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		<title>misha | WritersCafe.org</title>
		<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/meanmrmustardd</link>
		<description>The original writings of author misha</description>
		<language>en-us</language>
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		<ttl>15</ttl>
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			<title>Sunday School</title>
			<description>I never went to Sunday school;my weekdays are self-taught.&amp;nbsp;I often thinkof Wednesdaysthe way they used to be:&amp;nbsp;Kindergarten library trips,the smell of hand&amp;nbsp;sanitizer and juice-stained paper,scented chapstickand stickers pulled&amp;nbsp;off too quick,showing their whit..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meanmrmustardd/3122812/</link>
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			<title>Best Man (If I May Say a Few Words)</title>
			<description>Is this thing on?I hate it here and I'd be better off dead!Now that I've got the theatricsout of the way,can you tell me what a body does?&amp;nbsp;Isn't it swell how people like to talk?&amp;nbsp;Me, I like to count my blessings:sounds and air, for two.&amp;nbsp;In a mock murder trial,I'd lik..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meanmrmustardd/3122811/</link>
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			<title>Roots</title>
			<description>A good story never has a moral.That is why&amp;nbsp;this is not a good story.&amp;nbsp;Junior year of high school,I rescued strangers' abandoned&amp;nbsp;plants grown overthe course of a monthin biology class.I buried their roots in my gardenand thought of etymologyand thought of what to write..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meanmrmustardd/3122810/</link>
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			<title>Eromenos</title>
			<description>Get this: I talk like an idiot because I am one.I'm punch drunk and regular drunk and red in the faceand I wish you'd drive me home.&quot;When I was growing up they would have killed you,&quot;&amp;nbsp;That's what he, my dad, what my dad saidwhen he said what he said to mefirst thing, right after.&amp;nb..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meanmrmustardd/3122716/</link>
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			<title>Father Saturn</title>
			<description>Kronos bloodied his teeth&amp;nbsp;with soft fruitof his sister's womb:in his honor we name time.I don't care to moralize.Goya saw a desperate animalblurred in oilsgnawing the armof a headless ochre infant.A son of prophecy&amp;nbsp;is stripped of choice,hungry and naked.The anim..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meanmrmustardd/3122715/</link>
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			<title>The Capital</title>
			<description>yesterday I drewmyself in segments like an orange. today i'll be feathered if you don't mind bringingthe tar. vulture-circling, missing awheel, I've got nowhere to be if youdon't mind sticking around. if i knewwhat I wanted, would you tell me? i'dbe selfish to say itout..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/meanmrmustardd/3122714/</link>
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