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.

Seeing Snowsuit in Parfait Browngray

Shortbreath icewind, turned wrongway railway steam into hood --
wet the childhood nose glove how cavalier
just crispy woollen swiped
and magic crystal smear.
Ah today.
There it is.
Hanging there.
Parfait browngray layer
stuck like cobwebs in the scraggly trees on gray chiffon horizon rows. Afraid to lift up,
shoo distant dark from loud white echoes in the dampened hills.
A snowsuit on the moon you sat.
Beneath the steel ceiling that
shushes you, when crunchy snowplay stops,
and you saw all you once forgot.

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