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It's just another night in the old city, perched in the skeletal radio tower with my collection of telescopes
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Background
foreground
life in the middle
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The bus heads west on Route 36, toward the next stop – Howell, New Jersey. After driving ten minutes, and after crossing the tracks, the bus gets a flat.
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"Every generation is a new generation, isn't it? What's so different about your generation?"
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Once upon a time in the days of old
There lived a poor tailor who- I am told-
Did brag that his daughter
Spun straw into gold!
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I keep my love for you in me, /
like the egg of a worm,
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[SOME PEOPLE ARE BETTER THAN OTHERS.]
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One of the poems in my collection, One Day Tells its Tale to Another, published December 16, 2012. Available on Amazon. My first book!
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Occasionally I will pick up a quarterly—
As a budding poet, to do what I oughterly,
And peruse the pages for helpful examples
That I can crib or use as samples.
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She picked the fish out of the box leaving a pool of mucus and blood slowly congealing on the shelf and dripped it toward the kitchen table. Outside the wind lashed the tops of the poplar trees together and rain sprayed from the barn roof opposite.
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Let’s say you know so little about me. Like whose idea of a joke to name me Hideo for excellent male. Or why I hang out at triangle Park, ogling expatriates or crusty punks.
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I feel about the universe/
as Abrahamics are supposed/
to feel about their Yahweh, /their God,
and their Allah:/ I am in fear,
I am in awe, /I am in love.
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She’s changed leaves to emeralds. Worn a shawl of inked birds’ wings.
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Rosea plays a bohemian plainsong for the cosmonauts among us, while her fuzzy apple hips spit glitter, spin strobes: pink shades of pantyline flicker; lip-licked neon hues scrape strings in B sharp, a gloomy clue.
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Twenty-two tornadoes tore through Toronto, spiraling steel and stone to the streets where she stood, texting her best friend.
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...you should pick a VERY OLD millionaire. Very old, and NOT VERY WELL...
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strung from her window to a tree
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Sunday morning beginning with a bang. Accused, found wanting, sentenced.
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Our afterlife depends upon//
what interesting shape
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two roses her eyes
aqua-blue
no, blue-green
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Before she flushes the toilet the world is spinning.
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Girl with glasses and
skinny fingers
playing with wires
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All I wanted to know was: Am I coming close? You could have given me a clue. How was I to know how deep the scar ran? I always thought scars were superficial, but I was young, and willing – what did I know?
What would they have done if they had come
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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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"For several days thinking they had found a dead man’s boot beside the highway..."
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He was instantly on her, pulling at her nightgown
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Published writers will tell you that the most important thing you can do as a beginning writer is to know your markets! So this month, we'll talk about two of the markets open to you and your riveting but as yet unpublished prose -- Fling Magazine and Clubhouse…
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