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.

No Desert Wind



Barren branches scrape the startrek-backdrop sky,
scratching at mercury vapor colored clouds
as if the starry nighttime underneath
itches just to shine on through.

Sometimes trees are more zen to watch
than clouds. I watch them moving now,
above the fog this winter night --
barely New Year's past yet warm as witchcraft --
and not all dancing to one song at that.

The trees invented wind you know
just to move without suspicion ...
to talk across meadows;
bow gracefully to flowers.

And we hog it all now
flying our stupid metal machines
literally upon their air --

Dropping death from high above
on defenseless skeletons,
starving in the camps,
closed off until, for desperation of will itself,
send toy rockets over prison walls.

Will man stay and watch this murder blind,
while even trees are not standing still?

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