Most read stories

The Blues

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I was sitting at the barFeeling the blues after workDrinking my 64 0z pitcherOf beerBody hurting all overAnd this kid begins to talk to meAbout how drinking is killing myBrain cellsAnd of course i have heard thisShit all beforeYet i act dumb all the sameLike really? I did…

The World as Thrill and Calculation

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Professor Immanuel Danda finished his Ph.D. at 21, which, according to most of his friends and a few of his enemies, makes him a genius, though, personally, he always found himself to be a scruffy loser, if one were to believe, above all else, the mirror

Destiny Knocking - 2

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. . . why did it take so long?

My eHarmony Profile

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I’m up to my ass in social media.

New/Old

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With spring rain And greening buds

Stinger: a Novel

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Lipstick on the bolt, she told herself, if it's no good in the slot anymore.

A Shower of Rain

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You have at least an intermittent belief.

Saint Basil's

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The last of the Kazan Tatar Khans. Each dome represents a severed head.

Mural, Mosaic, and Satori

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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.

four haiku

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years later ghosts enter. . . .

3 Pieces of a Broken Heart: song

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I ate 3 pieces of a broken heart I wonder who ate the rest? They may have eaten the best I don’t know and can’t even start To wonder how it got in such a mess 3 pieces of a broken heart You could tell it just fell apart

Sailor & I

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We were born here. At the top of the stairs underneath a painting of basset hounds playing croquet. And a hallway closet filled with lost someones. And the police, three times a week, singing nursery rhymes while walking up to our door.

Black Night Takes Bite

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The Black night reached under his shiny silk jacket And touched the steamy leather of his holster.

here, winter

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a day so brittle

Mowin' Round the Dead [W-I-P]

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By the time I was born, my parents were already sickened, blackened, blighted people.

The patient

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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…

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…

Art exploits

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Against// the mysteries and the dark/ it illuminates and shapes

The City

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“A story shines brighter through a tear in your eye,” You say

Abortion Mill

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She arranged to have an abortion at a doctor Greene’s office, who practiced out of a converted house on Solano Avenue on the north side of Berkeley. I took her there the day of the procedure. You couldn’t go to a regular hospital to have this kind of thi

JUST BECAUSE

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It's been almost two years since I bought it.

Recycling Evidence

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how much is downed/ to counteract the down/ with deeper down.

Writing 101

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looked briefly – glanced shouted loudly – yelled fell down – fell

world's a mess

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until i french kiss every atmosphere my mouth ready to explode like roman candles sparking my fingers sparking off the tips of my sparking fingers

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.

Edward Ogle the Seventh

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Airwave candy lyrical brandy brass band singer.

When Will the Poetic Violence End?

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Some corners of the world seem to be consigned to an eternal hell of never-ending strife. The Middle East; Northern Ireland; the faculty lounge at Oxford University.

Turnings

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“Help me,” the man said in his mind. He lay beside the folding camp stool alone in the middle of the woods, in the clearing where he and the dog always rested.

Christian Bell

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Night LifeThen things started getting weird. I could give you a time frame but it was back when times didn't matter really, one hour as good as the next and the minutes used to be minutes not the digital counting that makes this crazy world now spin. Here was…

Another Irresolute Essay on Lit and Crit

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. . . we agree that formal standards for identifying literary merit exist and are capable of being discerned, not merely of being ascribed. —but is this itself true?