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Poetry
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Suburban Dream
Suburbia is a nap. Not an early evening nap that fades to night and eases into…
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Window Thoughts
Mom stopped smiling last week. I don’t ask why, the tea kettle blows steam. Music…
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In Memory Of
It’s that moment of teetering before ground meets head, shards fly, an internal air raid,…
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Afternoon on a Lake
We wrote poems in cigarette smoke, or sex as it ran down the side of a…
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Once, I Was Asked Why I Stayed (#1)
The necklace around my neck hands or curse words slipping across a Pine-Sol floor I…
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Childhood, Fragments
My first memory was my dog dragging a dead rat into my bedroom. Mom walked in…
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As a Child, Words Hurt Worse Than Being Hit
I could still walk into that house and smell leather, the sweet odor cracked into…
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A Sunday Drive Through Kansas
The road was a flat sheet, a Nascar announcer’s voice between waves of static. Corn,…
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Despite the Purchase of Venetian Blinds, the Oil Painting Faded
Curtains tap against the wall like grass, or taking a nap at noon. A fly lingers…
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Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats
Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats On Friday nights she puts on Ariats, clouds…