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Americana Art astrolabe astronomy baseball writing beauty belief biology books cartography cemeteries childhood Christmas chronology civility comfort communication confections corsets dance death digital art digital photography divinity Europe fairy tales family fashion fauna feminism festivities fucking funerals geneology geography gratitude happiness history holidays human behavior humanity iconography journalism Kentucky life literature local color love love poetry mindfulness mourning muse Music mythology non-fiction Ohio ornithology painting Paris photography poetic theory poetry pop culture publishing punk relationship studies relationships religion rituals romance seasons self-love sexuality shooting stars society sociology Southern Gothic technology thanatology The British Royal Crown theology tomes traditions travel writing Uncategorized Urban Legends

Y’all, we’re gettin’ hitched proper this time!

https://fb.me/e/3PnMpe9pV

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Abelard and Heloise activism Americana animals arts astrolabe astronomy baseball writing biology cartography cemeteries chronology comfort dance death destruction deviance domestic violence education epidemeology Europe fairy tales family feminism festivities forensics fucking funerals geneology girl stuff happiness history holidays Hunter S. Thompson iconography journalism local color love poetry medicine muse museums non-fiction Ohio ornithology pandemics performance poetic theory punk red hair in the morning, fucker grab a cab relationship studies religion religious studies reproductive rights rituals science seasons shooting stars society sociology Southern Gothic The British Royal Crown tomes travel writing Urban Legends war weddings womens studies writing

she kept her honor

so he took her like an animal

but my father’s ghost wept

so she went to the men

like a good American

good people don’t want to believe

in visionaries good or bad

especially when you have red clay mud

starved stabbed scabbed over and over

on your grandmother’s dress from being raped just like her

from ft. Sumter to Wounded Knee

he’d never seen that color red come out of a living fertility statue

my veil is torn

the dog is dead

the natives have resumed their drumbeat

Categories
Abelard and Heloise activism Americana animals Anne Boleyn astrolabe astronomy baseball writing battle beauty belief bibliophilia biology books botany California cartography cemeteries childhood Christmas chronology cinema civility coffee comedy comfort communication confections corsets crime criminal behavior dance death desserts destruction deviance digital art digital photography divinity domestic violence drawing ecology education electoral process English epicuriosity epidemeology Europe fairy tales family fashion fauna feminism festivities fiction film food forensics fucking funerals furniture geneology geography girl stuff good reads government government and a lack thereof gratitude Halloween happiness health Hell history holidays human behavior iconography Jazz journalism kindness kinetics Lent life literature local color love poetry medicine mindfulness mortuary sciences mourning muse museums Music mythology nature non-fiction Ohio ornithology painting pandemics papyrus parenthood parenting Paris performance photography physics poetic theory politics pop culture produce psychology public broadcasting publishing punk puppies reading red hair in the morning, fucker grab a cab relationship studies relationships religious studies reproductive rights rituals romance science science writing seasons self-care self-love sex sexism sexuality shitty shit shooting stars Short Stories slang society sociology sociopathology Southern Gothic Southern Living suicide technology thanatology the arts The British Royal Crown theatre theism theology tomes traditions travel writing Uncategorized Urban Legends vice war waste weddings women words writing

Poof* Take MY water

https://youtu.be/eg2Kw1jIXOw

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affectation Americana analysis biology cemeteries childhood death family funerals geneology parenting psychology rituals self-care Southern Gothic suicide

you can’t get there from here

happy Father’s Day, dad

you were

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activism art belief biology books civility desserts destruction deviance fucking government and a lack thereof human behavior humanity literature love Uncategorized

My poetry is being held for questioning…

My poetry is irreverent, prone to sentimentality, and prurient behavior.

My poetry hates your mother.

My poetry worships humanity.

My poetry stuck a finger in your wedding cake.

My poetry made a blonde girl cry in Starbucks.

My poetry wants to overthrow the government.

My poetry misses her father.

My poetry screwed your sister in the back of a Chevrolet.

My poetry can’t sing, but she can dance, baby.

My poetry took a shit in your designer handbag.

My poetry is piss shiver art.

My poetry laughs too loudly.

My poetry thinks god has run out of excuses.

My poetry weeps for the dying world.

But mostly,

My poetry hopes

you’re enjoying the ride.

Categories
art biology family fucking human behavior love muse museums nature poetry relationship studies sexuality writing

primitive

my desire becomes primitive

when i consider the way

loving him is more than emotion

it is biological

chemical

our own space on the periodic table

elemental

i want him

with the parts of me that desire

to nurse children

eat meat

wear fur

find warmth in firelight

especially when

i am beneath him

skin wet

my hands in his beard

watching the muscles ripple

from his shoulders

down his arms

certain

i could remain there

until the next ice age

Categories
biology poetry

the 100 years war

my left ovary is england

my right ovary is france

upon fields of menopause

the 100 years war

is waged

in my

pants

 

Categories
astronomy biology poetry

circumstance a circus

there are truths in the stars

i cannot tell him with words

circumstance a circus

inexplicable eventualities

why i become sick

when i travel away

why my eyes are amber secrets

he will learn

we exist in a theatre of fleeting hearts

lost moments wind swept

as sure as

this poem will drown in a pool of tears

a stone sunk to the bottom

of a forgotten day

Categories
biology

hand in glove

i hope you think of me

and call it art

when you masturbate

dirty man

Categories
addiction behavior biology destruction poetry psychology punk relationship studies Uncategorized Urban Legends

sarin

he was a nerve gas attack

on the japanese subway system

of my soul