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Hi fellow writersThis is a proposed start of novel.Protagonist is Flor "the urchin"her grandfather, whom she hated when he was alive (and vice versa) is seeing her life from the void, he has died.Please offer any feedback or thoughts you may have, all are appreciated.Here…
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The thunder rolled like an old Bob Dylan tour...
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I have always admired flat-chested women.
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She heads toward the end of the island and doesn't look back.
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Her pheromones were working overtime.
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It’s not that cold but the cold that is/
penetrates layered cloth and soft skin/
to chill the blood in its capillaries
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She died in a car crash yesterday. She was driving down Hawthorne, past the strip mall with the Benihana’s, when her ’05 Corolla unaccountably careened over the center meridian and into oncoming traffic.
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Upstairs, in a room where some years later, the occupant would be murdered by his lover, I sat in my skivvies in an armchair and wondered if I should call my wife.
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"Fax the Beaver" was its last, secret title. The beaver is a dirty trick, and it belongs on the index card.
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(no one need fear timidity in our tastes― /
we like trying new things, no matter our hastes!)
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There were guitar players, and as happens with talent sometimes, the guitar players were too talented. There could not be places for all of them in a single rock band.
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I’m maybe only four. Not smoking cigarettes found in street gutters yet. That will come the next year, when I’m five. Maybe when I’m six, and Andy’s five, my pal from across the street. That’s my tricycle parked behind this pack of kids that look to be ne
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Of all the authors in the library, it was a wife from Maryland who called out from her marriage dormer I was not to read her.
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Be not a Hercules furens abroad, and a Poltroon within thyself
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We hold fast to the bed’s corners, afraid our bodies, these new old bodies, have forgotten how to love in its center.
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4. Hers blocking driveway, his diagonal in grass
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The currents of events/
strip the molecules from cartilage,//
reverse polarity of ventricles—
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At noon on a weekday in the off season, when the trickle of tourists who wandered into the Mermaid Curio Shoppe had died out completely, she walked in with wet hair, leaving tiny puddles on the floorboards.
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Mounds of earth and grassless ground
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"Absolutely. I get better at it all the time." he confidently replies. He reminds me that it was all her idea. They were online friends when she suggested it. "She loves it." he tells me again, but I think of her sad eyes as she walked upstairs to tend to
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Walking here
with you
on these narrow
strands
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The note was a lie, multiplied through each member of its potential audience....
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Barbarians and savages wore feathers/
or frightful face paint or skin tones//
one could recognize and aim for/
with weapons one could feel
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It all felt so tentative, he thought. The whole set up. Running water. Electricity. A vast network of instant communication. Food in all the stores. It was the latter that gave him the most concern. He'd never really been hungry. Even in his poorest days, in his early…
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I write poems as if language matters.
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It's true push often comes to shove
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In my 14 to 15 year old life in the late 50s I worked as a clean-up boy in the neighborhood butcher shop up on 5th. Ave.,
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