• A Study In Rodin

    A Study in Rodin

    She strolled with grace—a goddess in a fur—
    holding a handbag and a champagne flute.... more »

  • A Year Of Sundays

    A Year of Sundays

    As if a breathing god,
    the night exhales a glaze... more »

  • Ashe To Snow

    I drive up Ashe, past rows of shotgun shacks
    that were erected thirty years ago
    as subsidized apartments for the poor;
    but now the rich want condos down to Snow,... more »

  • Between What's Black And White (2pm 12/26/07)

    The iron-colored skies present
    their plushy soft-tops with the swirled
    depictions of a world
    that match the furrowed firmament.... more »

  • Bridging Seasons

    The breeze is urgent, crisp, and like a stream
    of consciousness that musses thinning hair.
    Autumn arrives—she settles like a dream
    that brightens life before the trees go bare.... more »

  • Closing Time, Sunset Strip

    The coked-up party boys all cruise about,
    shouting for more, or more than that, in cars
    jetting on Hollywood past sidewalk stars
    down Highland to the Sunset In and Out.... more »

  • Cycle Of A Loser

    I courted melancholy in a Gordon Lightfoot song,
    the softly-aching folly of a yearning to belong,
    but that recording cost me and my drained convictions show
    how that remembrance lost me to the claws of undertow.... more »

  • Damn Birds

    The statues stand like rusty gods
    in silent judgment, sternly cold
    in squares, in parks and college quads,
    debased with bird shit, dirt and mold.... more »

  • Directions

    Most of the time I manage to ignore
    my little doubts inside, and listen to
    the roll/crash/hiss of waves that split the shore,
    before they blend as if a salty stew... more »

  • Enabled


    for Charles Delaine Bradsher, Sr.... more »

  • Etching

    The etching stared out, black and grey and dirty,
    a portrait of the artist as insane,
    his shirtless torso sagging, thick for thirty,
    his flesh a canvas of regret and pain.... more »

  • First Date

    They walked the dark to dawn,
    beneath a moon the hue of butter-crème,
    traversing lawn to selfsame lawn,
    their breaths cocooned in steam... more »

  • Irretrievable

    He scuffed the earth in boots of muddied leather,
    trudging, head bowed, along a homeward path,
    trembling and sweating, though not knowing whether
    it was a fever or insistent wrath.... more »

  • Last Call

    Her vodka-laced pronouncements stung
    my eyes with breath of Russian fire—... more »

  • March Morning

    A spring song lingers, dawn-performed
    by robins (in quartet) ,
    in bluster-lanes that, last night, stormed
    and left the new grass wet.... more »

  • Metal Of Honor

    The passersby, oblivious to him,
    were rushing home to families and fires
    as he observed the winter gloaming dim
    and fade into a February night.... more »

  • Mourning Dream

    With spite,5: 30 in the morning came,
    alarmed, and jarring to his drowsy senses,
    bringing to bear the morning-force of blame
    that punched and powered through internal fences... more »

  • Mutual Insomnia

    Agreed, tonight was not my best
    performance, but forgive the gaffe
    and stifle your insulting laugh.
    It surely does affect my rest,... more »

  • Old Man Winter

    ... more »

  • Out Of Focus

    A smudge of a man,
    he trudged the blur between
    a can-do attitude,
    a cruel demeanor,... more »

  • Primary Care

    She rises painfully—without complaint—
    haloed by silver-white in feathered hair,
    and she assists her husband from his chair,
    dragging her shadow like a burdened saint.... more »

  • Project: Spring

    Pretty much everybody knows
    a dose of Spring in February means
    its tease of warmth is fleeting.
    It’s still a ways to go before the seeding... more »

  • Spenser Will Convince Her

    My love is like to ice, and I to fire:
    How come it then that this her cold is so great
    Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
    But harder grows the more I her entreat?... more »

  • The Blanket

    The blanket, wrinkled as a Shar-pei’s skin,
    was useful once—no more.
    I dumped it in a Goodwill bin,
    the ragged texture of a sagging whore:... more »

  • The Cat-Bird Seat

    Our table was the setting for
    the aviary breakfast that
    took place outside the kitchen door.
    We watched it with the cat... more »