There was a typewriter buried alive in that horse, the one I road to get out of the flood.

If we were created in God’s image, then when God was a child he smushed fire ants with his fingertips and avoided tough questions.

There is a point when tears don't work to wash things away anymore. Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.

You are the home I point to that lives in my chest.

If you've never been rocked back by the presence of purpose this poem is too soon for you. Return to your mediocrity, plug it into an amplifier and rethink yourself.

We were never tragedies. We were emergencies. You go ahead, call 9-1-1. Tell them I'm havin' a fantastic time.

Forte is French… for blanket fort.