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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 affectation Americana Anne Boleyn Art astrolabe astronomy atheism baseball writing battle beauty belief books California cartography cemeteries childhood Christmas chronology cinema civility coffee comedy comfort communication confections crime criminal behavior dance death desserts destruction deviance digital art digital photography divinity domestic violence ecology education electoral process English epicuriosity epidemeology Europe fairy tales feminism festivities film forensics fucking funerals furniture geneology geography girl stuff good reads government government and a lack thereof gratitude happiness health Hell history holidays horror human behavior humanity humor Hunter S. Thompson iconography infidelity insects Jazz journalism Kentucky kindness kinetics Lent life literature local color love love poetry mindfulness mortuary sciences mourning muse mythology nature nightmares non-fiction ornithology pandemics papyrus parenting Paris performance photography physics poetic theory poetry politics pop culture produce psychology public broadcasting publishing punk puppies reading red hair in the morning, fucker grab a cab relationship studies relationships religion religious studies reproductive rights rituals romance science science writing self-care self-love sex sexism sexuality shitty shit shooting stars Short Stories slang society sociology 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 womens studies words writing

Ha!! Me, too…

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=pfbid0z6wE5HbvqNR3e95MtKuSoizDLWB4WQy8ZjS2t8TEJqVyeZJLzaZutYfqzP29mKP5l&id=100086436902392

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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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activism addiction affectation Americana analysis astronomy belief cartography cemeteries Christmas chronology cinema civility coffee comedy comfort communication confections corsets crime criminal behavior dance death desserts destruction deviance digital art

no demons may cross my cumberland gap

you can’t get from her desert south west to kentucky

the archway of plenary indulgence is not her path

demons choked on fear and comeuppance lose their way

oh ye of little faith

was there ever any doubt

Jesus was from Elyria

that Ostara was from Kentucky

and that Lazarus was from Newark, NJ

but he got stuck in traffic for 10 years

on the high roads of rt. 80

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Americana analysis behavior belief cartography civility comfort confections destruction education epicuriosity epidemeology food geography government and a lack thereof human behavior humanity kindness literature local color mindfulness non-fiction punk puppies reading society sociology sociopathology The British Royal Crown

thank you for maple syrup

Do you think

Canadians feel like

they occupy

the spacious attic

of hell?

Categories
Americana art beauty Christmas chronology comfort confections Southern Gothic Uncategorized

on the perpetually wet streets of Clifton

10 pm
fresh out of sin
headed for a sip
in a bergamot tearoom
I became distracted
my January boots
compelled
to follow memories
through puddles of patchouli oil
stalls peddling shiny baubles
half finished dissertations
and bohemian postulation
stopping abruptly
at Biagio’s Bistro
fine Italian cuisine
featuring a gourmet dessert cart
a self service bar for the regulars
despite having
no customers &
a candlelit patina
covering
a thousand nights
spent ruining tablecloths
lovingly destroying
illusions
your every word brilliant
eyes alight
that saccharine fucking
Andrea Bocelli CD playing
on maddening repeat
my laughter too loud
for the intimate room
we were certainly doomed
our conversations
were always the wildest sex
i smiled remembering
into the fezziwig glow
of the old window
warmed by the fact
they still haven’t dusted
when
my ears perked alive
as suddenly crept
haunted sounds of
a minstrel show
a hand
strumming a guitar
your voice
in half notes
amidst sodium lamp motes
drawing me toward
that ancient apartment building
where you
serenaded me
I began to
swiftly seek
certain
I would find you
if only the source of the sound
was located
before the melody ended
rounding the corner
I found myself all alone
with weary dumpsters & brownstones
breathing clouds of longing
hair damp
with the scent
of dead pine wreaths
& recollection
because
truth be told
i miss my friend
so true without you
there will never again be
music for me
on the perpetually wet streets
of Clifton

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baseball writing belief bibliophilia books cemeteries Christmas civility confections corsets crime criminal behavior dance destruction deviance divinity fairy tales film food fucking funerals Hell history holidays horror human behavior humor iconography poetry pop culture punk reading

shock jock

there are times

i feel like the only person alive

who feels that

one Bukowski

was enough

Categories
Americana art comfort confections desserts epicuriosity fairy tales poetry Uncategorized

nom noms

men are

comfort

food

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Americana art beauty comfort confections festivities happiness humanity poetry Uncategorized

to be a poet this day

i suppose

i’m too happy

to be a poet this day

happy people tend to write

bloody awful poetry

however

i’m not drunk

i’m not high

i don’t need a spike

i like working in the city

i’m not heartbroken nor homeless

i’m not lonesome

i’m not horny

i’m not at war with god

politics

my childhood

or a neighboring country

i’m not married or divorcing

i rather love my imperfect children

this is a poem for my fellow writers

heavy bleeders of ink

succumbers to whim

dancers of vehemence and fury

freedom fighters of the fantastic

who dream in crusades

look how beautiful you are when you smile

you smell of lavender

newsprint and vanilla icing

all this

and i get to say

tomorrow is my birthday

Categories
confections Europe poetry politics

rations

how fitting

the etymology of the word

rations

the 18th century French

derived from the Latin

ratio

as there has never been enough

of you

or France

to go around