View: “Ode to the Mohawk” and “Verse, Chorus, Verse” Crab Orchard Review: “The N-Word” Rio Grande Review: “Taking Stock: Rick’S Toy Box”

Florida State University Libraries

Electronic Theses, Treatises and Dissertations The Graduate School

2009 Hot Stare America Bryan Douglas Cox

Follow this and additional works at the FSU Digital Library. For more information, please contact [email protected] FLORIDA STATE UNIVERSITY

COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES

HOT STARE AMERICA

BRYAN DOUGLAS COX

A Dissertation submitted to the Department of English in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Awarded: Summer Semester, 2009

The members of the committee approve the dissertation of Bryan Douglas Cox defended on April 9, 2009.

______David Kirby Professor Directing Dissertation

______Martin Kavka Outside Committee Member

______James Kimbrell Committee Member

______Erin Belieu Committee Member

Approved:

______Ralph M. Berry, Chair, Department of English

The Graduate School has verified and approved the above-named committee members.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to the editors of the following journals in which these poems first appeared:

Chiron Review: “Ode to the Mohawk” and “Verse, Chorus, Verse” Crab Orchard Review: “The N-Word” Rio Grande Review: “Taking Stock: Rick’s Toy Box”

iii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Abstract v

AM-FM The Rock-N-Bowl 2 Lines Composed while Hunched Over the World’s Last Decent Jukebox 4 Ode to the Mohawk 5 Punk Rock Portrait 7 Critical Mass 8 The N-Word 10 Verse, Chorus, Verse 11 Redemption Song 13 Post Rent-Check Blues 14 Broken Daybreak Duets 16 AM-FM 17 Exhibit A On the Suicide of a Former Student 20 Passing Through 22 Ten-Minute Visit 23 Quietly Off-Key 25 Self-Portrait as Guitar 26 Folk Artist 28 Born Under a Bad Sign 29 End Times 31 Deliverance 32 Just Lexicons 34 Exhibit A 35 Punchlines OK Walt Whitman 38 Commencement 40 Still-Life with T-Shirt & Crosswalk 41 Holy Land 43 V-Day Bouquet 44 New World Orders 46 At the Movies 47 Underage Snuff 49 Punchlines 50 Taking Stock: Rick’s Toy Box 52 After All 53 Biographical Sketch 55

ABSTRACT

Ranging from the elegiac to sarcastic, humorous to furious, distant, alienated, amused, and intimate, the poems in Hot Stare America aim to balance social critique with praise, protest poems with odes, the blues with jokes, nostalgia, love, and a sense of hope for those people and places that have helped to shape their speaker’s life and origins. From dramatic situations set in bars, rock clubs, restaurants, coin-op laundromats, classrooms, and adult bookstores, this musically formal manuscript traces the poetic legacies of the English language, versions of democracy we have inherited and will pass down, as well as the bizarre ironies, juxtapositions, and paradoxes that define American culture. The Clash once dubbed themselves “The Only Band that Matters.” In a similar vein, this collection of poems ultimately settles on good love, drink, laughter, and music in all its forms as the only sources of redemption or escape that truly matter to its speaker, this protest singer.

AM-FM

Somewhere in my soul There’s always rock-n-roll —Joe Strummer, “Long Shadow”

***

The Rock-N-Bowl —Snooks Eaglin (1937-2009)

Last night, old man, I got word of your death… A little less soul, rhythm left with us, I thought, then, drunk, remembered that first time

I heard you play, live, makeshift backing band, No frills stand-in bassist, three-piece drum kit, Wives, sons, grandchildren watching just off-stage

In some New Orleans bowling alley, lanes Packed with spare strikes, as white girls hollered out Above cheers, slurred chord changes, yelled requests

For “Boogie On Reggae Woman,” the one & only number to halfway stump your wicked Right-hand technique that entire two-hour set.

Blind “Human Jukebox,” critics call your style Smooth, effortless, but I felt raw, worked, rent, Arthritic knuckles knotted as stained wood,

Limp “cigar fingers” drug down threadbare strings, &, stiff-necked, your electric black guitar… how small Its body looked, held, child-like, on bent knees,

Worn lap, palm spanning over eight full frets, It seemed, as you picked your way, thumbed each verse, Bridged riff, chorus, then asked your audience

For forgiveness, for falling ill, so sick, in fact, You excused yourself to use their restroom, Coughed phlegm from callused lungs into your hand-

Kerchief between those few late cover tunes, Till that co-owner / MC, close friend of yours I learned, years after, through local obits,

Where he retold tall tales, one of them rare Road trips you ever took, your group so soused They all dubbed you best suited to drive back across

State lines, so, you snatched the wheel, steered, by Braille, Dirt trails, soft shoulders, gravel ditch, hugged slow Turns you knew by heart, true as faith, grace notes,

Till you reached home, but, in real-time, your boy Just hit the house sound, your lone single on His lit juke, standard cheapskate parting gift.

Performance cross-dressed as mock sock-hop dance, I still recall how he pranced on-stage, grabbed That mic, jumped straight into ripped splits, as if

The hardest working man in show business, Passed out pink hoola-hoops to fans, tight crowds Of league-night bowlers headed towards locked cars,

Clocked engine block ticks in dark parking lots, Thick cigarette smoke let out like laughter, Stray applause, how prisoners might escape

Jail cells, bags zipped, bars humming along to Love songs, a little less blues, spirit music left… On earth, as it is, lent hymns of scorecards,

Stalled ball returns, oiled gutters, that gig drained Its pockets, spent tickets poured past glass doors Before you sighed, stretched to pick up your own

Mute instrument, kick-start one more encore.

Lines Composed while Hunched Over the World’s Last Decent Jukebox

Stiff bourbon on the rocks with just a splash of water. Well hooch, rum, sour mash served straight up. Hot Kegs of ale tapped warm as gut-rot in red plastic cups.

Unless some poor fuck feels flush. Then, it’s top shelf, Till spare cash acts tipsy as the rest of us drunks: crashed On pills, dope, rusted beds stripped off broke pickups.

We’ll drop loose change on lit jukes, chase shot hopes, Throw up hands like ripped crooks caught (just off-frame) By rerun cops: all those mock tape decks stuffed with hash.

Let bent punks mouth sick bootleg licks friends punched in Like clocks, since, who cares? Counts loss enough to dance, Laugh, cast orders dry as our bartender’s sense of humor

Besides this rented music? Soundtracks mixed to cure Our own thin blood: Help! Shout! Let’s go get stoned. Listen. No one I know drinks for taste alone.

