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FEATURED: The Red Face of a Bฤla
The Red Face of a Bฤla I was sitting in a chair beside a spring evening gray sky rain drops fire in the woodstove I was thinking and reading and drinking and smoking a joint dreamily drifting through visions of…
Novelist, freak poet, commentary

The Red Face of a Bฤla I was sitting in a chair beside a spring evening gray sky rain drops fire in the woodstove I was thinking and reading and drinking and smoking a joint dreamily drifting through visions of…
In autumn’s early breathWe stand with the sun at our backsWe stand with the moon above our headsWe stand with the last green leaves and tender morning fog The white mist will rise from the bogs and meadows nowTempting the…
I am a writer, a poet, a laborer, an excavator and tractor operator, a husband, a dad, a citizen, a child, a freak, a man,…
Words I am to them as they are to me A catalyst Each a path to the others greater good An oroboros; the snake that…
The road to harmony There are those that live in harmony, a place just around the corner from our sweaty skin realities, out there far…
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I think very little writing is unique. In the great history of human ideas engraved in print for posterity, it’s all been said before, there is nothing unsaid in fact. The echoes of thoughts and ideas are emblazoned on the…
Bees Constant and persistent, small wings charged by summer sun warm and soft like youth buzz by strafing red orange inflorescence Coming and going, they…
I write between the day and night, early, when the ether is thin and permeable and laughing spirits play with your thoughts When the ether…