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This I Call Home
Terrace Storms are inconsequential. A terrace always reverts, loyal subject, to the sun. Hallway A tunnel of betweenness. Here anything can bed anything. Back Fence I only wish it were higher. Don’t watch me. Front Porch Goddamn Astroturf, who’s it trying to fool? The one lone step, a mendicant slab— ungenerous to a fault, fatal…
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Today’s Visibility
I don’t know what I was thinking taking us to the Museum of Surgery but we left very glad of anesthetic and the sky entirely uncut-open. Later, it was nearly impossible to see the haystacks because it turned out we were in the Museum of Museum Guards. One woman was eight feet tall, her head…
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Novel Excerpt
From Book of the Cranberry Islands, Chapter 14, The Burial of The Jellyfish; Return of Champlain to the Outer Waters, Section 1 The moon cracks the glass, rising in pure altimeter like a ghost. A ghost rises, its phosphor is the moon. In the center of myself: a stream, travelling neither toward nor away from…
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The Unbosoming
I have been a day boarder, Lord. I have preferred the table to the Bed. I have proffered, Lord, and I have profited, Lord, but little, but not. I was Bored, Lord, I was heavy, Lord. Heavy bored. Hopeless, Lord, hideous, Lord. Sexless. I was in love, Lord, but not with You….
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About Sherman Alexie: A Profile
Sherman Alexie, a Spokane/Coeur d’Alene Indian, grew up on a reservation surrounded by poverty, alcoholism, and disease, and, against the odds, emerged to become a scintillating, multifaceted author, voted by both The New Yorker and Granta as one of the best American writers under forty. In less than nine years, he has produced three novels,…
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