Most read stories

Stroke One, Stroke Two, Stroke Three

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On Monday, May 7, 2018, at the age of 67, I had a stroke.

Arcana Magi Memorial Vol.4 - c.5

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Azure understood now. She felt it there as she remembered what she told Sora after her ordeal with the domed creature.

I didn't ask for help

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I didn't ask for help

Double Vision

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To conceive of them separated was unthinkable to every wet-eyed soul at the burial.

Into the Mystic

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Writing opens doors to perception. For example, the glockenspiel smells of gardenias, but the catwalk is opening a can of Franklin stove. It emits fumes of fairyland and olive. And in the green and pleasant country of Scotland and England, vintage trains go…

our ragged wits, ragged minds

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Our ragged wits, ragged minds, after acting out all, imitating all honey-like tunes, air song, excellence of song, true flower of the world. So the sun has some of its honey wintered away, to bring it into contact with such a human voice as yours.

With Eyes Closed

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I believe I will become a bear, snuggle up in a deep cave, coil myself inside my fur, close my eyes on hurting images, turn a deaf ear to the uproar of the world. Bolt my door to the deceiving voices outside. Sleep. Forget. Wait, as we wait for spring, for the violet and…

Us Kids in Left Field

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Us kids in left field steal out bedroom windows after dark to pinch hit Lucky Strikes between first and second fingers, arc the glow of shop-lifted hot-boxed cigarettes over the chain link homerun fence sprawl on perfectly ridiculous grass passing a bottle…

Of Alleys & Ivory

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“You think it’s a self-castrating suicide note or a self-righteous freedom speech?” “Probably just the ramblings of a madman, pissed he lost a company baseball game.” “Fuckin-A, Pete! Double-murder suicide for a baseball game? Ain’t nobody that craz

The Writing Class

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I ask if anyone has a poem or a story they would like to read. Everybody's hand shoots up.

The Form of a Cyclist

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His legs were pedaling hard and his heart was beating fast, He's got his scars; He can't outrun his past, Down the hill he goes, wind whipped his hair, a new style with each draft. He broke his brakes long ago; He cut the cable and ripped off the pads. He cried…

Leaving Home

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it is heavier than it looks with edges smoothed by the passage of time

Honey Nut Cheerios and Chocolate Milk

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Charley calls to say he hasn't heard from me. The blinds are gone, so I take a lipstick off the living room table and draw a circle around his head. I make a half-circle for his gut, a squiggle for the telephone cord. He can come over, he says, just to …

The Hostage

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My mother should have been a minister or a peace officer. Instead, she was a homemaker who ran the home like an agency. There were certain hard and fast rules.

The Buddhist

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She is not centered, but she finds her way.

Nothing Much

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As a boy, he had little hope of ever becoming anything.

Edward Ogle the Dickinson

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Hope is the thing playing checkers

instead

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instead of gun metal deceit, sounds of malice;be a drop of rain.

Shaken not stirred

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The warmth of the sun

Fourth World

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Where are you going, boy who never was?

The Exiled Realm

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destinies bring me to a damned desert

Rescued From A Dream

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There were six people on the bridge, myself included, and we were making our way across when something exploded—it was more a rifle shot than explosion, actually—and it cut like a razor through the delicate fabric of the moment.

I am not theirs and they are not mine

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My first year I hated how big and unruly the plants got.

Boswell Meets The Subterrans

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He bounds like a lunar explorer into the Edinburgh Castle, the goofy porcelain busts glaring at him with contempt.

Quitting Smack

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I figured he knew what he was doing–he was the crazy one, after all, not me–so we took turns snorting lines of equal volume.

this was very symbolic

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I remember this vivid dream I had once. Maybe you were in it? I’m not sure. There was a gang of spitting men outside this bar, standing beside a whole row of gleaming motorcycles, with tons of chrome, and I remember my dreams were their feathers. They

Salt/Sweet

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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.

Tea Time Story

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She smiled at him. "You want to know the secret, that's why you want her to tell - not because you want her to be happy."

Coffee Alone

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And pity us, this generation of sighing:

Notebook (excerpt)

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I try as much as I can to write but only in as much as you believe―am I successful.