Movement, the fruit of stagnation,
When all is quiet and lifeless,
When all is a bird with the spirit
Locked inside a cage with metal lo
Whose heart belongs to the open sk

I of service to the Poet Gods,
the kinds with no hands nor feet,
but keen eyes, celestial minds
and tyrannical tongues,
chose me, a man with no dreams,

Garden of loveliness and lonelines
birds conversing in sophisticated
rhythms and expressive pitches,
trees bearing luscious green leave
zephyrs rolling off the mountains,

Computerless and televisionless,
days and years gone by amiss,
presidents and popes gone by unhea
never a sighting or a word,
wars and styles forever in the new

The Runaway Girl
She is one of the normal many; nea
Her heart is warm, but cold up clo
Her insecurity and boredom prevent
She is very sad and lonely, but av

When life and the living of it
Is a mysterious animal,
Trapped inside a cage
With no means of escape;
Comes a time to

The boasting at the edge of dawn,
The artwork of a million hands,
Wearing flamboyant costumes
Of red, orange, and yellow,
Spicing up the mood of the day,

That beast that won’t go away,
That hides in the bottom of the so
That mocks us and steals our fanta
That brings our dreams down to ear
That quickens our pulse for fear o

Artists of the private circle
of other lonely artists
in a far away sphere,
far away from mainstream’s influen
elated by a certain sound,

A rough and winding road
With potholes and debris,
With a haunting of the past,
With an evil act still remembered,
With retaliation and payback

Homeward bound for weary hearts
That one sweet place where we can
That spot in the world that we cal
Constantly pulls us back to where
Back to a place called home

Granny Baby
Grams is kickin’ ass out there
In the red hot universe.
She movin’ on up with the speed of
She’s jumpin’ in the clouds up hig