Ode to the Mohawk It is so American, fire. So like us. —Larry Levis

From the Algonquian, slaughtered native people, Whose name’s literal translation equals: cannibal.

Deep roots hacked by hand, slave-hatchet, transplanted Into this haircut rebellious as shrink-wrapped packs

Of low-tar cigarettes, some black, studded leather jacket. By far this is our greatest rock-n-roll swindle:

To take war & murder, add a little egg yolk, Vaseline, old mixture of bonding cement & bones

From animals boiled down to glue, & make street-punk’s Ultimate symbol for cool. Yet, witness this gesture,

True tenderness between best friends: one who lifts Used padlocks, chains & dog collars from his part-time

Pet shop job after school, while a couple more swipe Drugstore bleach & hair-dye to cast their foot-long

Liberty spikes into flags smoldering red, white, & blue. But before they do, they must help each other guide

Dull blades over dry skin, thin layers of blood, skull, In this constant struggle of substance over style.

How naturally they seem to co-opt, or adopt, the look of Tribes that once scalped like tickets their distant ancestors.

Notice, in this blurred rearview mirror, each safety pin Hooked in rough, pink cheeks, nails bent through earlobes.

Listen close to that radio blare their favorite hardcore tunes. The last in their glue-head crew, who still needs to steal

His step-parent’s new car, so, together, they can all ditch class & drive, full-tilt, the hundred-plus miles to tonight’s show.

Just watch how he’ll kill the engine, let it cruise downhill. Stiff, bobble-head voodoo dolls, half-stuck out of four cracked windows.

Punk Rock Portrait

Born white, pissed, privileged, one more well-versed freegan raised By parents with advanced degrees in business law, Home economics. Class? Rage? Just some thrift store phase: Electric-blue hair, pawnshop guitar, fists ground raw

As beef. On stage, old-school trash acts zines call scream-core Play “Hate & War.” Bands on tour spray-paint amps, brand new Conversion vans: This Machine Kills Dead Metaphors… Read: rehearsed encores, feedback, power chords, tattoo

Sleeves straight-edge SHARPs in Docs still rock, sick of it all, Pits full of screen-print faux-hawks, guest list fans, meth, sex, Scenes meant to shred rules, bootleg labels stripped as malls, Merch tables sold-out before Vets Hall shows, sound checks.

Part lifestyle, third-wave rude boy mixed with twists of ska, Part snapshot pose tongue-stud punks perform, drunk by noon, Cheap cover charge paid to skank, mosh in mock-applause, Half keep time, make rent, do, stay, en masse, just out of step, tune.

Critical Mass

Tonight, the Civic Center plays host to the Panhandle leg Of Cher’s first farewell world tour.

So, traffic jams for her, not coached activists on rollerblades, Mountain bikes, barefoot, stuck pedaling “change”

Aimed at barricading commuters who break-pump diamond lanes Home from work—each make, compact through pickup,

Trapped in airborne cubicles of soot hacked up like pitch-black Blood clot lungs by coal miners, butchers,

Some novice golfer’s turf-toed club—to help protest our abuse Of gas: last Friday, every month.

Which kind of defeats the purpose, don’t you think? Unless, Of course, we make-believe these coughs of exhaust

Blown high as flags, drug addicts, flashfloods above the #6 bus Got ghostwritten, by accident, almost,

Over our liver-pink dusks. No hard facts to act as handbooks, Clear-cut do-it-yourself instructions

On how to replenish the ozone—depleted, still, as rain- Forests, frozen federal funds—

Just a couple dozen late-model hippies linked arm-in-arm With tie-dyed, dreadlocked, Trust-a-farian

Daughters & sons of staunch Republicans broken out, rash-like, In megaphone song with part-time street punks who rock

Faux-hawks, sick tats, tank tops that read like bumper stickers: Share Our Roads. Which makes me wonder why

They don’t. Plus, alternate modes of transportation they plan to use Once they discover drained pensions can’t cover rent

At old folks homes, mass eviction notices finally get served, Young ones land jobs, move, graduate

To haircuts cropped close as fertilized lawns, seersuckers clean As urinal mints at rehab country clubs.

But there’s no cure for pollution. Stopgap prescriptions remain Half-filled, counterfeit treatments drawn up, post-

Diagnosis, like blueprints for some halfway house: victims Claimed like baggage, quick-picks, insurance

Doctored by hurricanes due to global warming. To cope, flush Patrons adopt frontage roads like war-

Torn orphans, off-ramps orange-vested citizens rake trash from (Bound to work off community service along blonde

Soft shoulders), where traffic cops mounted on horseback Conduct rush-hour siren songs—whistles drawn,

Batons raised like taxes, spoiled children, hands in answer To their own dumb rhetorical questions.

Dump truck. Air horn. Econo van. Vietnam veterans clutch home- Made signs on concrete islands across the street from

Mike’s Beer Barn, Gun, & Pawn—reserved parking lots stuffed As bras with obese couples, sedans, tanked

Office girls gone weekend divas decked out in gold wigs & thongs. Tinted windshields plastered with leaflets for Green Peace

Picnics & wet t-shirt contests, as ticket scalpers set up shop Near hotdog carts outside that mini-mart—till, at last,

Her sold-out greatest hits concert starts its climb up the charts: If I could turn back time… Do you believe in life

After love? Sweet one-trick anthems true fans know by heart.

The N-Word

Nueva York. California. Texas. Such vast space Must accommodate, harbor illegal aliens, Ex-wives, convicts, terrorists. Plus, countless Herds of shortsighted councilmen hell-bent on

Passing well-meant ordinances against said word. Read: bans, stiff fines, street busts administered Via eyewitness accounts / anonymous tips For quoting your favorite Richard Pryor bits,

Mass citizen’s arrests for aping gangsta rap Con rich white friends, full hate-email sweeps & raids on racist pricks caught cursing black folk Reciting (in private) Mark Twain to Lit students.

How quick fed-up public servants will cross-dress Nazi-esque censorship as progress, tolerance, Blind justice served up cold as old-school pimps Pandering Chitlin Circuits for more colored votes.

