The webhost that I use is claiming a widget will not load. Nothing is where it should be because of this power-tripping gizmo. There’s...

You say our survival is dependent on the heeding of warning signs. A tickle in my throat precedes a cough, and the cellist can somehow...

Our long-awaited jaunt to gay Paree   has been postponed. I try to be upbeat as I spring the news: In a year it will still be there. It’s...

We discern the milky seeds of dying dandelions, afloat in mid-June breeze, and I tell you as I boy I saw them through my bedroom window,...

Grandad stopped getting fish & chips once they were no longer wrapped in newsprint, the headlines from the night before. It sucked up the...

I think I’ve had enough of our know-it-all acquaintance. He’d be another friend if he wasn’t such a dick. Just today, in the hallway for...

The cat of which I scrawl is but a menace. He doesn’t make an attempt at being cute. His purr is like a Dodge without a muffler. He will...

ran the deli by Central Park, ran her mouth more than the food, always had something to say between our bites of matzo balls, our swigs...

—a small flake of soot or other dirt Oxford English Dictionary To say my brand- new book of poems is just a magnet for the dust is an...

Maybe a shot of luck— the deflecting of fired lead. Or a golfer's placid putt into a cup; the baseball which is launched into the air,...

What is it about our conditioning that moves us to hate the weak and ugly? What stories were we told of beautiful riders and delicate...

I’ve learned my bitter lesson, to never ask a question on our city’s Facebook group. Does anyone know if there’s a Dairy Queen in town?...

You’ve squandered your very best, on that which fails to give you lauds & laurels: the one-liner which you muttered in the mausoleum...

Our daughter is dead. We plant seedlings by her grave in April, when Spring seduces with all its promise, moisten the ground with a jug...

…with hints of raspberry, chocolate, citrus and aromatic in its finish. Cut the bullshit, please. I taste nothing of the kind—and the...

You were always one step ahead— leaping from your seat before the puck had hit the twine; remarking it’s delish before the food was on...

I was finally compelled to cut my lengthy hair. Twirling it on my fork in spaghetti’s place, staining it Ragu-Red; quaffing it with my...

there’s no time to cry; happy, happy —R.E.M. I want to live in a painting by Thomas Kinkade. The critics all hate his guts— and that...

I blame everything on our thumbs. Their cursèd opposability; picturing how things would go if not for their relative acrobatics: the...

is that we’re duped to trill its praise, just beyond our tarmacs & cement, our fists of rage and road, the screech of iron wheels, the...