Bask in your moment, dear poets. It is fleeting.
More worrisome? I don't know who took this. It landed in my photo album, post download.
I was caught.
So if you are going to be corrupted, forever ruined in a stanza, a line, or in free form, I can't imagine a better wordsmith to take me down.
Usher. By B H Fairchild. Coming to a non fiction essayist near you, soon.
It's just a stage. Short term.
Next week, I take on Cormac McCarthy....
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