Still, I hold out hope, in some Plains State club, Panhandle basement, our next protest poet, Stand-up comic, classic hip-hop or graffiti artist Armed with one mic, two used fists, that speak-

Easy penchant for puns, rhyme, yellow legal pads & permanent black ink waits. Rapt, I listen close For future redneck punk bands made up of members Of mixed gender, race, dub acts who name their own

Lineups: Indian Giver, Rule of Thumb, Los Mulattos, The Gyps. Even now I hum distant Renegers anthems, Help celebrate each outfit’s epic Greatest Hits release. Spic-N-Span. Smoke a Fag. Free Dumb of Speech.

Verse, Chorus, Verse —1524 Laurel Lane

The Ruffees. Liquid Courage. In Spite of the World. Three-chord bands from SLO-town sets That meant home to most of us Conversed punks.

Well, at least a decent place to crash. Our names Put on guest lists like eyeliner, camouflage Cutoffs, some frontman’s fake British accent—

& always another garage, sublet den or rec-room, Vacant enough for practice: thrashed box springs & beer-stained mattresses drug up against drywall

& sliding glass doors to help soundproof floor toms, High hats, blown amp feedback off mics Kept together with electrical tape, snapped drumsticks.

None of us held jobs. So, fueled by fast-food Burritos we split with stray black cats That followed us back from the liquor store—

We rehearsed that verse, chorus, verse of politics Simple as music, basic as math, bathroom sex. Our necks stiff, as if we spent all week in the pit,

Not trying to score bi-hawk chicks in combat boots, Studded leather jackets: youth trying to act tough As some chemistry class we flunked, then passed,

In between horseshoes, drunks, ad-lib backyard gigs Opening up for self-taught DIY acts With more heart & guts than raw talent—

Meat & tofu pups dumped on the grill for cookouts. Up till four to hear KCPR’s hardcore show Bloodshot kids on skateboards & coke

Ran down on campus. Our porch deck all bark chips & bottle caps, cigarettes stubbed out in flowerbeds, That tan shag carpet that reeked like baked feet.

Of course, we barely made rent: amateur anarchists Turned poet, CPA, graphic artist. We broke Our lease. Neighbors. Past. Present. Let it all RIP.

Redemption Song —Cause none of them can stop the time…

Bold trio of dead preachers, baptized by gospel, Hope’s broken song, future generations Drown now in wakes of bio pics, Dubbed sheet-music applause…

Bottomless pits of hardcore pirate radio, Gold records pawned as head- Shop screen-prints, fake six-foot icons, Greatest Hits water bongs,

What better way to pay our respects, honor lost Prophets gone bootleg gods, Than let dreads, black-lit pain, lay down Static, fear mainstream psalms?

O hack musicians, open-mic night cover bands, After Folsom Prison, Botched Kingston assassinations, Punks sold-out stadiums…

Before old age repossesses pot-resin lungs, Hijack said merchant ship, Walk love’s lines, help sing, resurrect Freedom’s sad white-riot songs,

Even if acoustic tributes drone on too long, Lyrics, ballad wisdom, got it dead wrong: Cheap solo hymns remain all fans, Not legends, ever had.

Post Rent-Check Blues —1 BR / BA / Clear Cemetery View

One hears sick neighbors make love, Cough through mildewed plaster walls, Smells paint fumes, garlic stench, Thick cigarette smoke drift

Past rock club car alarms, Ropes pulling graveyard shift In church bell tongues, as lit screech- Owls cast low hell-bent last calls.

LIVE NUDE bass-lines, nocturnal Dive-bar animals, Crawl neon-drenched blocks, Claws lift plastic lids to sift

Rank trash, stripped branches scratch Mossed rooftops wind chimes riff, Faint hangnail gods, weak floor- Board creaks across dark halls.

Each ambulance breaks, idles Side streets, vacant parking lots, Haunts booked next for some Funeral home car wash. All

Night, police sirens answer fears, Cold dead-end calls, Old complaints lodge with land- Lords: noise, heat, mold, dry-rot.

Still, gas leaks, pipes pour dirt- Cheap music, till steam’s caught Off-guard, train whistles sleep- Walk outskirts, dump trucks haul

Sad one-act scripts, mix sound- Tracks buried in plots stalled As blood clots (cue: throat-clear, Scream, thunder-sheet gunshot).

Blinds raised as rent, ghosts, sin- Taxed angels whose encores play here, Dead tired, one jokes: at least Most folks backstage remain

Near quiet. Strangers hack through Shared walls as air-damp stains Set, bedsheet curtains beat applause, Wings fall on prey, sills, deaf ears.

Broken Daybreak Duets

Because the voice was once my favorite instrument— I’ll eavesdrop all night on these faint spot-lit duets Rainstorms perform with rooftops, streetlights, wet cement

Poured thick, mute as sore throats, perfect pitch kept silent. I’ll listen, till each clock tick lip-synchs death’s secret Backbeat riff—sick lyrics desperate for instruments.

Till torn bedsheets burlesque advice: strip dues, tease rent— Sleep’s last two cents cast like dice, bit parts, silhouettes Against scorched brick permanent as gravestones, cement,

Mass regrets rehearsed from stamped letters never meant To get sent. Till even the moon forgets past poets Lick like spoons its milk-white verse, pick forged instruments

To chart our pain like patients, pop hits, stars distant As terms: public prayer, private chorus—first word set- Lists scrawled in sheet-music across just-laid cement

Till I record it: stray cat, feedback, newsprint—notes bent As the workweek breaks in headlines, cold egg yolk, sweats Over lost refrains that remain our sweetest instruments, Till rain repeats this tape hiss: fresh tracks played on wet cement.

AM-FM

Since when have piped-in church organ hymns ever been Near enough to distract, help make us forget How long the unsung burden of night-shift might last?

Still, idle hours spent apart, stripped radio dials Turn up like lost door keys, stray cats, evidence Stacked as records against the silence of this house.

Paycheck after paycheck, you tap flat callused feet In stiff sermon-strict beats off time clocks, punch-in To split tips with busboys across wet countertops

At some Creole-style restaurant that blasts satellite Zydeco Muzak, as if gospel’s bought, paid To just take orders from fat trial lawyers who pray

Over roux-based meals for more troubled clientele, While pinstripe drunks crack their same lame jokes At the expense of taxed wait-staffs, lit off-duty

Cops chit-chat with divorced luck, hair-gel managers Comp drink specials, shrimp cocktail, till all that’s left Besides rent, bills, slow countdowns of old soul numbers

Burnt to mixed discs, cheap liner notes of loneliness I dedicate to you, is to make believe Prayer is more than hearsay refrain, work-forced habit.

