A friend of mine, Andrew Adams, is traveling the world for the next few months, so we decided to try out some epistolary poems to each other, which will be posted here.
Good god! Such besmirchment upon
the tertiary senses! Such
rupture of spleen. We always wear
lamentations as hair-shirts.
I’ve heard say that “we were raised
for a comfortable decline,
a decadence,” so we must become
men who query the horizons
—intuit weather patterns.
Wander with firm and eager purpose.
You must know, by now,that ontic
indulgences never approach
“the real” or at least that’s what
they say. They’ll tell you this about that:
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“It’s a dangerous place to be.”