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poetry

Always

Always. were we to ruminate on this word a bit we might see that it is bigger than forever-- without fail without reservation without condition without limit Always. without doubt without intent without vulnerability without start without end Always. if a word were a deity it would be Always ...
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poetry

dangling frays

I listened to some poets today, and the Mexican poet read a poem about prejudice against his people, and the black poet read a poem about oppression against his people, and one white poet read a poem about depression, and another hated most people, so he proclaimed, while one fellow ...
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poetry

one more day

look in the eyes or in those moments unguarded notice the subdued sighs no one knows how they might survive even one more day four more hours two more hours counting down to its end and tho we wonder how-- some way, we muddle through the moil until that day ...
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poetry

down in Sunburn, Carolina

down in Sunburn, Carolina I hadn’t seen him in years tho he wasn’t much changed his skin fitting a bit more loosely these days he’d a bit less hair, to shelter his thoughts still, caution stalked his words a memory of notions, become daggers we spoke of old times father ...
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poetry

flickering fluorescence

The black man in the straw hat held his beloved burgundy pride tucked and folded in his breast pocket. "Good morning." he said, passing by. "Good morning." I said, nodding in reply. "There's a man who believes in something." I told the boy. Leather heels clicked a dimming rhythm as ...
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poetry

Two AM Half-Moon

a two AM half-moon glared bright as full dusting the dulled obsidian with the crushed bones of the day's wither I’d been reading poetry-- all evening into the deep of night's squalor one poem, after another, and another many of the writers, greatly acclaimed “How can you do that for ...
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prose

Artist

It was in a prior life, before the bustling din, and the empty ring of tin, before the restless rustle of concession's sin. I’d been pure, or more so than after time's cowardly compromise; I’d been the limitless possibility told of in faith’s fable. I was a sculptor. Gypsy tramps, ...
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poetry

Ash and Bone

My thoughts, this day, betray me. Can it be-- that hope only endures for the duration of an embrace? Faith, the frightened child which it is, the sullen runaway, huddled, amidst the litter of abandon, shivers in cold loneliness. A half-smoked cigarette, found, like death’s treasure, dangles, quivering in wait ...
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prose

balls

The person in the mirror, made-up, polished, primped, and preened, is a fraud. That person doesn’t even exist. We are the mud beneath our fingernails, we are the grave from which we’ve crawled in defiance, we are what we have fought, clawing, to achieve. We are the blood on our ...
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prose

writer’s playground

This place, for writers, is a playground, its sharp edges removed. Though it's on the playground where we first learn if we've any fight in us at all, and secondarily, which of our spoken principles merit perilous or injurious defense. It's on the playground where our will is first measured ...
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