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On the bed he tickled her until she was crying with laughter. And then the tickles became caresses, the fingers, lips.
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Train whistles in wintertime made him feel lonely.
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Nobody has been able to use the washer and dryer for over a month now. Our neighbors have gone laundry crazy. They've become suds-a-holics. They wash everything. If it isn't nailed down, they wash it. Outboard engines, peculiar feelings, dominatrix boots, metaphors,…
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I lean forward and take her two hands in mine. I look into her eyes. “It’s you and only you,” I say. She starts to cry.
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She drew her hands out of the chest cavity and looked at the clock.
‘Time of death,’ she said.
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One can watch the grass green/
in response. One can watch the world green/
in response.
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I asked him where he hurt and he said everywhere.
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She was sick and tired of marriage. She didn't want to be a mother, but now she was.
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The squirrels will not stop peeing on the trees.
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I could call him. And be done with this waiting but I refused. I wanted him to not forget me first. To bring himself to remember me first before I'd give him the pleasure of my company.
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He hid in parks and abandoned apartment houses until his wounds healed. He ate nuts, berries, and seeds. A shy, gentle soul, he watched children playing on the monkey bars, and thought of his lost youth.
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This is self-reflection or self-reflexive writing. Candor but not verse. That is what I write: not-verse. On occasion I write a poem though rarely an occasional poem. Instead of calling it non-fiction we could call it non-verse.
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He tried to call on his break but she didn’t answer. He imagined her on the floor, sobbing, like she’d been the other day. The grey rat would have chewed through a plug-in or some wires and started a fire. She would be ashes, a blackened corpse, reeki
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Fear in a Handful of Dust
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Where will you hide? Because you know it Will seek you out for answers you might Only be asking for yourself. It Will send many students to stand outside Your apartment and chant your name. It will beg you to perform its birth Again to the…
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The Bond Trader begins his morning with coffee and a hit of LSD.
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Pretty boy looks over at me and grins, got a smoke?
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Let’s talk about Chattanooga, the cloud / mountains, the monastery bench, drunk / at sunset
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I attended the burial of our affair when I found her notebook— maybe it should be called her diary—that she had foolishly left on the deck of my beach house where she stayed while I was on that short trip to Chicago. Numb at first, unsure how to proceed, I went…
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One sneaker in the middle of the A-Plus Pawn lot...
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I describe mine as uterine-based hysteria or Sex Test.
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I looked at her, shook my head and tried to smile. She smiled back, beaming a radiance that pushed away the chill.
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The boy giggled, splashing his father and howling at the cold.
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I taught Polly to turn on a flashlight with his nose. It became his favorite occupation and he'd sit for hours with the light between his paws, watching the things it lit—sometimes jumping up to lick the wall. He'd shine it on our daughter's…
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We know them just enough/
to recognize them when we find them.
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Some believe the Scots were encouraged to emigrate, hired guns as it were, to Ireland to civilize that population.
If that's the case, we would see it as another evil English trick. In any case, we MacGowans are Scots Irish and Protestant.
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