received a Master’s in Creative Writing from Indiana University, Bloomington, studying with Ruth Stone.
He served in the Peace Corps in Liberia, West Africa and has worked as an artificial intelligence programmer in Computer-Based Education at the University of Delaware.
Among his publishing credits are The Beloit Poetry Journal
, Blue Unicorn
, Dark Horse
, The Piedmont Literary Review
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The sparks of summer light the evening air.
The fireflies, the lightning bugs, still flirt
making their asses glow. That sounds so daring!
They keep at it through this drought. They’ve got
an enzyme called “luciferin.” And now
even Milton is standing by this window
in admiration against his will of those
who speed their flight while glowing, so to draw
a fillip of a curve of spark out on
the vacuum of the canvas of the air.
You can tell how practiced they all are
and how galactic they must feel to spawn
nebulae who answer nebulae,
each a star, but lit in the common pro.
But that’s not them but me. It seems I’ve caught
myself committing happy, but didn’t know
my joy until I saw their joy no joy,
technically speaking, but mechanical
inter-attraction at the instinctive farce
of improvising Hey and Hi in Morse.
(Seeing myself committing happy so
embarrasses my stance morosely posed,
I see I have to undercut the poor
thing by which that happy got exposed.)
I’ve never been in more abundance. Fruits,
flowers, just abundulate along!
Rampant wetness at the bundled roots
of us bent trees induces a drinking song.
Our childish roots like otters, oily sots,
slide down whiskey chutes. How we carouse!
Our oaky arms stand each other shots.
Another round of showers on the house!
Another round . . . . But in the morning, slow
squad cars of the water cops will come
like bad hangovers to observe our lawns
to see who’s watering against the law
as all the legal lawns are duly brown,
baked and done, and if my flaunted own
has a patch incriminating green,
I had better be able to explain.