It’s late in the afternoon and I am looking over the rim of the Badlands of South Dakota.

The camper is parked facing east; I have the dutch door open and a chair resting atop the opened tailgate so that it is like I have my own little porch to sit upon. An arm’s reach away, Cowboy sleeps on the bed inside the camper behind me. The windows are open and a cross-breeze blows us cool on this warm summer day.

If we are to figure out what these things are that make us, then imagine our bodies and minds are containers wherein each trait becomes a component with its own dedicated pressure valve. Therefore, to avoid implosion or explosion due to pent up energy, these valves to be opened and depressurized.

Today I am sick.

A search for the lost inner child.

Here we go, a poem.

Life at 10,500 feet.

Oh no, a poem

Let it go, a poem

An exercise in existential arithmetic

A short story about a brown paper bag and a song.

A short story about a swim to a sunken ship.