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It comes to me at night, the monster. I don't even realize it's in the room until I hear it breathing behind me. It reaches out its hands and places them on my shoulders. Its fingers are furry and soft, but strong. They grasp the muscles on either side of my neck, and I…
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full of mad hope / we dash into the street / leap into the fray / and enter splendiferous lists
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That some adults believed the drill would save/
us from the blast of fusioned hydrogen//
amused us as we quietly curled along
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Who owns the moon? What title search/
could ever make a claim?
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Foolish boy, you chose
your parents poorly-
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I am Gloria, age nine, standing with my left hand on the green gate to the yard of the farmhouse that I will always consider Home
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It's 100 degrees in your tower/and that braid you're so proud of/is one hot ladder to nowhere.
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Where the Story LiesEverybody wants to knowwhere the story lies. Does itlie in childhood? Does it liein old age? Does it lie in anangry outburst or a stingingrebuke? Does it lie in a momentof compassion or in the recognitionof calloused selfishness? Bruisedlove or…
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You
sawed off my wings then
Asked
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I'm slim, baby, caramelized as a Slo-Poke buried in the fatty acids of some old dog's guts. The way they creep, frantic with finesse, free, locking their eyes in the dental mirror. It's wrong, maybe, but who'd dare to declaw them? Look at it from their angle, the one that…
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Jody wakes some days with pieces missing.
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We were over Casper, Wyoming, when some terrorists tried to take over the airplane. They had concealed weapons.
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After my vasectomy, I got a T-shirt with a picture of an orange on it. It said "All Juice, No Seeds."
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by Bobbie Ann Mason and Meg Pokrass
at The Nervous Breakdown website:
http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/mpokrass/2012/10/tweeting-war-and-peace-with-bobbie-ann-mason/
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Christ walks the streets of Venice,/has long since become a regular . . .
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I am a romantic writer, true. But what comes after the romance is what fascinates me. A lover dying is the most beautiful scene I want to write. The most beautiful scene I have yet to write.
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Wake up! But it was already too late for Charles.
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Mick Jagger and I strolled rue Gabrielle in Montmartre. Our conversation spread from apples to shellfish. We stopped for some oysters. Do you remember a time when books were venerated, I asked? I remember a time, he said, when rock and roll was a fetus in the tank of…
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The other day I’m in the backyard with one of my kids, doing what he’s calling a training exercise, which is basically the two of us with flashlights, shinning the beams over the grass and up into the night to see what we can see.
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I need some fantastic news. I need some happy news. I need to feel happy. Need Fantastic Need Fantastical Need News Need Happy need happy news make happy news happy make ake
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Opposite the foothills, on the field's southern edge, was a stand of old eucalyptus trees, each one a gnarled sentry with bark like burnt skin peeling from its trunk.
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They talk but they don’t really / talk
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Diedre and Pearl look on from their perch at a nearby table as Eleanor dribbles water from a plastic measuring cup into the bowl of crushed chalk and, using a clean fork, mashes it into a thick paste. A few more dribbles bring it to the correct consis
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She’s the worst student in my Modern Film class and we’re alone at a bar.
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Call him a hobo or homeless or bum or junkie.
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