I am a musician and collegiate educator in Boston, most recently published in Mobius, The Aurorean, Hidden Oak, Nanny Fanny, and Sahara, among others. I have three published chapbooks and have been nominated for a 2003 Pushcart prize.


The tenants left him a bar of soap,
two rolls of toilet paper,
shredded paper towels,
and a ripped sponge mop with bucket.
He tried to rub the white wall clean,
discovered it impossible,
realized they tried as well.
He decided to paint it over.

Hair choked the bathroom sink,
long hairs, male and female,
they both wore ponytails,
short of acid, nothing else would work.

The hardwood floor
wore rubber scuffs and high heel turns,
no doubt they danced and laughed,
but only broom swept it clean.

He began to know who they were,
seldom did he speak to them,
the check always arrived in the mail.
They breezed through, a great wind,
leaving behind a trail of dirt,
a thank you of sorts,
the residual continuity of broken leases
and painstaking interviews.

He seized their soap,
a green veined, marbled bar,
curved like a woman,
took a bath
after he cleaned the tub,
and dried with no towel,
in the air,
with the walls and floors.

The Silent Poet

In the beginning it must have been
that the Neanderthal
emerged from his cave
early one day
into the hostile environment

and noticed for the first time
sun's reflection glistening
upon lake serenity
between twin peaks
of a snow covered summit.

And speechless
as he might have been
for images never seen,
he fell to his knees
staring mutely

unable to excise
the swell in his soul
and realized
each morning thereafter
would speak differently.