Monday Evening Post: 8.8.22

I wonder. At what point does memory become history? And, at what point is desire too corrupted by selfishness so that nothing pure is left remaining?

Thursday Evening Post: 7.28.22

I ponder upon the benevolence of my habits. And whether the romanticism of some had rightly earned its place to die. And if I, as some personal Dr. Frankenstein, unnaturally keep them alive. I’m aware of the ones that are quite plainly barbaric, or some synonymous equivalent. Outside of those, there are the ones that…

waitin’ room

is to be better only a measure of some hero’s depravity? the last hope for humility, down, down the drain- absent and abstaining from restrained refrains enigmatic in the static stance, that at kinetic glance is different- that in longing looks, cooks leathered memories and lingers lost, inevitably. wring what hope been soaked all unannounced-…