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up to our hips

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This is what we will remember of each other. Right here. Another night where we prepare ourselves, as the full moon rises through the murky blue and smoke-filled sky, where the rose mist simmers above the land. And you are out there, somewhere. Only our

Van Gogh’s Ear

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A drunken evening, both men soused and twitchy. An argument ensues with Yellow House roommate Paul Gauguin. The two dissing each other’s work like clicking beetles

Surprise!

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We were fleeing hurricane Katrina. We stopped somewhere in Texas at a roadside diner, but found a sign that said it was closed. We were so hungry. All of a sudden as we sat there in our car, the shop's owner knocked on the window and asked what he could g

The Year in Blogging: More Than Just Sonny Tufts

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1,919 followers in 105 countries come to this site every day looking for breaking news on the number of white kittens promoters are required to provide Mariah Carey at each concert.

The Day Felt

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Hoverboard plate glass of being upon within, splay palsy mothership. Sparks drift from beneath crouched workman's butt in front of a building that was ours last week. Tents with eclectic offerings pitched along thoroughfares winding through neighborhoods under dim…

Luminous Nights, 1

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It happened almost overnight. There were long lines of cars at every filling station. There was anger, open hostility. Cars were backing into one another in line, trying to jockey for position. I don't think anyone could believe this was really happening

A Tribute To “Tornado At The Club,” From Evan S. Connell’s MRS. BRIDGE

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I’d been listening to the radio. Tornado watch! Heading this way! 75 miles per hour! I don’t like to alarm the guests; a false alarm to these people could cost my job, but so could ignoring real danger.

some god

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I remember a painting of a young girl (this could have been me) who had just given birth. She was almost smiling while she slept. Her upper lip was violet with exhaustion. One hand left up behind her head where it was thrown during the exertion of birth

Lasagna

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My wife went vegan.

Stingray

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My teeth chew out onrubber sparkle handle fromSting ray bicycleSchwinnpants downrush of cars going byOld Cutler Roadclutch of my stomachmy balls black and bluebruisedby the bicycle chain and when I was punched, in the facewhile riding red dreamSchwinn Sting…

The Numerous Uses of the Middle Finger

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They’ve got sketches for The invention of the middle finger At the Museum for The Gathering Clouds of Innocence So, why not go there and get a feeling For the meaning behind everything? Okay, here’s the truth I was so busy giving people th

The Turkey and the Tall Tree

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The bench was set by the waterMarbleAnd dedicated to a man etched his name,the year he was born,and the year he died. She had been suffering from a dark narcolepsythat reflected off the cloudsa lightening bolt energylike a screwturn screw and wrench.Door…

Shorondra Reynolds

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When Shorondra Reynolds was a baby we lived in a Baltimore brownstone on the edge of Pigtown. Just me and my mother, when there were no single mothers, just Adele’s mother or Mary’s mama, or Kiki’s madear and their like. It was a time when a five year-old

Excuse Me, There’s Some Suspicious Activity In the Men’s Room?

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Someone has locked themselves in the large stall They’re smoking one cigarette after another And pulling long stretches of toilet paper off the rolls God only knows for what purpose And yelling for anyone who’s outside the stall To go get them

Existential Weather Report (Election Day 2020)

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Later, at home, on the internet, I assemble fragments of street celebrations from cities one coast to the other. I watch them and listen in the compressed fidelity of computer speakers. How strangely things feel.

living alone now

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Oh, yeah, that's me, the girl in the blue dress, the girl with short blond hair. Slight smile occasionally passing over her face, sitting at the café table, waiting patiently for the semi-famous rock star to show and buy a house. Brown and sea-green

The Finger of Love

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Wasn’t that you Giving me the finger Or was it just A dead ringer For the finger of love? Finger of love Finger of love Did you find someone’s dog do On your doorstep last night Something didn’t smell right In the middle of the night

Holden Caulfield and his Crummy Band

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Holden Caulfield starts a band call Crummy He’s jumping around the stage swearing at everything, every damned thing in his oversized raincoat that he never ever takes off for any reason including when there’s the slightest possibility of having sex

Another dead chicken

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in the chicken house this morning. The second one this week. I carry the stiff hen out to the back pasture

lest we bury us

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this disc barely spins the jangle of spurs/how long does one revolution take?

The Parade Route

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There will be no more internal birds like singing clocks, not like the lovely ones I know and still look forward to hearing, ringing like little bells in the church y belfry of the newly sprouting mornings to come, not unless the birds…

having a bad day

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My mom said, “Carol, why are you laughing?” And I said, “I just saw my last boyfriend and his wife, who got married six months after we broke up, and it’s funny. I mean, I just saw them. They’re in town visiting from California.” And my mom said, “C

News from a Distant Relative

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(Suddenly, too lazy to pull even one title from his shelves, he thought: if it's now the “Dao De Jing”, shouldn't it also now be the “I Jing”? Alas, he was no translator.)

Jon Bon Joviettes: A Love Letter to the Bistro

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"Oh, sit on my face oh won't you? Your velvety wetness would provide a nice counterpoint to the upholstery of the sofa-matching easy chair, crummy but that's the charm of this hipster-ironic dive playing 80's crap so I have to cram your music in my…

You Better Quit Your Runnin' Around

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I remember it was late at night I was with Johnny Appleseed’s younger brother Bruce Bruce Appleseed He was the lead singer for the band Fake Moustache Turns out he was just a bum Set on vibrate Who’d bought a 10-gallon hat once But h

Express Lane

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The Guy Behind Me only had one item. And he looked too young to fully grasp Loneliness.

You're Never Going to Break My Heart

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Like any lovable lump of hidden rocks, these hills she breathes life into, blinking existence, are all well worth jumping up and over again and again. Just ask the little kids. Their endless landscape of discovery…

Consecutive Transplants

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The heart has always been on the sleeve Tonya really needed a heartShe was too young to knowNever forgetting itMichele found it in paradiseBut didn't know what to do with itWatched it fade awayBobbi could have easily had it foreverBut left it on the…

The Andy Warhol Experience

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Whenever I go shopping, I am trying my best not to be overwhelmed by an Andy Warhol experience. This is not like your typical Orwellian Big Brother experience, like when enormous Chairman Mao posters appear out of nowhere, keeping an eye

sweet beast of idle speculation

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So, the sweet beast of idle speculation may be calling my name by memory, because I am capable of feeling, or suffering. I may be a conduit to such, because the rational soul provides the bridge. Some wild ass summoning your name, clean, uncovered, disc