WEAK, IN APRIL is a collection of poems reflecting on my most difficult week in recent memory. 


Monday or (no one cares about my stupid book)


Two years in my mind.
Nineteen mornings in my office.
Thirty-thousand words later:
One novella.

My first attempt at long form. 
My first beyond a short. 
A story, safe and formulaic.
Something I brought forth.

A couple edits, then sent out
for feedback and recommends.
But scarce it came, only one source,
the rest remain unread.

Now doubting and debating
the reason to carry on. 
If those close won’t read for free,
why would a stranger for a fee?


Tuesday or (the sadness of incongruence)


You are missed. 

Though that need not be said. 

The people who
showed up to
see you
sent off
speaks louder than
sad cliches.

But the service.

Hearing your voice proclaim
“it’s all because of Jesus I’m alive” 

It doesn’t fit. The melody echoing from the grave
screams an inconsonant harmony.

Your loved ones speak of
your love and laugh with
your laughter and proclaim
your character.

There’s no judgment here
or condemnation. No fingers pointed
or fists clinched. Just

The sadness of incongruence.

But, above the questions left hanging and
the impact remaining and
the sadness sustaining,
know this…

You are missed.


Wednesday or (unintentional insensitivity is still offensive)


masquerading as
“musicians,” unintentionally
mocking fellow humans


offensive and
insensitive and
unfortunate and

is still

The justified backlash
leads me to:

that my privilege won’t
blind me from my own insensitivity.

books, Baldwin, and other stories
to educate my one-track mind.

with all my fellow human family
in unity and understanding. 



Thursday or (the person who cuts my hair is moving)


Decided to go short
for summer. 
Long was fun, but
super annoying. 

Scheduled an appointment for
the afternoon with
the only person who
cuts my cowlicked dome.

She’s super great and
laser focused and
never leaves a hair

But at the end,
the bad news came.
She’s leaving town
in just two days.

I know it’s small,
compared to this week, 
but am I still allowed
to be bummed?

Is cutting down one sap
in my back yard
still sad against
mass deforestation?


Friday or (is the money worth it)


sometimes i make websites for fun
and for money.

i’d rather be writing stories
but i like money.

there’s a site due this week
the promised dues choking my creativity.

i haven’t written [anything] in weeks,
TRW waiting in the wings.

the pressure echoing questions
since the first spreadsheet

make money, stress out or
create untethered, and fun.