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Reconstruction

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My favorite lie is that he'd escaped the South Tower before it collapsed. Smoke inhalation erased his way home. Mine's better than mother's version: a stranger hurled herself onto him. The truth is when they stopped search and rescue, mother told father, Go. Even dead, his…

The Show Must Go On

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I had the idea for a pageant for my obedience school at spring graduation

When Spectacle Replaces Ritual,

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The aisle, nave and/ transept twist themselves/ into an auditorium.

Sleeping on Route 110

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in the deep dark of a 2 a.m. atmosphere

Hands Like White Porcelain

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Jesus is for sale. But he’s heavy.

Dream(ed) Life

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From room to room, neither closet nor drawer contained any remnant of pleasant memory.

The Night Shore

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Somniloquies rise like the drowned . . .

Band Names For Sale. Inquire Within

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Mythical Itch and the Unicorns Working Late Jacuzzi Floozy One Erection Diego Rivera’s Poncho Frieda’s Moustache Avalanche Babushka Dolls Photographic Mammary Drool Sir Gruntsalot Uber Rubber Iota Pie Elder Geese Ladylike Rud

The Dock

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Row, Caps of white, A salted escape beneath reflected light. Brother, remember those old lies? I’m off to sea to make those things right, now.

Candle Illumination

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Mint upon my palate, I rub sleep infused eyes and crawl under the covers. Oh blessed sleep, please descend upon this body and transverse this fatigue. Eyes closed, bring a wavering blackness upon subtle lids. The conversation begins…

The Mix Tape

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I made her a mix tape. It was revolutionary. Twenty-two songs she had to hear at least once in her life. I even drew some trippy drug-like designs on the label of the CD to make it seem more real. It was the ocean and the sun and every body of land balled up…

The Creative Use of Meal Time

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We’re more into the punishment that works its way in through the skin and coats the heart anonymously.

Bestiary

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A woman posted a story on Fictionaut about discovering that her husband was a werewolf.

Morning People

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she thinks she looks good in her short red dress, black makeup around her eyes, last night's lipstick a slap of crimson on her cheek. "like this," she says, holding the hammer above her head.

Rising

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The coin, so little, the watch chain, the youth, the fading softening speech, each hand and finger, the panic modeled on your own eyes, the ashtray, certain stumps along the way, the long distance, the odd feather, the jazz rope gone,…

When again?

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will we begin again?We are a wheelFirst touchfirst kissfirst heatThey fade, disappear, come back again.Spokes in our wheel.When again shall we begin again?I hold you and feel myself spincaught in the whirlwind of thrill -the world, saturated with your scent.We hold each…

Kate

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It’s that laugh of hers that gets me...

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.

The Four Despairs of Lumpy

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children love to push the gas up and down my limbs

needs

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addict for validation and cat tongues

A Change in Status on the Facebook of Cement

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First he wrote it in wet cement at the intersection: “Tad Loves Kimberley,” with a big heart around it. He was real proud, you could see. But then later on that year, the graffiti began appearing everywhere, on all the store walls: “Kimberle

The Suicidal Juggler

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The man wore a bowler hat and stood on an open patch of grass, with a pyramid-shaped stack of baseballs at his feet.

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.

Unconscious Primate Pandemic Panic

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I wrap my left foot

even dead body

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I'm a jogger of these parts, but I've yet to discover a dead body, or even dead body parts, or worse yet, discover that my parts will be discovered by some unfortunate jogger.

One old and one new

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served as it is/ among these friends. The frayed filaments/ tickle my chin and irritate my nostrils,

Speeding on the Highway at 2AM

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I am speeding on the highway at 2AM because no one is here...

Conversations

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That won’t kill me, will it? I asked. Maybe, the doctor said.

Catch & Release: Dog Person Depression

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Instead, I get things like, “Why can’t you find a nice man with cancer or a bum leg?”

T.S. Eliot On His Deathbed

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I guess at the end you’re only looking forward. Or upward actually, since you can only lie there on your back looking upward, straight ahead toward infinity, your mouth in a grimace, with the ghostly pink lips peeled back from the teeth.