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Black Sweater

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A small poem about incipient insanity

The bridge

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as long as you have some snacks up there I can be brave

Receding Haiku

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love weaves a perforated web between the spikes of longing


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Carson said she expected better. Pat McCrory said we should burn the place to the ground.

Chin Up Chop - Chop

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he said to me above the screams of the amputee, goatees and arrowheads in the matrix of the battlefield

Spit & Shine

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The poem about the butterfly that sang arias reminds me of the desiccated shell of the snapping turtle behind the outhouse. Clapboard houses and rusted drainpipes litter the highway like scattered kindling. Song of the opossum, song of the mournful. Spit and shine the…

Bacon's Blood [24]

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What happened to Kimmy?

Baby Carrot

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In my choppings, I come across a tiny carrot amidst the baby carrots. The runt if you will.

The Actual Poets

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And here’s a picture of you at the end of the line to the great toilet of fiction, waiting to relieve yourself, quick before the poetry gets to you. Or worse, the actual poets.

Kansas City Jazz: A Little Evil Will Do You Good

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Pendergast achieved Sadam Hussein-like victory margins by a combination of payoffs, fraud and intimidation. Under his rule, the bars never closed and musicians jammed all night long.

Little Ditty Down

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I got caught writing poems at the paint factory several times before they fired me I got caught in the middle of one of my best lines but can’t remember what I meant to say anymore, but I know, just know it was something real good,

Just Stopped In For A Raspberry Slushie

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Certain disorders lend themselves to poetics.

What They Don't Talk About When They Talk About Suicide (Revised)

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They don’t talk about how, while you are in your apartment waiting for the overdose to kick in, you will open your laptop and consider what music you want to hear while you die.

Pot or Marijuana

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Every six weeks or so, he and I would argue. I would argue. He would listen. He raised me twenty-five cents each time. I suppose that is a bad habit for me to have gotten into—to get pissed about rates and to fight to get a raise.

Wild Geranium (Crane's-Bill)

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I don't want to be the guysneaking like a thief who sayswords don't mean we care. I don'twant to be the one cuttinglike a throat who says our ghostis lifting out this life. Don'twant to be the one who saysall talk's another flight risk.The one like a cop sayinglook away…

used to

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And I was a dancing girl and you cut me like I was a whore.

Bear Costume

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He ran over our elderly neighbor Lenard, but not on purpose, or at least not as far as we could tell; there wasn't any yelling, I mean, and he didn't look happy when he got out of the car, though who could really tell through a bear costume.

Handy in a Denny's Parking Lot

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A compliment is candy to the heartbroken, oxygen to a suffocating flame. The best hunter picks his prey carefully, selecting his line like an archer pulling an arrow from a quiver, quickly and efficiently, then flick! the line cuts through the air and…

wrong way home

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this little piggy

Poem in A Dead Language Only I Understand, Translated for You

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I used to be a poet, you know. / Better, in many respects, than you.

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 8

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—So much for a cocktail at the tender hour of twilight, he told the empty beer bottle.

Yet Still More, than 'Yet Still More than Yet Still More than Yet Still More than Yet Still More,' of 'Jane Err: A Screenplay'

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JASON (smirking.) He dies at the end, you know. ¶ ROWENA (aghast, turning away from book:) What! ¶ JASON (smiling fully:) The butler did it.

Harmony in D Major

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What shattering tranquility! Such a devastating hush! The flora in its element, the sky a flaccid red. Dreaming just a little, more or less awake, the people shift, capitulate, move like animated trees, dropping their leaves on pathways, on subtle …

Moth Man

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The first time it happened I was waiting for the local in one of those underground stations that lets a few rays of battered moonlight through the grates on cloudless nights.

My Music is Too Loud

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Why don't you just take one for the Furies and celebrate fire for once?

Some Really Deep Chords

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3 Poems and a Seething Pen

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it’s more about how all those words look around each other. he’s more interested in the shape of things, than the reality....


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On the morning of the Winnowing the smog-smudged sun made everything look so washed away and grimy that it felt like Mom and I were walking through a dirty watercolor painting. …

Excelsior - A poem in 9 parts (Post 5 of 5)

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VIII. Towards Affinities, Beyond My love, since I saw you last, since before we reached the chamber, I cannot count the quasars which have passed, but there still gleams Time, Like a memory of a lost event unwitnessed, and this illusion Carried…

femme fatale

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her knife cleaves a single red hair