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My Swamp Time

MY SWAMP TIME I was barely surviving in Louisiana, unpleasantly and unsuited, a land as shifty, unstable, as a drunken father, where no frog, no gator, ever took a vow of silence on a long hot night, where I couldn’t step outside my door without some critter gnawing on my flesh, and all in the

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A Descriptive Linguistics of Isolation

A Descriptive Linguistics of Isolation Verbs of motion will be the first to go—well, not go which has long gone the way of disappearing into idiom. No, we will lose the careful ones: disembark, sojourn, trek, take leave. Perhaps, even, arrive. There will come a day when we will believe all movement is rooted into

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Crossing Acheron

though he had known every quantity of life: its short repose, its indefinite strike; though he had knowledge of the indifferent span of evening and daylight and the repetitious metaphysic of sound and fury; though life had been every superstitious quality of sensate being, he, with indifference, collected the manifold days into folded gestures and

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Heart’s Homes

Three sounds I love, stepping out my door: The patter of oncoming rain The splash of a refilled creek The hushed howl of sweeping winds. Perhaps I should have made my place Somewhere near the Pacific And all its rugged glory; But I’d miss the downy waves of green. The tall eucalyptus and pines Rustle

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Anywhere But Here

Exodus bound Senegambia down rivers of dignity leaking From Fouta Djallon out of Banjul’s mouth sailing listing creaking Culture history music art left in the scupper’s wash Bodies delivered with flaming heart all history the cost Commerce of thralls conscripted fed on diets of fear Future beyond unscripted and anywhere but here

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Writing the Road to Hana

Writing the Road to Hana It’s open season for wild boar, the driver says, pointing out the truck half-hidden in underbrush. No one’s in sight but he assures its rusty bed will drip with blood before mid-morning sun. For hours I’ve photographed ocean-pounded cliffs, forests of bamboo, twin waterfalls; jotted down impressions of impressions I

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African Insomina

“African Insomnia” by Mark Blickley I’m tired and I hate the daylight. This strange sun reflecting off the white djellabas irritates me. It lights up a city of men tugging at their genitals, smiling toothless smiles. It shows dogs and children, bones pressing against skin, begging for relief. The sun releases the warm smell of

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Why Not?

“Do you wanna go?”, Yevgeny enthusiastically asked. He didn’t have to specify where and she didn’t need to ask. He had asked her many times before. “Not now”, Yael responded in one of her various ways that wasn’t quite a yes, yet preserved hope by never being a definitive no. This wasn’t a technique of

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Moonlight With Tom Thomson

Moonlight With Tom Thomson Tom Thomson winked as Marla tucked a daisy into the open paint-box on his lap. She did a double-take and stepped back. There was a discordant crash behind them, and Marla flinched and looked over her shoulder. Her family was banging on the rainbow-painted piano in the middle of the patio

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I Love a City That Will Never Love Me Back

I Love a City That Will Never Love Me Back The desert stopped crying long ago. She placed her tears in a prickly pear and gave me a champagne mirage where palm trees forget to grow. Where sweat drenches daylight and neon sucks the soul from night. Where drunken marriages flow as freely as fingers

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