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Excerpts from 'Dispatches from the Front: My Life in NE Portland—diary by JENA RACHEL ROCKWELL (year 08)'

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I'm getting self-righteous here, Dear Reader . . . [hey! wait a second! this is my diary! what are you doing, looking at it, dude! Hit the road! Scram! Vamoose!]

The Game

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We touch the places now, feel the hardness of bone...

Strings Go

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This woman is naked to the waist and then nakeder below that.

The Perfect Day

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Robbie Lange closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair. Yawning, he looked out the window into the black night. Another evening at the office, he thought. He counted the other lit windows in the skyscrapers around his building. “Goodnight, everyone

Help Me Rhonda

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Walking to class, Paula routinely fishes around in her purse to be sure the condom she thinks of as a close friend, even naming it Rhonda, is in there to help her avoid a pregnancy yet, even so, Paula admits that sometimes she daydreams in that boring economics class,…

Truth

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…assume...

The Dilemma

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Scribble something basic with traces of spectacular,pen every pint of pain spilled during the massacrewhittle the convoluted down to the vernacularboiled the whole story, now you got everybody crackin' upnow step back from the business like, “man, that's wack as…

Motel 6

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He lit another reed - a new score orchestrating in his head - his thoughts swirling around the older man; there was something else going on here…

On Socks

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There’s a hole in my sock, just large enough that my big toe keeps slipping out.

She lets her intentions guide her

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“If 'neighbor' applies to women who covet—'deliriously desire'—husbands from Angers, then one day he'll be your husband's neighbor," I say.

Assay the Assail

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No one is a Puritan under all that powder!

The Department of Lost Dreams

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You would think that a department responsible for recovering readers from falling into the illusory realities of their books would merit an office in a less obvious state of disrepair.

M Tractor

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If I saw a little old man out there, a fellow with a hunched up back, I shouldn't be afraid.

Feb 8

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Call it a spell or a prayer or a ritual; it worked.

Spoiled Meatloaf

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In a small, cozy diner lived a homemade meatloaf. The meatloaf spent its days lounging on a warm plate with some mashed potatoes and sweet corn. Together they watched television, argued about sports, and ate blueberry pie...

Gentle

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Your voice so soft / I wish it was touch.

NEWS

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Truman sits in his car on an early Tuesday morning. He rolls down both front windows down, but despite the infusion of fresh air, the car still smells of stale meat and sickness.

And the fucking black dress.

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The fucking black dress; the fucking black dress that obfuscates whether or not you're pretty in the face, that obfuscates the sound of your voice, that obfuscates the color of your hair, your eyez, your skin,

Book of Genesis

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Almost to the elevation of regret.

Oopsy-Daisy!

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[This story definitely WON'T be appearing in this month's "Alfred Hitchock's Mystery Magazine"!]

A Safe Place

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I think of our first morning in front of the mirror and the hairbrush that we shared—the hairs in it brown from you, blonde from me. I miss this day and when I cannot sleep, I watch your window from my room until your light goes out. Sometimes, I can se

Tiger Milk (Part 2)

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"...easier to get milk from a male tiger than mercy from him."

The Prize

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The fish would need a name, but she didn’t know how to tell if it was a boy or a girl. Did fish have penises?

Where is Love?

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I didn’t always have this metal thing poking out of the top of my head. I used to be a self-respecting farm animal amongst a barnyard of toys, but then the kids grew up.

Love Lost

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She came to my house late that last night and shucked off her things and we slow-danced to Cruisin' as beaded rainwater slid off her black hair to the floor. She smiled an almost quizzical smile as she drank me there with her eyes, as if I was some…

Assemblance

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I assemble myself daily// from the ready-mades/ of a fast talking world,

Silent Season

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we are tired, you and I.

The Great San Francisco Poetry Wars, 15

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Steve Bancroft’s future wife showed up at his door that same night, slamming her hand loudly against the door and shouting for him. “Steve, Steve, wake up. Damn it, come on. You forgot to pick me up at the airport. Who are you in there with? I said wa

I'll be Home for Christmas - 2

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Warning: contains sexually suggestive comments.

Sweet Pigeon

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A small poem