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strumming on the pipe/blowing on the lute's body/drumming on the horn.
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'love is when the body goes away.'
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Men and their inevitable disappointments—sure, why not?
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Children should not be made to do things unless they want it.
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Marge came home with a Doors CD.
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But God could tell that Adam was still not/
right with His world, alone as he was. Alone/
is fine for a Maker of Worlds but facsimiles/
are so much less than the Original.
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the neighborhood glistens, silver,/
in an otherwise sad November/
light
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Gladstone called him a ‘goddam nihilist’--
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I heard an old Stevie Ray Vaughn tune this morning. It triggered a flash back. It’s funny how just a few notes of a song can slam me right into a memory. A total and complete immersion. Sights. Sounds. Smells. The people. The place. The weather. Wha
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The voice in the sand: "If it has soul you must funk it."
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I weighted her so she would be suspended in the water. Sometimes late at night I would go down to the edge and listen to her bump against the filtration system. The sound she made was soft and low like a strange drum.
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She thinks she trusts this man; she wants to trust him. His face reminds her of a man who once took care of her on an airplane when she was a kid traveling by herself.
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fanned lashes on rouged cheek
a glamorous sea creature
in violet perfume
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The big wigs call it aiding and abetting. I became an left-handed accountant with a tendency to fudge numbers for the damned.
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I saw it coming from five feet
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The question isn't whether we will survive-/
like rats, we are supremely adaptive-//
but whether we should survive.
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Jimi and Janis remain fierce and beautiful
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That summer crawled with them, insects of every denomination: cicadas caught by the cat, wingless, came to rest in the roots of the garden we planted; sudden swarms of dragonflies...
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Suddenly there was a crash of thunder, and they raised their eyes for the first time heavenwards. That was the beginning of what we call civilisation. - adapted from Prolegomena to Work in Progress — Stuart GilbertIt's the third year of the third millenium,…
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... he led what might be called a quiet life
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He rounds his back to stretch again, circles his arms like a ballerina, settles into the couch cushion behind him. “We made plans. Real plans. New York City. Live like bohemians. Fuck like chinchillas.”
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They wanted to go fresh water fishing, so I had to buy worms. None there in the saltwater town. Drove about 10 miles over the long bridge to cross the bay. I'd been there before. Walked in and a crusty, little skinny man got up from his chair. He: Watcha need? Me: Fresh…
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As a young baby, perhaps a year old, I have a memory of sitting on myfathers lap, in front of a coal stove to keep us warm, while my mothercooked soft boiled eggs for him every morning. He would break offa piece of his toast, dip it in the egg, and feed it to…
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The store was closing for good, and so I purchased a book of poems by Cavafy,
that poet of ruins and tombstones, and fragments from disintegration.
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