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Begonia {part six}

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Mezereon’s giant dragon heart marveled at the girl’s revelations. First, he was heartsick for her and the sad state of things back where she had come to him from. Secondly, he was aghast to learn she was a princess; for even dragons know and respect r

Sleeping late in Cahuita, Costa Rica

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The light of day is screaming, shook by the calls of howler monkeys, their low roar hanging in the salt, in the black sand riding the wind, as Playa Negra outstretches its infinite arms.

The Adversary

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When He had built the Universe, there was no greater joy in putting it together. The angels themselves were perfect constructs of concept and design, embodiment of breathing principle over particle waves. They each had their purpose; each mortar or a supp

Privacy

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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.

Click

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I am going to quit clicking refresh, only because it is clear nothing is happening out there. After I click refresh just one more time, that is, and then I am closing the window. After clicking one more last time. …

Destiny Narrowly Avoided

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Then it started extruding tendrils and tying them all into intricate knots.

Death by Dinner

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I can't believe it's Frankie, but there he is at a table on the far side, just in front of the big picture window. I hold the menu close to my face and peek again over the top, watching as he reaches under the white linen tablecloth to plant…

It is Midnight

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It is midnight in Utah, but I can’t tell. It always looks like midnight in a cave.

mermaid tale

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your words that came crashing over me/ so cold the clear shock was like salt water

On Clearance

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She clutched her fat rolls and tugged on a pant leg. "I'm so embarrassed! You caught me on a bad day!"

The Head

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So I've got this head in a jar and I'm not sure who it belongs to.

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,…

Beachcomber's dirge

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...clash of gulls wend upwards, disappearing into grey night's high tide recedes

Hollywood Sugar

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No pain is private. How can it be?

A Break in the Cloud

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Each had jostled and laboured for his or her place upon the blunt outcrop, in the cold persistent darkness, where the outcrop was merely something that had fallen and not quite been washed away.

Poet's Offer to Help Grieving Goes Unheeded

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Remembering you is easy We do it every day, When little Mike and Joey Ask when the hell is Daddy ever coming home to play?

Accident Assurance

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They found your athymic neck/clipped like a bag of Skittles/and your lifeblood left a Rorschach test on the dash/in which they saw the future/and their own exits/(straight ahead and to the right).

Let Us Meet In The Afternoon

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You are Day I am Night Let us Meet In the Afternoon And…

Myself Today

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Suddenly I'm not feeling it anymore. / Poetry has become insufficient. / I can't do it like I used to.

Dread and Circuses

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It is claimed we choose/ conditions of our servitude.

A Strategy to Overcome Rejection

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“If your work is good you will get published. Just keep at it."

Chair and Umbrella, $25

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If white t-shirts are only an SPF of 8, she couldn’t even imagine what a white nylon-mesh umbrella on this godforsaken beach might be in terms of protection.

Excerpts from 'Dispatches from the Front: My Life in NE Portland—diary by JENA RACHEL ROCKWELL (year 08)'

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I'm getting self-righteous here, Dear Reader . . . [hey! wait a second! this is my diary! what are you doing, looking at it, dude! Hit the road! Scram! Vamoose!]

Solution

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I wrote her a poem.She said, “I hate poetry.” I said, “OK, just read the words then."

Blue Moon

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I suppose it was inevitable, This crashing of souls, This recognition of possibility to create. If we were younger, We would make a baby, The ultimate act of faith. Now it has to be something else, Nothing to force a track with night feedings, …

Noodle

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Our painter man was killed by a bunch of snotty kids who were making fun of him. A gun went off. What is a noodle to do? He wasn't sitting alone in his world, anymore. Where was his famous straw hat? His trusty pipe? He desperately needed to smoke…

Love's Hinterlands

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Sit down at night and stare into the fire. Consider if Cupid is just another liar.

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 9

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Michiko stood in front of Steinway Hall on West 57th Street.

Recipe for the Broken

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This poem first appeared in “Walt’s Corner” of The Long Islander, founded by Walt Whitman in 1838.

In Dubai

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I do not know the species of birds here. / The two I see playing on the balcony at night / I can never call back.