Most read stories

Voyeur

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He and she are fucking while I watch. She's moaning deep desire and he's pounding flesh into flesh. I'm fully clothed, eyes attune to their fornication, studying. He comes inside of her; their bodies stiffen and then wriggle against one another. …

We of the Paper-doll Brigade Are Not Hiding Our True Selves Anymore, A FaceBook Flash

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I am confused by your new paper-doll look, btw. Could you please look regular again by Thursday?

Citadel

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Last night we slept with books in the bed.

Mr. Sunrise

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To a tech-savvy millennial, the definition of progress is a hands-free blowjob, and the real number is not how many men you’ve been with but how many minutes you’ve made them wait.

Snack

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Kerryn saved us from ourselves really. Would you be reading this had she eaten it?

reality concedes, for once

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beckoning with citrus streaks blue cobbled streets/and stuccos lit with gold lamps guide strollers here/to Place du Forum in Arles and this café . . .

In Search of Vince’s Quinces

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Beautiful, he thinks, as he taps the ash of his cigarette over the balcony, but this is not good enough.

Transgressions

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Once you descend, the third rail/ hums its invitation

August

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One moustache hair at moustache level on a filmy bathroom mirror. A red velvet spread on a big round bed. Dear Ma: We saw a bearded lady.

The Girl I Danced With Is Now A Man

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You can't always be everything you were expected to be

Paradise

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From the rumple of pre-dawn Queens, sure South on 95, to almost Savannah by dark; still cold, but we’re full of what’s coming:

Sleepwalker

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I may as well have been sleepwalking. Either way, I had no opportunity to admire the moonlight flooding into the long corridors, illuminating the stag heads and painted cheeks of long-dead ancestors.

Frenchie at the Fair

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Frenchie hustled waffle irons.

Dream Boats

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The Inauguration Day Windstorm had blown out half the downtown lights to celebrate its twenty-first birthday. Two old friends flecked with gray snow and white hair sat on the boulders that kept the Sound from sweeping away Myrtle Edwards Park. Look at all the…

What I told the police the morning after

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Miracles don’t happen to the poor.

Wonderland

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The bartender kept looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar. “Everyone in Hollywood is an actor,” Doc said.

The Body in the Other Room

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I couldn’t parse the grammar of her body nor decode the secret softness of her neck.

Snarket

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Shit, I guess I'm gonna hafta

Ranger

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“What. Is. That?” Sid asked, staring at the shaggy ball of fur sitting in the living room. Its tongue hung out of its mouth and its tail beat against the carpet.“This is Ranger,” his mom said. “I don't know what breed he is, but he's a sweetie…

Packing

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I left Iowa in august when the air was thick and sticky. I had been there three years minus a few days when the boy I'd been sleeping with packed almost everything I owned into my car and waved goodbye. In Baltimore I had few friends and a job teaching English at a…

The Tribe of Women

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One can’t predict the final cadence of one’s life.

Tatters

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inside i know my heart rattles cause outside i'm only seeing that the truth is in tatters

children

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today on the bus/ a man in his fifties/ smiled at a baby/

sabotage

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people keep trying to get me/ "out of the house"./ they see fun in me, and cool in me,/ and want to spend time with me,/ and i am flattered most sincerely./

Pain

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My pain is a black pearl hidden in a clean shell.

Reasons to Live (RtL) = right to left

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6. to register for the draft

Desert Storm, an Infrared Dream/David Avidan

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Desert Storm, an Infrared Dream/Poem by the late David Avidan On January 17, 1991 I woke up at 02:45 from a neo-surreal dream with a slight not very serious feeling of suffocation a pre-asthma attack instantly stifled with the inhalation of Ventolin an

Tu me rends fou

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Feeding you a taste of croissant

Dream World

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I don't mind being dead. It's ok. Really. I've discovered a whole new way of being based on non-being. What else can you do? I like being invisible. I like groaning and rattling chains. I used to be a writer. Still am. In fact, it might be more accurate to say that…

A Poem for Chris Toll

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we all die from the bottom up