Not your parent's poetry.

"Here is Phil’s heart, throbbing with life, passion, and pain. But it could be your heart too, or mine. That is the nature of this book. Bukowski once said that it terrifies some people to write, and it is painful and dangerous to “expose one’s a** on paper” because it opens one up to the slings and arrows of criticism and the scrutiny of one's soul. So while you read this book, think of the courage it took to write it. Then think of the courage it took to publish it. Then read it again."

—Raegan Butcher, Author of Stone Hotel, Rusty String Quartet and more.—October 2013

Burnt Spoons

She left a burnt spoon
with a milk stain stink,
on the kitchen’s counter
next to the sink

My face fell and hit
the poorly tiled floor,
when she locked herself
behind a brown bedroom door

Now, getting dolled up to
go looking for a score,
but hits me up for cash
because she said she’s poor

When did loving her
become a chore?
When did my love,
become a revolving door?