Join us in New Orleans September 23!

Next up at Unlikely Books:
~getting away with everything by Vincent A. Cellucci & Christopher Shipman! Check out the cover drop!

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But something about the way that cigarette hit, the way the Shiraz tasted, the rainfall outside on the Sitka spruces, and she could see it all again – the weave of her hoodie, the silhouette of a tiger disappearing into the first snows of late November.

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Our silence bangs against the heater.
He draws the blinds partly closed,
says he longs to bring Jerusalem here,
heart of his, held captive when
they banished him, forbade return.

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grossly negligent armies
                        swept through the brain/cellophane
            like shallow individualism
            of fashion

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but a good foamy piss ascends lung bursting mucus, but a small roll of snot ascends earwax, and so mucus is caught between not forefinger and thumb but piss and earwax and the more you produce the better for all manifest life.

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Make a fresco of our blood,
an ocean of our tears,
make mountains of our bones,
and bogs of our bowels,
but who will know death in art,

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We are flooded
to our necks. Like fishing bobbers
we are floating on our backs down what,
before the storm, was Maple Street.

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This tense dream
the passengers on the rubber raft,
a few still afloat,
if they are lucky,
hold to tight, even while sinking
a hundred meters from shore.

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Memories fade, even of those dearest to us.  That’s how it should be, probably.  Mom passed down her boxes of memorabilia, but I wonder if they are worth saving for future generations.  Do we need more than a handful of posed snapshots, outlines, caricatures, and legends?

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together we'll hit historic route 66
to las vegas
like hunter thompson &
oscar acosta 
we'll look for the american dream 
in a taco

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The time is noon
The world in flames
We talk
You listen
But tears cannot bring us together

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In my childhood there were fathers to fear and nuclear war. Radiation. This was before children were given Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, so no wonder we felt hopeless in spite of the cans my grandparents kept in the basement.

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I can muse on inequity and stereotypes
safe in the comfort of my paycheck
and business attire.
I can waltz by the cops in and around
the train station, wary but unafraid for my life.

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