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“GROWING SWIRLING CLOUDS” By Thea Boodhoo
“Mark died yesterday, Margery.” My tone was patient, sad but not distraught. The time for distraught was past, I thought. “Coral, don’t joke about those things. He was right here a few minutes ago.” I found a serious expression in my database and displayed it for her. “It’s not a joke, Margery. He left us…
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Manifestos: A Prose Poem by Wes Bishop
“Who runs the world?” I ask because I have complaints. The little man tells me the box for such things is down the hall. I stumble, clutching my manifestos. If only the masses would read these typed blueprints for utopia then the world would work, because I am a mechanic for reality! I get to…