Yes, it is finally here.

    Twenty three poems, all pre-published in literary journals

    that will take you someplace you have not been before. 


    Then tell the world what is waiting at the feast.

    "If it were not true, I never would have told you"..... SID Buddha

    Bless you all for listening.....

  • december Magazine will publish "Eschatology," and "Some Thoughts On Heaven After a Violent Storm"

    Another bolt of lightning in 2017, december Magazine, emailed me with their acceptances of "Eschatology," and "Some Thoughts On Heaven After a violent Storm," to probably be in the Fall issue. Besides the literary history listed below, they also introduced Raymond Carver to the world.

    Needless to say, I am swimming in pure JOY, in DECEMEBER, and the water is so WARM!!!!!!!

    december has a distinguished legacy of publishing the early work of little-known writers and artists, many of whom became major literary figures, including Donald Barthelme, Marvin Bell, Stephen Berg, Rita Mae Brown, Raymond Carver, Stephen Dunn, Donald Hall, Michael Harper, Donald Justice, Ted Kooser, Philip Levine, Joyce Carol Oates, Marge Piercy, William Stafford, C.K. Williams, Charles Wright, and James Wright.


    Greetings All,

    On New Years Day, my two poems, "Locks, Rust And The Goddess OF Trust,"

    and "IF," will be published online in The American Journal Of Poetry.

    A very special thanks to Editor, Robert Nazarene, for showcasing these poems with other poets such as Bob Hicok, Marianne Barouch, Denise Duhamel, Bruce Bond and many more. This experience teaches me more about who I truly am as a poet and where my work desires and deserves to be heard. 

    Truly, more shall be revealed...

  • IF there is no place like HOME

    IF there is no place like HOME,

    then maybe that’s why it’s taken 14 years for me to pause long enough, and become open enough, to hear that word whisper and shout, sweat and sleep, and be so eloquently expounded upon by Chris my therapist, Dharma teachers, poets and friends, and embodied in the eyes of my wife.

    The thought of it being an “inside job” a mindful architecture of breath and body, certainly resonates deeply with me because of my clear commitment to practicing a Buddhist path, where meditation and mindfulness are foundational to everything.

    The path is where context and content meet and recognize they both have the same address, which is why ours has CHANGED.

    A brief history is now in order. Here, I’ve chosen to use excerpts from four new poems, which have become my personal template for this trauma based gift of ecstasy. They will follow this brief description.

    Three months ago we were informed that our friends who we’ve rented our farmhouse from for the past 5 years, had decided to sell the place. Now for folks who aren’t familiar with ‘the place” which I have named my “Paradise Empire,” the best way to visually understand the power of such BEAUTY is by looking at the pictures on my website and Facebook, and then reflect on these words.


    From “Farewell Paradise Empire,"                                                                                                                        


    to the field’s black eye whose lashes of corn flirted with me at dawn

    to Main Street’s murmuring eighteen wheels pulsing to the Port. Townsend Ferry

    to the dented cushion shaped like my ass holding me silent as a tombstone

    to the hardened veins of Virginia Creeper bloodless on the barn’s gray face

    to the frigid sea whipping castles at night as I dreamt in the language of driftwood

    to the Olympic Mountains hypnotic call to rise above the poor in spirit


    From “The Extravagant Trauma Of Travel,”


    For five years in the Country of Now

    bliss breathed even from lungs on fire,

    which is why letting go are not mythical words

    found on a realtor’s sign.

    It will thunder as our brake lights blink goodbye,

    as lightning carves a path through the storm:

    some light to see, some heat to burn

    our footprints from the field.

    Like deer, moaning, in winter’s

    first snow, apple fed and fallen,

    the half that made it couldn’t save

    the other half that didn’t.


    From “Forest Made of Words,”


    When the house knows you’re leaving it soon,

                          which explains the dramatic seizures of wind,

                                                  temperatures falling, velocity rising,


    the prairie becomes a Ouija board

                              crawling with fingers of Indian bones

                                                             writing Sad out of mud.



    And finally from “Slot Machine Saints,”

    Darling, if the future has something to do with

    dreaming at night on Anchor Drive, no longer

    frozen by the now you must leave, or scorched


    by the flames of them leaving us, maybe in the

    absence of chill and burn we can stand naked

    and bow to the clock, praying to a god we can trust.


    Yesterday we bought a HOME in Oak Harbor.

    There we will learn more about HOME, in ways we cannot imagine.


    And no one speaks art as the language of HOME better than my beloved Rilke…..


         “Surely, all art is the result of one’s having been in danger,

        of having gone through an experience all the way to the end.”




    Oh Beloved friends, give thanks to Brenda the Editor at Glint Literary Journal for her belief and love of my poem "Emmanuel," like the word says, someone or some power like God is with us. It feels like I've been nominated for Best Actor, in the movie of my Father.

