Stories tagged poem

Carlos Del Monte’s Verse Chorus Verse

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Too young to stay interested for long in the words I was reading. My father said the man was very intelligent and most of his writing was hard to understand.

Survivor Stories

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After the War he sent them five dollars and told them, “Eat and drink and don’t worry.”

Rilke

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Oh Rilke, how I wish I would have sat next to you at my first writing workshop.

Debtor's Prison

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You should have marked that territory like a conquistador, mounted him like an equestrian, left no what-ifs in your wake.

All Will Be Well

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Jesus will walk on the water. Judas will walk on a technicality.

Pollen in the night

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Jellyfish jellyfish Indigo eyes

Thus Spoke the Gin Blossoms (An Interview)

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What does it mean, to survive, to live through? It means the next breath, and then the other, pressed from the lungs of someone who will always claim to be speak truth truer than you.

HIS-PAN-IC

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In ESL, I learned that I was not like the kids on the Brady Bunch. I was HIS-PAN-IC.

First Person

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it’s alright to get fucked up get fucked feel your tongue smell dirt on your skin

The After-Sex Song

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After sex he would get on his old refurbished upright piano and always play that same song. We came to know it as the After-Sex Song. It was really quite lovely, and touching. I think it made us all feel better around that building. Yeah, I remember t

Afghanistan, Part 3

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Circle

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an arduous process of admission demolition for eight years she worked in a white lab coat and cotton gloves chipping away at the dried crusty oil paint

I Wish

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I wish I had money I would give it all to you I would give you more than I could imagine I would pull the fetus out of your heart Between my two fingers And glue us together I would glue our faces together too After putting in all my

Context and Confessional Poetry

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I like babies and little kids, more than some people but goddamn, children's laughter out of nowhere (in the night, when you're not expecting it) is creepy. I don't like slugs smeared like nightmare goo on my summer-bare feet, I could do without them in …

Improvisation on a few lines by Mark Strand

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I am tripping on poetry. Purple ink drips from my eyes like ergot of rye.