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FLUFFY (poem)

Fluffy was 11.

That was all we knew as

we stared at the photo of the

non-fluffy dog, a bull-thing on the

wall at the vet. Fluffy’s smile was

as big as Lake Huron, with a mouth that

could vacuum up Detroit.

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There’s still hope for a Tucson truck driver’s ‘widow’

truck

Never mind the thought of your beau rambling in a big rig through a tornado zone or the fear that truck-stop hookers, known as “lot lizards, ” will be swarming around him like maggots. The worst part about being a truck driver’s so-called widow is having Willie Nelson constantly run through your head.

“On the road again ….”

This trucker gig is a new thing for my beau since his old career hit a roadblock. Like funeral directors and garbage collectors, truckers will always be in demand. Stats show the demand for commercial truckers is up 20 percent, with more than 230,000 trucking jobs listed in the first three months of 2013 alone.

People want stuff fresh. They want stuff now. And they want stuff that has to be hauled from Oklahoma City to Jersey City or Salt Lake City to Kalamazoo.

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Tucsonan discovers how a severed arm can haunt you (even when it’s not your arm)

freaky cat 2Being young, drunk and stupid can come with lifelong consequences. And those consequences can come even if you weren’t drunk. Just ask a Tucson guy we’ll call Sam.

Twenty-something Sam was an upstanding person: a former soldier, an intelligent and compassionate chap who was aiming for grand things.

“I wanted to be a lawyer to help people, ” he writes in an email. Sam instead found himself on the other side of the law as a defendant in a crime that got plenty of press due to its grisly nature.

The crime involved a severed arm.

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How I Deal with Death (a poem)

I fear it.

I embrace it.

 

I let it keep me up at night.

I poke at it with a stick.

 

I get skeeved when I have to

touch it and pull out an

old pair of pajamas to

wrap up my rat

and bury

him.

 

I abhor it.

I adore it. I really

don’t adore it I just

liked the way it

rhymed.

 

I hang doll

heads from my

ceiling fan a

shrunken skull from

my rearview

window.

 

I want it to go away.

I make it come

for bugs.

 

I let it sit there on

the porch I

shoo it with

a swatter.

 

I try to tell myself it is

the ultimate spiritual

experience and there’s no

way to get out of it yet I

 

still

 

freak out to think

I may one day

not be me. I

 

draw

cute little

skeletons

on tricycles.

 

Ryn Gargulinski, 05.01.13

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