Most discussed stories

circles, the round

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and skirts, lovely batiks, swirl around your ankles

Shoe Lace

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Is this a place to show posterity and mortality?

"Changes" Isn't Just A David Bowie Song

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Erin Hoffmeyer Zulkoski. I was at work today, doodling on a piece of scrap paper. I often find myself writing my name, practicing my signature, for when I become famous. I have always written "Erin Zulkoski." Today, I wrote "Erin Hoffmeyer." This…

A Martyr

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I've written of this and I've written of that, Have scriven as you have it either that or this: But if you strive against the wind when you decide to piss, They say, you'll find up firing against your hat- Like some old Brother who was broiled when…

Vivian

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When her husband left she was not yet thirty

I Don't Know What I might say

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But it all works out. I guess. Truth is something I'm sure I've never seen before, but the more time goes on, the Less I'm inclined to believe in it. Still I don't want To be one of those giving the finger to God And begging for a showdown with an…

Rock-a-Hoola

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She wears a green and pink bikini and walks real slow, poking her chest out so people will notice her.

Hats for Houses

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It is certain. The roofs are hats for the houses because you wear a hat in the rain or the snow or even and sometimes especially the sun. The houses are curious. They keep their hats on at night. The downspouts for run-off water are strands of hair such as…

Another "Accidental" Tryst

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She smacked his back a couple of times with the flat of her hand

Resurrection - A Sonnet (for Valentine's Day Massacre challenge)

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Mounds of earth and grassless ground

The Last Thing

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The last thing I remember is falling below the water, lungs filling with liquid.

Napomo 17: April 25 - 30

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As air warms and warm/ winds stir, green becomes the force/ that surges the plains.

Spinning Walt Whitman

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In San Francisco, there rides at night a phantom streetcar whose driver is none other than Walt Whitman . . .

Your Boredoms

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Your boredoms are not my fascinations. Your boredoms Belong to the ice caves with the Mammoths, Although haven't they been tortured enough by the Changing winds? Your boredoms are far from twinkling Objects in the beaks of ancient crows,…

civilization

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is this the end of civilization is this what i've been thinking of

This Was Called War at One Time

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The woman broke the law with that scream. I would say that there was pleasure in it, for her. I would also estimate that ten or fifteen men saw it, ten or fifteen men plus me.

Gunplay

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It was when the party hit a lull and a woman wearing too much rouge was going on about her parakeets that Tom decided to set down his bourbon glass and pull out his gun.

MOMENT

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It was a cruel question, coming on breath that stank of the grave.

A Letter to the Girl I May or May Not Have Slept With Last Night

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Can I really be blamed? Look at the circumstantial evidence: you wore that skirt, which can hardly be called a skirt. More like a very wide plaid belt.

Men Are Beasts

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They both have an annoying habit. She talks to him while she's in another room, and he doesn't answer because he can't hear what she's saying.

So You Want to Be a Poet

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You’re the girl that would sneak out to poetry readings instead of parties, watching fierce semi-bearded men reading their poems from hand-stapled zines.

They Come To Me At Night

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I have an appointment set for the day after next; you said you thought you might be firing blanks and then I feel a kick into my chest—two kicks, three, seven at least—my cat is going crazy at the stinky tom outside the window and the birds are waking, sc

chicken little considers the sky again (a parable for our time)

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oh, sure i’m still running around like a heads-up/off/prophet/profit/fit trying to cut off my very own de/(con)instruction and all other sordid a•void•able & available /a-Babel-Trumpish towers of post & toastmodern doom/daze/haze

String Money

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I said hey man, how you doin’? He looked up and nodded but his shades flashed and I couldn’t see his eyes.

Linear Critic

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8) An exercise online calls for the first sentence on page 45 of the book nearest you as a suggested description of your love life. The book 9) nearest me still is _The Quarterly_, 1, spring 1987, that I have on my desk in preparing to write an essay.

someone tweeted f. scott fitzgerald reciting ode to a nightingale

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poor son of a bitch

Honeymoon Bike Ride

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On my honeymoon, we went upstate to the Catskill Mountains.

The Swimmer

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He got tired of the pool party, the chit-chat, the suburban posturing, and he decided to swim home.

Watching

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An anorexic middle-aged woman walked up and watched me..

Farm

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untilled, weedy, left to rest