Most read stories

The Magical Thinking of Birds

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Her eyes grew wide, moist, catching the low light, holding onto it as if an imprisoned lover. "So you come home." I smiled. Was she playing a game?

Daffodil

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The Trinity boys don’t blame me at all. They know I am not stupid about the world. I am a robust girl. Nevertheless, like everyone else I have limits. I am a clock that winds down.

No access to the Hollywood Sign

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The sign that informs tourists that there is no access to the Hollywood Sign is the most ignored sign in all of Los Angeles.

The Accordion

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If I play my accordion too loudly while you're painting, you complain. You stamp about in your room under mine. You fetch the broom from the closet and use it to thump vehemently on the ceiling. I feel the vibrations through my feet.

The White Cloud

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Like a small meteorite, a white cloud falls. The journey seems to have been long since it cannot spring up again, its wings being exhausted. Like a scared and shivering bird, it curls into my hand. Its apparent fragility prevents me from tightening my grip. A unique…

Dog Park

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We met an old friend and his old dog. We went off leash on the lush Buffalo grass. He and I—this old friend, I mean—talked mostly of divorce, something we shared between us.

Nevertheless The Plan Was Not Implemented

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Thomas Friedman was right when he said, “Much of this biodiversity in Indonesia is now under threat.” It had been this way since gasoline became currency; I remember bartering with The Governance for the newest edition of The Guinness Book of

stinking nightgown

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Frank says if I eat the whole bowl of live crickets he’ll give me five dollars and his grandfather’s silver bullet from the war.

Freeing Annabel Lee

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It drifted into the sea, I say, when you ask me about home. You’ve only known me for a few moments, so you’re not sure how to gauge me. You laugh, and make an Annabel Lee reference. The English teach in me wants to hug you. The New Jersey in me wants

Early Thoughts on the Oedipus Complex

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Conversation becomes Electra, as do her eyes. Electra’s head is grey, like the head of my Frau Freud, Martha. Her intelligent irises are darkly pigmented, and her sclerae are edged with a dramatic, black line of the sort that Cleopatra affected. In ou

Sock me in the stomach until I forget it. Down, down, baby. Down by the roller coaster.

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She wants to be an apple on a stick, a mop and handle, a brain attached to bones.

Anhedonia (excerpt)

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Things have happened. It’s a given. What, are you crazy? Of course things have happened. It’s the world, for Christ’s sake. Things are happening. I am consistently missing most, if not all, of them.

Belonging

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Don’t eat your lunch here For this is where the monsters sit.

ER Chronicles (3)

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In the shower she sees that her nipples are large and brown, feels the weight of her breasts in the hot water, and suddenly her hand is between her legs, seeking the pleasure that's always been denied her, always

~psychosexual suzy~

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I hear all the static in her head, all the fuzzy threads from half a mile away. She hates dirt. She hates the couples who come in and talk stupid lies at each other. It's so simple with her. I ask what she likes. The feeling of soft wool on her bare nippl

Remember Me to the Motherland

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When Igor stepped inside the capsule, he had two thoughts: the cramped tin can would either become his victory chariot, or his funeral casket.

Zohra El Fassia by Erez Bitton

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Poem: Zohra El Fassia by Erez Bitton

Sparrow Down

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There's no surcease from heat, no "cool of the evening," like the songs say about summer in the South. Those songwriters sat under fans in the Brill Building in downtown Manhattan.

The Elvis Latte

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Elvis at a Starbucks. Some graphic words.

Again

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Their footsteps stopped suddenly, leaving them staring at one another across the bleak expanse of playground at south Los Angeles' Gompers Middle School. His uniform's white polo shirt felt too restrictive as he watched her budding solar plexus rise and f

Butcher Knife

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When I was young I used to carry a butcher knife to bed. My grandmother placed it in my small hands before tucking me in.

Rot

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I loved my Dad. He was executed in 1967. He was guilty.

A Well Dressed Woman of Recent Times

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One Overcoat, grey striped; One Suit, fur trimmed, red velvet; One Evening gown and jacket, cretonne; One Negligee brocade; One Costume evening gown; Seven Straw hats; Four Shirts for riding habits; Four Collars for riding habits; One Negligee, green crep

The Wordless Realm

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Cast off unexpectedly,Surety stood watch on distant shore.A wordless beckoning,A siren's callpierced waxed ears.Lashed to the mast,Who helms this vessel,This beating heart?

ER Chronicles (1)

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Thank christ for feminst theory and fat good natured shrinks and tall men who stand guard over me with real guns, real bullets.

Drought.

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423 days. The old man still possessed the child-like habit of biting his lower lip when he wrote. The thick skin as dry as pork rind. He recorded the days without rain in a spare, makeshift almanac. The pages waxened from the soiled press of his hand

Miss

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On Saturday mornings, by noon, the delivery car comes from Boston and unloads fresh bread and sandwiches, pork ribs and ground pork stuffed inside of breads and buns and banana leaves, bean shakes, and sticky rice desserts.

Blossoms and Buds

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not enough of us / destroy / what we create

Dear Carl

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keep your fiberwigs in check

Upstream

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But home won.