I play with your name as if given permissions to reinvent you...
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The master gardener, with scythe and sickle...
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a man died on his own bed...
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she tries on masks each evening, with a bottle of wine...
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When the earth's shadow's covers the moon, will you and I switch places...
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The color of stones you might have imagined...
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Exhibit A: "Poems in Praise of Practically Nothing," a first edition, with a three-inch hole I've drilled through its emptiness...
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A horsefly, flicked softly on the rump of a horse...
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They're everywhere. They form tumbleweeds in the hallway...
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Sometimes you look at the world, and you can't understand it for all you try...
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The pausing trumpet player inhales with all tension...
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Scripture said: we are from dust and should return to dust...
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When I finished reading Lewis Nordon's book, Wolf Whistle...
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the black-robed figures rise in memory...
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I'll leave the trail I know...
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Psychologist and anthroplogists have long been devising schemes for reading emotions and demeanors in facial expression...
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This morning I dreamed myself...
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She puts a mirror in front of the appealing landscape...
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I used to think my father lived in a drawer. Literally. Until I was fourteen years old...
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The tree is in the middle, but how they argued...
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I needed to know what they might fetch on the open market...
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Immersed in a dark ding attic...
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