Stories tagged prose-poetry

Throw

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She was a dead bird the morning I found her, wings clipped in dirt and blood vanished into tiny braille maps on concrete.

We Continue to Evolve

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Since the drought, turkey vultures have begun riding afternoon thermals into town, gliding in on their enormous wings...

three more war micros

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So many names.

The Spanking Experiment

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Each scream round a gloved hand pierces jigsaw text for skirt. Not the woman with a giant spatula. Not the ghost-man in vase. Fairy whore on rope swing How to Hang Yourself From a Tree.

Hexagon

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an ominous figure of fear and grace a ball moves back and forth

Unbody

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You are falling asleep and shutting and giving and you will trick yourself into thinking you're real.

Indoor Scene

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He and I made an indoor scene, a still diorama of age and hair white as stilettos of snow.

His Kind of Woman

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Drunk driving the Beemer out to the track with her nestled beside him, feeling lucky, Mahler on the Blaupunkt...

War All The Time

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Left Bank, 1922:The boys never had itso good;Drinking fancy aperitifs:Pernod, Lillet, Dubbonet,all kinds of “net”s. Blue skies, clear days,white, fluffy clouds onlazy afternoons on the Boulevard St. Germain.Now:Iced tea, green ginsengmaitake mushrooms to thwart…

Listening to Neil Young on a Grey Day and Understanding Clearly What My Grandfather Told Me Long Ago

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I'm a lot wiser now but so what?

What the Future Holds Can Never Be Known

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A cold night in Vermont. I pick up the phone, hear her say my name, and I’m back in a Las Cruces cantina almost a decade ago.

Embroidery

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At last you slip out when the rooms spit my name, a plumb of leaves, a dream city beyond fit.

Listening to Neil Young on a Gray Day and Understanding Clearly What My Grandfather Told Me Long Ago

11301130 views1717 comments1515 favs

I'm a lot wiser now but so what?

What the Future Holds Can Never Be Known

167167 views88 comments77 favs

A cold night in Vermont. I pick up the phone, hear her say my name...

Pastoral Hide & Seek

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The sea dies where a cello torques on sand, leaving me without its compass. An old clock sings.