Stories tagged poetry

dancing in the theater of the soul

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It’s the audacious testicle dancing in its theater, isn’t it? Carrying the legendary names. The bad blood, the jealousy the heart retains, living again under its skin, rarely enlivened by one of its own. There was enough angel in you that we would g

our notorious youth

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Be aware the dog is king, radiant, emitting many beams, renewed by and restored by his fullness, his satiety. In many ways underlying all our hearts and minds, out of our notorious youth, ever the flower of our flesh on fire like a little reed next to the dried…

From This Side of the House

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no reminders of the withered boards

desiring the animal

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Then desiring the so-called animal, you entered, but did not pollute or defile our variable parts. You did not defile your lover by touching the untouched virgin heart, making passion out of fiery stuff and glowing beyond the sea, working something out

amaryllis

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On such warm nights when wet sex happens suddenly, please, remember the amaryllis. How they’ll push up out of the ground in August after the first real heat opens the air. I too was born in such weather. Balmy nights when heat lightning beats in the

Pollock's Last Snowflake?

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The question posed a voluptuous riddle. Were these frenzied silhouettes gestures of Jackson Pollock’s dribble?

the musk and the drama

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Shame must search the soul, broken, original, with its primitive juices stirred. Moved until now only by the musk, only the stroll you lived with, the worry, the sorrow, the drama – may I never conceal or recover from it! Yes, I might beg or steal the

Back rubs and blindfolds

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A haiku...

Warm Saké with Plucked Samisen, a Tray of Food, a Tangle of Bodies

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This is the moment that’s never enough...

wolf of my soul

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Happiness is the twin disobedience, to hear, to burn, to fret, desiring union. They shall touch flesh, bluish even, that elicited the happy city's sin. Why be silent? The untouchable nothing? Let there be that place, a little swelling therein, which

Imperfect Gifts

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With your belly filled with beer and your eyes squeezed in squint I'm almost magic almost enough dirty angel barred from broken jukebox heaven for you to believe in

continuously uncomfortable

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I could feel myself slipping back into my old ways again and it always hurt like hell.

We are the rising

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I’m sick of you headless muffuckas searching for a facelift.

my future, maybe yours

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She went for the typewriter first.

Dinner at La Maison Bouche

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The knife that precedes the bigger knife that precedes the spoon that precedes the flat fork, with stuff like that I'm all butterfingers, & even though he's never been to Italy except once to shoot a gun when the world was a great big jumble, he remembers all…