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Party
My friend Larry Poodle gets out of jail so we throw a “Poodle Broke out of Jail Party.” Just another party at the dump—our duplex-- joined by the tank of oil that warms us in January. A few kegs and blenders, and late into the evening bodies fall asleep against anything that doesn’t move. Too shy to look at anyone, I hardly speak. Someone’s hand is grasping my foot the way twins are born. All the nightmares lay beside all the dreams. Larry shuffles from ash tray to ash tray, emptying smaller ones into larger ones. He has a thing about fire. It’s a new thing. He never empties an ash tray directly into the trash can. He is otherwise very smooth, with chuckling eyes, and known for having the best Quaaludes in Tidewater. About life, Larry and I have nothing to say. It’s the quiet hour that makes me so anxious. Read the poetry of Barrett Warner Read a profile of Barrett Warner _________________________________
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Morning Encounter ☊ All doors are locked right now. Nobody’s home on the street where every house stands neatly in place, with flowers and a wind chime hanging by the door. Although the mats say Welcome, no one is here for hospitality. The sun streams into unoccupied living rooms whose only sound is of time ticking its way across a carpet. It’s a fine day to be walking without a destination, just to feel each step as it falls and looking up at the mountain baked into the atmosphere; to be a sentence beyond interpretation in a book of desert hours while a lawn sprinkler whispers to dry heat, when a coyote melts out of the light and flows across the sidewalk after picking up a scent that runs from his nose through each of his bones to the last hair on his tail. |
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