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

The recent haints in the turnip patches, rumored to be poultrygeist chickens, zombified. Possessed with a fetish for mooning late-night diners at the A&W. Frightening the bejesus out of local crawdads eaters. It just so happen, that last night, Jimmy Swaggart was there, putting the make on a bowl of grits. I am the local sheriff, and I take pride in enforcing this town's ordinances. I gave Swaggart a ticket for parking in...

Feeling the wind saw lifting lord of the wings creation through sycamore trees, whispering, a breath beneath soft leaves in the twilight of autumn's veil butterflies in evolution feeling the wind saw lifting

On the way to the Waffle House minding my own biscuits only to share, my, please and thank you psalms the best part of biscuits and gravy fading into the plate as I sop, you sop, everyone else sops putting my right foot in doing life's Hokey Pokey waiting for my okra to come in riding a three-legged mule of Redman Chewing Tobacco on the way to the Waffle House with memories of Patsy Cline, "Falling to Pieces"

My ma has always pounded in my head, how important an education is. I counted up to ten but ran out of fingers. There will always be a job for me long as the Waffle House and Walmart are in business. In school, I majored in WrestleMania and NASCAR. Presently, I am employed at the one and only carwash in town. Soon to become assistant to the assistant manager. My family became "highfalutin" when we moved to a trailer park...

Don't order filet mignon or pasta primavera at Waffle House until you tried Granny's entrée. It was on a Friday night, wringing the neck of a vampire chicken, with a mist of Aqua Net Super Hold, rising. Granny was serving Blackeye peas and jalapeno cornbread and finger-licking good. We were drinking from Mason jars. The liquid that is left behind after boiling greens or beans. Usually with a squeeze of crawdads wings to g...

The naked truth about Cheetos, leaving me sweating in my birthday suit. Playing, "Olly olly gluten-free," with a bag of Cheetos. Waiting for my dip to come in with the evening's fries. With catsup on the side, dripping into my beenie weenies without an invocation or a bowl of hominy grits, floating in redneck gravy. Cheetos makes one as lazy and dumb as a parsnip thinking Annie Okra turns tricks. Blaming Gumby for unnatur...

Jerry Lee Lewis has the juice but where has Tabasco gone for my redeye gravy and memories turned to shade on a stone beneath bones of the Magnolia Pluckin' the ol' gitfiddle of one's life with death's obituary and a Dr. Pepper and leftover dreams of sad songs now everyone is goin' away turned to shade on a stone But sing one more song, Jerry Lee, "Whole lotta shakin' goin' on."

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 from nature's sewing basket. Whispering in my ear, the song of the cicadas with violins and folded wings. In pantomime of memories and old rubber tire swings.

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 pillow. Catching a breath, making a cat's cradle from strings of death's library. Inhaling the screams of illicit dreams. Perhaps, another theme. From the inner sanctum of...

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 fools who squeeze the Ouija. Cemeteries are for wimps, bloating with gas, and playing Lotto with their Harley. Jesus doesn't have 76 tattoos to lead the Cheeto Parade. I am l...

Listening to Chuck-will's-widow singing the same song of loneliness as nightjars pulling at my heart when I should be sleeping with the cruise of the night and dreaming of my rocking horse with a wink from mom's eye sailing off in a wooden shoe listening to Chuck-will's-widow and saying my prayers... Amen