Most read stories

On the Road

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how did they not know

People Who Go to Poems for Truth

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People Who Go to Poems for Truth

Windows

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The Kid, The Executive, The Doctor, and The Actress.

Me and Lord Byron at Last Call

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Byron's achievement, certainly quite remarkable, is to have raised the drunken monologue to a literary form. Edmund Wilson

Blackish by Reason of the Ice

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"Sara, do you taketh it with your eyes?"

Winter '69

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One minute Rudy was sitting up close to me, asking me how could Geppetto make a little boy out of a piece of wood, and the next, Steve was pounding up the stairs, yelling, "Carla, get blankets, warm clothes; we're leaving, we won't be back."

The Book

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The following is a true story, or rather it is a true experience from the story of my life. Some say that just because something happens doesn’t really make it “true”.

Sequins

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A person is entitled to what she thinks and feels. A person can have all the thoughts and feelings she wants.

Should Have Gotten Delivery Instead

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My mind raced at the endless possibilities one could die while driving to get a pizza.

needs

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addict for validation and cat tongues

Moon Backstory

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Today clouds were dancing on the moon Moon had a fit but drew in a breath And let out a sigh

Thing To Do In Deptford When You're Dead.

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Velvet answered the door in a red leather dress that was made with just about enough material to make a wallet, and looking like a long limbed drink of water calling out to a thirsty man.

Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? Gauguin

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Two angels walk in a dark cloud arm in arm discussing the nature of good and evil Walking along in flowing robes now that nakedness is forgot, and they both stare at the same eternal thought with their heads bowed as serenity is the only thing

Tax Tips From Tila Tequila, Professional Bisexual

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“We’re never going to get off the treadmill of paying ever-higher taxes," I said, "unless we get some creative suggestions from a professional bisexual tax advisor.”

My Latest Failure

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Jason, the obnoxious host, thrusts his microphone against my nose.

The Widow Teasdale and the Ineffable Warmth of Personal Services

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Her cash. It smelled like seven-dollar-a-quart gardenia perfume and cave aged cheese—like hope overgrown with mildew.

My Whole Life Story (Again and Again)

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When John wakes up, the first thing he does is run a bath, because his shower is broken, and while the bath is running he gets his breakfast ready.

A Scalar Boson a Day

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. . . the empiricism of the mechanical had wound tight into her, lessons her few calendars could never impart without aid from sundials, hourglasses, clocks.

The Purple Prose of Cario

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I contemplate the words that did not make it; the lost ones. The words deprived of their moment in the sun. These words. These words that are not part of the story.

Three in a Major Key

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One can watch the grass green/ in response. One can watch the world green/ in response.

At the Reception

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"Check out these dudes,” he says. “They're all wearing kilts. Not that there's anything wrong with that, as long as they're wearing underwear.

Epiphenomenal Glider

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Hissing through the opening, the spirits have no place.

some poetry will shut you up

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o christ/ here you are again/ you sickness appearing in my brain/ pouring smog from my jaw/ my body hot and cold as though sleepless/ while i could sleep/ centuries/ undisturbed/ and awaken, tireder still./

Matt Slade, Esq.--Mascot Defense Attorney

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I’ve got a full day ahead of me; I have to write a brief in Lipshutz v. Fredbird, a property damage claim against the St. Louis Cardinals’ mascot for breaking a fan’s glasses as part of his routine.

On Not Having an Affair With a Flamboyant Minor Dadaist Poetess

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It’s just that—well, I don’t know how to put this— With a Dadaist poet a non-affair is the height of erotic bliss.

Chicken Noodle

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Damn this airplane

Letter to a Lost Friend

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I keep attempting to start a correspondence with people / but they end up not being interested in me, / either that or I scare them away / because I usually begin with: / “Well, my favorite philosopher is Hegel..."

The Secret of Belief

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I don't believe in symbols but there's a hole in my living room window in the shape of a bird

news through a window

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TV and power cord valorized in dust,/ wires and digital guts unimpaired, I’d guess . . .

Migrants

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She is too stylish to be crazy, is what the migrant probably thinks. And he's right.