Quitter – Part 3

When we’re faced with an ending, I think most of us instinctively recoil. At least initially, there’s some sort of pause before the plunge. We inhale deeply. Then we dive.

The Experience of Art

Once, a number of years ago, a young woman I knew vaguely through a mutual friend told me that, for her, art always soured after explanation.

After Listening to My Father Read Aloud One of My Stories

He read the way I’d heard him read aloud from the Letters of Paul, books of the Old Testament. He’d been a lector at church for years; had also spoken in courtrooms, before judges and opposing council, on behalf of clients (I was one, once upon a time); over the public address at Ryan Field, Wapakoneta’s high…

Attempts (poem)

I must’ve been difficult to handle alone. My kind of trouble makes bones of bodies, sand of bones.


My wife and I walked our dog a little while ago. She has since gotten back to coloring, a practice she’s taken up with some consistency and considerable joy since her mother and I both gave her coloring books for her birthday.

The Now

I was standing on a high school soccer field the other night. A storm front had just rolled past; the air had cooled in its wake. But we never saw a drop of rain. The lights over the field began to glow just as the sky opened to a sunset of oranges, pale blues, and…

Snapshot: Pulaski Square, Savannah, GA

  Spanish moss isn’t really moss. It’s an airborne fungus which seems to cling almost exclusively to the massive, gnarled limbs of live oak trees, like those I tried capturing in the snapshot which serves as this post’s featured image.

An Open Letter to My Brother 

  Bro, About the beer can I tossed you: man, I should have made a better throw of it. The minute I saw it go under I felt something in me sink.