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All of My Facebook Friends Are Gonna Be Strangers

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I once knew a guy named Ian from Manhattan Who liked looking at New Yorker fey cartoons.

Midlife

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Even suffering all of these conditions, Louise considers herself one of the lucky ones, as she’s learned there are pills, drops, and creams for all of her problems.

No More Little Bridget

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I spend my time sitting on the back step—poison oak reddening my arm—under the eaves, waiting to escape.

You Were On Top of Us Freely

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You turned to the beautiful youth because we were light, because we were so full of life that our skin alone could not seem to contain us. We were burning on all sides for the world. Shade, shadow — nothing. Nothing the moon. You lifted the cloth and peer

You Pour Vodka In Your Coffee

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I wonder if she is my real mother, if I could get one of those paternity tests and find out if she’s my real mother and if the guy she told me was my father was really my father. I can’t remember him very well, just a lot of him screaming and hollering an

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...

Intentional Households

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Bradley turns out to be a walking red flag. He approaches as I unload the U-Haul and says, "Hi, I'm Bradley. I'm not very modest so you might see me from time to time in various stages of undress." Bradley is the last man on Earth I wish to see undressed.

The Men on the Moon

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It was a gesture on their part, an act with meaning; they didn’t care about country or science; their love was their art, their art was their love.

The Garage

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My life accelerated by grime in my father’s garage.

Pink Tights, Tu-Tus and Schmaltzy Music

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And then I get a call from a different kind of bar They say you’re drunk on Cosmos and actin’ quite bizarre.

consolations from Cold Mountain

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not otherwise employed, writing verse,/ line by tenuous line the substance of pulse./ ―but no one collects unemployed verse:/ self-lacerations must yield blood, not ink.

Freedonian Nights Ring With Songs of Bitchiness

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By day, Ksiusha Milda is a housewife with a one year-old daughter. By night, she is a blues singer of sorts, a practitioner of this country’s traditional folk song, kale.

Molecule

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Like the absence of a screw

Chemical Assistance

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Through your veins

So Little

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I must apologize for only having words to bring todaywith me. They seem so little to give and not much tooffer you. All their silly little hats seem to have been around with us now for quite some time. Others before me have certainly worn them farbetter…

Pre-Natal League a Hit With Hockey Moms-to-Be

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Peggy is expecting and in order to give her child a head start in the highly competitive world of youth hockey, she straps on her pads and takes to the ice with other pregnant women in the world’s first pre-natal hockey league.

Redux

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Is that who we are as a nation, or was that day an aberration?

Crossed

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Their raging energy felt like a unified force that could catapult itself in any direction at a second’s notice, like a heat-seeking missile targeting the next warm body.

(girls in their summer dresses)

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The life, the burning up that works up our loveliness, hot under the surface that is tempted to show forth its parts after being confined, enclosed, shut in. Beautiful honey-water sliding out of long bleak skies, after all the howling of our legendary you

Post-Revolutionary Sports Boredom

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It isn’t easy being the #1 Jewish lesbian revolutionary bank robber in America–every Rebecca and Rachel who comes down the pike tries to knock you off.

Wanting to forget

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I do not want to know what it looks like when a society walks off a cliff's edge,

Why Is This Woman Smiling?

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Because someone whispered Mona Lisa in her ear.

A Walk on the Moon

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I used to say I’d rather walk on the moon with my own rapacity, and you can easily say things like that, given the luxuriance of youth. But it was a lie, if you want to know the truth, so much hot balloon air, puffed up in the chest. That is not how i

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

The Theory Behind the Statue of the Unclothed Horseman

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With his toga thrown over one shoulder because it was so hot out which has led to various and sundry theories of the naked centurions riding on horses in this manner through some unimaginable desert on a long march or even along the banks…

(little miracles)

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The little miracle of leaking milk from our skin The miracle of two mouths attached at the lips The miracle of inhaling another human’s essence at the onset of remembrance and the extensive and naturally occurring miracle of seeing someo

Why I Got an Unregistered Gun

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No matter how tough we make our gun laws, it’s the other goober states that let a dramatist with a lengthy record of prior absurdist plays buy an unregistered weapon at a gun show.

Feline Impediments to a Sunday Nap

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The two cats begin to circle To better make my surface workle. They treat me as (this makes me sore) Floor model in a mattress store.

Remember the Albatross Around Your Neck Was Once Your Choice of Ocean

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All haters have small ducks for brains. Look. We came here to do a job, to make a beautiful thing rise up, sprouting like the new moon out of a harsh sunlight blaring off concrete, to blast a…

Nightbound

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Intimacy is safer in the dark.