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#whateverhappenedto #beforesex #whateverhappenedto #duringsex #whateverhappenedto #aftersex #nevertrust[written in August 2009]
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Every soul has a shadow.Last night, I saw mine. I saw greed,with his sticky, gnarled fingers,seizing the tablecloth of a grand feast,indifferent(or conveniently oblivious)to his starving loved ones. I saw ingratitude,with her proud, scornful …
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I admit it ... I started writing when I was completely depressed. When I had nothing else to do than just sit back, relax, feel bad and wait until the hurricane slowly passed by (luckily there were few casualties).I thought I was an exception ... but a lot of…
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Darkness dangles like bats in a mouth of cabbage. I call this necromancy. But it doesn’t work. No dead people appear. Just Bob Dylan on a horse.
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J., W., and W.’s girlfriend were exploring the nature and mores of homosexual conduct by discussing whether W. would be willing to suck J.’s cock.
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My toes curled together under the pathetic rag of a bedsheet, the frost creeping in through the two-inch deformity of the window on the left wall. I was tempted to sneak a glance at them to insure that they weren't black, but then decided that I'd…
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The fear you represent is a real drag. That's all there is to say. But like every other house on the block I have spiders in the basement who are waiting to be brought up into the golden light. These creatures only want to be good at being alive. Instead they are given…
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Finally he painted his own chair, maybe because no one would sit for him anymore (after he cut off a piece of his own ear.) The chair centered and framed so that one leg of it reached down to the bottom of the painting, seeming to be skewed a little, ou
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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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The old neighborhood, long paling in the shadow of greater Los Angeles, was reduced to two blocks in length and occupied only one side of Figueroa. It was the crumbling bastian of homes whose architecture remembered yet street-car bells clanging, watermelon farms and…
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FUN MOVIE TRAILER: 41 members of my family participated in a movie I co-wrote and shot with my wife. Have a look!:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wA7k2r81iXEHere's the 64 minute film-noir-style…
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He followed me through the crowds at Grand Central Station.
Wherever I went, there he was,
half my height, dressed in the characteristic gold and maroon garb,
with a paper cup of coffee in his hand.
He must have sensed something about me.
Th
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Over dinner last evening she said things have to change because she can never be happy with our lives being so concentric and I knew she meant that while we share the common core of marriage, she felt she was a small circle and I was a larger one, enveloping her,…
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the Tate Modern is like a dungeon!
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years later ghosts enter. . . .
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Eroica sprawled among/
the horns and violins
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So what happensTo the VFWIn a global economyAnd the monumentsErected in reverenceAfter the boysWho became menCame back homeTo be fathersThen grandfathersGreat-grandfathersAnd start to fall awayAs the days creep byThat petty paceOf politics as usualFamily DiasporasAnd maybe…
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A deserted breeze hangs and waits
and talks with staggered shapes in the sky
like a melancholic child,
held behind
and forced to face the wall
as better taught and better-tempered children
dig for ancient ruins
just ou
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We're in a sedate forest next to a boisterous beach. The sky is sea green above the trees and forest green above Sinepuxent Bay. Chaste squirrels are keeping a lookout for bad-boy gulls. Kids on circus bikes ride out of the woods into their bathing suits. The…
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As if I should have expected better of it.
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The butterscotch on that painting makes me want to lick the canvas.
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Ciel’s eyes trembled at how this all could have happened. With tears falling down her cheeks, all senses of hope disappeared.
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How strangely perfect it is To see this man memorializedAn author, so I'll always cheerThough I haven't yet read his worksA secret perhaps best keptThe shame of an English major, the shame of a friendHow strangely perfect it is To read even the names paying…
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I drink the funeral in a dream. I give satisfaction in voice overs.
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Loving himself. Loved by no one. Loving no one.
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I passed the old man from upstairs now and then, usually on Saturdays.
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