Chest forward, he strides on stage with an Elvis-inflected, hip-swaying, rolling cowboy-amble, wearing a severe expression beneath his blue face paint.

Every funeral is a hole.

Before bedtime, in their two-room apartment on the outskirts of postwar Tokyo, my great-grandfather would tell my obāchan and her siblings ghost stories, like those retold in Aoko Matsuda’s short story collection, Where the Wild Ladies Are.

A car wreck changes you.

The corporate culture of the Cleveland Electric Illuminating Co. is alive and well.

Where I’m from, being a witness isn’t always safe or easy.

Contemporary poetry is haunted by what Keats called, in reference to Wordsworth, the “egotistical sublime.”

Solmaz Sharif’s spectacular sophomore collection, Customs, is filled with crushing poems that carry weariness, rebuilt and disrupted again and again.

I first met Donald Black, Jr. (a.k.a. D. Black) in November of 2010.

“Breathe normally,” the nurse says to me.

Some of my most cherished conversations are with the artist Donald Black, Jr., also known as D. Black.

I remember when I once wrote a piece about George Forbes that was considered “too favorable” by an alternative press editor.

Perhaps the best place to view the future of Columbus, Ohio is from the vestiges of its fictionalized futures in Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One (2011) and its sequel, Ready Player Two (2020).

In 2021, which is still going at time of writing, I’ve had 112 days of migraine—about 1 out of 3 days, worse than average but what are you going to do.

Wes Anderson’s The French Dispatch is a movie in vignettes, a whole that emerges through the sum of its parts.

I spent the early years of my life in a rural part of northern Ohio with my underemployed mom, a severely disabled father, and a closeted gay racecar driver friend of my mom’s.

Originally published in July of 1992, this special double issue of Point of View comprised an alternative history of Cleveland’s mayoral past to explore a foundational question of American politics: who governs?

It has come to my attention that a ghost haunts me.

The British writer Olive Moore is one of the great forgotten figures in literary history.

We’re into the quicksand of borrowing and spending for wealthy sports owners again without the news media EVER trying to put into context what we are spending for Haslam, Dolan and Gilbert.