Crawling paresthesia residents in the molars of the house whispering somewhere deeper than the foundation gnawing the cold earth dripping insomnia echoing the chitter-chatter from the night's faucet creeping from the pulsing Mr. Coffee's carafe ticking against the womb...

"Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo?" Then long came the moon, rising, creating shadows of haunted fingers that linger, haunted by memories capturing the soul, come September, leaving a clue of dark's long black Cadillac, getting...

Life done spent getting ready to went listeningto a whisper crawl on the flesh, slamming the dooras the anvil drips, Mr. Goodbody's last drop of forgotten things, a sorrow none can't forget as "Jimmy Crack Corn"