poem

it is an old pair of boxing gloves
brittle, blood-brown leather
tied together
with a frayed shoelace

it is the dust
on the workbench

an engine buried in crabgrass
a rope swing tangled
in the entrails of an upturned
blue oak

leaves and tree debris
caught in a river snag
the yellow foam churning
the shape of a bird

pretenders

ok, she said, let's pretend
you are Miles Davis
and you have a red horn
in that paper sack

let's pretend the moon is out
gibbous
and the languorous ocean
is lacquered with the murky light

and what you have to say
is like the luminous, cragged rocks
where the sea lions must be slumbering

but the rain-slicked streets are hissing
with traffic and the cafe is drunk
with your buddies sitting
around no beach fire --
no, this isn't working for me --
throw that paper sack in the trash
let's walk to the river
I think we should start over
but this time
I'm the one
who gets to be somebody

^

Biography

My poems have recently appeared (or are forthcoming) in Atlanta Review, Black Bear Review, Chiron Review, Literary Potpourri, Main Street Rag, Midwest Quarterly, Paris/Atlantic, Pierian Springs, Poems Niederngasse, Pulsar Poetry Journal, Southern Oceans Review and others. My chapbook, Edge of Blue, was published in 2002 by Siski Press, OR. I work in a group home for adults with mental and physical disabilities. I'm currently looking for rural property to build a house with cob.