RHYTHM IS THE INSTRUMENT

Dreary gray- scale afternoon dreaming— walking the city park's grubby perimeter, wondering of just what sort of squalid desecrati...

When I was younger, I always would look up and imagine—what it would feel like—to swoop brawny and broad winged and darkly confide...

Stride for stride, you and I just go walking sometimes— past paper mache trees and shoebox buildings, often silent for indefin...

It's true, I suppose; the best things in life—are free. Free, as in: cheap. Almost totally worthless. And, as in: running at light...

Some thirty five feet above this old sun- blinded street— a lean gray squirrel bounding across an electrical wire, and me—down here ...

The poem I deleted before I wrote this one was like the furtive intricate folds of a rose petal— complex in its frailty and perfumed ...

Common grackles, with most of their intelligent crests of iridescent blue consumed by stolid black, and the starlings, gold flecked bu...