1355 0 0
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The Black night reached under his shiny silk jacket
And touched the steamy leather of his holster.
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õõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõõ
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Outbreaks of mass communal dancing—sometimes referred to as “choreomania”—occurred in Europe with some frequency in Europe between the 14th and the 18th centuries.
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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.
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Lipstick on the bolt, she told herself, if it's no good in the slot anymore.
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Against//
the mysteries and the dark/
it illuminates and shapes
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I told about the time during the early part of WW II when I shook hands with a member of the Flying Tigers. He was home on leave, and he stopped by to see my dad, who had been his scout master.
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1355 4 1
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... and that’s the story of the Polish worker who looks like van Gogh.
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You welcome the new girl by putting a message on her back. I breathe harder until she pops or until you ask me what I’ve seen or until you see my hand turn into a fist.
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mind heart soul will blood sweat tears muscle, and bone,/and then always something else—not more, just else . . .
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Green hands
wave
in freezing water.
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I barely scraped the sleep out of my eyes when I heard the shrill crying from outside the kitchen window, and I recalled one of the many reasons cats can't be trusted. You see, they're evolutionarily wired to imitate the sound of a crying human baby, so when they…
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The green on your shoulder Is worth all their papery property taxes And then some. They cash in every friendship As if it were nothing more than a Ripened apple for pie. Get rid of The thing before it begins to Rot into some…
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1354 1 1
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There’s a room
Full of white
And it smells
Like bleach and
Iron
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[............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................]
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It makes me feel like a dirty old man: adorning Celia,
Making an offering of my blue dresses, adorning Celia.
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I had a dream about you once. I don't know if I told you about it already or not. (If I did, I apologize.) I'm never quite sure who you're writing about in some of your stories (maybe a composite of everyone?) but I did hold you one more time. In my dream
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He switched off the light. His wife was breathing softly. At her bedside he told her of her friends the roses, of the pretty carnation brooch he had pinned on her silk scarf, of her coquettish hat which fitted her so well. Small, simple and bright memories the heavy night…
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It's definitely not her pretty face that made him smile so quirkily when she returned in the evening.
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Then he said something that really made sense, said he kept a blank check in his back pocket...
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He thought of natural violence that had to do with the wind and the Atlantic Ocean. He thought of the Gulf Stream, that important title, that someone had shown him on a map and explained about in detail.
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years later ghosts enter. . . .
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It is not rough like most grappa, but smooth like good whisky. It removes all edges, freezes the tongue and erases the memory.
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Now that you can go to a body shop and get nearly any mod you can imagine printed and attached in about an hour, every cracker-ass redneck is sporting a twelve-point rack...
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my time there was not one afternoon not / one river not one tunnel not one falling
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She is a manifold of temporal flows.
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The redwood trees were taller than dreams
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