A bushel full of my eye. In fields of autumn and the cornstalks. With the shadow of the cider mill and the glowing meadows among the pumpkins. Giving inspiration as the wind's calliope dances. Seeking antiquity's faith and salivation. Based on Philosophy...
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In my hand, the sand shaker and the utensil which I scribble. In the throat of the dark, I sleep in the inkwell. Hearing the footfalls of voices. "This little piggy, he brings a fork..." From the shadow space of bedlam's widow. Now a hollow shell on the p...
In a seance with myself, not suffering ghost. But the dead get lonely. Just ask the next guy, parallel parked next to my stone. I seem to have all the symptoms of a decaying corpse with sagging flesh soaked in formaldehyde. Surrounded by rednecks and fool...
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I love to write when my muse listens quietly. My words at times seem confusing but there is always tomorrow. I own a small book and coffee shop that I spend time at. I detest liars and fools and those who play silly mind games. I like to talk with people who enjoy life to it's fullest.
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