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Americana art festivities holidays human behavior humanity non-fiction poetry pop culture Uncategorized

immemorial

this 30th of May

even the fireworks

sound tired

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show your work

If an electric car

pulling away from a church

at 10:25 am

traveling 20 mph

toward the eventuality

of Sycamore Street

has Tom Waits crooning

inside it,

how long will it take

for the driver’s heart

to break?

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astronomy baseball writing belief comedy comfort festivities happiness

heartbeats once acoustic

sunlit green leaves flicker over
a cincinnati restaurant patio
sunday brunch amongst contemporaries

a skyline mural
of an astronaut
looking to the stars
above our heads
downtown buildings
turning toward the sun

glistening libations
sweatily klinking together
a toast made to the ending war
fully vaccinated folks
introducing themselves as such
shaking hands
faces aglow with possibility
shoulders swaying
to kettle drum music
masks off gently
seeing smiles
for the first time in a year
our festive nature quickening
heartbeats once acoustic
have gone electric

the gentleman at the table beside us explaining
upon reserving his table
he’d requested a framed picture of Bill Murray and a congratulations card for “Jeff”
to await his party upon arrival at their table
there is no Jeff of course
restaurants who agree to accommodate his request
are how he chooses where to dine
when traveling out of town

our laughter turning on
theatre marquee lights
no one interested in food
it’s spring

the whole city has tickets to a Redlegs game

we have survived the plague
everyone is tired of eating
tired of fearing
tired of dying
yet everyone
seems ready to fuck

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activism art astronomy behavior belief cemeteries destruction ecology epidemeology humanity journalism life mindfulness mythology nightmares pandemics poetry politics pop culture punk science writing shooting stars technology travel writing writing

Does this look infected?

who knew

the 6th mass extinction

on the planet

would be set into motion

not by a furious comet

instead thrown into chaos

by an insidious cloud

of misinformation

(que piano music)

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art belief cemeteries childhood Christmas chronology comfort dance death divinity fucking funerals happiness humanity life love poetry religion science science writing self-care shooting stars travel writing writing

travel writing

what we call eternity lasts

approximately 3 seconds

it is the state of a happy heart

at the moment of your death

as your brain powers down

the last thing it processes are images of

everything you ever loved

mercifully

that is our shared heaven

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So, your president is a seditious cult leader…

Trump is their Manson.

The traitors who desecrated the Capitol building are Tex Watkins and the Manson family.

Democracy is their Sharon Tate.

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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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Are you free?

meet me in Tompkins Square

the Temperance Fountain

at noon

March 2, 2029

there’s a place I want to show you on the lower east side

of a dumpster

before we die

we’ll find a restaurant

on W 23rd Street

named for a playwright

ride the subway to Lincoln Center

feed the last of our excuses

to wanton pigeons

lose ourselves

underground

adding a single entry

for everything we never shared

to the archive

oh, did I mention

it’s a Friday

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fog pressed to a window pane

i’ve spent my life

thinking about people

who were not there

those whose love

came measured

in teaspoons

hidden in poems

please know

i didn’t write this for you

&

i’m taking my coffee black

this morning