No, scratch that: what I really mean rings deeper, clear. Love, starlight bleeds, will blare, off-key, into day. Grace-note miracles heaven sent long-distance. Here,

Chipped dishes clog our kitchen sink thick as regret. I sit, bearing witness to minutes, second- Hand dust, cancelled stamps, controls remote as Jesus.

Ask whatever voice-over host remains present To forgive past mistakes, spare future verdicts Guilt settles like stains, debt, stale smells in shag carpet.

Hell, let painkiller scriptures sell truth, peeled labels, Little pitch-black angels mute as sheet-music, Offer proof, resurrect hope in bar-back mirrors,

Trust in holy ghosts, waters, their bottled message, Till each psalm, chorus we compose, becomes us. Let gods, rhythm method schedules, life’s worthless set-

Lists measure restless meters between each nightmare Patron slur & free-verse postcard our daydreams Self-address near landmarks distant as paradise.

Till all I want is to share one breath, quit those break- Neck tables, go tell your boss to kiss my ass, Then turn the other cheek, spit this blasphemous rant

Into each glass of wine, rare steak, till we can taste Spirits absent as touch, pretend to take back Last words, give up lyrics, perfect strangers, hitchhike

Just to lip-synch our own road-trip soundtracks, follow Rows (damp whistle, no echo) boxcars rattle, Till our faith in song fails like a marriage, lung, yells

What we both know, full well, by heart: this deepest part Of dark we refuse to call morning heals, ticks, Will get born again, by closing, as tomorrow.

Exhibit A

A life on trial… Hot stare America —Jets to Brazil, “Orange Rhyming Dictionary”

***

On the Suicide of a Former Student —K.H. (1989-2008)

Six weeks into spring term, she hung herself From exposed pipes rust fused in her dorm bathroom,

From dirty linens stripped—if one can trust Scant details her fellow classmates overheard

Once they discovered her face, blurred pictures Run on the back page of their school newspaper:

Gleaned scraps shared with me, almost off-hand, just Days after her wake, small hometown funeral

Her parents must have prepared in shock, grief, Like each line in her brief obituary

I read later, in truth, to double-check, An “unexpected death,” one last stiff piece states,

Before it lists names of family members, Her church, what worthwhile cause, street address to mail

Offerings to instead of cards, floral Arrangements priests will donate to nursing homes—

Ripped, tore, pulled off her roommate’s bed, as if Fact-sheet verbs mean more than a lifetime’s long past-

Tense, clicked links followed to web-sites set-up In her honor, memory complete with dates,

Slick guest-book service visitors can sign To extend thoughts, prayers, send hope to “survivors”

Who still put stock, faith in such weak gestures: Virtual messages full of sentiments

Hollow as water mains, words of wisdom, etc… &, still, this common need remains for loved ones

To express, en masse, their own private hurt, Utter pain, stilted phrases cliché as use-

Less teachers who search through ungraded stacks Of her work for clues, hints, some form of comfort

In this dead week of conferences, dull slur Of office hours I hold loose as knotted rope,

Like I could reach back into that dark loop Of history itself, help her slip its noose,

Revise whatever scripted sentence lies At the heart of such measures, as if scanned verse

Can provide proof, more closure than bitter- Sweet adolescent lyrics close friends might post,

Hackneyed post-confessional journals based In part on first sex, the raw reality

Of hunger, stress, naïve daydreams save one Prompt that led her mind to sketch “Headstone City”

Where “the sunlit flowers were eye-catching, Though they would never hide the grave all around.”

Passing Through

In cramped back rows of class, bored students stretch, Fidget, laugh, send text-messages To absent friends, as if I can’t see it, As if private this playing with gadgets,

Deep crotch-shifts under wooden left-hand desks, While I drone on about the sheer genius Of another centenarian Former poet laureate, whose best work

Elicits slow-rolled eyes, head-scratch, yawn, smirk, Sighs since none catch his penultimate line’s Reference…Oswald’s not just some once-famous Dull artifact taken out of context—

Books tucked beneath both wet armpits, I sweat My way across this wide public campus, Past teens who sport nose-rings, iPods, leashed pets Like fashion accessories, pink flip-flops,

Witness half the student body chit-chat Into cell-phones held to cheeks like ice-packs, Last night’s gossip: fake IDs, unsafe sex, Etc… ignorance is bliss, I guess,

Each of us tourists oblivious to oblivion, As sects mill like cattle outside their well- Lit front exits, down brick steps, while one girl, Stricken with cerebral palsy, grips black handrails

For support, our entire department votes Comic strips constitute valid critical texts, That first-year history professor thinks Scavenger hunts will help get her point across.

Ten-Minute Visit —Alzheimer’s: final stages

This disease passed down like some crapshoot heirloom: High blood-pressure, male-pattern baldness, abuse—

Traits great grandchildren will inherit soon, blessed, Or cursed, with each family likeness we wear loose

As hospital gowns, false teeth, framed by snapshots Disposable as diapers, fresh memories his oldest

Daughter takes, out of habit, focus, all roles Reversed to negatives in this semi-private room

Whitewashed in cataracts of fluorescence, bleach— Warm stench of bedsores, stale disinfectant, mucus,

Her “baby voice” raised up six octaves to ask if The nurses treat him all right: Fine, fine… he repeats,

Mouthing Merry Christmas back to us, while we, Out of respect, faint politeness, repress the thought

Of hands gnarled as roots clenched against a son’s throat, Clocking that pigtailed girl in her face for changing

The channel, riffling through his roll-top desk. Here, Curtains drawn thin as napkins sketched with platinum-

Blonde waitresses he left instead of tips, frail hush Of steel drug across plastic bars, hooks, daytime talk-

Shows hide such grave “business”: schizophrenic uncle On the streets since government aid’s been cut, self-

Help bibles on forgiveness slipped beneath her stiff Bedsheets, an aunt who tried to warn, prepare us—

He’s not the same man: head propped on stained pillows, Legs shrunk to sticks, lungs just sacks of ash rasping

Back clinical heat. Scratched glasses, pocket-protector, Ballpoint pens refilled with black ink rest, as if posed

On the nightstand, next to pleated cups. ID bracelets “Just in case.” Both arms strapped down since night-

Shift orderlies found him, IVs ripped out, curled into The shape of a question mark around his shattered hip.

