Guide The Bound 2 Please Press Sampler: One: Lesbian, alien, BDSM and reluctant sex

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The hawks have not forgotten, nor have the ice and the soil forgotten the constant, dripping tailpipe of human craving. You refuse to share it so we order two. First you order wine and miraculously it comes to the table like a loyal prop pulled up from the cellar. In the absence of vernacular, a building has no charm, no ambience, no atmosphere. It is the ordinary geranium, the picture of the grandmother on the wall of the cafe, the dirty ashtrays, the salt and pepper shakers, sticky and ancient beside the olive oil and balsamic vinegar, which turns a house into a home, turns a space into a place.

I wish we could find a way to be as ordinary as a plastic covered sofa in a house that will always smell of garlic.

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I wish we could make something that will out-last our own breath, like a garden, or a child. You pour more wine. Her table is covered with paper—bills mostly, but also school pictures, tax records, things waiting to be filed. Old peonies wilt and brown, petals receding back to a small, tight bulb. And what of the bulb of her lamp? Is it like yours?

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Or is the dining room filled with sunlight on this first day of warmth in June? Can she hear dog-barks and neighbors through the open back door? Perhaps these will end up in her poems. Let her have endless supply of material for her poems, and yes, let her loved ones be healthy. Let her have time, and silence, though I can tell you poems can be written without silence, time, or loved ones. Her chair—let us imagine it, though I could tell you it is hard wood, and high- backed. She leans forward, furiously typing. On deadline, always on deadline. Carry on, write on anything you can, But if you want to be Emily Dickinson, Refuse yourself, reject the title of poet— She was not famous when she lived, But she was famous when she was alive.

Enduring averages yield under weight. A life-long abstinence says sorry, says sorry again. I will teach you anything but apologetics, chagrin. And all the crumpled garments lay loose-limbed on the floor. I am just a girl who says what she feels, who picks up indiscriminate after-objects on the beach, who still turns her head a touch too quickly if somebody calls her name.

He is a crowdsourced invention, a flesh-and-blood automaton who has all the sinews but lacks the moral ambiguity. He faces east at sinrise, west at sinset, and north at due midlight. His bird feeder rocks regularly in the wind, pushed by the squirrels of doubt and the singing of the silent dragons.