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Polaroids at the Old Place

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Can I still be in your pictures?

The Nudist Camp at the End of the Rainbow

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What did they even invent clothing for? I asked.

Four Stories I Cannot Write

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“Per­haps instead of a book I could write lists of words, in alpha­bet­ical order, an ava­lanche of isol­ated words which expresses the truth I still do not know” — Italo Calvino albu­men before child grit secretlyshame august blood …

After Prometheus

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His method is simple...

Pewter Badge

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I never killed a cop before.

Confetti

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We go in gently at first, skimming over the first few swells and dropping speed, but then we pitch hard, tail over. The windshield holds. I think of Lily. I think of the baby. And I see my life.

Robins

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Pine nerves spike and row.

Horse With One Big Ass Smile Plastered All Over Its Purple Petaled Pucker Just for You

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Tired, so tired of it all, but oh we'll always go on, won't we, still carrying on about the love the love the love we shared, only again and again. Ooh the oozing life blood is slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly now going to shit I say, practically…

assemblage x + 1

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so here we all are/ deep in debt

Frida wonders if there’s a better way

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She’s changed leaves to emeralds. Worn a shawl of inked birds’ wings.

Solution

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I wrote her a poem.She said, “I hate poetry.” I said, “OK, just read the words then."

Zaire

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The dictator, what'sisface, was crazy nuts.

recipe

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secret recipe

Summer's End

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sunshine

GIVE FEEDBACK FOR START OF NOVEL

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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…

Flashes

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The thunder rolled like an old Bob Dylan tour...

55 words #2

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I have always admired flat-chested women.

Widow Walk

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She heads toward the end of the island and doesn't look back.

The Judge's Wife

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Her pheromones were working overtime.

Year End Closeout: Buy One, Get Seven Free.

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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

Jared Sampson's Mom

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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.

Noir

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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.

Hoss Men (continued)

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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.

concession to the shapes of hunger

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(no one need fear timidity in our tastes― / we like trying new things, no matter our hastes!)

Rock Band Days

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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.

Old Photo, 1948 or so

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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

Turning Thirty

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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.

Cento (Christian Morals)

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Be not a Hercules furens abroad, and a Poltroon within thyself

Them, Not Us

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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.

Scandal, in Eight Parking Arrangements

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4. Hers blocking driveway, his diagonal in grass