Naked, still, passed out in a puddle of his own make— Sir, Sir… Do you know where you are? Hell, he quipped.

But even an infant can sense it festering inside these Plastered walls, dark sockets sunk distant as odds, risk,

Speech: “natural causes,” “statistics,” so much smoke Steeped from this locked closet, four generations bent

To kiss gray stubble frothing his cheek. Fact: thirty- Percent of patients never wake post-anesthetic, less

Than half will last the first year. A “blessing,” she thinks, To soothe him now, in this state, sweet painkiller of regret

We neglect to mention, pretend to forget: in most cases The bone’s so weak, well before the fall, it’s set to break.

Quietly Off-Key —Donald Justice

A song went looking for light, But that is another story.

Cities burn behind us, the lake Glitters: Do not bother with odes,

My son, an elegy is preparing itself For the suicides of 196__.

The grandfathers holding this poem— It was his story, it would always be

His story: June 13, 1933— Know (like a deserted beach,

A map of love, nostalgia) one May depend on these old cemeteries.

The poet: re: the question of Self-portrait as still-life,

The classic landscapes of dreams, Unflushed urinals, & his voice

Through the smoke & dull flames Of purgatory…

When the lights go on uptown, X, you would not recognize me.

Self-Portrait as Guitar

Stock, electric, cream-colored Fender Strat bought brand new, On credit, with matching strap, Used gig-bag & practice amp.

Yet, except for brushstrokes, Scorched butter-yellow shadows Stretching faint silhouettes Across that bag’s black canvas,

Don’t expect, Dear Reader, Perfect Stranger, our protagonist To enter this rough-cut sketch, Unless through its darkest cracks:

Gaps in the bag’s stitched teeth Left zipped, silent as regret, Spot-lit as some hack axe-smith Bent sick in his bedroom corner,

Warped fretboard tilted as old Pinball machines, one more Drunk lost in thought, face-first Against blood-stained closet doors,

Those minor chords of scar tissue Built-up over stiff pink fingertips, Hands callused as wood grain, Scales, hammer-on, -off, riff…

There’s no comfort offered in this Portrait. No answers lodged In memory’s clearance-sale Grace notes. So, let’s forget

Its neck, snapped sixth-string, Thread-stripped tuning knob Kept out of frame, the rest Always one turn out of tune.

Instead, think: breath, windows, Smoke & mirrors. The trick is To pay attention. Listen close For changes. Sense it.

No need for pick-ups, audience, Decent acoustics. Never mind What spirits strum unplugged licks, Bridge basic lyrics bittersweet

As feedback in cheap flats Dust rents. Art asks no questions Of worth: verse picks past all futures, Mute tones, voiceless ghosts, hooks

What little light remains present, Which is, still, between us, Our hollow body’s live, Most dissonant music.

Folk Artist

Man claims: God speaks for me & I speaks for the wood, Carved, dead as Jesus, into statues, walking sticks Bejeweled with snake-skin glitter, glass beads, blood-stain nicks Collectors insist resurrect for us, for good,

Lost prophets, blues stars, figureheads that once withstood, Like him, deep pain, stiff price-tag life’s hard work inflicts On saints, though he’ll see little return, mugs for pics As museums hunt his front yard, porch, whole neighborhood

For gems. God speaks, &, still, reporters need stock quotes, Grill self-trained artists who, on cue, will find some piece & let its spirit tell me what it want to be…

Just names his going rate, hired hand who never wrote More than initials etched in pine, signed rent check, lease, Now, silent, smiles, then waits for all these folks to leave.

Born Under a Bad Sign —I am…

One bad, bad man, bad as that King of Pop, Washed up former heavyweight champ Who, punch-drunk, made some bad mistakes,

Caught a bad case of “sound” advice Bad as earthquakes, cheap nosebleed seats Where home fans with bad eyes cry, “Bad call, Ump!”

Display manners, attitudes, sportsmanship Bad as mascot haircuts, late rounds Of bad breath, luck, split decisions

That end in one more bad breakup, How she has had it up to here With your shit, all those last-call pick-up lines,

Bad tip-etiquette drunks try to pass-off With another bad joke, bounced check, Bad habits addicts still can’t shake,

Like our worst nightmares, daydreams gone Bad as a dozen eggs, cheese, milk, Bad (judgment) day-old fish wrapped in bad news,

Till (my bad) all one can do, say, “Tooo bad…” I am the baddest mother fuck- Face in this whole damn town, so bad

I-should-be-in-detention bad, Bad ass, bad apple rotten to Its soft hardcore, B-B-Bad to the bone…

Bad Brains, Bad Company, Bad Religion, Bad gamble, bet, investment, guess, Bad skin, back, form, posture, genes, choice,

Bad sign, omen, excuse, clothes, taste Left in your mouth, bad year, ears, rap… Not “bad” meaning “bad” but “bad” meaning “good”

Cop bad cop, who gets down with his bad self, Bad feelings deep in pits, stomachs, Bad reaction to… bad trip? Trout?

Bad stretch of road? Game? Blowout? Rout? So bad just got to shout it out… That bad word your mama warned you about.

End Times All day long they work so hard, Till the sun is going down… —Sam Cooke, “Chain Gang”

Rich addicts attend meetings, crack-heads serve time, in the end. File j-walking, with pleasure, under true crime, in the end.

To ward-off houseflies, Mexicans smear juice down brown lips, thumb Cold rinds past glass bottlenecks: beer served con lime, in the end.

Search ashtrays, couch cushions: stray hair, dust, toast crumbs, stuffing, But starving artists never find one goddamn dime, in the end.

Anonymous, our most prolific scribe, sold said film rights, while poor Dead Keats searched round poles for metered rhymes, in the end.

God hopes to retain his silent title. Bet tag-team belts Go to live human mannequins, white-gloved mimes, in the end.

Odds on writing eternal verse? Even bookies keep firms On retainer to crunch such numbers: all prime, in the end.

When push comes to shove, clubs need bouncers, tenders to keep tabs On barstool prophets: crooks rise to crawl through slime, in the end.

Cops use plastic cuffs for protests, tasers on traffic stops. Who stands to profit from free needles? Tar’s grime, in the end.

Prayer remains our first dead letter, the sun some souvenir. Gold roads to heaven get paved in bones: cheap climb, in the end.

Artwork means just long-division sans remainders, bottom lines Dug by chain gangs, mute extras, till credits chime-in: The End.

