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The questions we ask ourselves define who we are as a culture. “What is the meaning of life?” “Is there a God?” “Does anybody really know what time it is?” “Where the hell did I put my car keys?” To see what…
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For you have waited. And waited and waited. And soon your slice of bread will be ready.
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Last night Jim taught me how to catch forks. Meaning, he taught me how to throw them. But he called it catching forks. It was late, and we were low down 3rd street, south of the Bay Bridge, the baseball stadium, all the people and cars, on top of a warehouse. There were a…
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Say the world is a smudged charcoal drawing. Slit from its frame, smuggled out of the Vatican. Don't say it couldn't happen. Who would know.
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When hadrons collide they’re not always Swiss. They may be cheese or neutral but that isn’t of my concern.
Look at them, touch them, feel them, the quirks of the antiquarks, masonic mesons, baron baryon.
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my mouth is open, ready to bite your tiny toes
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Content may contain ordinary, everyday, and all around average happenings.
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I sat at the kitchen counter, aware of a heaviness, a numbness, in my flesh, my bones, my mind. My dancer's body -- short, trim and 108 pounds -- felt as huge and unmoving as the…
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Words darken with smut and irony over time.
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Snipers wear camouflage clothing to avoid being seen. It wouldn’t do for a sniper to be seen because then the sniper might become the snipee.
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It is within my nature, and many others I know, to cling to what’s consistent and certain: the battles fought in the war for survival and the organic camaraderie borne in the trenches. Sometimes the quest and the people we commiserate with along the way
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The moon hung in the sky, round and pale, under cover of some wispy clouds.
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With a roar and short burst of flame, the dragon awoke, startled.
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I enjoy launching words into space. Please dangle a moment here while I prepare the next sentence. Ok. You can come in now. Take boiling for instance. And hawsers. The sound of words on a sheet of paper. The manifesto for a roll of sleep. Sleep is oblivious to…
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The Judge waited for the perfect wave.
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the wind mistook your arms for wings
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Zorro lived in his mother’s basement until he could get back on his feet.
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In those years,
you and I were told to leap
for a world suffused with sound
and industry.
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The Misses Moses by Brad Watson from Aliens in the Prime of Their Lives The Moses sisters lived together, alone, in the fine old brick house near downtown where they…
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The Mojave Desert remembers Ron Paul
With tattered billboards
Scraped and clawed by vehement dust
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When I first started out in my working career, I made it the habit of obtaining jobs with companies that were about to go under. (I wrote more books while on unemployment than by any other method.) I was a real bloodhound at sniffing out the pre-dawn od
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—Frank, how is your sex life?
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He was losing his fight with
malaria, but you would never
know it from his dreams
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“Can you adopt if you work for the circus?” I asked her
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I did do one nice thing for you
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beat them with fists and purses.
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Have you ever spent twilight in a old pasture?
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This writers' conference (sponsored by VQR, which had run its banner ad atop the Fictionaut home page in the summer of 2014, which begins to explain both my attendance and this essay) revealed itself as an apt subject . . .
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