Object Conference

We are the lost friends

of the world. We speak 

in high volumes often unheard. 

There is a garden we 

must tend to, a book

to be critiqued, and labels

to be made. These are

the seeds we have sown.

I am not indifferent, but 

in fact indifferent. Does that

make sense? The details of

a human complexion tells a

story of sorts. It is

charm, whimsical features, that can

delight all. In a matter 

of 482 days the temperature 

will rise and fall much 

like our passion in particular

subjects. One day we see

black—then the next we pray 

for new kidneys. We grow

fearful for potential recovery. Our

themes must change to only 

reflecting on affections we've received. 

Only I Know

I'm here and you're

there. I'm somewhere

in between.

Home is where 

the heart is—

but my heart is

everywhere. 

It's running around,

being stretched and

overused.

I'm being squeezed 

into every bottle 

I call a situation.

There is hardly 

an ounce of

room for my precious

little feelings. 

My foreseen path 

isn't the official 

one I'm sure—

but somethings

gotta give. 

Dissolving Companion

About 5 miles in

you reach a point

            where the grass doesn’t

grow anymore.

There is a wrench

a rope

an old faucet

and week old eggs.

Hours will pass and

            your hair will fall

                        out and you will loose

everything.

You never meant

for

this

great schism.

The wind now binds

                        us as one body

            one that is defined as

logy.

2015 Analecta

I am honored and flattered to be in...

Let me restate that, it is the coolest feeling being in this years Analecta at IU South Bend.

The editors have done an incredible job piecing together this years issue with admirable work from all fields of academia.

The cover is also too perfect...

Recollect and Collect

They often wear one color, a

solid color, chosen by the master.

This color reflects.

It actually reflects for safety. Just

like sealed meat in the depths

of a moldy cellar.

I’m being serious.

This young fellow (or woman)

gather metal specimens for a living.

Stop—this is to be highly praised.

I am pleased, just pleased with their

work. My eyes latch over thanksgiving

feast thanking the cart gatherers.

They are called the cart gatherers, right?

I love their orange hats and dark blue gloves.

They do me a great service indeed.

I take these things for granted too often.

It’s like how I take my nails for granted.

They protect my fingers like tiny

hard hats—that in reality can’t be yellow.

I take care of my nails don’t worry.

Oh son, one will loose its way—it is ever

so inevitable.  Like sheep they are.

Take care my dear fellow shepherds.

Accepted

I am pleased to say that two of my poems "Acrobat" and "Type B" were accepted into IU South Bend's 2015 issue of the Analecta.

I Remember Now

It's all wrong, I made a 

mistake and it's all wrong.

The roses were trimmed,

the vines were tamed, and 

the soil was plowed. It was 

in order until I made the 

mistake,

the mistake that almost

lost the garden. It may seem

like no big deal, but it's about

respect, honor, and guidelines 

to some sort of will. The 

garden wasn't watered it 

was choked by the unthinkable. 

Something so sneaky, sleasy, 

and simple you just might mistake

it. I'm the unthinkable that now

knows what to think.