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.

Gocracoke

The speedbumbs
the orange cones
the calendars boxed beyond the thinking
outside thereof,
a haystack
a stupid needle on a farm --
all those houred chances before granted, taken back...

And Lo.

I said it, yes.
for there be important Title to consider
just before Behold.
Despite sycophantic Caesars and deep dark worry
still am I here upon my lorry
my lofty porch
my TARDIS sans MD,
long lazy harbor shadowed,
above rustle, whom I know so well
and right beneath Great big Solace in the sky.

Beaming slow,
warming soul through skin
12s lined up the clock above the Lighhouse go:
stripeless, stout and golden kittied.
A geometry of beacons without, within,
As above, and so below.

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