Deliverance

Death delivers its sick sales pitch Like some ill-timed practical joke, One more backdoor screwball closer Who delivers his own runs home,

Delivers us, till kingdom come, Premature as all stillborn puns, Declarations of peace, cold war, This latest State of the Union

Citizens bought in silent auction, Rehearsed morning editions Littered with the usual headlines, Stock quotes, obits & advice

Columns lifted straight from Stilted sitcom monologues, Blank verse of blind poetic justice Limited as speech, funds, free-trial

Offers death delivers door-to-door, Stat as that ambulance stuffed as Dirt-cheap ballot boxes, or coffins, Con inmates, terminal soldiers,

Patience tossed like confetti, Hand grenades, greens mixed as Messages, dead metaphors delivered Empty as campaign trail promises,

Till, like taxed vials of urgent Prescriptions, folks help refill them: Frozen assets death warms over No extra charge for the service,

As if a hold ever got put on this Stable flow of death row junk- Or fan- mail-order catalogues Choked with plastic explosive

Descriptions of rattles, electric Socks, chairs, flesh-colored nipples That pass as dead ringers for Gag nuclear missiles, booby traps

Stacked hard as evidence against All better judgment, us star eye- Witness defendants who must rest Our case with the general public,

Till death, that clutch pinch hitter, Delivers its final argument stiff As this private, ghostwritten Verdict, our last time-sensitive

Documents death will sign, seal, Deliver in one lifelong sentence… No hope for parole, stay, pardon, Grace… period: end of statement.

Just Lexicons —George Oppen

A zero, a nothing, a barbarity— Cars on the highway filled with speech, The darkness of trees.

The extreme from up-state (Grateful for a breeze): He who will not work shall not eat.

It is the air of atrocity, A kind of garden like a flat Sea. My daughter, my ______,

What can I say? Myth of the blaze, myself I sing: Now we do most of the killing. Of such deadly ancestry,

Preceded by mounted police, Quotations, the resistance, Survival: Infantry.

Tell the beads of chromosomes (Like a rosary): Ultimately, the air

Visits what ends— You are the last, The Z.

Exhibit A …everything seems possible —Robert Hass, “Museum”

Let the mother tearing at her croissants, buttering fresh rolls, Choke just a bit on orange rind & toast crumbs.

O, let the father depicted in this poem take that Small, warm handful of coins he’ll use to procure her

Last Sunday’s air-freight edition of the New York Times, &, instead, fork it over, so East Bay bums can pick up

An extra layer of spirits, used flannel or pea coats, To help ward off ever-encroaching cold fronts & fog.

Lord, let this family man, who the poet has bent silent Over his favorite sections (Arts, Business, Opinion),

Slouch, in revision, shoulder-to-shoulder with some god- Forsaken building that serves as our public library.

Now, let him skim his paper next to other poor folk Rendered “numb” against the pains of terror, the laws

Of hunger. Let that little square of sunlight this exhausted, Somehow “equitable” young couple likes to call their own

Brand their sleeping newborn (daughter or son?) With one mean, O, with one wicked little burn… till,

Like me, he just can’t seem to hold, to still his tongue. Yes, let’s let this former poet laureate who claims

To have fallen in love with his quaint arrangement Set in one more museum restaurant back-lit by ghosts

Of sculptures, stale cigarette smoke, recall what it’s like To live without royalties, federal grants, tenure-track

Positions secure as that child’s car seat & trust fund. Then, if asked, under oath, I might speak in his defense,

Mention how his wife (another quasi-famous poet, If such a thing exists) once bought a half-dozen of us

“Starving” artists biryani & naan at some Indian market In the middle of the Midwest. Please, Lord, Almighty

Absent One, let me never forget that gesture, an act So basic, so human, so kind & so (dark, lukewarm

Coffee mixed with cream) impossibly sweet. Just let The record state this final fact: we each paid for our own drink.

Punchlines

Every joke is a tiny revolution —George Orwell, “Funny, but not Vulgar”

***

OK Walt Whitman

Captain, old prophetic queen, broke, beat, I quit these vain complaints,

Scratch my name off signed petitions, Petty arguments, small claims.

Uncle, I give in, & since I give, I hear your voice again,

Not from pulpits of picket lines, Lecture circuits, ballots cast

As confetti in some Great Depression Ticker-tape parade,

But spit, thick with static, bus exhaust, Above lost swing-shift states

Of the union ripped construction Workers slur, mid-binge, to blame

Scabs, fags, fucking Mexicans For driving down their living wage.

Callused fists clench against bottlenecks As I sip warm pale ales,

Sense its music, stray smoke, drift past Bars, churchyards, reverberate

Closed library terminals armed guards Rap nightsticks on to wake

Junkies nodded off near teens who down- Load porn star thumbs, war games.

Frets wait as flirts tap fake pink nails Across this lit jukebox face,

Bent to punch-in hits, score last-call dates, Or at least one free play.

Stoned, I take mute cues from regulars, Avert each spent gaze, pay

For another round of shots vets order Draft light beers to chase.

Perfect strangers, slate-gray mirrors, Bedsprings tune to faint refrains

That always want more, haunt all-night Drugstores, coin-op laundromats

Derelicts wail dirt-cheap blues from, Draped in tarps to ward-off rain,

Frayed monk-like belts, rope tied At frail waists, as if to hail daybreak

Like cabs in traffic congested as pitch- Black lungs, dead airwaves,

Till turn lanes clear, hum our endless Hymns, help us kick-start, shift, change.

Commencement

Part rite of passage, part cheap publicity stunt, Grad students take their place in line behind fresh crops Of future profs who pray for doors to open, shut,

Plum tenure-track positions to end long job hunts, So they can settle down, produce art, hone skills, chops, Proud knights who, backs stabbed, shoulder blades too dull to cut.

Most plant roots, make blunt marks, retire to deep lakes, woods, Academies that need adjuncts to teach workshops, But after aftermaths of tests, spilt ink, blood, guts,

Bards, scholars, subjects, monks, must mount steps, don plush hoods, First bow then rise up, clapping parents down in front, Ask themselves, loans, class, gowns, now what?

