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of Jim Beam when I was maybe fifteen. Or anyway old enough to admire the lesson.
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"I was born very far from where I'm supposed to be. And so I'm on my way home."--Bob Dylan I don't owe you anything. If I'm a recluse what does it have to do with you? I have the right to be poor. Some things cannot be explained away by letters that…
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In the darkness, as I awaken, an orange glowing 3:45 greets me . . .
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...it's about female needs, Rex.
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...collapse of the human world. Go, cell phones!
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I left the train, still going nowhere, but in a hurry.
Still a boy, but trapped in a suit.
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Don and I return to Rasheed's room on the top floor of the middle house where Uzma sits waiting to speak her piece. I'm feeling blessed listening to their enthusiastic chatter. It's like the world is opening up to me again, allowing me to experience a rush of…
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I don't think you understand. A sad boy doesn't just die inside, slowly, he becomes withdrawn from certain types of lovely youthful reasoning out loud, accustomed to feeling what is expected, graded, just to be allowed to survive another…
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But when the KGB went out the castle window, what a surprise was waiting for them. Because we had lined the pit with a huge dung heap, and camouflaged it with a colored pink wrapping as if it were feathers, just like Cristo had done. We wrapped the shit p
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It is not unusual for farmers to see the future before it’s begun—but I am not speaking here only of the need to hope but more. . . .
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He is an exercise in humility:What I cannot have or be. The chances of our meetingand his perfection are darkly astronomical. There are plenty of otherswhose riches I cannot have,why envy him?We are similar in spritbut have different fortunes.It is unfair and…
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A poem not about fog written in fog with an erasable pen.
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One cold winter's day she met what she thought was the love of her life. He had everything going for him but his age. You see the sweet young thing was a lot younger than her. One might say that she had lived many lives before he had been born.
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She was dressed to seduce one man: Francesco Martinelli.
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Once was when we were in Vegas on layover from L.A., I told her I thought we should go to the Elvis Chapel and get remarried.
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The baby will not stop crying.
He’s been crying for three hours straight.
I’m the worst mother ever.
What kind of mother can’t soothe her own baby?
The bad kind.
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In an authentic Irish pub in Las Vegas where over much crowd noise the three of us are discussing Yeats, Joyce and Lady Gregory. We’re in an Irish pub after all, plus the fact we’re literature profs attending a Vegas academic conference.
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When Carol complained about a pain in her back, Frank didn't think much about it. Her back—especially her shoulders—hurt most of the time he'd known her, almost fifteen years, from sitting in front of a computer all day. It was an old story. “But …
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We cook over the fireplace on these days, blacken marshmallows on straightened hangers, like Eskimos, dogs around a campfire.
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Something about her eyes...
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Mice dreams are a reality ...
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I'm fascinated by Don's evolution . . .
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sometimes i have to be in the other room
just so i can breathe easy away from you.
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She wasn't even trying to live.
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They followed the crow up a hill, where lights were at its brightest below. The teens stood frozen in time.
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Magdalena White Herrington praised the lucky stars who’d sent her the Klonakilty ghosts.
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This morning I found
A big black crow
Working over a flattened
Squirrel in the middle
Of the road
First day of winter
Longest night
Shortest day
No problem
The rest of the year
Should be a breeze
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I know who done it. Them goddamn taters. I walked around the yard and started picking up pieces of the camaro, wondering if, from above, they’d laid the parts out into some kinda cult symbols or something.
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