Lou Reed was sitting in CBGB, I was sitting on Greenwich Ave. and West 10th street. I didn't know him then and I didn't know him later either, but we were both there.

I can walk among words, Scatter them like birds, to compose two thirds of a poem, when they settle on nearby wires, in an order inspiring wonder. What do they think, when I scatter them asunder. Bring them disarray, Shape them to a…

a ruminating marsupial? if so,/ I guess I’d be a kangaroo, the cud soured/ and pasted to the tongue . . .

Is every librarian a poet at heart? I don't know, but a group of librarians recently put their heads together and came up with these library-themed Valentine's Day poems: Roses are red Your book's overdue You've had it for months Which is…

You move, tracing the back of the ear to the corner of the mouth with the forefinger to another's face. Trace the line back to capture the construct. Pull an unseen quarter from behind the ear of a child. Go back the way you came following the footprints you left there.This…

“C'mon Billy, don't be s-s-s-s-scared.' said the voice coming from under the bed. Billy looked over the side and saw a pale white, bony right hand with it's forefinger beckoning him protruding out from below. The nails were yellowed and cracked. And long. Very, very…

I suspect I’ll make the right decision.