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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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Christmas comfort dance digital photography divinity fairy tales festivities happiness love love poetry medicine mindfulness mourning muse museums Music mythology nature papyrus

01/01/11 NYC Holidays with Family

Photo by MPP
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local color love poetry mourning muse

will you still love me tomorrow

he loved me completely

he had the sweetest, big dumb bear grin

honey dripping even

when he looked at me

he smiled the length of the eastern seaboard

crooked loving sunshine in smiles over 5 o’clock stubble

whilst buying me tiny lobsters made of chocolate

took 1,001 pictures of me drinking coffee, eating lemon Italian ice

marveling at hermit crabs wearing ornately bejeweled shells

navigating social media oceans and long distance romances

from Neptune City to New York Harbor

we nearly sank together

we never truly said goodbye

we never stopped wanting

we never stopped feeling

but he never trusted himself

he never trusted me

though he had many names for me

baby gurl

angel kitten

alicia honey

sweetie poof,

and sometimes simply,

mine

he lied

and then abandoned me to coddle

his comfortable failures.

He once told me the opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference.

How’s that working out, jack?

I knew he would never have the courage

to call me the one thing he should have called me:

his wife.

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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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Americana art cemeteries childhood chronology comfort family history journalism local color mourning muse Ohio Southern Gothic writing

exposed cobblestone

it’s never quiet

in the city at night

however i’ve found

if my boots are planted quietly

amidst 3am lamplight

standing in space once occupied

by a storied brick house where my

great grandfather aged 90

lived and died

i can hear elm street recalling sadly

that he left for the hereafter

decades before i arrived

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activism addiction affectation Americana art atheism baseball writing behavior belief cemeteries chronology civility divinity festivities fucking funerals geneology government government and a lack thereof happiness Hell history human behavior iconography insects Jazz kindness Lent literature local color love poetry medicine mourning nature nightmares non-fiction pandemics poetry politics pop culture psychology punk puppies religion Uncategorized

ATM

They

will sell you

candy cigarettes,

insulin,

Camel Wides,

chemotherapy,

God,

nicotine patches,

life insurance,

and a bronze casket

all

in one lifetime.

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Americana Art cemeteries childhood comfort death divinity family festivities history humanity mourning muse nature poetry pop culture punk Southern Gothic

such willful animals

in death

our ribs remain skyward

like hands

cast to heaven

in prayer

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Americana analysis art Hell history holidays horror human behavior humanity journalism kindness life love mindfulness mourning muse mythology nightmares pandemics Uncategorized

ghost light

the moment he turned

and walked away

our world became peckinpah

i can no longer discern

whose blood

my hands are weeping over

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Americana art comfort divinity fairy tales journalism life literature local color mourning mythology nature non-fiction Ohio poetry punk rituals writing

high school interrupted

in the 1990’s

your flannel shirt

was a cultural ticket

that took you

greasy haired

through a graffiti pocked

bathroom stall door

to a grunge w├╝nderland

where herpes came standard

with every tribal tattoo

nirvana whining

about your libido

a mosquito

&

girlfriends untrue

your dreams will be

dry humped

in a Geo Metro,

Generation X,

your so-called life…

high school interrupted

…eating Pearl Jam until

Zima vomit came to the house party too

with green apple jollyranchers

attended by

your skankiest girlfriend

who smoked Marlboro Reds

with the acumen

of a triple divorcee

her eyelids

the trashiest

ice blue