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Jannsun started working for Matrix back when he gave up on writing the next great American Novel, which was about five years ago, right after the war. He was old for a Web Zone designer but who knew? Who cared? His work was all done via satellite and as l
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One/
can’t always trust the eye and ear//
in such matters but what can one do?/
Mistakes will be made.
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some are cameras, some are daggers, some are sauces pans, others are swords, and some will run off and others will burn a hole into the spot which they land.
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What chaos comes from / insufficiency? What else can calcify dreams?
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She woke before the sun was up to brew a pot of coffee. His eyes blinked open as he lay in bed smiling, smelling the fresh coffee mixed with marijuana smoke. He walked to the living room and sat next to her on the couch. He rested his head against her shoulder.…
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Hail the yellow cab the yellow one will do just fine as second condiment to the sun
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Then I am in Washington DC impersonating an accountant.
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When she would leave my pillows still smelled like her. I would just inhale her for hours afterwards, sex and honeysuckles.
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If you shoot at them now, it'll be attempted murder or, worse, premeditated murder.
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Metropolitan I. Atlantic harbinger of this our swaddled dawn: Mistaking moon's sea sweep for this the frown The sky's plain-countenanced creatures maytimes weep Upon the surface-sundown of our lawn, When gaily surfaced for…
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Near dusk today a car backfired on the street beneath my office window
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Now that Spring has sprung I am reminded about the day a former neighbour complained about my squirrel collection. I love to feed the black squirrels that gather in my yard and she became convinced I had trained several ninja squirrels to enter her garden
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I woke up when the smoke alarm insisted. Either the curtains were on fire or I hadn't changed the battery.
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The perfect murder, and it’s not even murder.
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It's called the Knee Defender. But I prefer to think of it as the Schmuck Identifier.
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There are times when she is heavy and times when she is light.
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The entire room seems waiting for me like an octopus behind a closed, chained door. The monk of the lamp knows he will get his daily turn-on if he prays loudly and just enough for it. The favorite chair has my blue dent in its punched…
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It was if you memorized my ever detail but not the why.
And perhaps that is what love is. Was that love?
I lie in bed waiting for the man who came after you
to join me. I hear his heavy footsteps and know
he wants to go to Hawaii too,
when our bud
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Some great, doubtless precious;
some hollow, likely empty;
some only shards, but you never know...
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1. Pharmacy Randy approached the counter. It appeared that the only person in the pharmacy was the pharmacist himself, Mr. Crubby, and from the sound of the stiff white bag crumpling he was busy saving someone's life, or at least ameliorating someone's …
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Friday afternoon. Angelique Brody knocked Francesco’s studio door.
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She was sitting in her swivel chair talking to a girl who was her younger image, ...
“Well, there you go, I’m a fire sign and you’re an earth. That’s just the way it is.”
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He is sitting in the infinite rain
and the water is making him some infinite silhouette
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Star-eaterHere lies the star-eater.Tilting on the ancient wheelof summer-glaze-breath,you speak the oceans. Fire's the mealfor you, the star-eater. You defy death,and out of your mouth, a universe openspouring forth, as fleet as the starslight on your tongue. Space…
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I hear the woman upstairs running water. But that's incorrect. I should say the woman upstairs is running from water. She loves water. And water loves her. She loves cooking and doing dishes but especially running water. She runs water all day doing dishes, doing laundry…
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Six months passed and the lovers decided speaking was no longer a necessary component in their relationship. They did this over breakfast, delicately spooning pink triangles of grapefruit into their mouths. Not a word spoken.
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Salted sea of summer fingers- sand and salted skinmelt in me; vanilla ice cream lick- your lips; salty kiss saliva- sweet salt of semen run down my chin languid-salty sweat of you.
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As she slunk to her topless Mercedes
sparkling curbside, wax job hand rubbed
in Hamburg, testosterone heads turned
wishing similar treatment.
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As I was reading “Not Your Mother's Book on Home Improvement,” a new collection of light-hearted essays by (primarily) middle-aged female do-it-yourselfers, it became abundantly clear to me that, unlike the women who tell their stories here, I am not a…
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