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Poetry is like baseball

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Poetry is like baseball.

Butterfly, a novel by Julie O’Yang (excerpt)

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‘So what exactly did you decide?'It was two years later that Sato-san put the question to me. The two of us had been hiding for two bloody years, moving about in the marshes along the river, living off small, skimpy meals. We couldn't turn back to our unit, because Cesaru…

Haiku for the Worried

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Real life escapes you.

Cooperman

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Unconsciously she shook her head at her own weakness in coming out to see Wayne when things were in shambles at home. Guilt had beat resolve in the cosmic game of rock paper scissors.

Lunch Business

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It's lunch in the car time at 5:30 pm The car sits next to the mattress delivery truck in hope of receiving a blanket of shade

Rhapsody in the Rain

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so many bills to pay the list keeps shedding its skin like a snake

The Second Extinction of Chocolate

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Cacao production had always been a tenuous enterprise insofar as commercial cacao tree cultivation had always been limited roughly to the land zones within twenty degrees of the equator north and south.

Un(en)titled

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Our trouble decided when the CUNY PhD student, a poet, cried out, “Racination!” during discussion of my poem.

Woman Outside Funeral Home Lighting Up

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If you ever find yourself outside a funeral home lighting up contemplating the future of the unknown, contemplate this Maybe the cigarette’s wet on your lip and you are wondering why Or in the middle of the night you are lying awake and try sa

At Last — My Dream Come True!

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Some fiftysomething woman with a small dog in her arms was waiting for him, backstage. Security hadn't succeeded in restraining her. Strange.

New Moon

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circa the early 90s, Buzz Aldrin and my father had been invited to a dinner at someone's house on Bainbridge Island and gotten lost.

What's It To You

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Oh I'm melting all right, into a foul vapor rising from a dead volcano, not even able to spit fire, but only cold old frozen rock like dribbles of putrid plasma.

Three Short Slips About Plants

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That twig looks pretty dead to me, He will never ever be a man.

Bar at East Capitol Road

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My friend, drunk, spoke to me / outside a bar where we hung out; / and his eyes were red from tiredness,

excerpt from a forthcoming novel

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I wriggled in the bed and felt the sheets soaked with perspiration. My arms were lined with tape and tubing, needles pressed in veins. I reached for the cloth again and again, and every time they stopped me. The hands that came were cold and hard, urgent

Pieces

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I was a whole man once.

Asking an Accomplished Poet Friend to Read My Poetry in a Starbucks at 2PM on a Thursday

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Your usage of the English language / is awkward and passé—

The Purple Prose of Cario

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I contemplate the words that did not make it; the lost ones. The words deprived of their moment in the sun. These words. These words that are not part of the story.

Book of Days

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The arrangements of lights on the cracking towers are a segment of Orion’s belt, the handle of the Big Dipper and a section of Andromeda’s spine.

Lovelandtown Tavern

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James Hubert III sat at the bar. It was late. His wife and kids were long in bed and he knew he should be, too. But with the Lovelandtown lift bridge stuck in mid-air, a drink beckoned him. He sat next to Vince DeSantos, a small, stout man, with a bowling

Low down dirty fame.

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I admit it ... I started writing when I was completely depressed. When I had nothing else to do than just sit back, relax, feel bad and wait until the hurricane slowly passed by (luckily there were few casualties).I thought I was an exception ... but a lot of…

In Virtual Medieval Europe

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They divided over worthless gain, while I came too late for the battle.

Against Nothing

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To be free of pain. Is that what we all want?

Shadow Play

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I was quite alone in this small room with the tarp and the dying fire.

Sink, Sunk

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the moon's got it out for the far-sighted punkish usuper supping on the upswing of a downward slope

Things You Should Know, By Heart, If You Must

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The light is always on in reality The Gelatinous Mass is not something made up By the Catholic Church And even though a small deer may have come to the side of the road once To lick the salt from your wounds There will definitely be cheap fish

things to know about the people parked along the road that runs through Humboldt Park: part 1

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It was as if every wrong foisted upon his ancestors stirred up a war in him and he was charged with intending the canon at the living.

Versus

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She vs her.

Knowing

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I come here, to this very spot for a reason. Imagine — the illusion of knowing what is and is not. The contentment drops taste — one could suppose — like that.

The Great San Francisco Poetry Wars, 19

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His wings were down when he got into the truck. It was a used UPS truck we’d bought from someone in Berkeley, and we painted out the letter “S,” so that it just read “UP.”