Things got fucked the shit up. But I feel like for the first time I have control.  My hair, I perceive,  is even growing back fuller.  The “Flight of the Valkyries,” which my mother had me listen to as a child, reappeared on my Amazon phone Playlist and has even come to bite her back…

The sound of sounds carries me un-open and unready as of yet. Though, I’ll never stop the melody. Allow me to drown out the dryness of a day out in the park, of the crackling street. I want to look through the soundtrack of my own drama instead. These longings are lonely then come to…

  Who gives into his passion? But God as to he a power so holy, He wields soft magnetism A woman’s song Has harbored inside him Long before one came into his life Working shy, yet knowing something about time.   In the pretending of others Who are wishing to be important Credit is given…

Divine Things Must be Loved To be known.   To have God in one’s life, Or perhaps two,   Your giving constant Firm and steady and true Willing to bear the discomfort Will hold new love through   So, by the strike of cupid’s arrow What Is Loved is transformed too.   Two souls who…

I want a wishful journal entry to come true. Less, I’ve written now a whole book all about you.   He is good to think about, a comfort to get to know. My body raises out of itself, as if spirit has spoken and promised me more than my limp tired old limbs and homeless…

As it is his personal creation, An individuated music That sounds like no other Has justifiably replicated. An ensemble in one person Original in sound, as well as subject matter. Distinctly inspiring with its innocence. No message, no polemic, nothing without fire. Adhered to firmly, None Other than Life affirming, an alternative Offered up to…

You never looked so good As when my eyes are closed! I dreamt you went out One night and then came home. Remember wishful thinking Is not a warning. You just return to someplace distant.

Sexy men are dangerous and assumed to be distant.   He’s wanting to care for me.   Being in the freedom to be yourself is as unconscious as spilling the unconscious is.   Grief in thick layers made him seem distrustful, but for whose benefit was he holding back?   Undiluted. Dirty. In the dirty…

The feathers fight the pack Fears curdle in her stomach There is no itch to scratch She can’t control it. She would sit and know you anew And say she was right the whole time She’s been sitting at home Teaching in Rome And doing the most with her time.   He’d drop by bearing…

Here’s our Adventure. A modern fiddle.   At one time in the background, a rebellion kind of “atmospherics.” Ready at the helm. Flying with your feet on the ground. The speed of a fast car. You are not to be distracted by the length of a bubble’s existence.     You drive harder in secret.…