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At another time, we'd be so impressed by a machine taking a man's job that even the man would shake his head and say, "Well, goddamn. Only in America."

What I do isn't poetry. It's engineering. But the receptionists and dispatchers that I replaced with a $12 pe(more)
Why the hostess, blonde and 20 years too young, waited until the guests were here to polish the banister with artisan bee pollen is maybe the biggest mystery of the night.

"Miracle stuff from a little apiary near our place by the lake," she says. "He's a wonderfu(more)
Fortunately, the only thing she found was the porn.

There were way worse things on there, diagrams of 3D-printed guns, parcel bomb schematics, a couple lists of names I'd typed up when my temper ran a little too hot. When she stumbled into the folder-inside-a-folder-inside-a-folder and popped open(more)
Pollen probably killed my father, a decade before the drink. More than the mess he left, the fist holes in the drywall and the scars on everything else, I remember his breathing, rattling like a spray paint can, hissing like a cobra.
Ah, a fresh day. Birds in the sky, dogs in the grass, bugs in my closet.

This closet needs cleaned. People like me have clean closets. Neat, professional, punctional people. Punctional? On time, whatever the word is. That's what I am. That's what we are.

Too many(more)
I'm convinced there's a good joke somewhere in the fact that God gives us diseases we can't pronounce, but I've never been able to work it out.

I didn't know I had lymph nodes until they decided to start killing me. Apparently we all have these tubes o(more)
Mom always said the oven was dirty, and that's why she cleaned it so often.  

I remember, when I was little, watching cookies rise through the Bakelite window in the oven with my dad. That was before we got a television, but it was kind of the sam(more)
"Do you still like these?"

A box of crackers dangled between her index finger and thumb.

"No," I said. "I'm off carbs. I told you that." (more)
We're somewhere in Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 4, but all I can think about is how I would fuck the brakes off of her.

When she started out with us, I realized just how much faith I can put in muscle memory. Right now, I have no idea which(more)
The last few beats of a relationship usually play out the same way. After the breaking point, a fight or secret sex or just the miscible mix of boredom and unhappiness pouring over, the spring recoils: the silent tension, the distrust, the feigned reconciliation, the make-up sex. The big(more)
"They said you get used to it."  

I doubted I would. Too hard, too clumsy, varnished and cool, too close to what it should be, uncanny. As he wrapped this... thing around me, left it on the small of my back, I could feel the dissociation he must(more)
When he really rolled on the throttle, it sounded like coins rattling in a tin can. Pre-ignition, timing's all fucked up. Bikes like his aren't meant to tip-toe around, but even still, a couple minutes with the wrench and it'd sound a whole lot prettier.
She did the little things right. A hot iron kept the promise that her hair would stay tucked toward her jawline all day. Make-up was tasteful, present but not the main attraction, showed enough effort to be noticeable but not desperate. Cheeks were taut but not hollow, brushed with(more)
It doesn't matter how deep or profound the phrase.
Words have hard edges that get smoother with use.
The corners get round and the bite they once had
Gets replaced by soft stones on soft flesh.
So we go further, harder, leaner with our words.
Whittle out the bone,(more)
Tick, tick, tick...

The sweat dripped off his forehead and plopped onto the project he so focused on. In the office, away from the field, he complained about how movies made it look easy. But it was moments like this, 110 degrees, dehydration making his joints grind and(more)