Thunderbird Inn chronicles the drug-addled misadventures of a man and his friend, Richard, on a transcontinental bender that bottoms out in the Florida panhandle. Fueled by cheap booze and various powders, the duo loiters on the fringes of a decaying America. The poems in the collection are often casket-shaped, not unlike shoebox time capsules. Intimate spaces to die inside.

Or live. Or snort horse tranquilizer.

Which the narrator and Richard do often in neon lit parking lots.

Do they commit a few small crimes? Sure. But there is a loving tenderness to their dysfunctional codependence. The collection itself is shaped by addiction and routine. This is less a tale of recovery and more of a doom spiral.

Like a seedy motel, Thunderbird Inn is inhabited by outcasts and weirdos. Perhaps near an interstate, in valley stitched together with telephone wires.