I drifted to Butte, Montana after my time at the University of Montana had run its course. I had supposedly graduated, and had been...

Sometimes the completion of a goal can feel like its unravelling, the complete incorporation of a new skill its dismissal… There is a letting go, it seems. And there we are again, just ourselves, seemingly back where we started. I hate the saying: “everywhere you go, there you are.” Because it’s not true. And yet… I said to my wife tonight I am scared of my sadness; scared of its persistence. I feel lost, and I do often. Even as my son is soon to arrive (due August 16). Even

Note: This editorial was originally published in the April 2018 edition of Life on Capitol Hill and the Washington Park Profile. It originally appeared under the sub-header "Signing off." Dear Readers, It does not often happen that I am lost for words, but in this moment, I find myself struggling to begin. Being a fan of open-ended journeys and writers who attempt to capture the experience of them, I guess I’ll “begin at the beginning,” as Lewis Carroll once penned. I am at a

Between Hills That Were and Hills That Are I can’t remember the boy Who passed through the windshield. Never before, nor after—acquaintance At a party, arguing with some other stranger, Shoved out the door they then both were gone. Walking wild, someone recalled, afterwards, Willing his scored and blind body forward. Which is more dreaded : the gruesome Thing that is, or a thing so innocent, soon Become gruesome? Some few weeks The mark went road to field— Tread and blood, bl

Even Wind Must Work Heavy, the eyes are waked into. Another small town as if a dream, Each one a glass forest, Passing headlights like metal birds. Faint din gathers, resonates as a chime : The full moon. Rising from bed damp, bare, Cooling in the lunar air, feeling my sex, Draping myself in the half-white dark. The kitchen clock chips away Longingly, without spite. The just-open window, The table’s crumbs in shadow, Some dirty floor… Looking back at her s

All Night Woman The midnight animals dousing themselves Into bouts of sickness, chugging brown bags At carnival jug tosses and radio rifle relays. Coin-op condoms pressed between big sweating Wads of small bills. The virgins in one booth, One after another—each are the only virgin, Forever and again. Toss the ring, Shout the weight. Just something to do : Night, fleshed out in the country. Nothing’s as simple as seems all this grift. : : Boys watching men run a slit down A fa