Weird Kind Of Freedom

The government knows two things about me:
and I’m powerless to stop them.

There’s a weird kind of freedom to that.


Purple is the color of faith
And extravagance
Purple is what I felt with you
Even after the bruising darling
I’m always purple with you

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Rogue Planet

It’ll take a special kinda person in a special kind of state to get the most out of this track.

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Update A Soul in Progress has transcended

The transition was personally difficult—the punchline ended up being I wasn’t a soul progressing, but a soul regressing back to myself. Odd.

Anyway, the change also affects you, although I tried to make it seamless as possible, you may have to update your bookmarks and feeds and subscriptions, especially if you subscribe to one of the feedburner feeds, I’ve ditched ’em.

Here’s the updated info:

A Soul in Progress is now Frankly Monk
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Edit: Looks like the FeedBurner feeds are gonna keep burning all by themself, 3 cheers for wildcard redirects. Since I still have a handful of subscribers using them I’ll keep them up, for now.

The Shock of Remembering

Water droplets burst their majestic energies onto struggling seeds that spasm and squirm into a new existence. The hardwood forest reduced to serving man his pity—resilient to all that dare to penetrate its nebulous swirls and knots—a universe of its own threading. Galaxies of diamonds implode into stillness. There’s a blush, and a motion involving a perfect ear.

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I just found this, it was written sometime between 3/16/2012 and 3/21/2012. I thought I posted it, but I can't find it on this site. So here it is, backdated.

Darlings KilledI hacked off three or four needless stanzas, but I might use some of the imagery elsewhere

Fearful and uncertain hands dodge and press on in their relentless quest for, what may be...pockets?—sudden horror. The shock of remembering, The light trick.

On the mound a pitcher wryly snaps a fastball to...a catcher...played by... there, a young woman, brunette, in a black dress at a bar.

A brass zippo floats through the blackness, as it nears the martini glass its volatile surface clouds up and drifts away from haunting brown eyes, pearls rejoice and lips part to tell secrets.

A swarm of fireflies twirling fire dancers stars igniting in their cloudy womb. Broken bottles, shattered windshields. An olive tumbling slowly in the middle of it all, its toothpick plotting conic sections and sheiks of pain

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The Perfect Run-on

Had I been still
writing at the time
I’d have delighted in
that funny Irish song
you sang with your sister

From Here On Down

If you’re browsing the site in reverse chronological order you may wonder why everything below this post is dated January 1, 1970…

Shit broke is why.
Continue reading From Here On Down