I. Under the pebbled moon, it hurt. The way their teeth clink together, crystal glasses toasting to long life and love. With the stars posing and moon spying, they glow blue, phosphorescent blue that leaks into shades of blue-black and—finally—black. Their friend
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Beneath the ocean is land that no one owns, that is too deep for light currents are breezes and no lighthouse reaches out its arms to the lost. under pressure, spineless creatures have learned to make their own light in the darkness.
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In his coffin, Roy looks a lot like his dad, who had eyes that carefully observed things as they passed him by. His mom also had them, and an unusual affinity for living creatures. Roy told me when she died her parakeet
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Two hours into the drive we stopped to take a piss. Our white headlamps and yellow hazards were the only light out there, in all that darkness. It was another sixty-two miles to the hospital in Brownwood that called with the news
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The stream cut through wooded hillside it went down past shades and dancing oak, the willow with tired arms and the skewer trunks of the pines. The land here was old and the mountains were slow to rise, like wifeless men every
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You sign me out, and take me to the Gate Cafe I’ve forgotten how to eat like a human being The other diners watch me With leashed Dobermans Ready to take my throat When you go to the bathroom I am terrified
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It happened last year. Every pane exited its sash, floated up outside the house, and hovered in the air. About thirty yards up—far, but close enough not to be thought runaways. Each rotated in location above the window sash it came from.
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When I was a child, and the rift of my parents was a black gulping void bridged only by the objects they hurled I crept from the trenches of my room, carrying a boombox sparkled with rainbow unicorn stickers, glittering hearts, and
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Your mouth is a sponge, un-wrung. Count to six for me, swallow, tell the museum story over again. I prefer the part about the tar pits to the bit about the fowl, but continue. What had two heads? Are you sure there
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The only permanent thing in my life, he said. Crawling across my lover’s left shoulder blade, a scorpion lingers, mysterious as the love lines in my palm, waiting patiently, perhaps for its mate. Now, every time my fingers brush across smooth, indelible
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