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My grandfather was ninety three. My mother was sixty three. I was thirty three. My daughter had just turned three. Our ages were all lined up like the beauty marks on Snow White in the Donald Barthelme version of the story.
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You know, my mother was afraid that I can no longer resist. She was absolutely right: My four sisters have all passed away before the summer shows its fruit. It was hard "said my mother”, not to see my flowers bloom. I, the calf of my mother,I came…
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One week until the exhibition and only half the paintings were done. This was how Axel worked best, with a gun to his head.
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looked briefly – glanced
shouted loudly – yelled
fell down – fell
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“This is where we suck the skin off the beasts,” remarks the General, pointing to a small white tube dangling from the ceiling. “We coat the mouthpiece with mushroom sauce, and as soon as they wrap their stinky bulbous lips around it... VROOOP!"
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We were in her boyfriend’s room in the middle of the night. I was seated on the bed, and she was on the carpet poking holes in his condoms. We were doing it in the dark, to prepare for any contingency. The room smelled like old laundry and body spray.
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In the gutter, the paper signs turned back to pulp.
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One by one our friends are kicking the bucket. Let's get together. It's now or never, we figure.
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and you imagine euthanizing them if what she says is true, that she is leaving them to you in her will.
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Through the Walmart parking lot
they came...
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“When he felt most loved, he felt most _ burdened.” Stephen Dobyns When she loved him she burdened him. She knew he felt a pull but he always resisted it. They went to an old refurbished hotel in Venice and asked if they might see the rooms. …
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By the thousands youngsters swarmed into the streets shuffling aimlessly, many mumbling to themselves, heads bowed as their eyes stared fixedly at the plastic devices in their hands.
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When Uncle Dan got sent to the Alzheimer's ward, the ladies licked their lips. Fresh meat.
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hunting after dark,/
in the quiet they seemed to appear/ with every new poem I read, each new workshop, some hunting carried on/ by both animals.
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Six months later, she was teaching theology / to refugees from est.
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The place is buzzing with little women, all clad in black smocks.
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Momma’s hands smell of vanilla.
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Maybe tonight, maybe next week,/
maybe only in my waking dreams,/
I’ll teach another lesson-
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The will to make/
remains
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My art teacher hated Salvador Dali.
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‘Do you know that tables aren’t actually solid’ he said suddenly. ‘I mean there’s loads of space in the molecules that make up wood or whatever. The only reason we can’t push through them is because of the force.’
Nearby the Android called up his light
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It was 14:24 official eBay time. Louise had spent hours looking at over 30,000 items under “Elvis Memorabilia"
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The darkness isn’t evil but invisible/
in the otherwise excellent light of day
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In the evening the curtain recounts its day. Faces, images, incidents it has observed from the window. Its voice is nuanced, modulated, quivering, for it is made of lace. It appears to crochet its words with needle sounds. My eyes, during confinement, are not wide open, not…
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I am seven years old today and I want the dog by the river, the one with the great mane of hair like my father's who is a singer at night, and with big ears, too, that grow from the top of its head so that I can tug on them if it's being bad or stroke them…
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“What was the line in the movie Dad?...
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