My prose-poem, "Interdimensional Border Town," has made the long list for the 2022 Rhysling Awards. The poem was originally published in Unlikely Stories, and appears in my new collection, Midnight Glossolalia. Many thanks to the SFPA and congrats to my fellow nominees.
NEW RELEASE
In case you missed it, my latest poetry collection, Midnight Glossolalia, written in collaboration with Scott Ferry and Lillian Necakov, is now available. Purchase directly from either publisher Meat for Tea Press or from Amazon.
About the Book
In Midnight Glossolalia, three poets braid their voices into a kingdom of dark matter, speaking in tongues on subjects both modern and mystical. These 63 poems are an alchemical brew composed of gods, ghosts, UFOs, alternate dimensions, ancestors, science, technology, math, music, nature, and Fruit Loops. They are the chemtrails of lost songs, a muffled heart piano swelling with the mystery of existence.
APPEARANCES
We were also the featured readers on Moore Poetry this month. Thank you to Christopher Moore for hosting.
PUBLICATIONS
The inaugural issue of Death Nail Magazine is out! It includes my short horror story, “Those We Serve,” along with two flash fiction pieces, “Gastromancy” and “The Wishing Hole.” Thank you so much to editor and fellow horror geek John Patrick Robbins for this!
“Those We Serve” is the story of a Midwestern family whose seemingly idyllic farm is on the edge of a forest where strange creatures dwell, and the creatures demand offerings.
Excerpt
I’d brought the last offering a week ago. They always seemed hungrier this time of year and, indeed, the dishes I’d left were empty save for some bones and an apple core. I cleared them away and set out clean plates, arranged everything neatly, including the flowers. I poured the beer into mugs.
I’d only entered the clearing itself maybe a handful of times. Now, I paused to watch the first glimmers of pale sun coming through the trees. The clearing was maybe five acres, its western border defined by a quick-running stream.
We never take the cattle to graze in there. Not that we could get them to set one hoof in that field. Horses and dogs won’t go there, either. The clearing is lined with mounds of earth, all of them neat and round, more or less uniform in size…
My short story, “The Beast’s Bayou,” appeared in The Rumen Magazine. Many thanks to editor James Cole.
Excerpt
When Daddy came home and told us what he’d done, I thought for sure he’d been in his own stash.
The ensuing argument was conducted in whispers. Mama was in bed and we didn’t want to bother her. Daddy set the cuttings down on the table so I could see for myself what he’d sold me for. The Orchidaceae family has thousands of species, forty-four of which are native to Louisiana. While I don’t have every single one of them neatly catalogued in my brain, I couldn’t exactly argue his point—these flowers were unique. Their colors and shapes almost defied description. Collectors will pay thousands of dollars for a rare specimen, and here, Daddy had six. With that kind of money, there could be braces for Lark, doctors for Mama, comfort for Granddaddy in his golden years.
And speaking of Granddaddy, when he heard about the whole business, he hit the roof, but though he cussed and hollered, and the little ones cried, there seemed to be no way around it. If Daddy didn’t hold up his end of the bargain, the whole family would suffer. The orchids Daddy had gathered would wither and die, as would any green and growing thing he touched. Even crabgrass would wilt beneath his feet. How would Daddy support us then?
So, early the next morning, I was shipped off to live with the Beast…
Excerpt
When Daddy came home and told us what he’d done, I thought for sure he’d been in his own stash.
The ensuing argument was conducted in whispers. Mama was in bed and we didn’t want to bother her. Daddy set the cuttings down on the table so I could see for myself what he’d sold me for. The Orchidaceae family has thousands of species, forty-four of which are native to Louisiana. While I don’t have every single one of them neatly catalogued in my brain, I couldn’t exactly argue his point—these flowers were unique. Their colors and shapes almost defied description. Collectors will pay thousands of dollars for a rare specimen, and here, Daddy had six. With that kind of money, there could be braces for Lark, doctors for Mama, comfort for Granddaddy in his golden years.
And speaking of Granddaddy, when he heard about the whole business, he hit the roof, but though he cussed and hollered, and the little ones cried, there seemed to be no way around it. If Daddy didn’t hold up his end of the bargain, the whole family would suffer. The orchids Daddy had gathered would wither and die, as would any green and growing thing he touched. Even crabgrass would wilt beneath his feet. How would Daddy support us then?
So, early the next morning, I was shipped off to live with the Beast…
Thank you for reading! If you happen to purchase a copy of any of these publications, reviews are always appreciated.
