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"I was born very far from where I'm supposed to be. And so I'm on my way home."--Bob Dylan I don't owe you anything. If I'm a recluse what does it have to do with you? I have the right to be poor. Some things cannot be explained away by letters that…
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There are moments in life where it's like you're driving late at night and you should be on your way home but really you're just rolling along aimlessly through the city streets when suddenly you turn a corner and realize the road is open and empty for miles to come, a…
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It was R who embodied love for me. We’d eaten gummi worms in the park, held them up to the sun, yellow and green and translucent. When we returned to her flat, they were everywhere. I’d never seen such a thing. They hung in the air, these gummi worms.
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The woman tapped a dark plastic stirrer on the tabletop in front of her to emphasize something she was saying.
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Can we ever truly know reality? I don’t think so. But fly in comfort my friend. Lean back and enjoy the thrust of those engines.
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My head is nailed to yesterday.
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Bud Light, B. O.
and Freeloader Heaven,
they step onto the
back of the bus without a cent
We pass by the Karma Wash
but no one gets off the bus
We pass by the
Endless Soup and Salad Kitchen
where we witness a crowd
swarming over a ch
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Your cairns/
are litter in the streets
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“Has a letter arrived for me?” Billy sat on the third stair from the bottom, drumming his little hands on his Spider-Man pyjama bottoms. “Dad!”
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It was the first warm day of a late-arriving spring. Ben was sitting in his divorce lawyer’s office on Maiden Lane in lower Manhattan.
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You sleep. The time is soft and slow.
Your dreams are covered with the snow.
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I haven't been here in a while!
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Your face seems faint against the violet glades; The long winds echo once, then fail to start. Some wounding scent has stripped my hopes apart That dwelled to scent you. From the cavalcades The leaves make, bare at times since eve's sting fades To…
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Sometimes the wind comes across the fields and you would swear that it can be known. Going along the one lane there I look out and see those vast spaces and then refocus on to closer on. Swinging the truck into a side road that goes far and far and then left, I pull into…
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The young boy woke to the sound of laughter. He blinked himself out of deep sleep and allowed…
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Ships tumble, cars crash, horns gulp water, bombs burst up from the ground in a halo of screams.
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Something about shadows and last time and driving.
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the sun is quiet like the mountains,
the birds except for their wings
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He roared back at her, shaking his empty gun in his right hand, waving his left hand in the air. “I am George Burnett, esquire, late of Balliol College, Oxford! I am a hunter, a killer of pigs! I do not fear you, bear; take the pig and be content!”
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Daddy says he needs to go to the movies at night to relieve his stress, so Momma wakes us up, puts coats over our pajamas, leads us to the car ...
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He sits in the best chair and it collapses so he unfolds himself up like a mechanical shadow and sits in the second best chair.
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IV. From Hoover Dam The intent of passive presence wreathes an endless ring, Invisible, beyond all thoughts and change to sickness. This hour beats sibylline as vacancy, breathing Through mouths that do not taste their nothingness. I do not know where you are;…
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Once in a while I have the time of my life /
in this god-forsaken Earth:
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my crotch-heavy press of 'Yes.'
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Does modeling come easily to me? Am I made for the camera? Not exactly. When I pose for a shot, I feel, well, like a poser, really.
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My stories are ramshackle; they lurch along in old sweaters with holes and missing buttons, drinking from mismatched cups and saucers.
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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.
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The world is slick as alabaster, taking the guesswork out of the rain. Junction Road moves like thick grease under the tires of my '89 Skyhawk. The old car's making a clicking noise somewhere underneath the high-beam switch and the damn…
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Does God feel the same way /
whenever you practice your indifference toward me
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Look at this castle: fashioned from the sturdiest sand, pages of my name
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