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Her Majesty’s Glasses
Umbilical Chord
Linger Finger
Okay Inkjet
The Dragon Flies
Horny
Free Spirit
Good Footnote
Buttery Clams
You’reUp
Empty Bladder
Star Butter
Karmic Impulse
Mr. On-the-Ve
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arrogant, sullen,/
supple and ambiguous,//
English seems the ideal tongue
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[............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................]
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I slept and it was pleasant. Then there was the kiss, and it was hot. Later you turned away, and all was November chill. Now there are touches, caresses and shouts, Marvelous nights flavored with favors bestowed, and blackened days,…
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It began not so innocently
with voyeuristic tendencies.
the sound of concrete
and confetti in the night.
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“Do you have a job? Are you going back to school,” I asked, you know, because I’m hip like that.
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“I want you to face the toys!”
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The arithmetic of human experience/
is always a losing game for some. Poor Jane. Rich Dick.
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“What the fuck!” Duke muttered, amazed at what he was seeing in the darkened store. A thin curtain of smoke was rising from under the baseboard like an inverted waterfall. It stretched the entire length of the left wall. Holy shit, the joint's on fire! I…
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There's no sky like that
with twisting clouds shot up into by cypress
trees that are so like dark green flames
leaping out of the earth as if a dark green
oily pool were on fire underground,
and this was all that could escape, was
its essence.
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This gravity thing, I reckon, is enamored with me. It loves me so much that it has fettered me with itself.
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destinies bring me to a damned desert
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She was there then gone then there again. We were naked and wet and touching, she let me touch her, but she didn't want to be there. But she was, despite herself. It was my dream. You can go if you want. …
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The Moon The hatch of the lunar module hissed as it opened, a few puffs of leftover water vapor escaped toward them in a sparkling white cloud that rapidly dissolved…
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Without light it is black.
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By lunch:
The dryer is an F-5 dervish of mismatched socks, blue jeans and your yellowing college T's, lovingly held onto. For a moment there is a comforting warmth and softness to their smell. In the debris strewn landscape of the living room a carcass
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She waited on the hot, broken pavement, arm outstretched, her thumb a ticket to a distant, refracted horizon. Waves of heat danced like undulating snakes under the spell of a charmer. She pictured herself passing through them, abandoning the green of home for the…
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While most spread their time in other occupation, I traveled through books and grew my imagination. I knew endless bliss. I was a book eater. I would just devour books that I loved and slug through those I didn't, just to make myself eat the truths and li
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Everyone is tromping around in work boots like an army of happy gardeners. The park is smiling from all this attention, from the sound of kids who think work is play. It's not even sunny but we don't mind. I know you don't. Grey days are just as good. They've…
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this elegant silver wrench/
which from the opposite side/
becomes a golden Phillips-head
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He's got a rager for Casablanca, the old Bogart and Bergman classic. I can't snap him out of it.
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Buck, naked, has no words. The best he can manage is a dopey strangulated cough. His wife, who is clothed, stands before him, next to the waterbed that took Buck half a day to force into the trailer.
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The musician’s wife had a roving eye. He didn't care. He liked being married to a wild and crazy woman.
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He thought of it as magic, but magic that he understood, the way a magician knows about the hidden compartments in his hat and trunks.
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We both looked toward the house. We could just make out a light that was barely visible coming from the side where their bedroom window was. Slowly an evil grin appeared on Darrell's face. He looked at the knife in his hand. "This will do it!" he sa
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A phrase, a sentence, a stanza,/
sounds among the sums and lists/
and starts a scratched cascade/
of syllables and other approximations--
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Writing books is like raising children. You do your best, nurture them, discipline them, coddle them, feed them, patch up their injuries, sing to them, try to sell them, but no matter what you do, they are what they are.
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I survived as a brave thought,
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As a kid he had run away from the family farm and shoveled coal back East to put himself through college. Now he was just another old man in a nursing home, desperate for a drink, his blue eyes bleary, a sticky goo filming at the corners of his lips.
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Once a friend asked me to write about rape in an email, so I wrote that it is a weapon of war that would not work here because partners do not give in to it; in fact, they would say it is infidelity in relationships.
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