Locke Wood doesn’t write poems.

He unearths wounds. Buried alive in red clay and rust, Locke Wood writes like he fights. Dirty. Honest. Unrepentant. he is The last outlaw poet of the South & His gospel don’t come clean.

They say he crawled out of a river with a pen in his teeth and blood in his eyes. He’s penned barroom gospels from the mountains of North Carolina to the concrete wastelands of New York City,, with every stanza soaked in whiskey, sweat, and gunpowder. This ain’t a career. This is vengeance in verse.