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.

What I know: I End in Horror Show

is seeing beyond mere presentation of events.
Senses from one world out a body there to cellestial
the connection entire biosphere
as seen from tiny wood and bird.
Star in Milky Way.
Snail you went around instead.
And breeze oh sweet breeze, sometimes just for you alone
in whole world round no others
had such breath sing with sun.

is data. Blocks and bits
bricks and sticks and Masonry
and stories, some called real
and others not at all
the latter carried by character
yet from Author flows verse them all
beginning to an end.
For secret some the other way it goes, nonetheless a chosen code,
A transit of message.  Myth.
DNA and NSA and Zero and One.
Broken down for building things, a commodity for competition
set for stage of choosing.

is power. Wider out in scope, Institutions will not ever let it go save a degree or two.
Weaponry of worst kind when kept secret for the few among us all to herd what's heard and
If only you had it then.
Occult apparently does not grow for its languages so old still.
Soothing to the searching soul
of what happened and why it did.

the application of both
in Time until right now.
Not tommorow.
Nor in dying bed tucked to neck keeping out the creeping cold
of the hour drawing near
awaiting some silly goth Ubu of the Dread
a shrouded hidden puppet head that means "pencils down," this Way into Town and
Time becomes Test of how you did
with the tools and maps and those still hid so far above explained
means Conciousness distilled in density is going somewhere big,
you, the Later and Before in conspiracy outside Finite's tiny door laid down hints band whispers
but somehow you missed all clues.

A quotient then.
Karmic an IQ.

A judgement on that score.
We are dying this very day
and each day too the next we live death along the ride... ha!
Flash before your eyes you think the story runs?
That is his,
for right by you was there the jokebones guy all along ... selfies!

Fingerbones the photo bombs, you two had such Time!
But no more.

is infinite,
the amalgamation
of in one instant through the Source, finally become
In the being of all other instances.
Is it an End story?
Is it about Time?
A fancy one all Horsemaned out was written once,
but whose exactly it really was has escaped us all
to maybe 3 or 4 names same super alien bore
who just loves to watch us in endless War.

that this sweet Earth alone
is the only bus stop to Cosmic home
Only the elite would take to God a comb.
Rapid vanishing on route and line
would imply those who are left behind
are in some ways the very ones who left, in other time,
in duality now so declined
to freeze event horizon around juat one locale, a Way, a Gate-
to all potentiality bind Earth alone the Singularity.

At intersection of the Source,
all is paths to make Way
Passages and bridge the Ferryman's alone.
No fingerbones from some beyond. He knows not this Way,
has not found circumference
whose circle center everywhere at once,
and Radius the Angel who comforts only chosen ones he met
forced to play the role of fallen
by the big compass G
hoping they can listen in
to such sweet Geometry.

To each our very own
but only just one train goes home.
Tracks parallel to single point converge are His and ours
for ties laid down for rails Homeward bound
are those we lived in pairs,
Self and its earthly name
a million times dispatched a journey, us we are too our friends we meet on board, all the cities countries farms from all of times and places yet to see...
All just us.
Just us.
Sometimes the passing trees depending on reflection,
but really just us
Just us
Just us...

See how Revelation differs from
such neolithic tools as symbols
and Laws and memes but is more... dreams?
Even then called REM
I know on this that you will roll your eyes
but do you see in front of them
your lids so tightly shut
what you may criticize as craft and hobby
they struggle underblanket there
desperate, moving all around
and seeing things no one focus needs
For filmstrip runs the slumber of the ride you say you took
but how they tried to scream you to open up shade
And welcome in a glimpse wood so easily passed by
every pasenger must see themselves to free up others coming home.

This line they say
Ir might be closing down,
Not enough demand they say.
Folks would rather fly.

So then what's the harm in dozing off
Point A and B and ugh the chore between a train?
Choo choo I say.
Go on, snore.
Clacketty clack
and steamed the stack
how industrious and itinery
map your places in single points and forget trajectory
for Nothing in between.
And that is exactly what is being made.

I do not reside in mirror!
I dwell in Him that shines through the room to closet door!
Car accident
Glass on the highway.
In Dreamland here, the mirror thinks it lives and light bounces off the blobs in front of them.
The closet door out there they think Way out, the flat world has got it all figured out...
and when breaks the glass behind all their world upon the floor a million more
reflect of nothing, for their silver side is wrong side up.
No sun shows the closet door and every world alone, despaired once one glass
sees only now jagged tiny shapes mass
soon lose sight their need reflect the light no more.

Danger in a hole.

Put it away

How can I then,
I ask you now,
fit such shining singularity of Truth
into polarity frozen non Express
once known the locomotive gift steams for all and forever goes the Witness home on to the Source?

So this.
The Mondays I cannot.
The other days all Monday.
People's eyes not matching what's coming out of mouth.
Lying, denying and pushing it all away
is killing off our human race so surely as the birds for and bees,
Not fighting nor rising up
one voice whole anger fortified  with being wronged and being raped and Law itself used not as standard operation guide
but used instead to listen in and punish out of line.

ensures the most vicious of our enemies
Meaningless in every moment grows
and as if virus knows, 
the carrier of Apathy to wipe us out the fastest was proposed.
We never saw One on here.
Globalists stole the Earth
and took Union from the people to join up nation states instead.

Earth sweet Mother is dying
While globe replaces Nature
and that is why deep down I'm crying once again into my soul.

Winter storms make History
the cold and hot all wrong,
moving the Jet and Gulf streams
to suit the needs NGO we missed the BI in yet all we do is clap.

Birds now dropping from the sky in droves
for weather factory denied a hat of foil
or "not again, we all know"
With not a thought even for the bees they slaughtered first
And piping in all the oil.
Just so we can get it off the land and into sea
for another land.

And homes.
Letters looose from papers fly,
swarms off kitchen table sly same the very ones
amid greeting cards the aisles fluorescent pharmacy
where we 'tween ourselves of row such folded sentiment. 

Bottled at the Source!

Rascally symbols,
runing faster than cars
to make it all on ahead.

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