Welcome, and thanks for stopping here to read selections of my original poetry and prose. Only half my art is here. As you browse my puppets, words if you will, think of them as empty hulls whose dance and form are only animated in Play through my vocal conveyance of their characters and via my direction of their tone. Lyric to the ears, its whole message soon appears, in thus the conjuring of ancient daemons deep within to combat the evil ones brought up infernal by the Craft of ages can be our stage tonight.

On this blog the theme is AWAKENING and how Revelation is not some story plural in a Book but supposed to be one of yours in this lifetime. Here in verse I share with you my inquiry to which has bonded Muse.
YOUR STORY IS THE STORY. Their horsie four so full of holes they named that way just to have a laugh. Revelation and Creation coincide, they never stopped. A daily occurrence in a Live Show me is true Prophesy which I assure you, smells nothing like a library book, and for which no innocents are ever killed. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you copy it to heart.


Don't wanna hear it
I don't wanna hear it no
war and cheat and lie I know
Don't wanna hear it
it's Friday yo
why you gotta bring that up
when I know the jig is up
but there be now beer
some red wine near
imbibery elsewhere
and soon I know that
I am free

Don't want it
but it's still all me.

Frequency and Wave

Overheard bird.

Cicada, twisty
tsk tsk tsk
nightpulse yes
but painful day cry laser
hurt your ears down here,
so many.

Every once in a while
one drops
from the treeline
into the pool
hissing all the way down
like a bomb.

It flops about
like a struggling bat
till we scoop it out.

Frequency caught
chlorine lamplit wave.

Tycoon Eleven AM to

Times ten
they spend
welfare subsidy
big tank oil
pipeline Native soil
than one time
on Education.

10x for tycoon.

Industrial paid lobbyists
have Congress' ear
and hold on career,
fancy wined and dined, campaign pocket lined.

Mrs. Crabtree's
3rd grade homeroom
teacher's got
some good cardboard
and foamcore plot.
Just can't seem
to get in and get seen
and ten times is an awful lot
and really kinda mean.


are for fleas.
is where it's at.

Ratchet racket
irritated night
and bugs bigger than
fence pickets


Race car pit stops
socket set fields and
peeper cheer crops,

speedway biomass
in cheer the flyby
numbered chariots
of Southern night.


Flickering torches
make shadowdance
the darkness of treehollow,
a most welcome nightlight spirit, that soon splinters into gold-sprayed glitter as fireflies paint the lower charcoal sky above.

And now Moon, full of herself still, peeks out low and coy from behind some far branches, as if Norman's bright mother aloft at the Bates Motel.

Higher, stars are trying.

Stairway To

I know no one cares
why worry of stairs
with a boxcar pullstring all fancydoors,
each level split part with a bell?

And button.
Lobby, please.
Are you really going so up?
Hoisted on some hull a narrow crane?

No no one cares.
And that is why no one gets carried away,
for only those feeling the wind of wings,
who truly went down flights
and back up steps,
know an Angel's even there.

Heavy Gate

If angels fall
then they are really
more pulled
to Center.

roundy globe says
there is no true falling,
only an attractive force
to dense ball,
smaller thing.

Repel and attract.
The Ball
it pulled them in!

Nobody fell,
but nobody
went in either.
That is true Eden

This attractive Ball
for which we all fall.
Self centered at core
and a glass shoe,
gourdwagon dreaming
of Prince.

What Jar is This?

Bright patches
of fireflies
strobelight the dark shroud
of treetops
out back tonight.
I like
how they mimic
flickering stars
in the murky skies

Nature's night neon
seemingly connecting
to some far off song --
as if every back yard
its own handheld mirror
of the cosmos.

The irony ...
a jar of fireflies
a timeless icon,
when this nocturnal luminous magic
I witness now
goes ignored
for a singular silent collective
of sinewaved flash edits
street after street
flickering TV screens
lighting up people boxes

First night Back on Ocracoke

There is only warm goldlight
and plunge pitch dark here
and then vacant space where just was
continuous coconut cocktail breeze
Barechested bronzeboys emerge
on bike from darkness
ride past fast
watch our toes their tires go!
Just beyond
our Florence Nightingale lanterns swing.
Skateboarders sound far
and then sear ears and gone.
Just pure Elements left
when you your circle defend
the Island home.


Dark as night
thunderstorm 9 AM
makes it seem school daze
prep day
don't wanna go
anywhere today.
Not very weekendy
for respite rising
but somehow
quite nice too.


