Concrete beneath your feet as you blaze your trail along the road to your grave; covered in blood and tears shadowed by gray smoke heaving light upon your pain
At the fork between the tines the crow sits watching Wings clipped; unable to soar above the path, blind to your truth The stars swirl in anticipation trees quiet; dripping, raw, waiting
The fork is sharp and powerful Tines that lift supper to your soul or puncture your heart scarring forever what will or could have been The forks all lead to the path’s end only the trip is defining and different
The fork has direction on each side You have the power to choose All tines lead to your grave Only the choice stands between you and what is written on your life; what is remembered after your death
I am so glad you are here. Please make yourself at home, here, next to the arm-chair. Let us talk of poetry and life; let us laugh and crack jokes; let us rule the world with our lofty thoughts and electrodes for those out of line.Most likely I will pee a little when we laugh, and my thoughts are usually random rather than lofty, but you know what they say: “The dog of the exceptional wisdom has the bird of sleeping monkeys in his dreams!”Anyway, I was talking to a guy the other day who was high on pot (he was standing on the toilet) and I mentioned my fear of bush hogs and roaches. He comforted me and then asked why I was in the stall with him.So there you go, my full life story nowhere on this page. I feel like we know each other so much better now. Sometimes I’m serious, sometimes I seriously funny, sometimes I’m seriously gassy. I am at all times grateful for your support.If you have an idea to share, or just want to drop a line, you can contact me at firstname.lastname@example.orgBe excellent to each other and glitter on glitterbombs.