The story you are about to hear is true. This is the city. Charlotte Web, Louisiana. The Phantom wasn’t a man who solved cases; he was a man who closed chapters that polite society pretended had already ended in the boneyards. You wanted a problem to go away, you called on death. He operated out of an office that smelled of stale cigarettes, and beefaroni. His suits were a little too sharp, his fedora a little too low, hi...

Hear me, brethren of the Shadow, you consecrated few, do not lament the light that shrank to cinder dust, in the eternal fault, the failure calcified. Who taste the bitter loam where broken faiths accrue. For we are pledged to higher architecture, built on trust. We work where mercy ends and memory has died. We do not fashion keystones for some blessed spire, scraping the shales of sorrow, purged of name and shame. Our qu...

No leaves to rustle, no birds to nest of tree skeletons with brittle cones a haunting grace waiting the thaw with a promise green, never be as winds sigh through cages of bones a dark beauty of their final rest with hollowed music lonely and cold No leaves to rustle, no birds to nest

…the rain came down, a steady soft sound, on the roof. Running like a river, down the window pane. And so it went, lost in the flow, quiet moments, of simplicity.

In the dim lit corners of my mind, shadows coil like serpents, a pulse, a beckoning, each flicker of the candle, drawing me deeper into the night. Tracing the outlines of your face, etching your name on my skin, a tattoo of longing, each letter a thorn, each breath a shiver, cold as the grave. In this room, walls pulse with whispers, air thick with your scent—a bitter-sweetness, like rain on rusted metal, and I drown in i...

I am the drone, a wisp of sight- I felt the warmth of borrowed breath. A borrowed lens in endless night, the second life, the final death. I see my hands in theirs—a lie— I, the moon ascends a fungal bloom. And spread the curse as I drift by, with spores of light in silver gloom

…on wings the vessels chime archaic winds fro the sea from the breath of aeons passing of time doth climb echoing the gulls…

Shadows danced in moonlight over the liquor still as the copper coiled like a sleeping serpent dripping from the worm its venom of elixir fermented by the corn and wet earth transforming the liquor not just into a drink, but into a haunting, distilled memory of the night. The only sounds were the soft hiss of the still and the gentle chimes of crickets. The rest of the world was asleep, unaware of the nocturnal alchemy ta...

Windblown, through a garden of leaves earth and the towering trees becoming seeds to a thousand winds hearing echoes in nature's cellophane for all to see butterflies paying homily... "Do you wanna dance and hold my hand?"

a sweet scent of the willow near slender-leaved Cattails surround the silent pond of the golden dawn– Mourning Doves nostalgically “coo” in the whispering breeze of nature's wishing well.

Wooden candle wicks tea lights of the dwindling poetic lilac and scented old books leaving shadows in the ointment on pages of Poe whispering to Lenore

Stand by the willow and skyward blue with the unspoken voice of nature like a tree of memories reflecting life of the verdant green for all seasons bending knees genuflecting in a breeze in the moonlight over the Susquehanna

The conscience of my soul scarlet light sunset with the herons that shake the willows in shadows that we dance horizon ever bright dipping oars into the waters of dreams whispering the music of my soul's glee as the moon is sailing upon the tide listening to sounds of yesterday's nightingales perched in the trees of the thistle glow hanging a star on a string with poetry dipping oars into the waters of dreams

The garments of Autumn's patchwork leaves of green, now nature's basket of red and gold falling to a breeze, stars twinkling at dusk twilight in a kaleidoscope of dreams imagination listening to the symphony of crickets karaoke watching the inhabitants among the trees playing the strings of a midnight rain whispering the secrets where spirits embrace the garments of Autumn's patchwork leaves

Away from the carbon dioxide and the clatter of the city the citizenry sleepwalking. Away from the mainstream breathing fresh air from manifolds in the trees. Playing our Bossa Nova in Mother Nature without mascara to hide the fault lines. Taming the shrews who live in plexiglass houses, common sense becomes the new norm.