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“If your work is good you will get published. Just keep at it."
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The eyelid of the sink blinks silence. The clocks choke on smoke.
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You may be wondering, as is only natural, about the designated husband of our dear Princess.
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If we go back in time
We are living in tents
If we go back in time
We are living in caves
We are fighting over rivers
We are fighting over fields
Near the soft edges of slime
If we go back in time
Nothing would have us
And we had t
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1962, What I wanted was a Levittowner rancher like my best friend had,
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Shirley stubbed her cigarillo out on a dead chunk of honeycomb.
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The hotel sits on the highest point in Shimla: a place of cedar-scented air, an aggressive monkey population, and summer houses left by the British Raj.
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I separate my thoughts into two / camps
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Its odors of quicklime/
and pyre-smoke will curl/
commingled in acrid air.
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He did many things for love: Once he placed his tongue in his boyfriend’s nostril during sex, because he seemed to have read in the internet that this was a “thing” among the younger of their social class...
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and pressed an area
on my forehead
between my eyes
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Fear the air and fear the fire./
Fear the land and fear the water./
Creation is out to get you, speck,
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he wanders the house/ crying for the hairless tomcat/ (gone for the night/ on an overnight job).
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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.
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The machines are alive but she is not. The pads keep her face from being irritated but my mind isn't so lucky."Let me GO!" she cries....at least that's what I hear. They are waiting for permission for her to go. Eager hesitation best describes the tense…
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your words that came crashing over me/
so cold the clear shock was like salt water
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. . . nor did mine eye apologize.
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"I’ve always wanted to write a novel. Like Catch-22, something off-beat that would start by word-of-mouth, you know, and become an underground classic."
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Tiny was my daughter. Or what was left of her. A mucous-y chunk of what was once in my womb and then wasn’t.
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"My sister's parrot admires your armpit," X-Lautrec says. "Would you be so kind as to nail an avocado seed to a cup of black coffee?"
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my second language / to silence / plainsong of / the breast
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Set your three-word story in prison.
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I looked down at Earth and imagined this porn star who’d asked for my help.
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Anatoly Gringovitch took a swallow of beer, thoughtfully put the cap on his Ferrari da Varese custom fountain pen, and launched into his story:
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Spying is a different concern. Privacy also. I feel there is a loss of privacy just in believing or realizing it is possible; our forebears did not experience loss of privacy digitally, perhaps in another way.
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gravel coughing up tires at 90 miles an hour
and just getting under way
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"I am lying on my back and am confused."
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