Still-Life with T-Shirt & Crosswalk

So here, Dear Citizens, is where we’re forced to deal With one more novelty T-shirt

Screen-printed with the black rough-sketched caricature Of Ronald Reagan

Looking suspiciously like some mug-shot cross between Jesus Is My Homeboy

& Ché Guevara—this T-shirt, slipped over another Sophomore Business major

Who will switch his minor to Theater come junior year, & this stiff red bandana

That’s decided to accessorize with blonde dreadlocks Creeping out from under

Its folds like knotted ropes hung from the rotting crotch Of the world’s oldest living redwood—

A tree whose bark would match these salt-stained Leather straps, stitched

Into sandals dyed the color of straw, scarecrows, Camels, or scabs, but stuck, now,

Carrying its own filthy pair of hairy feet, tanned in rich Shades of gold leftover from summer

& attached, out of necessity, to a set of hands that depend From arms, wrists, shoulders tired from

Clutching those greasy fast-food hamburger wrappers Crumpled, like used class schedules

For the next semester, in one fist, while the other Lifts up to let its warm pink tongue

Lick this soft-serve double-decker vanilla ice-cream Scooped by some stranger into

A waffle cone melting slow as our sun, on the corner, Near dusk, in gray puffs of fresh

Bus exhaust, as if waiting for that precise moment just Before the streetlights turn back to yellow.

Holy Land

One bloodshot week before my friend returned to Palestine, Its ancient temples, olive groves, gates cast in stone, He joked about just skipping town: fuck late rent, fines He owes post hit-n-run, his wife’s old student loans… Pissed off their warped porch deck scabs built from lodgepole pine, His restaurant sold, grill closed, trash packed with chicken bones,

& lit two tin-foiled hookah coals: faint hint of spearmint, rose, Skunk weed spliffs rolled fat as that mustache he last combed For passport photos his sons posed for, once he chose To move, help nurse his diabetic mother back at home, Her local doctors forced to amputate six toes, He said, mid-toke, as he poured keg beer thick with foam

In lukewarm puddles, spit, then asked me if I knew The story, how he jumped out of some window, broke His ankle, when his girlfriend’s husband, poor dull Jew, Came home from work too goddamn soon, he howled, half-choked, Then told of crawling, shadowed by cops, past curfew… Our deadpan laughter drifting off in scrolls like windblown smoke.

V-Day Bouquet —S.W.A.K.

Today is Saint Valentine’s Day— Besides that: a few suicide bombs Blew like two billion arrows, or

Balloons, near Beirut (dozens dead). My best friend sent me a joke about The Pope taking confession on

His deathbed, beat by mine: cute girl, Her bike, thick sweatsocked cops mounted on Horseback. Her punchline: Moby Dicks.

Still, all of us fell sick (headache, Heartburn, chills), bird flu spread across Six foreign states, or so say local

News networks (whole broadcasts devoted To debates on which athletes shot & which senators once smoked dope).

Plus, live award shows (tape-delayed) Co-sponsored by one domestic, One sister import beer company…

& this year’s golden statue goes to… A dead man whose best tune remains “Let’s Go Get Stoned,” his brown face left

Unchiseled into Mount Rushmore, inked, Roughly, over nil dollar bills, Stamps (sans tokens) round this globe. So,

Blind, let’s side with rain, our world’s first pro- Test singer… Gather all the news I need on the weather report…

Not profiles on some pregnant mother Whose instincts “kicked in” once would-be Attackers went after her un-

Born son, right then, when she struck one With an ashtray, swiped his knife, then Stabbed both half-past human. So I hear,

Blared like static out speakers here At the Sweet Shop (mere blocks from where Ted Bundy delivered his final

Argument in favor of blood & fear, those twin love letters slipped in- Between thorn-stripped flower stems mailed

To sorority girls with matching bleach- Blonde hair), while I work through more stalled Verse, sat (at the lone clear table)

Next to some hack tenured writer Who once told an entire class full of Mutual friends he loved his wife

Because he taught her how to fuck— But, right at the moment, seems bent On convincing undergraduates

How fiction’s just like his other Passion: sumo wrestling (advice tossed Like rice, rose petals, hand grenades,

& whatnot). So, in lieu of that, Here’s your poem: enveloped in white- Noise, dumb puns that read like sick jokes,

Bumper stickers, military (or Ad) campaigns… Laughter is the best Medicine. Just do it. Just say

“No” to drugs. It’s not a diet, It’s a live-it… age-old adages, Myths, clichés. Flawed storylines left

Unread, yet we all traffic in— His wife for Christ’s sake. Ah, hell, poor Sap’s bald. Squat as Cupid. Enough said.

New World Orders —Effective Immediately

Since ancient history repeats, let’s invent different facts: Let folks forget apartheid, ignore civil war, switch text- Books to juke body counts, erase AIDS, Malcolm X, White slaves out, blueprint last-ditch resorts for Iraq.

Dismantle gulags, guillotines, handcuffs, screws, racks… Destroy hard evidence, void truth (old voodoo hex), Omit bank scandals, rapes, internment camps, all sex / drug trade, czars, coups, air raids, recent terrorist attacks.

Just act as if domestic violence never existed. No reign of Genghis Khan, nuke A-bombs, D-Day, Troy, Skim past plagues, famine, drought, drop Fat Man, Little Boy. To keep said peace, make believe our poor stay well-fed.

Deny fraud, witch hunts, death squads, Big Bangs, holocausts… Erect no monuments, scrap crime stats, cults play dead, (So say new testaments ad execs pay to have ghost-read). God, at this rate, not even Jesus Christ will hang, get lost.

At the Movies —PG-13: 99 Minutes

Nature documentary that watches Two hard-partying tourists

Get hammered & dream of changing the world

To clean up the joint after humans Bend to the pressures of

Corporate bad guys, Stage a home invasion

Where two masters in the struggle Between personal demons

& memory loss, Who just got promoted from

Cubicle-dwelling office work, Move about Manhattan

In this computer- Animated comedy aimed at kids.

Based on the hit stage musical, The push is already on

To get an Oscar. Subtitled. The throwaway jokes are the best bits:

Profanity, mild bathroom humor, Crude sexual content,

Innuendo, Dark situations & adult themes,

Strong comic nudity, drug use, Martial arts mayhem,

Uber-war gore, Scary special effects, stylized

Violence galore, disturbing images, Exploding rats, scenes

Of torture, lions mating Discretely, nothing objectionable.

