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The Ardennes: Two Vignettes

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In the Ardennes for the the first time...

A crow, deceased.

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Feathers littered the ground beneath the sycamore, glossy black ones, short one and long.

Trying to remember something else, I recall supreme and utter solitude in a far off time and place

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Before the war...

A Release of Sorts

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For the new year, I´ve given up palm oil. Made shopping a whole lot harder. Damn orangutans tugging at my conscience.

Not Death but Decrepitude

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A bedridden ward of the state,/ warehoused in a nursing home,/ unable to drive to the liquor store/ for whiskey and cigarettes,


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I kept my seat. Passengers packed in the aisle weren't moving and until they were, neither was I.

Fire Alarm

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You snore and the house is safe again.


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Rivers of the belly

On Tuesday

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When they talk, they put their hands like a cup around their mouth

Two Dog Poems

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maybe a day in deep winter

A Whole

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You sawed off my wings then Asked

in the sun

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an artist sits in the sun moving fingers through long hair

The Bible

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I watch the dance of devotion


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My mother is a psychologist. By that I don't mean one of these feathery voiced therapists who nurtures you through grief or self-doubt and has infinite faith in the human spirit. She's not the kind of psychologist. Not at all. She's the kind who develops

Instructions for Assembly

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Please be advised to have at least 2 persons to assemble this unit Although it could take close to a dozen Always include at least 2 kibitzers Another 2 or 3 standing around sipping vodka martinis Be sure to have enough olives to go around And b

Excuse Me, There’s Some Suspicious Activity In the Men’s Room?

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Someone has locked themselves in the large stall They’re smoking one cigarette after another And pulling long stretches of toilet paper off the rolls God only knows for what purpose And yelling for anyone who’s outside the stall To go get them

"Call Me"

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The woman took a small note card from her purse and wrote on it. She then stood, handed the card to the doctor, and said, “Call me.”

poem in ten syllables concerning ontological equivalence at the end of the modern era

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technophilia? . . .

How Filthy the Human Mouth

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When he saw me, he jumped faster and faster, wild like something rabid.

The Color Cream

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The Rat, His Treadwheel

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The rat had been informed, assured, cajoled in order to gain his assent—duly lied to, in other words, by the researchers with not one tear of remorse, with no smudge or smear of conscience . . .

The Serapis Cult and Christianity

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One of the views I've become attached to over the last decade is my suspicion that somewhere in the dusty closet of history, if only I searched hard enough, I would excavate a connection between early Christianity and the Serapis cult. Although I have accumulated some…

Syntax Connections

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Consider this. Only a sentence ago we were complete strangers, oceans of time, distance and thought between us.

From Upwards, into the White eye Rising (Setion 3)

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A fractured world we haunt: the streets, the schoolyards- Across the floodlit roads, where we shared drunk adonics: No marbled halls but towers that stole the stars' eyes- Flat-roofed serrations against…

Monstrous Thing

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It's only just a poem. The good that's in us is us. There's a monstrous thing trying to get out and ruin things. To unbalance everything standing on tiptoe. To end the dance. To grab the moment and burn it down to the flat ground. They are…

Blue Rage

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His small hands grew unimaginable vitality as he pushed and heaved against the strength of the ocean and it's depths and it's ruthlessness.

Agent 3

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i beat myself back into the littlon fish door, the algae sealing strip connecting as it does. Eons ago, i fell, and andy and i met with hands of crab and lobster in an eleborate room benaeth here, but I know very well, i am not him

Guy Who's in Love With Modern Notions of Love and a Good Thing Happens to Him After a Bad Thing

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Vince did a dance of love and courtship around the Camaro moving crab-like around it with his arms hung low, raising them only to lower his sunglasses.


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A Bite-Sized Piece

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But conversation, like music, is measured in beats, and he waits for more than one, and loses the moment.