Oceans call.
All I need is the shore
against my way...
to feel the wind and deafness
while standing at the threshold
of tumbling waters
pulverizing rocksolid form
to grains of beach
weaker than my footstep,
to feel All-one and not Alone
amid meditation
vulgar as a daydream
taking in calm horizons
halfway out to nowhere really,
and the foaming tumult
left between
my happy toes.

Time Travel Tonight

The day clockslide
last in to spring
hangs misty,
must leap ahead.
Bare trees feel
its very dread, this...
Drain in
pretend the moment leapt
is not one Grimm.
Feel it, Saturday Sunday lose
shrugging its cold shoulders bruised,
grayfingers gripping bath tub rim
bumpstepstop ticktock your barrel.

Fool's Gold & Cirrus Sad

Unpleasant indeed the Truth.
Gore, it really is.
Two terms to herd you dizzy peasants away from castle wall.

"Global Warming" means "look out we gotta do something drastic" or we all surely will die.

"Climate Change" means SHIT, we already did and now it's all outta control.


Private interest test tubes
Nobel team Global
in military campaign
hijack all the planes
there are
to paint bars
of magic cotton candy 

Cirrus on blue.

Bars up there to trap us in,
prison cell the jailbar clouds subliminal your Spirit suppressed.
Feels not the need to rise... up.

Something in the way of Heaven has us blind down here.

Don't look at it! See?
We think the world's in cosmic crisis,
when really it's the sun.
Flipping poles and stormfingers touching Earth.
The egg's about to hatch and still our rulers insist on Faberge.
They must not see the light of Day.

Nature is just one thing. 
Man lies within, and the results are in.
Mother calls us home.

Being God, literally, is what Geoengineering  means.
Thinking lowly mankind beasties who used to crawl
can invent a whole system Divine. Who is God if man creates His world?

God thinks of everything. 
Thus we are.
Man thinks about money and power and mostly sex.
Besting others more than helping those behind.

And most of all... hiding Gold.

Treasures aren't in chests save hearts.
X is not the spot to dig but the dotted line that gets you there.
Alchemy was not some stupid scientist woodcarving brigade
bubbling up soup to make gold you hold in hand.
Periodic as it may be, as if wizards couldn't read the Table right there on the wall. AU but no M.

The Golden Age.
One we ALL reach, see there?

Hidden treasure!
Clues are everywhere.

Fort Knox the oldest joke.
"Who's there?"
Legal. Tender like roasts. Notes. Stories about the money
but not the valuable thing you trade.
Bills on notes all debts these dolllars are paid.

Heed the weather folks.
It's Elemental insugency to shake you out of dream.

The endless snow you shovel out of
is really actually shit
not glisteny pretty snow
because, neighbor, something you gotta know. 
We've all been snowed in a shitstorm of Historical proportion.

It's something you just feel down deep inside your bones.
You're shaking to the tune cuz they're beaming it right through you.
They slaughter now Nature, not you.
Nothing personal.
And now for the weather.

So godamn low in frequency.
Extra low, in fact.
Beacons like Hollywood the radio lightening bolted towers go
and signal stratospheric metal bots the Daemons Network nanocloud build up "Gather of the Storm."

The End Machine for Love's true Value found in hearts of gold not coin.
Teslatide this Genocide.
Apocalypse upon the poor, fuck Plague.
Wipeout History.

The Underworld,
it's not down there anymore.
Under what then?
One nation, perhaps.

Weather Warefare, note,
is neither of aforemetioned terms so herd.
So, give a hoot and Don't Pollute
says Woodsy,
a most different owl indeed than
Bohemian one
who's been polluting all the pure gold light down here for centuries,
Magick hats done sold you down my dear for all your golden globe...

So, crazy weather huh?
Glad it's not just me.

And you, Foolsgold.
You slave away for money too, 
which, comes back a bunch of Notes saying
supposedly is somewhere here some gold.
Please accept that as true for all my debts.

Somewhere 'round '33
In the Red were we
The Bank said no.
Bad loan. We do not accept such promissory.
Time Liquidate the risk
and confiscate our property.

And all around you Reap.
Yes it's mighty Grim.
Unless you know true value.
And beam it from your heart to every fireside chat listening,
the hearts unigited and hunkered down
in some freak Storm of History.

Beatings everywhere and nobody has a heart.
Beating as One.
We may be weathered to death,
but to blessed Irony, I free myself and do say
you cannot kill that which bleeds already each every of the Day.

This heart of Gold.

I pump for their chest no more.
These raiders of Lost Ark.
Let the body rot and vultures gore.

Brightly bleed for Truth!

