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Some women, it is said, like to fuck.
This book--The I Hate to Fuck Book--is not for them.
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Cinnamon and smoke
infuse the days that shorten,
chill, accelerate.
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Because she is waiting, seated on my hotel bed, making comments about my sonic white toothbrush being a vibrator, telling me she's bi, gorgeous with her poly-amorous discussion and long brown curling hair, with her fawn-like face and delicate breasts, wit
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Why was it so difficult to move / toward anything?
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. . was the earliest born of the not-so-great Pedantic Poets . .
. . beleaguered by family financial crises that continued to the beginning of his life, he suffered periods of deep elation . .
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Keisha was the name she gave us. She said she had no father and no last name. We wrote her down as Keisha B. We already had a Keisha A. She was about twelve though she told us fourteen. Her eyes were older than we dared think. We knew her mother had been murdered and that's…
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and there is no climbing up/
to any height, and the sun/
is cloaked by cloud,
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It was Christopher who got her thinking about the Jews again. He had left the same day they did, and so all were connected in her mind, as if together somehow. She read his letters half-wondering if he would mention them, wanting to know if the Jews were
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*** Winner of the 15th Glass Woman Prize. Thank you, Beate Sigriddaughter.
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a world of probability against plague
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I was always too political, you said, with my Malcolm X posters and my DC rallies...
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The first flight is effortless
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the waves all green and gooey, all / pommes frites, ruinous, insolent, half / fractal
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Two nights before his heart burst its strings near sundown Shabbat, we met at my house to wait for paint to dry. We could make an evening of that.
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I popped open the wine
with a Nike shoelace, a trick I learned on the internet
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Acts have no meaning, but they do have / trajectory
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She remembered the feeling of weightlessness, of being lifted against gravity, the soft whoosh of tulle...
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At some point, we will have to shoot them/
through the eyes and skull and heart
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I talk to her, whispering endearments and flattery. I tell her how incredible it feels to be between her legs.
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The locals cut stone in quarries, built elevators at the Cummins plant in Columbus, or brewed shine back in the hills between Bean Blossom and Gnaw Bone.
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After my father moved in with his girlfriend, my mother sold the split-level and rented a two-bedroom in an apartment complex rife with divorced mothers and the under-employed.
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You are terrified. You light/
the autopilot light and trust//
the small machineries of self/
to land things safely,
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If you outlive me, she said, it won't be because I smoke but because of what you put me through when you quit.
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He looked at the receiver in his hand as it hummed its dead-line song. His hand shook. Shit, he thought.
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The fluffed-up clouds, darkish in spots,/
are moving fast, opposite the wind/
where I stand and look. Equations//
could describe the multiplicities
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The sky's hand's so big andso vast that it takes ourhuge sun at the end of day and squeezes it downto a perfect diamond--just like Supermanwith a lump of coal-- poof!--obliterates it. And it's gone.Next day it's seen floatingaround everywhere again,like an…
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The night she left she claimed she fucked Bukowski.
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My only brother. Frantic flesh clings to bone.
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