I wrote this poem to read at last night's Tuesday Funk—the 64th episode in the series, and my final night as host. Bless the English language for its charming, maddening ambiguity. Will I look back on this night as the last time I was here or the
What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the sound of a tree falling in a forest? What is the sound of a story without a reader? What is the sound of tears on my typewriter keys?
Dead squirrel lies prone, Chin resting on its two paws. Looks like it's sleeping.
A reader writes to ask: I have three questions about longer poetry manuscripts. In most cases, editors request poetry submissions that contain 3-5 poems, yet nearly every example I can see depicts a submission of a single poem. How, or should the subsequent poems be formatted differently? Does the address
"We got our asses kicked yesterday." Monday morning at a diner in the suburbs, the words spiral over from the next table. The men have been talking about work, and at first I think they mean on the job site. But of course by "we" they
senior citizens holding hands like preschoolers blocking the sidewalk
She strains at the leash, Trying to turn the corner. "Not that way," I say. But Ella insists, So I give in and follow. Not that big a deal. This short, narrow lane, It's a valid path back home, Not such a detour. Along the sidewalk
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