For that is what blood is to God.
Spilling forth from every heart, yes,
but not upon ground in War.
This is War.
The Horsemen kind.

Coins need not apply.

The Last Message of Tuesday

...we're sorry! Your call did not go through...

And on that Day
the angels
fell like rain,
on the ground.

And somehow though
we fell too
straight on through
and on,
to Heaven.

...  Tuesday, nine twenty-one P M ...
end of Messages

Book Report Due

Oh well that's Orwell
Bowl Roman. Stadia
Pontius Palladia
To the planes taking off
and village square mobbed
manufactured in Labor
and too wide consent robbed
happy numberback sack race
happy halftime hope no blackface
happy oh yeah I read him in school


Hell's abound
In what we've found
for what evil we do
to fellow kind,
but really
the trees give us air to breathe
and we
wipe our asses
with them.


Wetbone warm before the storm.
Tomorrow thunder comes,
tonight, ever ebbing...
persistent train.

Revolution in Living Colour

Donned worker safety vest
mock painting mural Banklobby jests
all placard and baton the smoky street
Alchemy stage three our History meets.
What sleeps in hill pick-axe shrill?
Sickle Capital Labor ism Will?
Their ratten loots in meaning
language programmed to be demeaning
your Shadow a pillow sleep
so transverse truth your hours keep
in Labor for their word
not seen nor heard
but Trusted
as in fudiciary over judiciary
ca-ching though but tertiary
and oh here comes
Collective is born again
to what omen stopped
I alone just don't know.

On Watching Soldiers Point Guns at Mothers in Palestine

Tiny birds
are always present
at man's inhumanity to man.
Listen to them
in this newsreel.
The same birds after Hiroshima,
during daybright Red scare.
Some guy and a tank
town square.
Not here.
All throughout the news of History,
Pan rubble afterwards this one Song.

Do not read the subtitles
or care about
the unfolding drama
shown to you on screen.

Close your eyes
(the world does)

Hear them

As if timeless
witness for
nobody saw coming
so busy doing it

The Paved Over Head

The brightmoon
up there high in end-credit clouds
all Edgar Allen Poe cold,
Philly cheesesteaks zigzagged
wood warmcabin TV tray below...
two feasts fest for a start ... only
tar a shingle tile roof their worlds apart.

Mammon & the Mummy Tree

Science! Freedom!
Fascist statue of Liberty.
Rubble the world in bloodmoney!
Votes your paycheck shut off fat cat.
Mobsters from the Steppes
live places now World regrets
and legislates recorded History
czars on us
like they shot the Royal family
to safety rushed.
Again you are tricked.
Besieged your Wall.
Treasury ground zero
your debt to it in slavery
a number generated on slap breathe
a number for security
a number not republican small are
a number called Social right out loud
a number International baron oligarchy
a number once again this line based three
Mammon and the mummy tree.

Mom and Football

The Barons in the Party ranks
laid waste coffers domestic Treasury
whilst stop the flow money the hometown banks
they send it 'stead friends overseas
to pay foreign rifles blood sand smear
and killing freedom pleas.

But Sunday came instead,
before Monday's tenth vote not read
and all the steeple and sheeple bed
lulled pied piper paid talking heads of Red
And right out NF Fell for it like lead.
Super score the day!
Kitten Kit and
not miss locked up Knox
shorelines, trashy Parks
Empty Coast Guard docks
airport security reek blow up socks
Rootin tootin teams on field hard knocks
Halftime, see the fridge is stocked.

They shot a 43 year old mom
in the head a hundred
Yards away.

Bloodzone 23 and me for
which you each week pay.


So warm out come the peepers.
True 'glad I stayed up' keepers.
New air more New year
is seeping in right now,
as explosions die down
knit less lit within the night's
low rolling smoky brow.
In rural rising fog
rare headlights split the way.
Pines sway
windchimes try hard but
bracket is the racket
all I still can hear...
and that is secret to
Happy New Year!


The overhead purring
of rural regional
airport small planecraft
always has me wondering
just who's up there
looking down
on my hills
Christmas Day.


The Wheel of the Year
told in a way
the profane can hear.

deeply spritual people
believe that the sun up there
is where your living soul
resides within the Unity,
and that you down here
distantly incarnate burn too
as its KINGLY presence
on the material planes.

You are Purple
in cosmic royalty,
you just don't know it.
So have a Ball today!
Fetch a froggie prince.
Glass ladyshoe.

Not dark or light longer shorter.
Much more subtle to the Tree,
The Latin 'sistere' in sol,
or soul if you Will.
The Old King done.

And after hanging,
Or better put,
YOU the new king born.