Imagine how innocent we'd all still be if the atomic bomb had fizzled. This poem did not come out exactly as I had intended, but here ya go. I was imagining those July 4th nights when one of our illicit fireworks does nothing but smoke and hiss and disappoint us all.

What happens when a boy becomes infatuated with the first goth ever to attend his school.

What goes through the mind of those who push papers.

Poor Dad.

My father has dementia. This is quoted from my private journal.

Walt Whitman was a giant American hero with a lovable beard.