning sun seemed to light it from beneath the blanket. I woke at 7:30 or s...

Right outside the back door a Plume Moth is gently perched on the siding. Unique, tiny, and intriguing, but out of context. “It’s Decembe...

In just a short couple weeks, I’ll be heading out to Colorado for the 2015 Breckenridge Film Festival. As some of you may already know, o...

I unearthed my old grad school poet’s notebook this morning. Cracking the cover, I found a sheaf of paper that held several iterations of...

They’re like clockwork against the far bank. Two browns holding down the midge-buffet line. Rise…rise. Count three. Rise…rise. I know how...

hush for one second I said hold still what do you hear I asked geese wind everything then off they went

juxtaposed with an unlikely six hour jazz session on a straining static and likely below-the-radar bible-belt FM station             and ...