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lucy, the ghost who liked it

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lucy had simply taken a kitchen knife and removed the outer layer, the layer of things people notice

From This Distance

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Can you remember now? How we could each disappear completely, connected despite fault lines. . . .

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Seven Circles on Her Head

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White, hot pain shot runs from her through the wires, ending at the laptop, leaving a background buzz in her head.

Some Advice

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Justify your metamorphasis

Fugue No. 2

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Moonless sky of stars, silently flickered by bats, with constellations defined and bold. The curve of the plough matching that of your shoulder, as if it were a decoration.

My Gall Bladder is Really Warm Today

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The English phrase "Nice to see you" translates into "My gall bladder is really warm today" in Berik, a language of New Guinea. What Language Is, John McWhorter

Saved (Seven-Fingered Jesus)

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Believe me, I would run if I could, but there seems to be a low haze of molasses clinging to my ankles.

Truthful Possum

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The possum is sneering with truth. I can smell the blood under his fingernails. He has seen it all, the backwoods distilleries and the back porch propane grilles. He has slept under the beds of whores and kings alike.

Love Note to/ Legal Pads

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toe and hand-/ holds against/ the shear cliff

Novelas (interstice from Black Swans)

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Insterstice: Novelas Four Sonnets Since …

Alone Before Surgery

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I spat in the toilet.

The Forest is Falling

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another paper saving 55er

Hasn't Got A Prayer

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This really bothered me, and I questioned my penis about it.

Dormilona

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These fern-like weeds grow along the roads. “Watch this,” you say, bending down over a plant. The touch of your fingertip sets it recoiling, stunned–a fun, jungle trick you picked up somewhere along your way.

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 26

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Friday afternoon. Angelique Brody knocked Francesco’s studio door.

A toast to politicians

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To politicians who think things will stop, When they finally let slip and drop - this government of ours we call The ultimate power of them all.

Free Magic Lessons

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" No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing."--T.S. EliotI think, okay now I know, the poem's starting to wear off. But I'm alive, at least…

My Own Gun

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“What's a slut?”

Credenza

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Now the house is empty of romance except a potted flowering plant from my mother for Valentine's Day. No man has set foot in my museum since I moved here. One man has set foot. The owner's brother to see about the gasket under the toilet. The Comcast installers, twice. The…

A Night in the Trailer of the Headlining Band

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Sleeplessness

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The retina was burning, the liquid had dried up, and the veins bursting. My eyes bled. But I kept them open. The sound was like nails on glass, screeching endlessly. Coming close to me louder, harder, faster.

REM-Embering my LED

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Someone desperately dials a number. Iris, draped tight.

...until love lasts.

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She didn't know why she thought the ring wouldn't fit her finger, but it slid on easily and effortlessly, coming to rest in the old familiar place it always had, the groove that had worn in her finger after seven years of wearing it. She hadn't worn it in a few months,…

Living for You

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I’d say something I didn’t mean, then she’d say something she didn’t mean, and on and on until one of us came up dry and would be forced to—take exception to something the other had said, to take it seriously.

4:09 and American Music

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If you knew everything, you would not be able to sit on tropical balconies at 4:09 A.M., discovering a book and then the world for the first time If you were part of the spiritual set, and could astral travel far and wide, but neglected to open the door…

The Grid

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From this fundamental simplicity,/ houses, cities, regions./ A nebula stretches across the grid.

Duty

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Two girls, twelve years old, run down San Pedro Avenue past the market, the middle school, seven driveways, their small chests heaving. The smooth soles of their Mary Janes keep slipping on the gravel driveways. Two men in a rust-orange van bear…

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 44

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The butterscotch on that painting makes me want to lick the canvas.

Further Conversation with the Author

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“After your death is confirmed,” I assured him, “a hardcover first edition of your books, will sell for millions at auction in New York.