My newest collection of poetry, BORDER LINE POETRY, is now available for order. The official release date is 10/8.

lines divide us,
with lines they
try to define us;
inspected at
the border,
lines blur.

To pre-order the Kindle edition: click here

Print edition: Paperback copies order here **borderline_cover


If you’re interested in a signed copy (limited copies available) click here to order via PAYPAL

** For those who are like me and want an electronic copy but also enjoy holding the book in their hands… Anyone purchasing the print copy gets an automatic Kindle copy included free… Buy print – get both.

I really need to thank everyone that’s helped me take this dream to its realization. Friends and loyal readers, editors and everyone that’s encouraged me to keep the dream alive. What a long strange trip it’s been.



brain waves
lap against my shore
the ocean stole my muse
forever more

angel and the omega
spirits crossing
like a phoenix underneath
volcanoes rising

one moon full
hanging low
distant thoughts
walkers row

a man
in the sand


oh jack i’ve finally come
to fully know your holy sorrow –

to be torn so desperate
between town and city,
how i hated to leave her there,
crying for her family
such blessed tears
to return to my own;

missed the train anyway,
should have stayed
if for but
a few more moments;
seventy-fifth down broadway
and to eighth,
past central park
and holy times square
in such a hurried panic,
where i sit here once again
as i did after ginsberg
on the concourse floor
of penn station
with empty christmas
carols playing;

my track’s been called
and i scurry with the rats,
hesitant lest i forget
my last thoughts,
intended transcriptions;

my head sore from bourbon
and too many cigarettes,
but even more my heart
as i left her there
on the couch
of the suite
of the beacon motel,
room eleven seventeen;

the train undulates
side to side,
a dance without a partner,
no ma rainey’s here –
everybody bumps
without even
knowing a name;

home for the holidays
a journey insincere,
when all i want
is an intimate love;
lights of passing cities
illumined with
the grandeur of runways
as i sit beside
a sad mestiza,
does she wonder
or care
what words i write
and if it concerns her,
i wouldn’t even think
to make her
like sal might think
or neal would do;

pass the empty streets
with hollow lamps,
so more holy
than plastic bulbs
with tinseled boughs
and gifts beneath;

jack to you i write
of sorrows confessed,
no more a god of my own;
by some mystery
a part of your spirit
has found its way
within me.