By conservative estimates, there are currently enough wrongfully convicted people in prison in the United States to fill a football stadium.
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He lives in a house in a cornfield. The highway passes nearby. The highway wants the cornfield and the cornfield wants the house. The pornographer wants to write poems. He sits at his typewriter typing. The girl with fair skin, her hairy faced lover, come in from the wind and kiss at the door. Women stuff threats in envelopes. The pornographer needs to come quickly to the point. A madman drives a backhoe down the highway. Their clothes are off, strewn through the river facing rooms. They lie down together, kiss and search, slide head to toe, find the middle. The pornographer knows he’s not much at making it better than real, but keeps on typing she grows frantic when he comes. The backhoe raises its shovel. The driver sights in on the room. The typewriter turns the lovers face to face. Tongues turn. The boy rejoices. Engine guns. He looks down at her small nippled breasts, looks up out the window, far across the river. Blue lights flail the darkness. The pornographer floats on the water; back to her legs, his hips. The engine chokes, starts again. The pornographer’s agent wants something better. He made her crazy with thrust after thrust. The wall blows open. She kissed him with fire. The backhoe eats meat says want meat. The envelopes fly. The pornographer thinks about the mailbox. Cool breezes lift his curtain. The boy and girl shudder. Thunder cross the cornfield meets thunder in the typing, and the backhoe’s slow, metallic dance.
David C. Childers