Most read stories

Speaking to the Dead

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I didn't hear your last words or see your lasteyes. I didn't reach you in time, so I sat by your corpse,silently saying goodbye. I am in that process,not sour, not sweet, that yoked speaking which can't(because the heart won't let it) utter its whisperedlast word, but…

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…

Love Story

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I don't know when it was I first stumbled across your blog. I know I definitely must've followed the link on your twitter profile, but how I found you in the first place, I have no idea. But fate works in mysterious ways, I suppose. I remember I then visited your blog every…

Blood Brother

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Treasonous brother

Ballspenden

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Even if you're doing it together, there's no unity when everyone's dancing to their own tune.

Artist's Statement: Oracle

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Mark Reep is a faded Polaroid oracle taped to the only unbroken window of an abandoned house in Ithaca NY.

Achieving Inner Peace without facebook

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There was an empty box on his facebook page asking to be filled in with, “What’s on your mind?” He thought. "Hair?"

The Face in the Oatmeal

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It was uncomfortable to realize people had agendas. That there could be invisible realities.

The Taste in My Mouth

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whose spit is this?

On a Count of the Stars

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The number is very large/ and perpetually changes// as old stars fade, explode,/ or collapse into something not stars

My Back (Facebook) Pages*

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It's all over now, Baby Blue...

Strange Times

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From my place, down here amongst the earth, we have many names for you.

My Church

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My ChurchThe white dressThe bridesmaidsThe friends, the familySadnessMy church knewno music

fish gut buckets

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The pier stretched out by where sharks came and men waited with beautiful dirty buckets that held strange and dangerous things, buckets with fish guts, buckets with blood, with character, buckets like prophets or a gritty desert walking saviour like Chris

I Wonder About the Trees

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I stole forth dimly in the dripping pause

My Literary Pockets

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I don’t know what to do with all this money flowing from my books. It’s burning a hole in my literary pocket.

Deadheading

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No matter how much he composes and prepares, he cannot override the electrical trigger in his brain. Something to do with the resonance of physical memory. It remembers amplitudes of current.

The Street Singer

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The Street singer gathers up his coins and counts to a hundred before The last string stops vibrating

#2 Feeding Fire (Poetry)

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It is like truth on the battle field. Muted

A Fine Life

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It's really not too bad. The personI am was me. We laughed insidethose sacred places at all the monieswell spent. We walked in the gardenswithout any shoes on. Not one singleflower seemed to mind. And now it'sa forgotten mess or so I've imagined.I'd rather you think about…

The Great San Francisco Poetry Wars, 16

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There was all this pomp and circumstance. We were each outfitted with robes, red of course, and mortar-boards with a gold tassel dangling over one eye. It made me positively dizzy. Plus I was extremely hung-over that day.

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,…

Swimming Lessons

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I’m from the Land of Sky Blue Waters. I grew up in a lake. I think I’m half fish.

Guinness for Iron

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My sister / craves raisons

The Show Must Go On

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

to a gregarious stranger

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Three lines.

Rent a DNA

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“Yo, Paciorek. Lend me your DNA, cuz I left mine on the farm, and I have a test tomorrow,” Feller ordered in a commanding voice, because he had gumption.

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.

The Ghosts in the Meeting

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No one had told the newer tenants that the dead would be given votes, and they were in an uproar: it wasn’t legal; it wasn’t fair; it was creepy.

Familiar Things

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After lunch I left my office and trickled along like a slow leak, a notch above meandering; gravity had become a lateral force that pulled me forward.