Tag Archives: Matthew Dexter

The Messy Kitchen

There was a line of ants on the stove, climbing over rubble of scrambled egg, and she smelled like a woman who had not taken a shower yet. It was almost noon. She woke me for the goddamn tortillas, aluminum … Continue reading

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Employee of the Month

The arthritic bagger does not let the interminable smell of plastic foil his dreams. When he leaves the grocery store he drives to the far end of town and climbs the water tower, sucks nitrous from a balloon at the … Continue reading

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Jackson Pollock Moment

“There’s something you need to know before they lock me up,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed drinking coffee, brushing kitten fur from the Egyptian cotton, “I’m going to poison that dog.” “Go ahead.” “And my hair’s … Continue reading

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Before the Storm

broken ambers climb fallen walls of ivy where butterflies reside in winter tadpoles shiver in fluorescent ink madness mixes tonic with phosphorescent beacons sleeping with demons in a sea of urchins orchids fall from the moon beneath vast corral shelves … Continue reading

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Sun Shine on Our Noses

Approaching demented shadows dancing against perpendicular dunes, driving closer to the ocean we can smell the Atlantic rising from the golden morning currents like an ethereal serpent and the tides have begun to change. “It’s getting rough Dude.” He sits … Continue reading

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Cold German Beer and a Warm Fire

It’s Tom’s fortieth birthday. The girls bring him breakfast in bed: toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee. Singing, Eleanor dances down to the kitchen and microwaves a chocolate muffin with one candle. He blows out the candle, hugs the twins, … Continue reading

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