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It all started with the curse of my tits. Women’s bodies are cursed. Everyone tries to look at them, everyone tries to ignore them.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
what ur female protagonist needs is for some guy to beat the shit out of her…
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
No matter how you try to ignore it, you look like him. You look like your father.
This series is a response to a health diagnosis, trigeminal neuralgia and thoracic outlet syndrome, from a major mid-Atlantic hospital after a several year journey through chronic pain.
I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
On the first day of our new life together, my husband realized that I was not interested in theoretical debate. He said it was okay by him and went out to get some pancake mix.
With great reluctance, I agree to meet a cousin for an outside lunch…
I feel somewhat bad about using the death of my father as an excuse to prolong my trip.
My dad was an inveterate theatergoer in the old country where theatre reigned supreme before the Soviets, under the Soviets, after the Soviets.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome
We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.
Sitting at the bar on Pacific Avenue. With the seashells in the walls. Same bartender from last year, still here, making the same lethal Mai Tais.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
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