Most read stories

Elevator to the Angels

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

Meal

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When they tell you to choose your last meal, it probably hasn't dawned on you yet.

My Uncle's Last Day in Hospice

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In and out of morphine dreams, he flies through the unfinished roof of Illinois sky. Below, matchbox-sized farm machines. A silo becomes his father's thermos, the silver-capped tower from which he stole sips at ten, his first secret. Back …

11am, Sunday, in Green

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The eyelid of the sink blinks silence. The clocks choke on smoke.

Sorry, Charlie

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Vietnam, Tet, and beaucoup Charlie

Bunking off

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He looked like a black paper doorway pasted onto a painting of summer.

Assiduity Twenty One

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

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 23

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After the Tokyo experience, Frank and Michiko decided that when she went on extended tours, Frank would accompany her.

A New Chapter to Song of Solomon: A Poem

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My beloved lets me crawl into bed and put my feet on him since his skin is warm and hot like a fire roaring from within his soft flesh.

In The Wake

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Any form of exertion would defile what we are trying to do

Illinois Route 3

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If this road could answer I would ask her what it is like to follow the path of the rippleshimmery river for too many miles through the slowly ghosting towns and the corncovered landscapes of the dying Midwest

Go Wild

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Sometimes you have to go wild; you have just to go fucking nuts. You do.

Peanut Time

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A peanut, who knoweth

Sarah

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Rumpelstiltskin cried because you belong to me;

Strange

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Words are looking ever so strange today like a hole in space a wind in a cloud a face superimposed over a mountain

Ink Play

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

Gossip

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Gossip Betty Martini divorces husbands when they least expect it. On a seeming whim, she pays a visit to dear Arnold, who keeps her papers handy in his top desk drawer. She initials here and there, signs with a…

No Word for Enchantment

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fanned lashes on rouged cheek a glamorous sea creature in violet perfume

One Day We Grow Wings

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Cicadas shed their skin as they grow, leaving crisp hollowed out remains on tree trunks, fence posts, and the undersides of upturned leaves. Tommy and I would collect them in the early morning and stick them to our clothes like brooches. I used to like Tommy,…

Mr. Pickle and Mr. Peet

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We got a sandwich at Mr. Pickle's, but they cut the sandwich in the plastic. Plastic wrap.

July 16

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Last night as a duration spent hovering in electronic media-space.

stung

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Lust

Miss Zoldac's Fifth Grade Class Balloon Launch

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INSTRUCTIONS: To all students, please address your index card: "To the Finder of this Balloon." Beneath that, write something that will encourage the finder to email you back. Then tape the index card to your balloon's string.Happy Ballooning! To the Finder…

Sunday Morning Series- 7: Sunday Morning Trifurcation

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Go diddle in the sand// to save some other sinner/ a death of stones.

Take Back the Night

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A woman who is, say, a culinary arts champion or an heiress devoted to literature such as Bryher (Annie Winifred Ellerman) or Peggy Guggenheim might be able to turn me on, turn me out, turn me around.

The Sound Of...

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What if Everything I have been doing Hasn’t been heard By anyone?

Flutter in Night

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Have you heard this yet? The daughter flew home to care for the mother, whose pump is still tick ticking—though now with aid—which means she leaves the kitchen when the microwave clicks on.

Girl in 'Nam (Part 2)

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A life in NYC was one I always dreamed of but I found myself turning into a bitter, sarcastic person who was losing the ability to see the silver lining in just about anything.

Of Dreams that Dance and Die, Before the Drums

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At eight o' clock: as, drawn by many bells, The patchwork congregation lopes and stalks, To churches far from serenade of shells To storms, we leave behind the windblown walks, And sails of youth, to glide through liquid hells, A temporal…

The Creator of the Nipple

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Speaking of stiff nipples, I heard you once wanted to become a painter, because of your fondness for nipples. Feeling like Gauguin and his little Polynesian women/girls, are we? So, you're going to try to out-paint God, are you, Mr. Sistine Chapel of the