��john D. McMahon
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- john D. McMahon posted on 11/02/2006Portrait of an American It was a year or so after the war. Joe lay in his single bed awake. Though the sun just arose a few minutes before on a cold day in the Fall, he lay there trying not to think about anything at all. But it was useless. His mind wouldn’t stop. It kept replaying scenes from his life so far: particularly those times when he felt most like an outsider to the whole world. This morning, perhaps because of the cold crispness of the air, he was thinking about his time at the internment cam
- john D. McMahon posted on 11/02/2006
- john D. McMahon posted on 11/02/2006Foresaken by love she felt as always a beggar upon her knees now she could surrender under his deep kiss blythfully, the last full measure of her desire not to him who fed upon but to her wish for death and the exquisite blend of sharp decline falling into wet darkness stranded upon an island from which there is no escape
- john D. McMahon posted on 11/02/2006
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