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.

Boil and Coil

Re-legios; Legion again.
One thing so many voices and yet,
here I am a raging tide alone.

Reconnecting to Source
blocked by a clever, conniving, collective
living eternal and timelessly restless
with a bloodlust of a dedication
to a God just one-off from true Light.

It is too late though, a point of no return has come.
This small sentence works magic for BOTH sides now
and I know more hope each day this way.

To better understand the end game now
playing in cacophony devoid conductor,
I propose as allegory
what used to constitute natural weather.
Water as a cycle Gaia new and the 78% bags we.

Source, flow, evaporation and fall. 

The Source is where we come from
and to where we all must go...unless
you clog an artery or two.
Maybe we go backwards.
We fell certainly - and through times we flowed.
Oh how we face these days stillborn the Crux of evaporation
with clouds of metal salt and compounded silt
farted out the backsides of planes.

We must somehow gaseous be!
Frack the enemy!
Released from shale a gas of naturality
by sideways topsyturvy mantle over magma
a mouthwash most foul sedimentary
matching the imposter white region we shamefully
still call sky above.

Have we confirmed direction?
Is it really up?
Boil up. Boil up!

To fall again
into the wide open plains of love and love alone.
It's as if the Veil hiding Source was just put there now,
and not pulled away in prophesy!
Speed your molecules in state my friends
all upon your own frog now,
and boil up your teapot whistle stop
for a fresh hot cup of tea...
which in the end is
a bag of leaves,
in water.

Sure, a Party.
Behind the shrubs a rabbit watch
or Boston harborboxes revolutionary,
Mad hatters everywhere, Alice!
The guests reduced to one.
I can see it in the cards.
Be ever so careful not to not lose your head.
as in direction traveling to,
not gushy gushy gray in a box of holes up top.

Magnetic is the pole that drives an N or S or even E.

Sol himself flipped his poles some time back,
and we think that nothing changed down here.
But see them there. Towers we call cell,
they broadcast swaths monstrosity in low frequency
grand magnets of man now drive air and sea
whatever titled bluemap Google points out to me
is direction being "mis" in guise of guide
but we all end up where we ought to be.

Home, a few yards out I think
from Source, right there beyond the tree
and yet there it sits amid the teddybears unseen
closeted and wigged, ET.

A finger soon, will glow.
Where it points to I think I'll go.

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