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I still see you lying on the tracks
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The bells are ringing once again. They are three sets of bells, but I can tell them apart. It's cold up here, and I never thought I would end up in such a high fortress surrounded by the grey and dark and the moat and the flora and fauna foreign and slightly brutish.…
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First was the end of the month Sunday morning picnic. Well, Not first - there was more. Something Before then. But, You looked different with wind in your Hair and Never the same again. The mud on your skirt matched my thoughts. You'd fallen, I'm sure, and I…
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He was that famous actor—now famously forgotten—most renowned for his exits. He could burst through an in or out door with the best of them. Better than the best of them; he was the best of them. With the subtlety of his often noisy art he could…
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I would read her stories on quiet summer days as we sat along the river, just the two of us stretched out in the tall grass, hidden in the shade of the pine trees lining the banks of the Mullica while a gentle breeze cooled our skin. She liked the way I read to…
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All Karin did was watch from the street. No movement. No reaction. She just watched.
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Tough shit if it looks like shit I heard that voice say as I reviewed my blog...How ya gonna fix it, stop and see every time ya write a line? Well FUCK YOU anyway! That's what my A.D.D. said - WOW! DID YOU SEE THAT?! - as it perched upon one shoulder, overlooking…
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Those who have lost at game shows meet each week for mutual support. All is well, until they start disappearing in ways related to their ill-fated appearances as contestants.
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contemplatedshredding lettersfrom mybelated betterscauterizingsevered tethershorizoningmy ruffled feathers
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It's 50/50 that you'll ever pad your knee enough to ever kneel on it.
Your back hurts, the Orthapedist labels it arthritis.
I think that means we're getting old,
so I crawl up the tower of your body
as I'm a little younger, more sprightly.
You're a
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The coals lose their glow.Sun kisses the back of my neck goodbye.Someone plays Boys of Summer one more time.The cooler tips... The tides go out...
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Michael shifted impatiently as his mom steadied the gyrocycle above the parking space. A rather blank, empty smile came over her face, and Michael understood. The Proctors were everywhere and where they weren’t, there was always a Neighbor who would be h
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The child was delivered, set to breathing, and whisked away before Fae Anne could even catch a glimpse of her.
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I haven’t written a poem in months.
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Communism
Capitalism
Gism or Gysm, either way
Avoid anything with an Ism
Catholicism
Botulism
Socialism
Skepticism
If its got an Ism in it
Avoid it, okay?
(Advice for our newborn daughter)
Avoidalism is okay
Though
So you c
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It was not my intent to be nosy. I just wanted to be the best neighbor I could be. Having never had anyone close growing up, I wanted to get involved and be a part of my community, such as it was. My only neigbhor was Edna Phelps. She was one…
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only after
you slipped away entirely
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You don't deserve this poem and I don't deserve to write it. Whatever time we have left is way better spent sitting in a sunny garden with a good interesting book and with a beautiful golden delicious apple to bite into. But…
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“Yes, Mother, of course I’m still single. No, I haven’t joined the Army. No, I’m not moving back home.”
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A sweltering heat sits on the field like a fog failing to move. From the diamond, you were able to see the Chicago skyline poking above the apartment buildings like antennas, sending signals all throughout the world.
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We’ve been married for 24.1667 years now and–well–my wife was starting to remind me of a public building. The Registry of Motor Vehicles, to be precise.
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The first day of the Steamfitters and Pipewranglers Local 175 strike was exhilarating. Every man (accurate; there were no women in the union) showed his support outside the Willgarden High Rise Corporation's company headquarters on Fifth Avenue, shaking unreadable signs…
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Still Life with Dragon Fruit and Absinthe Glass ‚ Allgegenwart ist Einsamkeit. ‘. — Johannes Jakob Hrodebertsohn …And bright inside this space, though outside lightfall? The spillaging of streetlamps does not cross the…
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(Sung to the melody of "Ghostbusters")When your prose is weakMetaphors clichésWho you gonna callGhostwriters!Characters they speakNot much to sayWho you gonna callGhostwriters!I ain't ‘fraid of no rejectionI ain't ‘fraid of no rejectionLyin' in your bedImagination soarsWho…
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Saturday night in the suburbs west of Boston. As Pancho Sanza and I drift wearily from one upscale restaurant to another, we see an endless parade of husbands whose indifference to their wives borders on cruelty.
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Behind me are two doors. Each opens onto a room which is more event than space.
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