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Eddie meets Sarah Packard, a “college girl” played by Piper Laurie. She walks with a limp, a fact Eddie doesn’t notice at first because she’s sitting down at a diner table in a bus station. She’s alcoholic and writes poetry.
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You and I will never meet. You will never even know I existed. Even in dreams you will never imagine me. Someone told me once that your sleeping mind cannot conjure up new faces. It just spits out all the ones you’ve ever seen and that’s it. That’s it.
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. . . it's all we ever want -- the holding.
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People suck. They suck you down, and if you're not careful, they'll ruin you.
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Coagulating sky, a turbulentheave of orange, blood red,hell's fire smeared —below, tar seas bulgeat the seams, engulfing ships.Pier-bound she streaksand wails as the seaswells and threatens to claim —, corpse head, baldeyes, her death robescling to…
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saw the world was a mess
I did nothing about it, poured myself some apple juice
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I haven’t read many of them, these poets
that they speak of – Whitman and his Leaves
Of Grass, Mary Oliver and her wild life
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I started walking around the Jube like any other sheep, lemming, or penguin: passing plate glass windows, one after another.
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When we started plans for the party, none of us wanted Larry to die, most of all Larry himself.
Actually, when we first started plans for the party, Larry wasn’t dying.
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He finished the omelet and started in on the short stack. He drowned the cakes in syrup.
-Never can have enough syrup.
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Falling//
is something that comes quite naturally/
to puffed up things. Like the soufflé
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Going to the candy store at night in the section of town called Kalliope. Riding bike, trying to get there before it closed at ten. Getting candy at that little store with the glass containers and the rows and rows of candy. Getting milk there…
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For the past 6 months our love for each other had been akin to a chess game. We avoided each other’s traps, fortified our defenses, set up gambits of our own, exchanged pieces of our lives, and now it was endgame. Checkmate. Time to move on.
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Shakespeare had red hair / Van Gogh never painted a nude
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It is only seven-thirty but the night is full, gloom seizing Highway 66. There is a carcass on the road, maybe a human, slumped next to an empty ice cream truck. Several stars hang up in the East, drunken constellations scrambling to find meaning.
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a song jolts my memory . . .
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In mid dream, mid journey, there's a barrier we must cross, flat and vast like an ocean. We're told the barrier is a monster. To cross the barrier we must maim one of its eyes. There, rising to the surface is half a large…
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Back in the sixties, I chanced upon a list of books. That’s right. Sifting a black garbage bin, I found the long lost canon. Seizing the moment, I snatched the list, and cradled it in my palms. I felt proud and patriotic for saving such a noble list f
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facts of matters are not as they seem,/hour by hour crafty comments creep in,/another hour and "the good" is a horror:/ our human blindness is older than our sight.
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Every morning, Wilma's husband Richard would cross the street and visit with a neighbor, always after the neighbor's husband left for work. Wilma was a loner, never bothered with neighbors. She enjoyed sitting on her patio in her lounge chair,…
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This was before the cancer, years before. He did this every day: up at five, before Astrid and Max. Four cups of coffee in the machine. A bowl of granola. Five hundred words. Five hundred words no matter goddamn what. Five hundred words on Sunday and Chri
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“I'm thinking about math class,” she said. “The solution to three factorial.”
“Easy,” Leo said.
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This must never get out in the press, for it would cause widespread panic. The priests would surround my house, not to mention the police and possibly the army. Castor Desayuno has come back from the dead!
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A tanka/haiku poem about grandma getting run over by a reindeer.
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...listening to the ache of errs our mouths had become.
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Our afterlife depends upon//
what interesting shape
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in a puddle of water, the butterfly rests on a stone
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