A 53 year old semi-reformed wildman, I tend a public house in Fort Collins, Colorado. I’m a native of Central Nebraska and a former resident of North Central Kansas, Appalachian Maryland, urban New Jersey, and have been homeless in both Paris and Heidelberg. I’ve lived in Benedictine monastic communities in South Dakota and New Mexico.
I’m a cook and a baker and a zen garden raker. I’m sin and confession, a lie and admission. I’m a damaged, half-century, half-blind, part-time desert rat with Sandhill roots. I create with words, paint, leather, steel, beads, groceries, rocks, whatever. I’ll make metaphorical music upon your flesh if you’ll allow it. Upon whatever my hands find themselves upon, if you don’t.
My love of poetry can be traced back to childhood but my ability to write it in a way that I consider acceptable is only about six years old. I have twice destroyed everything I’ve written up the conflagration point and I regret neither bonfire. Now I self-publish my own books and give them to friends as a way of not letting that happen again. I can’t destroy what I don’t own every copy of.