Most read stories

Convenience Store

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I’m casing the place; my boyfriend Jimmy is about to bust in and rob the store.

Peanut Time

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A peanut, who knoweth

For my lost child

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and where have the years sped how distant was your youth

Soft Coral Siren

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I didn't feel when you cut out my spine I'd been throwing up all night couldn't even smell the rust …

Falling Towards Oblivion Avenue

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At some point, you care/ just enough to wake each morning,

Love Story

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You are a warm winter Despite the presence of snow

Oh Portland.

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The purple sweater brought out the blue in her eyes. Fantastic eyes made of ice, she was a stunner, and she knew it. I met her at Slabtown

Sheep

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Sheep are very philosophical, I hear. Stop this hopeless dreaming.

Boil

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Boil (n.)––1. Pus-filled pustule inflammation of the skin, usually painful. 2. Slang boiled pus, bucket of (n. phrase)“Your asshole brain is a bucket of boiled pus.” (see also pus, SCOTTISH derogatory term for face.

Love Story

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I fall in love with a second cousin at the picnic. I make sure I sit next to her.

trenton

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his word

The Forsaken

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Every town has one. Or one at the very least...

The Washing of the Quilts

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Sweaty feet, drool from the weighty sleep of mid-afternoon naps, the inescapable perspiration of the South: all combine to create the entwined scent of socks and stale toothbrushes...

Bad Ideas I've Had

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Not all ideas are bad, just mine.

Man Writing Story With Ears Plugged About Painter Who Only Hears in Color; Black Ink, 2002

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Ready, here we go.

Archaeology

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I would like to go back (with spade, pick, soft bristles), and sift through time and layers, brush away the intervening years, and find: the tooth, knocked out by my then best friend, when we were seven, careening downhill in my father's wheelbarrow on Boscobel…

Storms

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Sirens wake me, screaming warnings in the dark.

Deception

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Distance.

In an authentic Irish pub in Las Vegas

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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.

Ink Play

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Lying on a high seat in the south study, this is what I see:

Firefly

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Smiling at stones and chunks of earth pounding in...

The Winter's Too Warm for Bears to Sleep

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The winter’s too warm for the bears to sleep, and they get up in the middle of the night with insomnia and wander about the streets in their pajamas, knocking over garbage cans, looking for a midnight snack of some kind. They’re getting kind o

Saturday TV with Dad

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By the sixth - Dizz, Falstaff buzzed - Croons - The Wabash Cannonball

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, …

All the Young Angel Heads

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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…

The Finding Smile

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My mother gave her all to convince him to be a politician. My sister begged on bleeding knees for him to give her head. I just needed somebody to help me find things.

100 Words

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She thinks this is the place she dreamed

Things As They Really Are

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I slide my CD toward Eric Burdon who sits, smiling and gracious and fatigued from Seattle traffic, at the table at Silver Platters, where I have just purchased ‘Til Your River Runs Dry, and stood in a line of old gray heads to have him sign it. I remove my hat and…

Assiduity Twenty One

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Blue skies greet us as we exit the forest . . .

The Judger

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Better not hand me that iPhone. I'll look up every damned thing in it.