Most discussed stories

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

Song of Unself

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nothing suffices as harbor / but a permit to claw at every yawing chasm

||||||||||| (Munun)

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Winter melts to ashes and now we walk where hillocks dip like pillows, where a warm pocket of air keeps the scent of spring beauties for itself. Sensitive vetch so easily shocked folds under a feather yet the earth trembles where trout lilies shove. Buds stall on lilacs…

re-homed

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aquatic, free-swimming or earth-bound

Frank & Frank

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Ok, so I know this guy, he's a friend of mine. A good friend, even though I think he's left too big a tip on the bar more than once. His name is Frank.

I Never Metafiction I Didn't Like

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If you find a nickel-plated Colt .38 lying on top of a worn copy of King Lear, you’ll know who you’re dealing with.

Star Heart

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This is the place I could find my breath. I didn'tSay I understood it. I only wanted to hold someone andMeant to. I don't care about the rules for caring.This place where I could speak was incredibly far from Where I'd once met you. The place where I could…

The Colour of Love

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I carried him home, all blood and brains, and set him in the ground. Is that love, George?

Lamenting Lexiconical Loss

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Neglected long enough, uncalled for/ by the shrinking language of the day,// my words abandon me.

Music

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Five micros

Salzburg

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One night while in rehab I had a dream that I worked as a violin maker in Salzburg.

Pterodactyls

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In his head he thinks oh whatever when I wake this time I shall have a very fine discussion with Someone special, oh but finding meaning in anything nowadays that's Just too much rich flattery, isn't it, filthy mirror? Inside His head's…