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@staff fuck you mothercunting fuckwads and your fuckass update imma getchu imma get my long lost mpreg fathers dan and phil (from dan and phil) on your ass

I spent so much time studying devices to make my writing better like alliterations, assonance, and metaphors. Only, in the moment, I forget all about them. Perhaps, this is what second drafts are for.

apparition

(ione meraki 2025)

Apropos of very little, a sudden thought:

Why did they call it a salt cellar when salt vault was right there?

#it's possible this only works in my accent #silly #It was actually apropos of me washing a sugar bowl and trying to remember what it was called #“can't be a sugar cellar… wait why do they call it that… wait…”#lol #oc #assonance

on the precipice

* standing on the precipice of the rest of my life as are you -

wondering if apprehension, resignation, expansionism, naturalism or stoicism

will be my running buddy, confidante, consigliere, wingmanperson, foil or comic relief

while i continue to tread tamped time with intrepid steps in sneakers

eschewing stiff soles & sore toes, scuff marks on treasured terra;

a sub-macro goal for this simple soul.

someone said you never walk alone,

except when you're trying to collect a debt, then -

it's o solo mios 'til you get the cheetos.

nonetheless, it's a rarity to quest without an angel or devil by your side ( not on your shoulders, like in the 'toons...)

also known as having an ace up your sleeve, a good luck charm in your pocket, or the blues' lament of being born under a bad sign.

so, who's the wingperson to help me pull the pretty premise ( & their friends ) from the providential bar or club to take home & romance?

my money’s on authentic naturalism, if i was a bettin man...

that's my burgeoning novel's projection & i'm sticking to it. peace. * 7/23 - lebuc - on the precipice

NaPoWriMo Vol. 3, 17.26.24 “Crystal Clear"

Even when the evening Eases into the easel stained night Splattered with smattering of paint More bruised than bashed-in-blueberries alight I am left inundated, instigating inopportune moments Momentarily left mum, silence is the story Setting on the shelf, sun and done and book closed hence No deciduous decisions, sprouting tall and confident No starry moonlight night, alright? No night sky sigh Even as the eventide, bids good tidings Paint spilled on the patio and the portico High tide fog, forgetfully fading into dark hidings Even as it all allocates and advocated Smudged as a child’s drawing Vibrant and violently abdicated For the falsest of faeries reside within such painted worlds Constantly concerned with conscious calligraphy Brush strokes bothering the best and better Not less and lesser of folks that fiddle with paint That taint the canvas of life and skin and skim the fat from life Even in that evening Eased by every opportunity Each and every educated guess bereaving Leaving each lesson unlearned unblurred

@env0writes C.Buck Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists! Photo by my friend Mika