The Pursuit of Warmth
He shoved the
iron poker deep
into the coals,
like a man forcing
his words into
a conversation he
barely understands—
she said he always did—
roughshod, without thought.
He poked and cracked coals,
chunks splitting and rolling
like Minnesota Fats at
a volcanic billiards table.
She set the last cigarette
on freshly painted lips,
lit it with 24 years of
simmering resentment.
Her fingers scraped
the final bite of honey biscuit
breakfast from the saucer,
lifting it to her tongue.
“There’s chicken in the
fridge from last night.
I’ll be late again.”
Her purse strap tightened
around her hand like a
cable car passenger
pulling the emergency cord
a stop too late.
“Pull. Pull hard,”
she told herself.
Stale smoke and country ham
stained the air. When he shut
his eyes, he imagined
his grandmother’s kitchen
smelling the same way
had she lived past twenty-nine.
“Too damn early,”
he muttered.
Fireworks splashed the air
as the poker smashed against
a crackling stump.
The front door slammed;
his spit sizzled
where it struck the ash.
•••
The Things We Do
The scant, gray room—
You caged me;
Me, a fox with
Silken, amber fur
And hungry teeth.
I dreamed of escape
That cool spring morning
At our Swiss train station,
Your heels striking echoes,
I, afraid of the machinery.
“Why do we do
The things we do?” you asked.
I kissed your nose,
Like tasting a hen.
I gave my ticket to a boy,
Watched him board without bags.
My gloves pinched my skin—
Black, like your hair,
And smelling of blood.
Monkey
This is more than a poem—
it’s a wild monkey,
slipping from the tangle
of an overgrown jungle,
boarding a train
bound for the big city.
Buying a hat, landing a job
with an organ grinder,
working eleven hours daily,
clutching a cold steel cup
where nickels plonk.
Strangers tithe
without lifting eyes,
faces screen-bleached
since slipping from
the Apple Store
boarding a train
bound for the big city.
Forbidden
He was born
desert frost,
a Kansas avalanche;
an impossibility
in her
life
posing as savage
fantasy
they both carried
under their
skin
like a virus fiend.
My View At Starbucks Window
Metallic ocean waves
will not devour me—
this moment, invincible.
Shaven-headed dude,
his hound veering
across the uneven plaza,
eagerly visualizing
some vague triumph—
shit teetering on the verge.
Beneath this devil sun,
vociferous men,
devoid of socks,
converse sharply
about investments
in rental ventures,
their glances evasive,
ignoring my overly long
verdant straw—
delivering this
shivery salvation:
iced beverage, victorious.
unconscious
While you are sleeping
they are sharpening the guillotine
loading their guns
sheathing knives at their thighs.
Tiptoeing while you snore
they tie the noose,
deliver the poison,
and plant mines beneath your feet.
In your dream state,
They write the nightmares.
You have no idea
what awaits.
I’m a writer and artist whose work spans humor, horror, poetry, essays, and playwriting, often rooted in the textures of Southern life and Appalachian culture—its religion, storytelling, and quirky absurdities—my work moves between the reflective and the unsettling, the comic and the strange.
I am an award-winning cartoonist and illustrator, and the editor of The Leghorn, a humor publication dedicated to sharp, irreverent satire. My creative work also extends into podcasting, where I explore storytelling, culture, and the absurdities in between.
Originally from East Tennessee, I now live on the east side of Atlanta with my wife, where we spend much of our time searching for interesting art and fresh produce.