Flowers of smoke choking the timbers curling around my forfeiture from chimney's sweep dark torches of roses now turn to ashes from the winter shed then turn to dead with eyes in the embers

When the crawdads sing just north of N'awlins the Book of Revelations over rice and red beans marinated in cider pressing the flesh in someone's gumbo up the Bayou with Tabasco neath' shadow of cypress knees listening to zydeco

From the larder of my portmanteau. I address the coming of the beast. Rocking the wooden horse, wearing shoe lifts from Abercrombie & Fitch. Beating a brass spittoon with a gewgaw in the asylum of my mind's cabaret. Scratching at my feet of raven clay, tapping on cataracts of the toad's rigor mortis. Whetting my appetite for the soul's corset line, Sparring me no garter. Raising my hackles. Dressed in a johnny gown and ch...

Riding in on a charley horse with a crow rocking your nightmares away dressed in a blue suede suit God Bless, you buried gentlemen of roadkill and bones at times a tooth fairy when you sleep not as macabre as it sounds the crow doesn't kill it just eats

Footless crow rising from a storm of bed with green flies swallowing the dead while life is at rest sucking on numb because in the end, we are all spoon-fed striking a lucifer for a twilight shag as zombies eat from plastic bags moldy old banana bread from diners, drive-ins, and dives for it ain't Heaven, it's just hash with green flies swallowing the dead

The haughty moon drops a feather, playing Mumbly Peg with a blind pig. As a curious crow counts acorns of a hollowed-out corpse, playing Pickup sticks with the half-goat man, melting crayons. Mephistopheles unwinds, playing a rabid cello hoax of the occult's coloring book. Playing Mumbly Peg with a blind pig.

Be wary of the Judas grape shakers, Hollywood and the talking heads, and clowns who have brought shame. Burnt offerings, sacrificial tithe, and Jezebels who want your dime, cutting in front of you at showtime. Hold the faith and believe in Jesus, and get off my Psalms, but be wary of the Judas grape shakers.

Without silence, there are no words like a selfish cat a dead leaf falling into the arms of the living my sweet Michelangelo of strings opening chatoyant eyes on heads of nod over the sea of Galilee

In the lazy daze days of Junebugs, swinging on an old used tire hanging from a tree. The dust would kick up from the dried red clay. The Peanut Man would come along, singing something about, "Old fools..." My shoestrings were full of knots, but I paid it no never mind. Taking a shine to a seesaw and monkey bars. Life was full of daydreams, Mars, and Moon Pies. My make-believe friend, Mr. Bear, and I would often have tea a...

Feeling really bloated squeezed inside this box, so, "How did The Game of Thorns end?" It's a little cold this time of year, the wife forgot my socks, but I'm wearing my best suit. Also a little quiet, but things pick up at midnight, when worms go on the prowl. I lost my password on Twitter, worked hard all my life, the safety razor gave me Tetanus and all I got for it was stones, all over the freaking place. Rows and row...

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