    In case you are wondering what the significance of being nominated for the Pushcart Prize means, here are some folks you might recognize saying something COOL about it:

    The Pushcart Prize editions are urgent and absolutely necessary." — Mary Karr


    Of far more significance than other awards."  — Joyce Carol Oates


    "America's best fiction, fiction, poetry and essays for decades." — Billy Collins


    "A Pushcart Prize selection is one of the very best things that could happen to a writer." 
    — Charles Wright



        Compose:A Journal Of Simply Good Writing: "Gone Blue, Gray, Gone Away,

         and "Feeling Tones"

    • Glint Journal: Emmanuel"
    • Steel Toe Review: "Black Numbers On The House Of The Holy," and "Dark Hand"
    • Foliate Oak Literary Magazine: "Contrition"

    Greetings All,

    I hope your Thanksgiving Holiday will be one of joy and goodness. Mine came early with two more poems being taken: Lullwater Review will publish my poem, "Sam" about the incredible poet Sam Sax, and Glass Poetry Journal will

    be publishing, "Practice Impermanence," along with a short feature article about me and my work. This will probably be out in August. Thanks to Anthony Frame, the Editor. 

    I'll post release dates when I get them.....


    I have waited for months for the late announcement, concerning who were the next 50 Best New Poets chosen for the 2016 anthology, and today I discovered the absence of my name.

                           One hour later exactly, I found out that New South Poetry Journal of the University of Georgia will publish my 7 part poem, "Psalmania," and Weber Review of Weber State University will publish my poems, "In Absentia," and "Sabbath."

    What does this all really mean, I am too overwhelmed to know. But oh, oh, oh, how the sweet endorphins flow. I am opened wider by them making my gifts their own, and allowing those words to do MAGIC in the world, just as they've done in me. I will keep you all posted with release dates, since all three will be both in print and on line. 


    Last Thursday night I came home from work to discover an email from Robert Nazarene, the Editor of The American Journal Of Poetry, in St. Louis. It began by telling me he was sorry I missed his phone call, which I later heard his voicemail from, and the reason he was calling was to infrom me that he would like to publish two poems in the January online edition of the Journal.

    He said he would take,"Locks, Rust, And The Goddess Of Trust," just the way it was, and would also take, "If," if I agreed to a few minor revisions which after reading his suggestions, I did. Maybe you're getting the picture now.

    If not, I'll be happy to help. First of all, this Journal, in my literary opinion is one of the most prestigious poetry journals in America. And to have my work chosen to be published among them in January, is a good and beautiful thing. To also have Robert Nazarene calling me at home to share the news of such a gift is a truly remarkable thing.  I am honored, thankful and very inspired by the trust, desire and admiration of people who truly believe in my poems enough to publish them. In January they will have new home to live in, as will we, when the day comes. Again, the dance of IMPERMANENCE.


    If you're a little scared by the title, I get it, but, I am not sorry. When I first heard one of my Dharma teachers, Noah Levine, in a youtube video, crash through my brain with one morning, trying to help me REALLY understand the truth about the nature of KARMA, what happended was, what often happens, imagine if you will.

    I'm already sitting in silence, trying to be kind to my body and breath, becoming aware of what's arising and passing through my mind, like my breath coming and going, doing the dance of impermanence. YEA, THE ZEN of it ALL.

    Reality owns me. I don't own it. SOOOOOOO, what are the implications of that? 

    Now, back to the present moment. Here, on the couch, in my boxers and a t-shirt, wrapped in a blanket and the two most adorable puppies in the world, our beloved, Molly and Roscoe. I've been awake for over an hour, drinking coffee, working on a new poem, which is a love letter, called "Dear Buddha" with which I am slightly obsessed with, since it's now in its second week of ongoing daily revision. And as always my eyes making me aware of this stunningly, beautiful, terrifying world, just outside my windows, that I am so honored to live in. BUT, now back to KARMA. Two weeks ago, our dear friends from whom we've rented this farmhouse for the past five years, told us they've decided to sell the place to help with their own financial future. Although shaken to the core by the news, I had to begin imagining not being here, which required days of ongoing comittment to more meditation, exercise and intimate talk with my wife and therapist, 

    and of course ultimatley, and MOST IMPORTANTLY turning to the refuge of poetry.

    "The Extravagant Trauma Of Travel," was born weighing one ounce of deliverance

    and covered in two gallons of tears, with all appendages in tact. It, LITERALLY saved me from some other less human choices, in how I would deal with such shattering change. To learn more about those choices not taken, my poem, "Glass Animal" has been accepted for publication by Ground Fresh Thursday Journal, and will be out in print in October. I hope it's getting a little clearer now, like it is for me. 

    I never owned this vision of BEAUTY. It has always OWNED ME.

    Yes, the angle from which it is seen and heard will inevitably change. Just like

    every moment we're alive, in this monstrous, mysterious, glittering place known

    as the journey of life. Thank you Noah, for helping me, understand the GRAVITY of KARMA. It's happening each moment, whether I accept it or not. And the poem is how

    I say YES, I know. I want to be part of that sane conversation, until the day comes when I can't. And have no regrets to inhale.