Though the puppets of night in autumn's clairvoyance, shadows play, whispering in silence, dancing neath wings, a long twilight on silent stairs living this dance on prayers, in touch with God

Who knows bellows better than the wind hung from a tree from where the roots run of which no one knows from what seed it comes like a gallows with long neck boughs hanging life in effigy suffering not smiles crying for the willows alone in the shadows kissed by the macabre of a clandestine moon longing to share whispers... "Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop"

The Hootie Hoot and I, my gall set me free in moral decay as the carrion's filet, squandering away with death's bitter aftertaste rising with decadence yeast, cloistered with my goiter as if a requiem for an oyster, the Hootie Hoot and I

Rising from the dust of chalk, 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, and 1 frigging bag of Cheetos. Who gives a rhinoceros? Ask the fool, who Thomas Jefferson was? He can't recite the Pledge of Allegiance but he knows how many chicken wings are in a bushel, that Peter Piper picked. With his one tooth, he looks like Ollie Dragon and his bottle of Jack Daniels is dry. Jesus lives in Mexico and Rooster Cogburn is the guy. 1 Mississi...

Through the fields of golden hearing of the winter in their cry a whispering of snow and the dawning of the frost something told the wild geese to go with the ever-changing sky... it was time to fly through the fields of golden

She sang my soul of polished memories as her shadow awakes neath the hush when her soft voice died on the wings of angels so deep the silence of her echoes on clear nights from the winds that ride the tides of love

As the night begins to swarm using nitrous oxide with a beer chaser teetering on the brink of insanity in the charms of the body farm beneath the dirt's jaw candy of lessons learned from the past with a cricket's toothache using death's pickaxe and dental floss for green gums teetering on the brink of insanity using nitrous oxide with a beer chaser

In my dreams, a hundred years of sleep from tiny buds to crimson rose tickled by the hermit bees as the slumberous brierwood doze in dawn's twilight glow sweet as the dew of heaven's caress of soft leaves pressed between written words and prayers kept

With whispers of cornets leaves shaking from trees ticklish poems of Autumn falling in a gentle breeze of dawn's twilight as if a colorful rainbow holding hands with nature listening to wind chimes as they dance the coquette with whispers of cornets

The wayward dark soul of twilight shadow of the devil's hermaphrodite skeleton among the stones a vessel awaking from the grave to reign on ashes of bones dragged through the gate of Hell with cinder of death's breath resurrecting the crypt of dawn in a metamorphosis of the worm

Between a distance of a smile the valance of your breath touched by the wind chimes with a shadow of leaves in between the wine sap tree and the god's honey mead as waves wade upon the shore through sands of a silent opera of life's sweet apple core in between the wine sap tree

On boulevards of broken dreams where the sidewalk ends touched again by memories only to end as a fantasy with a broken heart and wrinkle nose from the incense, I suppose, knowing how this symphony ends on boulevards of broken dreams

When the world is at odds look at smiles from a tea box it doesn't cost but a penny but worth much more and can cure a broken smile with soft whispers from the heart and a kiss in the floating mist when the world is at odds When your soul is at odds seek the silent pieces that soothe the secret spaces where strange beauty resides hidden virtues that surprise the eyes back into peace and correct misguided paths when your s...

Memories of conversations and a penny's worth of sawdust. Is there a heaven? Mom said there was. With unicorns and porch swings. She would take me in her arms and hug me. Touching my cheek with her tears as she passed, with a penny's worth of sawdust in her hair. Among the memories of wood shavings on the floor. Now she is in heaven with "the carpenter's son."

Death takes no middle ground I might as well be a ghost running helter skelter between late and early past my epithet as I pull a rabbit out of the hat feeling not afraid but pocket lint has no place in my soul or emptiness leaving me half full