Undefended borders of the five boroughs.
What’s goin’ on, Mumps?
Immerse your soul in love.
RQ works through crisis and criticizes the only two people who care about him.
What does that giant red "R" stand for?
A response to Crispin Sartwell.
Is nonfiction really truer than fiction?
A most intimate interrogation.
Growing in Towson, MD in the 1960s, Part VIII (read Part VII).
Yes, there is in fact a Broadway in every borough.
Quarantine has led us away from self-reflection to a place of desolation.
Exploring before the streets begin to swell with noise and putrefaction.
Handshakes and apologies.
Paleocon Diary (#225).
I hope everyone has a place they can go to these days.
She sat up and murmured, "I've missed you."
Death had no dominion over the products of Horatio Alger.
This pandemic has taught me that a haircut every four weeks is not a human necessity.
Before he reads a paternity result, Maury Povich asks a man what he’ll do if the child isn’t his.
Humans always stink it up.
I won't deny the exhilaration of concealment.
A conversation with Charlie Rose.
Five poems from a new collection for sale here.
Writing and recording poems every week for a newborn daughter.
Dad was a humble giant, at least to his five sons.
I’m an old cowhand.
As a teenager, I was a walking zit.
The brilliant Absolut Vodka advertising hustle of the late-1980s.
I don’t scream for ice cream.