Most recent stories

Thirty-Two

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This morning Katie and Jimmy are learning about the potters field—the one where Judas Iscariot was buried—from their grandma.

My Friend

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Remember when we went to New York to take our test? We looked for cheap hotels near the test site, and there was the "Hotel Earle." Twelve bucks a night. The clerk behind bullet-proof glass, smiling a knowing smile. Pubes still on the sheets, but we couldn't sleep anyway,…

Drought

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burnt-up leaves rustle and fall

The wooden man: 12 fragments for Easter

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The wooden man came to her in a cloud in a vision in a dream in a story. When he spoke, his tongue clacked against his teeth.——As soon as she woke up, she knew the wooden man was in her belly. She felt heavy with him, fatigued. All she wanted to eat was…

Art exploits

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Against// the mysteries and the dark/ it illuminates and shapes

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 5

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When the cab dropped Frank at his address at seven that evening, he noticed the lights were on in Michiko’s apartment.

Busking for Free

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I'll always remember those warm, weekend twilights on the beach after the frolic of the waves seemed to flatten with the impending dusk, sending the surfers home and, after the bait was spent, sending the surfcasters away, I'd claim a square of sand as my stage,…

Because words are insufficient

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The day you came to the wedding the sky was so, so brightly July./ I saw my face where I left it the last time . . . .

Variations on a Theme by Pina Bausch

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Threads of sadness in the hands, in the touch

The Jewelry of Yaks

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It’s too early in the morning to play the glockenspiel. I’ll just sit here and knit this tiger.

Aesthetic Strategy

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it acquires a fine translucence

trixie

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she had a chipped tooth...

A Still-Life, in Movement

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Below your beauty's crooked forms I arrange my table.In you my life is rooted.Of your will I dispense, until, clearer drawn To its own osmosis, a still-life slips.Diametric becomes motion,although I am not stillI do not move.Sun-drowned, I destined,in insurrection, bringan…

Sunday in Dogpatch, circa 1990

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Inspired by the photographic work of Susan Lipper. Grapevine series, 1988-92. http://susanlipper.com/gv_23.html

Three Stanzas Ending with a Line from R. Crumb

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The squirrels will not stop peeing on the trees.

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 4

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He arrived at Bellevue hospital in a straight jacket bound to a gurney.

Excelsior - A Poem in 9 Parts (post 4 of 5)

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VI. At Antares Alpha A pyramid carries four sides: only this one Is surmounted by a circle, and its cone Has all of what we claimed within its cargo, Or that shall never find a plan, or transit now; Though the sulphur and carmine skies that…

Crumbling Stones Crush Our Self Esteem

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Jimi and Janis remain fierce and beautiful

Won’t You Be My Neighbor

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I passed the Crouching Tiger Qui Gong dojojo with Suntory Dagdibolbishon.

Sounds like leaving

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chains across all the old doors

Something Like the Promise of a Better Life

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Unhappiness is a necessary boon

Syndrome (re-mix)

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The brain had elected itself Judas, sleazy loud with silver jangling In this grand guignol of new and quickly old concussion Limbs roasted themselves to occult temperatures Yet remained whitely chilled under air that strove to rub, scrape, signify …

Her 68th Easter

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There was only the sound of crickets.

au

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the way we fit...alchemy

Vitamin D

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I caught her a-feasting with her eyes and smilin' at that Jesus- haired Waffle House cook, Dennis Roy, again and I said, “Merlene, my tiny kitty-kat, they's no reason to carry no torch for him ‘cause he may not be with us very long ‘cause, if you notice, they's no…

An Orange

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I offer you an orangeYou say you'd prefer an appleI offer you an orangeYou say, noI want an appleYou say you had a bad experienceWith eating an orangeHmm, I sayYes, but what does it matter?You say you are not eating the orangeUnder no circumstances will you everEat an…

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 3

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It was like watching one of those vintage eighteen-frames-per-second films of someone trying to open a stuck umbrella.

Marriage

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A cult is one thing; it defies common sense that a commonly educated person cannot escape cultist thinking and belonging. That cult, A.A., is girded by police, fire, therapy, hospitals, insurance companies, and courts.

Denouement

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No one has the right/ to script how someone dies.

Death, looking over the poet's shoulder, whispers...

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Pre-mortem