1291 9 5
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I want to write a story about a woman who lies to men about her height.
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1291 3 3
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Ymir used to be a big nothing;Now he's everything.His hair is the grass, the trees, the reedsHis scalp is the desertHis skull is the empty vault of spaceHis brain is telecommunicationsHis skin is a reality made of matter and miragesHis forehead is the Ten CommandmentsHis…
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You sleep. The time is soft and slow.
Your dreams are covered with the snow.
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...she had marked the stars with a blue pen, connected the dots to make Andromeda, Cassiopeia, told us of the gods behind the stars...
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“It’s time we moved our relationship back into an upright position,” I said.
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each act of creation is a jolt of expectation
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Unless they leave you comatose,/
it’s the disasters you remember.
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Ben followed Jean-Claude’s white Fiat. Every time Ben shifted gears, he was reminded of Arris’s punch.
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Crass, vulgar, boorish, impaired, angry, depressed, jealous, regretful.
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Is there a homunculus in my brain guiding everything like the pilot of an airliner?
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To conceive of them separated was unthinkable to every wet-eyed soul at the burial.
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He stopped believing in God when he learned how balls worked. Spermatocytes turned into spermatids and spermatids turned into spermatozoa, the transition taking place in tiny loop de loops called the seminiferous tubules which contain at least three…
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1290 1 1
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A horn honks, brakes squeal, Chloe’s screaming, pulling at her. She’s lying on the sidewalk. Her shin hurts. Her knee. Chloe kneels beside her. Ring of kids staring. I’m good, she says. I’m good.
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I had a sister-in-law who was a licensed nutritionist. Not sure what “licensed” means, but she had some certificate and worked in a hospital. Hospitals! Places not known for their cuisine, much less their nutrition. —So, what do you…
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1290 1 0
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The morning news.
The birthday present you bought me.
This poem.
My hair when I wake up in the morning, at any given point in the day.
Pigeon pose.
My singing voice.
How much I love myself.
Coffee.
Sex.
Not having sex.
Having movie star sex.
Ha
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I suggested when we passed the flesh shack that we turn around and that I go in and say to the sex workers that the Russians are fetching $3.5K per hour in Manhattan and it's private, unlike there at that road-side shack.
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the small break of consciousness that is my dreamswaterso much wateri can never forgive the watertoo many tears
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Character & Fitness, the opening chapter to my novel, "Death of the Dying City."
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Far away or up close, she appeared just like anyone else, a young woman with pale arms and legs and a milk-face unblemished by a single freckle or pimple or blotch. Only when she turned a certain way did it become clear that what rested atop her muscle an
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Her name was Carrie. And yes, it was love at first sight. Yes, she was a client, and you were supposed to keep your hands off the clients. Everyone in real estate knew that. She came into my office and took a seat in the reception area. I had a listing on Cedar…
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1289 0 0
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After dividing the sabliereand after the outliers roll away,disappear,or sit like a thrombus between two fingers,will there be enough in the dayfor you to watch the sun saginto its everyday tomb,to listen to the sagittal sighof a passing evening,to eat the last fruits of a…
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1289 3 0
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The door flew open, hitting the wall, and the woman seated in the corner across from her pressed herself against the bench. Loretta saw that down through her petticoats came a trickle of yellow liquid, which pooled on the floor.
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Seeing her in black /
with his arm around her /
from the other side /
of a glass door. /
He gave her a beer. /
She might’ve been thirsty, /
uncomfortable.
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1289 1 0
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She became suited to herself only. She no longer tried in any way to fit, she fought the molds they created and kept moving in her own direction. Often forward, sometimes a bit backward, and she rightly scaled her own Mt. Olympus and there she sat with he
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This is what happens when a writer falls in love...
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"That it was my stepdad's fault."
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The one at
dusk is not the one you met this morning.
That one's gone like a head in the window.
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We exist to facilitate/
successful conclusions of hopeless lives.
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“I can't go to sleep,” Jonathan said, laying on the doctor's couch. He counted on his fingers to keep his mind active. “I'll certainly die if I do.”
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