Posted: April 1, 2018 in Ink's Poetry

So the chapbook came out, and something amazing happened. People who pre-ordered started posting pictures with it soon after as it arrived on their doorsteps or in their mailboxes. I’m baffled, quite frankly, in the most pleasant way imaginable. 61 Central is an intensely personal piece written in unforgivingly dense fashion, so I didn’t think it would agree with most. But even people who swear off modern poetry, like my father, got to the core of it seemingly with little issue and made some grand comments!

(Now, PLEASE go leave reviews on its page on Finishing Line Press and Amazon!)

And since I’m not one to believe my efforts worth much, I sent out a thank you to all those who pre-ordered. It was meant as a fun bit of fluff to complement the air of 61 Central and give the reader a little more value for their money for plunking down what I know, for some, was very limited funds. That gift, which shall remain nameless as it has also since gone out to publishers, is personalized with a drawing on the front cover and their name underneath. (Pictured below, a cropped picture of the front cover prior to personalization.)


Apologies to those who got theirs first; I got better at drawing the further along I got into doing them in order. And thank you, everyone who pre-ordered and shared your reactions with me. It means the world, and you do too.

Posted: September 29, 2017 in Ink's Poetry




It’s been a long time coming, and it’s still got a little ways to go yet, but 61 Central will be available as of January 2018 from the folks over at Finishing Line Press!

Put in your pre-order now!

It may only be autumn now, but the chills start in January.



Some kind words about 61 Central from some fantastic people:

“In 61 Central, Ink explores an old Central Pennsylvania coal town turned ghost town by a man-made environmental disaster and the highway that runs through it. Using language that’s both concise and cinematic, he at times evokes the suspense of Steven Spielberg’s classic film debut Duel and Muriel Rukeyser’s poetic document of environmental disaster, The Book of the Dead. He empathizes with what was and what remains, while his description of the all consuming eternal inferno that rages just below the surface is chilling.”

–Tony Gruenewald, Poet, The Secret History of New Jersey


61 Central makes interesting work of winter—how gentle weather casts a devastated and haunting terrain, due mostly to the human impact within that landscape. Ink frames a reality not for fallen snow, but it’s aftermath. This is why we yearn for warmer months.”

–Patrick Boyle, Features Editor, The Rumpus


“In 61 Central “this much is obvious: no-one is home.” An empty town, like absence, has “no vocabulary,” yet Ink’s poetry outlines the shapes of ghosts. The concrete of empty houses turns to “bones” and abandoned couches become “almost-alters.” This collection beautifully leads us through an abandoned town evoking an ache and yearning for all those we will never know.”

–Nicelle Davis, Poet, In the Circus of You, The Walled Wife

Now, about that new(nes)s…

Posted: May 15, 2017 in Ink's Poetry

Planning projects is great, but personally speaking about planned projects seems to equate to officially submitting their obituaries. Ink’s Blot v4.0 is up and running, and if you go there now, you’ll notice a link to an address-gathering submission box tool thingie. That is for an actual newness.

Last year, my head wasn’t doing so well, and I basically went to a dead town to see if I would come back. What came to me, instead, was a frantic bit of writing spurred by a fantastic sense of intense and earnest responses to the situation in which I placed myself. I dwelt on my experience and worked on the poems like none before and created new ones in the original theme. In the end, I wound up with writing that surpassed my every expectation of competency to the point where I feared the message was lost. I was wrong; advanced reader copies have reaped nothing less than gushy praise.

The old newness, which is entitled 61 Central, has been picked up by a fairly major independent publisher. It’s the first time someone outside of my good friends at Piscataway House Publications is publishing one of my collections, so I’m stoked for you all to read it. The collection is essentially a segmented ambient horror poem written via observational narrative. I wanted it to be creepy, and I’m told it’s a fantastic winter read. Go on over to this page and put in your snail mail address to get a promo postcard announcing the chapbook’s availability.

It feels good to be back.


Posted: February 7, 2016 in Ink's Poetry

look closely; in purple: “Centralia”

life is all about studying and emulating routine until you get so sick of it that the only recourse is to smash it to smithereens.

nearing 40 years on a planet, i imagine it so incredibly sick of spinning that it brought about its own destruction by hosting such a self-destructive species as man. i’ve never felt more a want for an end to everything just because that would be something previously inconceivable.

a couple weeks ago, i went on an annual pilgrimage to see a weather-prognosticating groundhog. i’m beginning to see the value of the insanity — buying into something completely nonsensical for the sake of celebration; everything’s basically an excuse for a party. but when every day is an exercise in trying to kill yourself through normal means, an outright attempt seems (at least to oneself) courageous.

this year, instead of riding in a motorcade of fellow poets and artists, i made the trek out to Puxsutawney on my own with one very specific purpose in mind: i was going out alone so that I could drive home alone. that drive home was to include a town that’s been on fire for 50+ years: Centralia, PA.

toxic gas and sinkholes are the very real possible methods of conveyance into the afterlife (if one exists) that exist in this all-but abandoned town — population five and dwindeling. basically, i went to Centalia to see if the universe still wanted me. i called bluffs by wandering everywhere; steam vents and sink holes were investigated with an almost grotesque wanderlust, and yet i type this.

funny thing: as i explored Centralia, i felt my poetic senses coming back. it wasn’t a fear of god sort of thing but simple experience. (how insidious entertainment as distraction is!) while walking around, i scratched lines and impressions in a tiny yellow notepad. i had no idea as to whether or not i’d be able to input them into my computer back home or if anyone, should the pad and myself become separated, could even make out those last scribbled impressions.

as it so happened, the lines conceived upon that metaphorical precipice were some of the first i allowed to take their own course in some time, and i’m extremely glad of it. while writing poems inspired by my own situation as backdropped by Centralia, i managed to let go and overcome my fear of the keyboard — something that’s been plaguing my output for quite some time.