Publication

"when she asks me about courage" published at Lover's Eye Press

Honestly, I really just need to stop writing “love” poems. It only ends with me in trouble with someone for some reason or another no matter what the actual content or context.

But until that happens, I am pleased to announce that my poem “when she asks me about courage” has found a home at Lover’s Eye Press.

It’s from chapbook with a limited run: two copies.

Three sonnets in The Anglican Theological Review

The Anglican Theological Review was among the first publications to take a chance on my work a decade ago when I was still finding my voice. Back then they took one of my poems.

Thus, I am surprised and ecstatic to have three of my theological sonnet in issue the Summer 2022 Edition, Grab a copy of ATR Volume 104 Number 3 to read

[Say a slave triptych composes the heart],

[Say on such legs that were left me—a heart], &

[Say Jesus has been saving a bottle ].

[Say prayer is just a fire alarm] in The Windhover

I'm proud to be published, once again, in The Windhover. This time it’s my theological sonnet [Say prayer is just a fire alar] in the issue 26.2.

Two school poems in Pangyrus Literary Magazine

Two new school poems—

“what i learned during Black History Month” by billy, age 8 (or 18)"

and

"an open letter to the student who will be convicted of rape in the next 3-5 years”—

are now live up at Pangyrus Literary Magazine. Give them a read.

This publication also provides short blurbs from me on the origins of both poems.

“an open letter from the boy i was to the Man you have become” published in Shenandoah

People should write more about their guilt and shame. Of course I’m talking to myself. This is something I should do and did. I didn’t always suck in middle school, I wasn’t that kid, except on this day.

It’s strange to say I am “glad” to have this poem published. But I am happy that “an open letter from the boy i was to the Man you have become” has been published by Shenandoah and will appear in the Colored page.

Can never fully make amends, but I did, repeatedly, in high school and after. But the stench still sticks.

“when asked how to avoid being seen as racist” at Identity Theory

I am happy to have my strange little sonnet “when asked how to avoid being seen as racist” published in Identity Theory .

I think sex with animals is problematic. I think racism is problematic. These two facts are at the root of this poem (which is based on a joke I was once told).

And if you thought this poem involves any drunk children having sex with goats, you should sue your elementary school, you’ll need the money to make up for your poor reading comprehension skills.

“Out of my Hands” at Zone 3

Two of my kids suffered a tragedy that changed my life. I wrote a horrible poem and a couple of songs about it that never saw the light of day.

Over a decade later, while teaching a memoir unit, I wrote a longer work about it— the first piece of prose I had written since high school. Over the next few years it saw many revisions, many suggested revisions from journal editors, many night thinking.

It’s a story I read every year in my classes. I think I’ve not cried when reading it once.

I am proud to have “Out of my Hands” appearing within the pages of Zone 3.

Two poems in Discretionary Love

Some times people ask me why I don't write love poems. I tell them all my poems are love poems, but I know what they mean. So I show them ones like these two just published in Discretionary Love and they stop asking.

sweetness

before she began, she placed the glass jar between us—
filled with fresh, golden honey—and a sizable spoon.
homemade. an amateur apiarist, she kept a ready supply.

as she began, I remembered how my mother mixed 
honey with lemon, a pinch of salt. a folk remedy 
for sore throats, the beginnings of a cold. 

when she was through, I asked why. she thought 
I meant the amber on the table, not the gaslighting
she called brutal honesty. she said it was to help me 

swallow my feelings.  

an open letter to the one who should have got away

                                            …yet, somehow—
as the scorpion thrashed her pincers
and drowned—the frog survived,
flopped ashore, croaked himself
back to life. a week, a month later,
along the same muddy shore,
another barb-tailed arachnid
implored him for safe passage
across the stream. a ride
atop his slick, perforated back.
it’s not that he doesn’t remember.
it’s just his nature. he never learns.