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Epistolary Blues

Words are like showing up,

sometimes they’re all that matters.  The rest


gets martyred in a haze.  The work, the interior

struggle, has to mean something.  Days and nights


of neurotic and/or due diligence testing.

The abstinence. 


The fornication.  It used to be easier to be anyone, start over

every night.  It was lonely and exhilarating.  But – ah! the same yearning


remains.  The interior has just become a little more

obsolete, the self


more formed, less dynamic.  And ah! the quietness

of me, yields


a real life, strange

but true.  And let’s talk about truth, people.  Truth is an intention.  Truth


is a commitment

to that intention.  A process


of expression.  A voice.  It is not objective; neither is it impossible. 

Rather, it is inevitable.  It is non         -fake-able (un  -fuck    -witable), and it is the joy


of living, good or bad.  So don’t shroud my hallowed innocence

with unnecessary concentration


or peace offerings.  I’m not here to do the right thing.






Posted 05/26/17
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