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.

Leatherbound and Worship

Genesis and BigBang, Judgement and Singularity. The Sun has flipped its lid up there and all we do down here is take the pills. Bring me a Corona, here comes my ranty ride Sunday sermon, so turn to the page and sing me hymn posted on the pretty sign.

All the mono this and fundie theist that. God or the name of one. Creator of stuff once and that's all folks. Sin sin terrible you and who and them over there too. All the ridiculous bloodshed. The land its ours and one peeps amongst the all some apparent vending machine of choices big Daddy says.

It's easy to spot the trapeze.

The word torture for instance and the stuff we do. The Wright Brothers wrong. Death in flight unmanned. Then ones too that are so driven by questionable men Enola Gay for Cirrus ... planes whiteout branded farting out the back spider strands of aluminum to just put metal in the sky. A sandwich wrapped the other way.

Of course, THAT BOOK.

Babyl on and off. Bible rabble rouse. If only to try again without it. But alphabets are funny when numberlines. Right, Aleph? I Bet.

And anyway it's not even technically a book so they knock it down to Word. A bunch of stories really. Everyone's history from one tribe's view since count-down baby you know who. I never understood the inside.

Badly typeset drunkmonks candlelight high put prettier capitals to open paragraphs dwarfing that giant IN CONGRESS our own Declaration sribbed tall,  but lo the fonts all hard to scripty read and still kept that way! So why? Good news is hard to read I guess. Is that two columns? That Comic Sans? Arial?

What is this, Gutenberg?

So bland this book its cover only ever through the decades plain black monlithic bore with maybe some golden hue, in title, not so much more the thread inside. Tagged of Holy but hidden entirely in Host.

The point that wanders is this: we all fight over God but really it's THAT BOOK the source of hate and all the other spinoff summer reads. A sense of beyond invention that which does not adapt the times sorta gives it ALL away. Something to swear on to seal the three truths of Maritime commerce and call it nay, contempt. This be Law.

Headless or not I jump for no horsemen, and wonder at these pits of fire somehow lakes... gnashing teeth is all the rage... metaphoric stuff stretched far out as that Nostradamus tried and still screwed up something so simply Kennedy.

A grassy knoll knows not. A film one tourist frame or two shy. Hay! A whole repository of ... books!

Ruby Tuesday. Jack.

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