The soul of the king an out-of-tune lyre with harpstrings for guts – many sharps and flats. Sent by the LORD the holy pneuma's hand scrapes unholy noise. It maddens the king with dissonant thought – the fatal vibration of blood in the heart until he is dead.

By the Sound of a Voice After a long silence that seemed An eternity, There came a turbulent noise, A spirited noise. No, it was a...

Fichte / Picture There is nothing real anywhere, neither outside of us nor in us. I know of no being at all. Not even myself. Images...

Artful Agaze, the artist is beset by eros Of no vulgar kind. Crossing the chorismos , He takes his tools, kneads and forms And sculpts.   Substance yields to some thing new. But partially obscured by dark spots, The result is more product Than idea.

Environed by varying degrees of space,   (depending on where you draw the line),   a poem is a picture of the artist's mind on a pagewhite canvas.

Yehudah, I Make You Mine From out of the banks of the muddy  Jordan River, I make you  Mine.  Into shape I press the grit, into shape I...

In the beginning was the Wyrd . A story of weirding words and the poet fluttered his pen over the ink. What comes to pass has passed and...