The record’s an instrumental called Grow Your Own. It’s a Small Faces b-side from some time around ’65 I think. Back at the old alma mater, Miles used to play it to death. We used to sit in his room in hall, getting dragged into its brilliance, playing it as loudly as possible until we got complaints. I’ve had complaints about the volume of my music all my life. I suppose I always will. Right now, the majestic Hammond org...

C1…C2…C3… Cervical vertebrate pulling, bones dislodging. Snap! Like a fat leather boot stopping on a bag of Cheetos. Tongue out like a thirsty dog, panting as my eyes escape my skull. I enter an abysmal tunnel, closing in on me. I can hear bells, ringing and ringing, fading into a stagnate buzz. Peace at last, like a steady ocean swell, my vessel rocking gently across an endless blue horizon. My last thought; So this is w...

A thorn and wilted rose for The Apocalypse to linger and decay in the shadows of a herd biting off the throat with words inappropriate with the quill of a feather stuck in one's craw on empty pages hemorrhaging worms a bloodbath of Draconian shattered dreams of unconscionable lies swinging on the gallows with fragrant child of festering embryos to blossom in this desolate place in death's Masquerade so sweet my cadaverous...

Sorrow eats the worm at the bottom of the bottle with a kind of parasitic fermentation that now poisons the mind into thinking they are free that they have control over their life that they are whole as long as they keep drinking as long as they keep drinking as long as they keep drinking as long as they... ... Hey! Bartender, pour me another?

~~~~~~~ Previously Girl carefully put two fingers on the porcupine quill she had selected and gently pulled on it. It didn't move at first, then slowly, like from a bottle of molasses, came free. Girl held it up. "I have it, Madam. Now what?" "Why scratch your tummy with it dear. It will sting a bit – but it will heal you. Over time." Girl turned and looked at Bear, but he indicated nothing. Girl pulled her shirt up, bari...

There’s a kitten in the corner In my bathroom, by the shower He’s the cutest little fella Sitting near the big gorilla And the rabbits make my day As they turn and hop away Through the grasses and the trees Just as happy as they please And the church just down the street Looks like something that should tweet While the pepper, cut in half, Is enjoying a great laugh But my husband rolls his eyes Which is really no surprise...

The evetides rise on the moon scratching its eyelids of nature over the bones willow protecting the dead as the sinew of butterflies take wings sounding as if angels bringing peace taking notes on the lyrical quotes of spirits singing shadows over the sea neath the sky of desolate winds listening to the Hourglass cry as the rains fall more softly the eventides rise on the moon as the ensemble of the lords gather in Basque...

Bear awoke with a start, then strained to listen. Something was wrong, but Bear wasn’t quite sure what, or what woke him up. He swiveled his head left and right, listening. Then he heard it. It was Girl, and she was weeping. Bear got up, and padded towards her room, then stopped. The sound wasn’t coming from her room. It was coming from the bathroom. He turned and padded that way, then stopped outside the door. He heard s...

Bones roast on an open fire Bile boils in a cauldron Grind my teeth to dust Add a pinch of despair to the potion Twitch in my eye Tug at my skin Gnaw in my stomach Bitter tongue in my sour mouth Nails ripping off skin Shivers of disgust Pangs of envy Doubts warp into distrust Tar builds up in my arteries Steadily spreading through my body Constricting my motion Restricting my expression Viewing the world through candy-gre...

Living the poetry of my awakening, dawn's whiskey showers, stone-washed singing. Spending twilight in prayers as the laughter is contagious on life's gossamer wings. Rewriting the blue of green grass and trees that nature breathes. Touched by fingerprints of the wooded armoire. Autumn's scarlet reds, of blushing nude violets. Living the poetry of my awakening, dawn's whiskey showers. stone-washed singing.

Here we are banning books about Rosa Parks While the Pastor dresses in drag on Sunday Spewing a sermon of love that sounds more like hate Then goes home to berate his wife and children But that's o.k. he asked for forgiveness So next Sunday he'll expose the evils of bourbon White Jesus with his flowing locks and blue eyes Carrying all his divine interventions Can't seem to rise above it all WOW! He gives us a choice of a...

To a flower You are the fragrance And for poetry You are the refrain Something left from a dream Has taken time in place And the Now is only your face like a sea before my eyes Your beauty overflowed my thoughts And wrecked my sails And then, I look at you. Big dark eyes, from Arabian Nights Serenading Muashahat of halcyon glories knights and queens love adventures Love and sacrifice, and still your eyes hold undeciphered...

To quiche is to love, more than a soufflé. A place to niche, a deep dish of memories. Naked as corn, when flour was in the shaker. To only grow old with you, feeling the quiche. Quiche me, Camembert, entering Heaven.

The two friends were out for a walk. The day was so–so–overcast and dull, but the temperatures were warm, and the wind was soft, so they decided to escape the cabin for a while. They were just ambling along, not going anywhere in particular and enjoying it. They’d visited a couple of favorite places – the waterfall, one of the lookouts – and were starting to head home, when they came to a long, gently sloping meadow, with...

I recall a time when I used to view the future clearly Planned out every minute detail purposefully To ensure my life was lived successfully I laid every brick intentionally Nothing could have prepared me, When the boulder rolled down the hill suddenly And when I turned around, the space it once held was empty I broke out into a sprint attempting to halt the inevitability Fixated on the chase, I could not see A cavernous...