Most read stories

In Our America

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If I floated about this coffee cafe,Like a spirit, just watching.In this room of framed fake memories,A room of ambient light, marketing to the masses,(It works; it gets 'em in the doors.)If I floated, I'd seeThese people sitting—eating, drinking, sipping, typing,…

The Assassination of Sadat

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Just beyond the corkscrew slide / the President of Egypt was bleeding to death

Spitwads

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Two types coexist- the sanguine/ and exsanguinated./ My skin is cool/ and pale as moonlight

Cost

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I rifled through the bedside table until I found dirty magazines

Living Alone

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This morning as I stepped out of the shower I was hit with a panicked fit in which it became urgent that I rid my flesh of each drop of water that burdened it. Not quite like the feeling of being…

Every Time a Bell Rings

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I could feel the old house skulking in the shadows. In the basement I used to play in the dark, shine a flashlight on the angular black widows creeping in the corners, feed them ants and silverfish and flies with the wings pulled off so the web wouldn’

Desert

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On a trail, Richard and I came upon a saguaro cactus that had dried in the shape of a human figure. Its arms were lifted and its back was stooped. I said, “It looks like my mother.”

John's Wife

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Unreasonable anger, Each hour prescribed The house haunted with good intentions,

Delphi and Parlor Games

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Ghosts// and the voice of God/ never actually visited you

Call Me

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I'm living where I've always lived, in Georgia.

Pink Lipstick & Cigarette Machines

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It was that pink lipstick found on the end of that brown filter yeah, think it was an Old Gold

Working Girls

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In the summer when it's light out later it's my nature to linger a couple of hours in the park after work, just standing around watching the Downtown Divas working the corner, offering themselves to each male driver who stops for the light and I always joke with them about…

Bad Ideas I've Had

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Not all ideas are bad, just mine.

Sacrifice on Maple Drive

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Sacrificial vic bleeds out . . .

SYCAMORE STREET MORNING

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"S- E- X -- ever heard of it?"

Move Along

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W here do you think you're going what'll you think you'll do running down this highway that you never even knew

The Story You Wanted

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For I would draw a diagramTo signify the things I amBut I think you know--Todd Rundgren The door was opened before me. I know that's not a good way to start out on an adventure, but it is what happened to me. I didn't see any beckoning light, I felt a crazy urge, like…

Hey! Where? Georgie Girl!

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Starry, Starry Night we slept, talked and did the nasty where I, in innocence once built a raft of driftwood to take me twenty miles across to the shore from which we ferried escaping my Father’s demise

She Called My Poem Nice

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“There is no future in art, you will not change lives with flowery words. Please don’t rock the boat”

Off the Grid

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The slicing is easy. Blade barely touching skin, flesh separating into two clean parts. A breath, and blood fills in the space, an old friend materializing in the shadows. I am redolent with hope and desire. I can't stop thinking of how he excised himself from my…

Context and Confessional Poetry

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I like babies and little kids, more than some people but goddamn, children's laughter out of nowhere (in the night, when you're not expecting it) is creepy. I don't like slugs smeared like nightmare goo on my summer-bare feet, I could do without them in …

The Fourth Prague Defenestration: 11

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Many weddings took place at the foot of the Astronomical Clock Tower. One every hour, on the hour. It turned out these were set-up photo shoots for things like men’s cologne, brocade bridal gowns, and smoked carp. At night we wandered around the many

Happy Birthday!

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[WARNING: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 'R XMAS!]

Life After Death

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If opposites attract, that might explain it, Doreen and I. Conjugally blissed through thick and thin. Forty some odd years. Since June of sixty five.

The Dry World

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drunkards indulge, addicts abuse

Shining Against Each Other

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They keep shining against each other

just not working

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some days you wake up/ to feel horror/ wrapped beneath your blanket./

Tales from the Golden Age

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Fucking buffalo, the curse of the writer.

When the buck stops (3-Minute Fiction entry)

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This was looking down from what we know as The Grassy Knoll.

Virgin

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Steven was a hollow tree of a man — outwardly normal for a tired fortysomething, but empty inside. He lived alone in an old farmhouse that reeked of decomposition and Lysol, the previous tenant having left a dozen skinned raccoon carcasses in the attic.