My second chapbook, published at the end of 2013:

Nowhere Near Morn­ing” links dreams and phys­i­cal mal­adies to a long cen­tral poem, “Enter­ing Ver­mont,” which tells the story of a freak near-death expe­ri­ence, the jour­ney back and the per­spec­tive left in its wake. It’s the small­est things which take cen­ter stage.



If you are interested in learning more, including reading a couple of the poems, or you are ready to order it in book or e-book form, go to Liquid Light Press.

Here is one poem from the chap­book:

You’ve Reached Dr. Freud’s Answer­ing Service

I’m not sure why I drove all that way
to take a ferry back and forth across the Sound,
but dreams don’t always make sense.

Might be they hold great insights
you’d get no other way but
to sum­mon them from nether regions
of the blan­ket, they may have fallen
clear to the floor or slipped behind
the head­board, hunt­ing dustbunnies.

Once recalled you can try to inter­pret them
but take a lit­eral approach
and it might just be your cor­tex
tak­ing out the garbage, no recy­cling it all
in those snazzy green bar­rels
for which the city charges fifty bucks apiece.
Or maybe just toss them out like
old-fashioned trash but now they belong
in those cobalt blue recep­ta­cles –
pay as you throw!

You could try to keep paper and pen
by your bed­side, wake any­one
who hap­pens to be shar­ing the mat­tress
(the dogs snore on) when a new one pops
like a wet spot in that log on the fire.
Next morn­ing your scrawl
would be inde­ci­pher­able,
like read­ing a lan­guage
with no writ­ten form.

When peo­ple claim they had a dream­less sleep,
they enter the inter­state at sev­enty mph
in some rural burg, wake up in the sub­urbs
and won­der how they got there. You know,
like those trav­el­ers on New Years’ Eve
who head south on the divided
highway’s north­bound lanes
and morn­ing never comes,
just that pale light
when the sun should be ready to rise.