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Where my mom was wasn’t never far from the Myrtle Beach Days Inn.

I could go in for some pie why the hell not, there’s so little time.

“We’re not like other species,” you say, a novelist at night.

You’re standing too close to a lit house which could be yours—is it yours?

Hear the voice of life telling you something from the inside out.

Before he started spraying he would hand her the mask to put on.

A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.

But too much rain can translate anything to unspeakable.

My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

With a hammer well aimed, try to destroy the whole with a single blow.

Condemned to an easy life balanced on the suffering in another land.

All the bears in the zoo look pathetic. Their eyes glazed, bodies lethargic.

If life was exchanged, who is to say it flowed one way?

Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

A sociopathic streak on my father’s side I try to put to good use.

She regarded the world calmly without the filter of her suffering.

David Hinton

Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.

You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.

I love it—watching gray light bleed out over the makeshift bed on the floor.

I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week I saw a real bat.

The shorebirds bank toward the west at once—flashing too fast.

I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

Art, like writing, is an invitation to be surprised, to be open to revelation.

I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.

I keep hearing water sprites chattering, breathing.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.