Sinjin Maloney

Here then—
The text that forms a line around my body,
the words that move between fact and fiction—
Articulation and confabulation.
Here—the ambiguity and incongruities of my life—
The successes and failures—
Boiled down to a few pithy lines of vagueness:
This is a man,
imperfect but hopeful
Who writes and works and loves,
Who hopes for a better future,
Who nurtures his spirit,
Who knows a good poem is easy to find—
And a great poem harder—
Who strives to be a better person and a better writer,
Who works as a software consultant by day,
And works on feng shuing his life into blissfulness by night.
Or something *like* that.

UNTITLED & SIDEWALK We drove north on two-eighty In our noisy convertible, The hazy sky and receding light Stealing our tired faces. >>>