Paying dues to the fortuneteller listening to your breath from speakers in my mind like whispers in a teacup taking refuge inside your dreams "Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood!" behind the shadow takers with your personalized keychain in everything that is talcum dark no glory in braiding my lost heart come sundown on the horizon lost in tequila among saguaros

With gothic melodies, peat's dark hole listing to twilight's pale shade of the saplings chaffed wheat and pallid hours, soundless tweet a tempest within my ominous sagaciously winging your soul, cold blows the midnight songs lurking the beast, in my am in the ossuary, poetic reverie rocking with Johann Bach squeezing squeegee of death's breasts giving me dickens nestled in your arms

...in death coming close, brushing the moon, my decaying corpse, to kissing my birth, laying down playing dead, with my fate touching my body, once the eyelids, in life wearing masks over my genitals, nothing to read, except for my obituary, dust drifting over my face, brushing the moon, translucent jellyfish

Among the dead, we are curious. We are haunted. You scream for ice cream, and we scream out of loneliness. Walking the halls of death leaving no footprints or shadows. At times tossed out with the trash, once scented, now lost. As ghosts, we have no pedigree or degree in philosophy. We fail to exist unless in someone's conversation about passing and leaving a Will. We feel no rain or April Showers. We are the weeds of the...

...with cello strings in nature's woods in the silence of an unspoken tree to the edge of forever, I see drinking deep the inevitable the aroma of coffee and only me and patience in living in nature incorporating life into prayer and myths listening to wind chimes yet unfed cleaning my soul with cedar and sage of nature's embryos and tall pines in the silence of an unspoken tree...

Listening to fool's chatter the hypocrisy of dark's inquisitor "my God, what has happened, with fire over the waterfall?' name brands deceiving pedophile roses and politicians lying and skeleton stems of man and beast food for carrion look for the shadow of fallen embryos and decaying priests who play life's lotto the blasphemers screaming on TV transgendered demons running in packs "my God, what has happened, with fire o...

Chaos, unpredictable running helter-skelter burning down homes flinging stones scripted but no King David crazy, deranged addiction, intoxication madmen insane everything woke Prozac made in China logjams, bridges block one-way streets with speed bumps and no red lights gothic barbarous appetite shadows on the wall fools miming echoing bled beseeching until dead transgendered heroes muted voices Baby Boo Boo Oprah Winfrey...

Beneath a tin can sky of indigo-blue and the doves can coo on nature's mother earth adorning the Ponderosa Pines with a basketful of jubilation as God's shells sunlight cascading over babbling brook and Ebenezer stones in poetic Genesis and the doves can coo

Getting my nude on beneath the Hippocratic eyes of dubious doubters who have lost bouquets being the squatters to observe the nakedness of you and I focusing on the shadow of my being into the midst of recurring dreams my own Michelangelo and not someone's Salomé in a pale blue satin chemise being naked is a gift beneath nature's wings, wear it with a smile yet the witnesses of hypocrisy know not what God looks like liste...

Just me and my muse, at play in a field of wishful thinking, so I sow my own seeds and reap the sweetness of my family. You don't know me, a well-worn pen, assuming me wrong, in blind eyesight. But that's the way I am wary, not a fool. Sarcastically, my feet touch the ground skipping my own rope. Listening to nature with my mind awake. Knowing the echoes are only memories of my soul's awakening with nature. Not braying th...

Come home to me my rose bud Ebb Tide, rising, in lieu of dark roses, a beautiful flower was, as the song, loves a woman, so flows emotions, softly now walking with the silent winds and the faded blooms of yester-hour's crying.

I give you my progeny, disassembled, therefore, I am, my am, in memory of long ago, non-relevant you the sun, I a passing willow, at a distance from a dream I incognito, disassembled, a shadow on the window pane with Amador Whiskey over ice now here comes the rain, a spirit dressed as a cloud, weeping a sad song, but angels never cry

"Well, how old do you think I am." There is nothing titillating about nudity. Its a lifestyle. Once you are naked, you're naked. The maniacs of Cheetos push nudism as a cult. I could say the same thing about "singers" in Nashville wearing cowboy hats. There is nothing difficult about bearing the skin. Nudism is reality, cowboys in Nashville is insanity. You don't notice the breasts or penis any more than you notice a birt...

What is it about memento mori, that she didn't understand? She was a good ol' dame but came up lame in the fast lane of life, knocking back nachos. Then came the corpse and the fairy in the morgue, that stole her love from Uncle Hurley. Harry is something unique and whacked his thingy off for a bluetail fly in his tackle box, alongside the pinto beans and home fries. Now cry me a river, as I watched Aunt Harriet rise. A l...

Let's not pillow talk with the silence of my pen and thorn-threaded leaf, only the deaf can scream of the darkness ambition drowned in Eden unveiled by Adam now in my mausoleum oblivious to the masonry impending my doom in this seedbed of weevils and grubs