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Heron

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. . . nor did mine eye apologize.

The Snake Pit

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They come in my room without knocking and I'm nekkid.

Sacre Something

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My first abroad journey completed. A picturesque way to end it all, really. I’m into that, I think to myself: making things play like movies or dramas or as beautifully as I can make them.

Just Stopped In For A Raspberry Slushie

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Certain disorders lend themselves to poetics.

What Keeps Us Awake

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On Friday evenings they play Scrabble, a whole crowd of them. They use books to keep score, page numbers, instead of a long column of pencil scratches. They organize themselves into teams; the English majors all together, versus biology, history and horn players. She and he…

Suede Denim

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Rogue sits bedside in Jello Biafra’s hospital room.

The Good Ship - Forgotten

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As I gripped the wheel and stared at the expanse above my head, my compass spun wildly. Something wasn't quite right

Elevator to the Angels

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I opened the closet door and there stood Eugène Ionesco lost among our clothes.

Mommy

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I miss her.

Three Point Back (from epiphanyzine.com)

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“...you should have something moving around here.” Tracey looked around, then said, “Paul, you should get a cat.”

CURTAINS

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She also castrated her cat. All by herself...with her Swiss Army Knife. And not with the blade either.

Afternoon Chores

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She is trying to quit—nasty habit this smoking. Still, this is the only time she lets herself smoke these days: Laundry day.

Ghosts

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"Yes. It was moving, and not along the ground, either. We were. . . looking toward the cemetery, and the ghost or whatever was clearly visible. . ."

Rock, Roll, et al.

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She looks for the obit, can't find. Over and over, looks. Nothing. Nothing except something touching her shoulder. Follow me. Corridors, doors, along and along, no time to notice that this last is the stage door — she was so suddenly there in the blare and…

Me and the Dowagers by the Five and Dime

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It's been twenty years since you left. I should call it a day.Even the Obeah woman said as much. But I don't listen. Instead I sit with old and proper ethnic widows in black, waiting for your return. One of them translates my story for the…

Mon in the forest: a fragment

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Mon wakes up surrounded by trees. The light is grey, the trunks black.How long have I slept? he wonders.He doesn't know which way to walk. In every direction, the same prospect of trees. He looks up at a blank sky. No sign even of the sun.***He starts walking. Slowly,…

Triolet

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the magic is our making

Putting the Damage On

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My Thursday head belonged to a former Miss Brazil named Rita.

Transcription of Audio: Meeting with Miss Jewel Eppinette

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No one has touched me for a long, long time and I believe that is why I am dying. This is a notion that is new to me but it has persisted over the last few weeks and I believe I finally have apprehended the truth. There was a time, I remember all too well,…

As Anti-Vegan Bias Spreads, SaladShooters Fight Back

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The Vegan Defense League is a vigilante group formed to fill the gap left by local law enforcement, who jam the parking lot a mile down the road at a donut shop. “By the time the cops finish their coffee and chocolate frosted donuts, we could be dead.”

City

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Lorelei was bombarded constantly with it. She began to hate the city...

The Year Of Kahoutek

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My father had a terrific argument with his wife, my stepmother, a flaming harridan with a voice like hydrochloric acid, and insisted on driving me back home to California.

Whither Butter Sculpture?

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Would we have been satisfied with a humble butter sculpture of a cow in 1960? Puh-lease! Would Parisians of the Impressionist era swoon over a big-eyed child picture?

Dangerous Questions

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Shirley stubbed her cigarillo out on a dead chunk of honeycomb.

Anfal means "to take everything"

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they tried to trick the sun

Jolly Old Nick (Black As Hell)

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A tanka poem about Jolly Old Nick being black as hell.

Searching for the Word

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I separate my thoughts into two / camps

The Arms of the Sea

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The water lapped against the sides of the small boat, their rhythm all that I could think of. Sweltering rays beat down, frying my flesh, the insipid salty breeze that occasionally stirred my only relief from it. Gulls circled overhead, like white ravens,

The Listener

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They think because you are a writer you are not much of a listener and so you begin to recognize all of the great opportunities to be much more of a listener and then you shut your trap and get sucked into the whorls of her big wet brown eyes with Italianate…

An Open Letter For Zombie Rights

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We are what we are, and that is zombies.