makeshift

makeshift

What holds grief? What furrow deep inside, what red canal, hoards the debris, the leavings, the cut-away parts of my original form? Is there enough left? Can my true form be recovered?
Once upon a time I was a boy, not especially happy, destined for ordinary incompleteness, and the daubed, crudely-molded, and spruced character with which we makeshift, once conflagrations are doused and youth's megrims give way.
Three boys took my cocked hat, my hope for a natural death, my healthy color in good company. They corrupted me. They made me think they knew me, better than anyone, before or since.  They removed the boy I was and crawled in, to fester in the raw empty, and became ghouls in my oily corners, squatting on crumbled concrete. Thieves. Monsters.

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a rustling arc of red

a rustling arc of red

We are birds in the canopy. We hear each other sing, we squabble, we pine for each other, and fly from place to place.

Carouse the high room of love, work the day for worms. Regular as dirt. We finish under the canopy, unnamed, indistinguishable from brown stems and dead branches. And gone, all gone.

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compressidue

compressidue

One urgent press of my crumbly stick —a drag, a mark on pulpwood fiber— and your bleached, watermark'd world is marred by my desire.

The making of my line saturates, and I Brando. I taste minerals. I maraca. I floor it.

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prow ribs

prow ribs

Tight against my belly. I fold my hand over prow ribs.

Emme turns. Her arms stretch up. I let go to write again.

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PSA for MovDis

PSA for MovDis

A Public Service Announcement for people who like people with movement disorders.

—We become more symptomatic as the day/evening wears on, or with stress, or heat, or just 'cause. We're not getting "worse" or "better" "these days."

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reconciled after 32 years

reconciled after 32 years

Everything goes. Even him. Even her. Even-stephen. Bye, you! Best goodbye!

mmm...I calm down. We will pretend this moment is forever, you and I, or I will...

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zero in

zero in

I begin each day as a negative number. I zero in.

One is a win. One is whole. One is real.

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rough Lunts like us

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fine art prints
writing by Greg Correll