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They say I am filthy. On this high pillar I perch like a stuffed avian relic, flightless, no prey. The horizon before me is broken by scuff and foreign tongue, by atomized evil. Pleas, and there are many, are answered by the only prayer I know, the one prayer, which…
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The blue Victorian at 1145 White Street shifts in its foundation, creaks, and settles in for the night. The girls are bundled into their beds. My wife, too, has gone to sleep. I’m alone in the kitchen, steeping chamomile tea, coughing phlegm into the wr
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Larry works the concession stand / near the pier.
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Later I asked Mark if he wanted to watch, but his wife wouldn’t let him. She didn’t like kinky stuff, she said.
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She was a beautiful woman. I don't argue with that. I welcome it.
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The moonlight news is brutal
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The coffins pile up gnawing dust on the glass panes to the rims of my binoculars. Shadowy cracks of stifling proportions, gliding over my eyes a requiem of mahogany. At dawn they heave between the workers’ hands, leave their resting places for a green tra
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a few Hershey's Kisses tucked in with the note
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I look for the boy we met inside the club, the one who claimed he loved playing with matches, setting fire to churches. I spot him smoking a cigarette, standing so cool against the side of the club, like he might be the nephew of some Viking guitarist hun
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I avoid weddings like the plague.
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by myself next to just one wide-eyed moment of wild blued out ocean. You know the one I mean. I don't want to have to speak to you, or even- alone- to myself. I'd like to be left inside the poem it makes me feel without having to get up and pee every…
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“Hrrumph!” was almost audible as she turned/
to sniff behind the chifferobe for fresh/
green trophies.
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We've talked often about that night, where six hours of our life disappeared, about our shared experience, and the big question of why.
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What would you do today if you knew your time was up
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My little friend is no bigger than a minute. An even five feet tall, if that.
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meditation and thoughts run in circles
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Columbus Avenue, I’m the tense union of poor city rich city/
gentrification.
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We eat, sleep, play Scrabble on our iPads, and go down to breakers at sunrise and sunset. The sunset is spectacular.
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The cataclysm of all those photons/
mad to be a part of you
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Sixteen hundred hens / suffocated / during the collection
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Brian stands. The edge of the tablecloth goes up with him, clings to his belt buckle, so he must beat it down. Everyone looks at him. The two old ones at the end glare at him coldly, four stupid eyes.
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the two become one where/
all things end,
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After the show they talked at the famous comedian, reaching the way they do, with their arms. Their arms are curved a good way, a better way than the older white planes of my own.
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"Check out these dudes,” he says. “They're all wearing kilts. Not that there's anything wrong with that, as long as they're wearing underwear.
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It was only when blood began to drip onto the page that he realized he'd been hit.
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The end is rehearsed over and over;/
in a world without heaven all is farewell.
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Tomorrow the authority smashes. Tonight we march, splash, carve letters in wet paint from room to room until steel blades bend. The letters will tilt in shadows gliding over the walls to mask our tales born of fractured wrists and the ghosts, our keepers.
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