benjamin rush miller
10,...9,...wait.
...a designated paranormal landing.
sulking to a greater distant hips up to her chin she's in she's not the same she's not in the same person lost all perspective simmering over an unfoiling iodine draining coffin.
soldiers out back in sheep's clothing asking for a second politely ignorant attaching.
I just plain paper thin slow down word.
first which does it really matter not one more minute scatters an obvious I'll skip, the aching for your mother read well.
where was I was dreaming cloaked tenuous hovering wait I'm getting something in there it is again no not yet there it's coming in oh it has unsoundless mind awake now or think.
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by Paul A. Toth
The bride has three brothers. I hope they kill me.
I'm still in church, sweat boiling over, burbling, draining down my neck until I might as well have worn a muscle shirt.
Look now, look...and never see her again. Older -- both of us, of course. If together still, we would share arguments drained of suspense, like the final battles of a war. But one must finish a war even if the climax has passed.
They kiss.
Ding-dong, like the Pope just got married.
I walk
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My car had been lost. It seemed that my car was always lost. I could remember thousands of cars I had owned, all lost. In some inexplicable way like now where did I park my car? lost more cars than I could remember. But that day was a special day.
I rang up The Lost Car Agency. They assured me that at least one of my vehicles would be plucked from the madness of parking space hell before the end of the month. The man was understanding at least to the extent at which he found the time to assist me in my endeavor at $56 an hour. We traveled by helicopter, at his suggestion, hovering over countless lots both day and night. Sometimes the same ones. Hunted down, classified and took note of all parking facilities both full and empty. Rain or shine.
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Post World War IX
As a musician with little subject-matter to work with due to an unfortunate condition called chronic boredom I often conferred with the hipsters of post World War IX to see what creative motives I could extract and call my own. From time to time, I wondered (or at least took the time to) about what I was doing in this new commerce of modern thought. Legitimate discussions (swiping ideas) over theoretical neo-harmonic theories at times (like this) made me dizzy with the pang of dis-inspiration, but what else was there? Money no longer held value and the Arts were now considered to be the only thing left to do.
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On my bed I wrote busily; a bass clef here, a treble there, a sixteenth note passage - dotted quarter there yes "That's good that's just where I want it."
I paused long enough to skate my left hand over the fretboard, mimicking what I had realized on paper. Though for now not particularly colorful, here were ideas, seeds for which I could get it to grow roots...wings...roots..."A root flat five major seventh with a suspended eleventh on top that's it that's perfect," again the mimicking, my skimming fingertips over frets and into position "Yes a four and a half beat pause and back to three eight meter good."
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