This poem debuted live at Tuesday Funk #48 in Chicago on September 4, 2012, the same day it was written. I've submitted it to a few editors since then, but since they (probably sensibly) turned it down, my birthday present...  read

Homeless man feeding his McDonald's French fries to pigeons. Share the wealth.  read

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...  read

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?  read

Dead squirrel lies prone, Chin resting on its two paws. Looks like it's sleeping.  read

senior citizens holding hands like preschoolers blocking the sidewalk  read

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...  read

Maggie Thatcher's dead, but so is Roger Ebert. Always a trade-off.  read

cigar aroma wafting in from the golf course signals that it's spring  read

Malt Caramel Subtle peppery undertone Juniper Crisp pine Grapefruit aroma Chocolate Mellow hops Rich toffee notes Freshly baked biscuits Clean desert aroma Citrus weed Tangy cactus spine Horse blanket Slight nuttiness Hints of bourbon Smoked rubber Magnesium flare Coconut oil...  read