Most read stories

Geographies of Decay

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That morning arrived with the sound of steel pipe hitting the ground

Borgo Was 29 on His Birthday

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Borgo said 1979/So Borga remembered 1979/for him, just in case,/for what if:/ a driver license/or an act of god/or a marriage license/or even a lease/for an apartment/you never know, she said/ so he said, okay/you remember,/so she did.

The Collector Of Twilights

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I like to collect twilights. I fold them carefully and put them in my wallet. They fit neatly between the dollar bills that have a weird tendency to curl. This bugs me. I don't know why they do that. Something to do with the design of the wallet. But the twilights fit…

Valentine

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XO

Rodrigo Ordonez, Boston Traffic Matador

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Ordonez gives me a look that speaks a volume–Volume 4 of the Encyclopedia Americana, Birmingham to Burlington, which includes the subject of bullfighting.

A Poem Written About You Because I Missed You

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what i will always remember of you is of that singular sunday / when a black lock of hair brushed against your cheek

Viva la Doglady!

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The dog catcher appeared to be trolling the neighborhood in his doggy death van.

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

Black Wheat, 5

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Maybe love shouldn't exist . . . If we follow this notion there is no great need Where does it come from, this great need? . . . If (it) is in the blood how do they get it out? If not, where is it If they do not allow thought

The Mud Slicks at Low Tide

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The mud slicks at low tide were a mood.Thick gobs that smelled of fish, sulfur and claysalt and wild seaweed like fungusmoldy like left out fruityet it drew her closerto the shorelinecloser to feelingit between her toesthick, squirtsas her feet liftedlike a suction cupand…

My Yoko Ono

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When one hears the siren call of artsy high school love, there’s not much one can do except go ahead and crash on the rocks, sending incense sticks and candles flying.

Studies for Restroom Wall Art

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Sometimes all that’s/ left is pissing

No New Clothes for the Empress

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Because I was not sure if the poet had said yearn or urine, I zoomed in on her mouth as she commanded the lectern...

Music in Berkeley

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There I saw a woman with dyed long red hair Dressed all in furs and a short tight skirt Way too young for her age And she was banging a tampon on her leg At the performance of Ramblin Jack Eliot And no one got up to throw red wine on her Ful

Skull and Bones

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“Okay, so I'm lying naked in this coffin with my big dick out,” George W. Bush says. “Yes!” …

On Being Hailed by the Former Head Cheerleader of One's Midwestern High School Whilst Crossing Boston Common

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I turned and gaped- In horror gasped-- There was no clear escape. Down Winter Street, up Park perhaps? Too late-she had me in her grasp.

ice on the bottom of the moon

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I saw ice on the bottom of the moon last night, and I always thought I knew what it meant to go without, but this is something else again. To be without you this long is exhausting, it could wither the soul to go on like this. There’s this head hanging,

Tangled Up in Glue

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Shhhh, my husband is trying to write...

I heard You Like the Back Seat, Honey

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It’s okay if you do

Killing Bin Laden: The Television Series

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Certain basic realities have escaped us. This is a good time to remember.

TGIF With a Big-Balled, Yogurt-Eating Mouse

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“Why don’t you dump Mr. Fitness here and give one of us a chance?” a mouse says. “I wouldn’t fuck you for practice,” she says sharply.

Nuptial Indemnity

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She had a body like an upside-down viola da gamba without the sound holes, frets or strings. Full at the top, narrowing at the waist, slender legs where the neck should have been.

The Option Package

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he felt like ranting about cars.

drinking together

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In fact we were all drinking together in banquet halls (on banquet ships) with an epic poet who invented things, made things up, while dying in thorough dissipation. Washed to shore, our souls with our lives, our shadows. And storms swept them away

Boston Artists Fight Gentrification, One SUV at a Time

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"I'm dreading it," says Kati Rivers, a visual artist who has lived in the Fort Point Channel district. "A bunch of fat suburbanites driving up rents and crowding creative people out of the little cafes and bistros."

our measured treads

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—and the god presiding over all / a four-faced, double-Janused clock / its equal seconds clickt away / ticking us our steps and breaths . . .

Black Wheat, 3

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(it) looks out at the world from behind a film (it) does not participate (it) is slow to love . . . There is the image And they say they are in the world . . . Blood does not shake their hearts They lie and take your s

Ratatouille

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The body receives its embrace but / only by the anti-body.

The Blood of Giants

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Everything sensed is a drop of experience in the cosmos. Writing brings on the rain.

A Journal of the Plague Year: Day 237: A pandemic miscellany

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Wheel turning, round and round again