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Before the railroad tracks are blown off by the wind, the wall tiles morph to trace 34th Streetwhile a silver balloon emerges from the end of the tunnel. A child’s hand reaches out for the gleam and she, the woman in a black-dress with a mandarin collar,
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When I first started this, a few months ago, I was timid about looking people in the eye.
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[WE'LL LET *YOU* BE THE JUDGE!]
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But behind the shops (and the many pubs), at the back of the narrow cottage fronts which line the wynds are secret courtyards, surprising gardens and more light than ever imagined.
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You shine brightest under a starlit skyThe moon reflects your beautyAs the wind sings your name sweetlyIt was under the heavens that we promised togetherThat I'll hold your hand and you'll be mine forever... You glow brightest when the sun is at its highestYour radiant…
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Sometimes you have to go wild; you have just to go fucking nuts. You do.
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That’s a long time/
to live with the certainty/
of your death
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She lay there, skin and bones, unable to speak. Little did we know those were our last moments togethter. How cruel for her, to want to share a lifetime of thoughts and feelings in those waning moments only to be robbed of the chance. My brother and I…
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But the restaurants put pig in every little dish. You couldn't eat there without encountering some portion of pig. It was in everything, including the cabbage. Who puts pig in the cabbage? I'm asking you. And in the dumplings too. For God's sake, give it
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Poetry is conceit; emotional, intellectual or technical.
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To listen is to feel embodied reason//
sing and dance with consummate grace
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By the sixth - Dizz, Falstaff buzzed - Croons - The Wabash Cannonball
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A baseball bat a large pipe a hammer and axe
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The brain taints everything it brings to us/
with its limited apparatus, its precepts,//
all the things it thinks it knows.
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I should have never gotten involved in such a huge lie. I was a poet, for God's sake, not a novelist. I wasn't used to lying.
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The stain upon / many others cannot be discerned.
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The first time I ever held a gun, I was three years old...
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We got a sandwich at Mr. Pickle's, but they cut the sandwich in the plastic. Plastic wrap.
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"You gonna be old before you're old," my father had told her.
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Enumerate the small delights/ this bright first morning
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There was no need to drive. She could travel ten miles in ten minutes. She merely had to be careful not to step on any cars or trucks.
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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).
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Who hasn't got a scar...some flesh wound of memory.
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For me, it was that kind of moment. I got to come back. I had been here before and now, well now, I could come back. I had a chance to do it all again, bigger, better and well, just better. I hoped I could remember all that I learned the first time.
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So many dreams I need to visit, though
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today on the bus/ a man in his fifties/ smiled at a baby/
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It was your present world that seemed more than mad to me. Your polished stiff brown shoes that always squeaked like mice, while the latest rude Bombers bubbled up in their comfortable Dart-board garages like apple pies…
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