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1. Poor grammar does not sleep. 2. We'll never finish every idea we have. 3. No matter how hard you try, you still might make it into my book
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There was a certain romanticism in it, the salty old man sidling up to me at a bar, rhapsodizing in a slurred stream of conscious about the state of the world, the country, the state of his own heart. He didn't have an eye patch nor beard, nor was he…
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my mouth is open, ready to bite your tiny toes
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Why yes I began writing this, my bildungsroman, Who is Mitsy Jackson, in spring, 1974 or thereabouts, and thank you so much for asking.
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A shadowless torpedo shaped form plummeted from the grey, overcast skies upon the many unsuspecting. No remote pilot thousands of miles away guided this particular descent.
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Fat robins are chirping –
loudly – at 4 a.m.
They’re trying to delude
the worms into thinking it’s
dawn already
The worms get up underground
They’re grumpy, they
bump into things
They come up to the surface
and Wham! That
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With a roar and short burst of flame, the dragon awoke, startled.
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This story is falling head-first into a mud-puddle.
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The rocket shone in the distance. Cape Canaveral had never looked so pretty.
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His wife had just come from the gynecologist and was toying with her French fries.
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She dips a toothpick in ink, running prick over paper, simply to prove herself wrong.
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But his muscles fluttered and off he flew
leaving the stink of barnyard on the sheets.
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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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Still as the knife on the counter there still. Like mothballs in a chest. One with clear bags and newspaper clippings and your scarf inside it. The baby girl could put a mothball in her mouth and suck it like a penny. The way too close to a light bulb bur
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—Frank, how is your sex life?
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We are all in big trouble. Here's some fiction to let your soul experience the beast.
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"Shit," said the Charge Nurse. "Not again."
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I would fly drones with hydrochloric acid sprays/
over their squadrons and watch the disfigurement/
begin. I love disfigurement...
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The moon hung in the sky, round and pale, under cover of some wispy clouds.
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...That flash of horror as well as the lie that replaced it were mirrors of sorts and both told the truth.
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it felt fucking awesome at that moment, in that way only little things can feel huge and life affirming
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The artist leans back in his chair, smoking a cigarette
after lunch, looking away from the table toward the right
He is dressed in white, and he's practically stretched out
his entire length, to relax after rowing the boat all
morning. Sunlight
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Zorro lived in his mother’s basement until he could get back on his feet.
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“There’s no real freedom in this world. But a car and the open road is close enough for government work.”
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I worry for the daffodils/
and there optimistic yellow bursts./
I worry for the over-eager clover,//
prodigious green on crepe myrtles,/
even for the early green of nut grass.
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I was hope, and
you were what I can only call
consolation, as day after day you
remained a grief in my throat.
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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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Trigger warning: casualties of war.
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