You take care now, Harold, and don’t slip on the ice looking for a good bookstore on the streets of Chicago. Print is dead, Harold,
Black lives matter in different ways to different people in the American rainbow especially bus companies
This was the first Christmas Billy was old enough to speak when he saw his gifts under the sparkling tree. His parents were waiting
My grandson whispers the morning dew sparkles like diamonds in the grass. Donal Mahoney
Homer’s a chair arranger who works in meeting rooms on 30 floors in a building tall as Trump Tower. At least it looks that tall to him
The weekday Mass at 6 a.m. brings old folks out from bungalows around the church. They move like caterpillars
This time Wilma is ready for the bastards jimmying her front door, coming back for more. The first time she was asleep,
Don’t recall meeting a human being at the megastore staffed by robots in the flesh
Newlyweds cuddle on a bench in their garden. A hummingbird pauses then enters a lily. They make love in public.
When Bill was a lad his parents preached that Scripture was the truth. Decades later now Bill still believes that.
You think it’s easy, embalming bodies in these nightmares I have every night, bodies a vulture
I don’t know the answer but perhaps the Dalai Lama knows the final resting place of pygmies who live in jungles unexplored and never hear a sermon from
I’m on my way to Larry’s Place, a food pantry in the city. I park a block away because parking in front of Larry’s isn’t wise even if one drives
When Homer stubs his toe or bumps his elbow, the pain is always piercing but Homer’s a pious man so swearing isn’t for him.
The tale’s a parable and it scares Bill more than any creepy clown hiding behind a tree