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L’Auteur Fatslug   Fatslug wonders how people dreamed or daydreamed before the movies infiltrated their thoughts. He himself has become his own Steven Spielberg— or, depending on...
I hate you with the sharpness of the edges of a Viking's teeth I hate you from every part of my body - from...
In the photo of the kitchen fire, We are dressed for Christmas: Me in a flammable hand-me-down jacket, Her in her costume jewelry And her Edward Scissorhands...
My father, tangled in the height of adolescence, wept outside Old Saint Paul’s Church as spring died, reading Desiderata. The poem lay inscribed in rock at...
Through the harsh whistle of a bullying Blue Jay from the feeder, the Common Yellowthroat’s wichity-wichity-wichity, we find our own through bill and tap and rhythmic drumming on...