Underage Snuff

Our current last-ditch local response to this rash-like spike In meth labs, grade-school vandals, plus, sad final straw, Straight-A pep squad girls (barely out of training bras) Engaged in sex acts with ex-convicts they first met on-line, Remains to shut down strip clubs, raid head shops, pass laws

That require photo ID to buy spray-paint, diet pills, Till porn, hard alcohol, like cheap stuffed animals Bored children pay to save with plastic joysticks, claws, Will collect dust near condoms locked behind glass walls. Thus, baby formula stocked next to boxed pouches of chaw.

Punchlines —Poor Paul’s Pourhouse: Tallahassee, FL

Ripped black man tears inside this bar & squeezes thick fists like lemons, flesh-warm hair triggers.

Spooked rich man ducks under said bar & swallows rigged dice, iced shots chased with gut-rot liquor.

Dirt-poor man struts towards his lit bar & bets whole farms, just bluffs low pair, ace of spades kicker.

Ghost-white man creeps out some dive bar & leaves tips, bills split as boot soles by hired gravediggers.

Fat blind man half-stares past that bar & all bloodshot bull’s-eyes hit, dilate two bits bigger.

Pissed gay man spits against each bar & proves scripture mixed with jiggers of fear clots thicker.

Straight-laced man cuts clean through one bar & deadpan neon signals: laughter kills, dark flickers.

Prayer-saved man flails across our bar & hails in tongues, till gods become us “dumb-fuck niggers.”

*** Stone-deaf man rolls coins, strolls our bar, & orders the jukebox to wail “Dreams to Remember.”

A lone man breaks into one bar & swears his own slurred curse words mean sweat’s legal tender.

Wise-ass man steps over each bar & cracks double-barrel smiles shit-faced mirrors shiver.

Dope-sick man falls off that oak bar & picks more poison like pines, firs sawed mid-December.

Long-lost man spills stamps on some bar & mails self-addressed letters marked: Return To Sender.

Host best man bursts right through his bar & delivers toasts to honor most noble livers.

Punch-drunk man crawls up to said bar & spares change for whores he’ll offer fixed rent, top dollar.

Deadbolt man limps near this locked bar & bares clenched teeth as old coonhounds might slip loose collars.

Taking Stock: Rick’s Toy Box —ID Required To Enter: Park In Rear

Anal beads. Gag balls. Ass-less leather chaps. Black lubes. Strap-ons. Streamlined classic butt plugs: Waterproofed, under surveillance, shrink-wrap. Chocolate. Cotton candy. Camouflage rug-

Burn kits (spine / kneepads). Latex gloves. Noose-shaped Cock rings. Pumps. Travel Tips. Sex dice. Shot glass. Inflate-A-Dates (trans, gay, straight). Mock gang rapes Caught on tape: Five bucks per pop, mop clerks laugh.

Hardcore mag racks: pregnant, virgin, piss fetish. Pink-nippled baby bottles on special. Pocket Crotch. Day-Glo lips. Tits. Clits. Penis. Double-barrel dildos dubbed: The Natural,

Over-Under (all Japanese motors). Porn star lines: panties, pussy molds, dick cast. Try-Me-Buy-Me gel holes. Finger Tingler. Whips. Zippered masks. Fine print: While Supplies Last.

After All —Over-30 Happy Hour

Half-price pitchers, wells, dollar bottles: last call, after all, Means one more year spent nursing domestic drafts. After all

Bad tips, names, pick-up lines, & brain cells dropped in college bars, Love remains terminal as degrees we’ll hold, after all.

Make, kill, on borrowed time: terms one hears old timers mutter, But who ever spares, begs their age changed older? After all,

Poor Paul’s whole parking lot’s packed, patrolled as barbed wire borders, Where ID’s still required for human cargo, after all.

What’s worse: Alzheimer’s or scorched souls forgot in locked trailers? Amnesia runs, spills warm blood, like coyotes, after all.

First funeral (sick, casket closed) my father delivered His best friend’s eulogy like chain mail, rehearsed, after all,

From yellow legal pads, which just goes to show what? Our true Fears? Colors? Death settles like beer, trial lawyers, after all.

What’s so legal about tender? Tender about said bar- Keep who throws back cocktails, slurs: Pick your poison, after all?

Objection, Herr Honor. Witness these whiskey-stoned anchors Wait, toy statues, live skyscrapers, to be smashed, after all.

Sustained. Bourbon’s my chemical warfare, friendly fire: word- Play longs to have it both ways, bisexual, after all.

*** Wednesday night couples mingle (don’t ask, don’t tell) lisp prenuptials In corners dark as secrets, double-barrels. Hump Day, after all.

Skin tanned orange by beds that resemble coffins, glass confessionals, Muscles treadmill strips of rubber that get us nowhere, after all.

Upstairs, Rick’s closed for remodeling, bumper sticker: Wild Chicks Do & Don’t Regret It, stuck then peeled off wood-pink front doors. After all,

Here’s to cold feet, miscues on pool tables, dance floors, tattoo parlors, & porn stores. Dear Jukebox, just spin Jimi, bar The Doors. After all,

*** Otis lowers his voice, till docks tear up, planes hit burnt shores. Musical ancestors buried deep as roots, after all.

What’s better: leather briefcase filled with wills, Morse code letters, Typed drafts for classified ads, divorce papers? After all

Gets said & done, Ghost Reader, cubicle loved ones bunkered Under boardroom deadlines, it’s just us strangers, after all.

Holstered pepper spray, guns, cell-phones recycled at battered Women’s shelters. 911 works sans service, after all.

Born months before our country’s bicentennial, six more My father turns twice my senior: citizens, after all.

Ghosts whisper, toast natural fathers (dead: TB, thirty-four). Blurred photographs take aim, stiff shots before & after. All

Inked dates, passed people, my mother scrawls in family bibles Sound off. Woodyard, not Cox, is our proper name, after all.

In the end, billboards quote gods, folks stuff meters with slugs, stars Get bought like dirt plots, pieces of cold war walls. After all,

Poetry dotes on loss: bones, chalk, dartboard scores. So, who cares? Mugs foam, songs blare: drunk’s our worst form of guzzle, after all.

We’ll stumble home, lie like spoons together, old storm cellars. No, escape tunnels, dug like our own warm graves, after all.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Doug Cox got born and raised in Fresno, California. He holds degrees in English and creative writing from Cal Poly, SLO, Indiana University, and Florida State. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Apalachee Review, Chiron Review, Crab Orchard Review, Eclipse, Rio Grande Review, and the Tallahassee Democrat.