A thief of the imagination, Ted Barron takes the photographs that we have in our heads. He came to NYC from St. Louis, a teenage East Village Tom Sawyer with a movie already lived that he made up in his head and began c...
Lyle let his engine rattle for a ten count before he killed the ignition and stepped out. The snuffed porch light and the blanket nailed across the apartment window served as warning that he had best signal his arrival, that...
Rebecca Weiner Tompkins
At my wife’s grave
it's changed a lot in a month;
someone's planted some forget me nots.
It's windy and flower petals from the trees are making pink
We were totally unprepared for the winter of 1968; it was bleak and cold, and it seemed to last forever. My wife and I were from the North -- Reading, Pennsylvania -- and we had joined a government program to help organize ...
Spuyten Duyvil names the creek that separates northern Manhattan from the Bronx. It is bastardized Dutch and might mean 'spitting devil' or spinning devil' in reference to the cross currents that boil the water at this junct...
“What you gonna be when you blow up? I bet you gonna be a balloon…kee kee kee!” That was Willie T’s salutation these days -- delivered with an eye-rolling guffaw registering satisfaction with his cho...
The poem "Bananas" is a true story. I was flat broke in Hong Kong, strolling along Kowloon's Nathan Road vaguely wondering how to pay my rent. But also thinking poems. Suddenly this stunning black GI on R&R from Vietnam stop...
It was a vain endeavor.
All the plants and leaves
Took pity on it as it
Hung out in the wind.
Princesses noticed its
Ridiculous asinine shadow
As it hung out there torn
For a moment and said