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.

Remembering Our Dying Days: Mom & I

3,4 is always too soon to say 'goodbye, Mom' for me. And then 54 is the nagging cosmic rhyme which follows, her age of exit which reminds me Mother is just a character in life progressing to some unexpected number and then just ceasing to exist.

No matter where you are at the moment... say, maybe 3000 miles away. No matter what you still had to say. No matter whose eyes your darkness needed shine today. Whose sweet smell and softness became that night a telephone voice goodbye, where both son and friend knew damned well that upon receiver to the cradle would never more reproduce her words. Tears came from every pore, my useless skeleton to such new gravity could not bear and falling to the floor, as if in timeless grace my turn now the dance you do not learn but is in still Hollywood performed.

I still taste the bitterness today of the synthetic fibers aqua blue wall to wall, face down to carpeting that mocked the ocean I emptied into it endlessly, refusing with a Devil's dew to them absorb but wet my face instead with chaffed redness to mark such epic loss and hurt and shame.

An emotion's reserve of human despair pumped empty one time spill and heaving dry for solar plexus INC; how there is no will to move sometimes that way like you in see in magazines when stooping over tragedy, a friend's hopeless lilted hand is laid atop a shoulder soft, knowing this heap of bones is unable to arise.

And then I flew. Over mountains too. To home, where she was no more. To crumbled soil, bone and pretty box. Tears and desperate laughter with family, each sibling a ghost of eyes and father a stranger in despair, seated suited close uncomfortably in a long black car of gloom dressed for Presidents and Senators for common folk only on the day of putting in the ground.

It took such time to fall before I knew. I wonder sometimes who pushed Lucifer off such lofty clouds. Endless windows went on by. Those were days to all else not me. The lashes I endured; I even begged for more. Burned their City to the core, and as they forged such false history, I inserted Mom. And then the threshold crossed, Valley and Abyss.

Dreams are shadows, I see them walking to the kitchen for a snack. Love is hate and murder a caress. Comfort in a bed of nails. Demons everywhere play tricks and laugh, have keys to your house and visit all your friends. Play in halls just outside your door until your anger bursts open hinge and Nothing is right there in front of you but you don't see a thing.

The Mind. Out of Control. Wonder at these two things, my friends, for the former is something you cannot lose if connected to, and the latter a place for lastflashed program Clarity never more un upgrade to the code.

A stranger and star at once, the cosmos on entirety and down here the robots unaware. Blockbuster scripts flowed through the two holes in my neck I'd swear a hickie of a bite but damned if I remember the European charms and cape of a mystery man that night. Bone dry, and billboard high until the fame was done and the streets of Tinseltown claimed my name as well. Freedom no longer yours is a sober scar to always bear.

I have been in cabins since. Smoke curls softly from the chimney and keeps sweet the mountain air. Rustic recollection and study of the soul and Spirit by the evening fire and all the journeys we think we really are.

I so enjoined with the living Now and oh, mother, she is well! Her smile everywhere I go. Giggling forever to table home again we shall go. Now of the machine and ghost I know.

Anniversaries only are equally spaced repetitive "markers" of a single event in linear time, an artificial mental extrapolation device called ritual that humans invented to store that which has vanished from the Now. No other beast performs such madness and its infection has poisoned man.

The concept of the store. The bank. The pitchfork; trident and Eden planted and harvest time. Grow to be consumed! The farming of humanity.

Soon the astral and the mental became entwined with such rituals gods only know. Markings went from stone chipping and tree scars into subconscious planes so that more common events could be shared across great spaces by virtue of a system using a closed set of symbolic assignments correlated to the  intersection of the current location of the Earth relative to sun.

In this manner, resurrection from the dead was still just a bunch of bones dancing in the night. Funky Mexico. Not with me and mom. My mom's home grown to me. Our dance is on a bigger scale; it has become one of planets and of stars.

And now all the world shall this way travel too for the symbols they have died away and Logos comes to purify what lizards have done to Word. May you be spared the agony of isolation and learn quickly of your sprites.

They may have taken her, the salamander squad,  but oh, what they've given me instead. "I'm telling mother, I simply say," and all the voodoo just goes away.

So Mom, let's go Out tonight and celebrate... oddly day of departure a true birthday in our rite.

With love and longing home, your endless sun.

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