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.

Not by the Hair

So now is fifteen minutes
freak passing thunderstorms
have all but cleared out
and it's sunny out again...
only, in 1968.

Light's all polaroid saturate,
Jackie-O reds
in golden-yellow light
no dawn nor sunset knew.

My God,
the roaring wind!

No one thing named a breeze,
seems more hail of arrows
in every direction is aimed my way.
Illusions of peace post-storm.

The air is clear
 but too all charged up now,
angry and splitered, bawdy and blustery.
A thousand Piglets strong.
The battering ram outside,
all Dorothy and Toto in her neighbor's basket
on an F4 bikeride.

These ghouls,
no weather,
they gang with a knowing against my home,
make windchimes rage
and say such horrid things!
Fear of course, amid their howl I cringe,
but Geist is all they are.
They would surely spit
if not the rain for which they must only follow.

Away, wolves!
Brickpiggie is my house.

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