Stories tagged prose-poetry


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I love this, she spit...

On Living in New York City in 2009, After Watching a Documentary on New York City in the Late 1800s

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God's honest truth, I wake up every morning when my clock punches out its dulcet, insistent clangs, a setting called Ultra Zen Up & Out. I brush my teeth with a blue dollar store toothbrush and watch one of the five morning TV shows designed to let me know the weather…

A Pattern of Love

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Her body was sprawled across the bed, and her mouth hung open in a way that had never before made me nauseous until this very moment, on her birthday.


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I combed the ocean for my minnows while Hattie's giraffes multiplied like spider plants, all yellow and brown on the dry yellow savanna, propelled by their gauche necks, awkward in their bodies, bodies rooted to the feet of the humming planet.


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look at the shape here / is it not pleasing to the eye?

Cider Bubbles

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I suggest to him our asexual wedding. We'll couple with opalite rainbow-shimmer rings around our tender wrists. We'll roll overfields. Apple…


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"She said she wanted to move from point A to point B, that she needed help getting there. I told her I’d do what I could (despite my condition)."


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They discovered the baby in the grass, under the snapping cotton sheets.


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he knows that his wife knows. she can smell the adverbs on his tongue in the mornings. but he cannot get through another evening in that house without consonants.

The Hunger Artist

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Please cook out the Kafka. Either you have eaten my saltine. Or you have poisoned the Jell-O. Please fess up.

Migraine Dreams

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I walked the desert of the sun. Light was the sage, the Joshua, and the wild grass.

The Times

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Justice takes a cigarette break; the cemetery seems to grow overnight. One cigarette lights another.

Last Night On Oil Street

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Tomorrow the authority smashes. Tonight we march, splash, carve letters in wet paint from room to room until steel blades bend. The letters will tilt in shadows gliding over the walls to mask our tales born of fractured wrists and the ghosts, our keepers.

The Trapper Boy at Work, One Mile Underground

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The coal carts come and go like the seasons, never stopping.


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Some people can't stand prosperity, she says.