A warrior artist operating on the fringes of reality.
A very shy man once wrote: "I had a dream but I did not have the courage to chase my dream." He never met Sam Hanara, the dream maker.
He has the eyes of a hawk. And wings to match. He preens his chest. A mouse he will snatch. He hovers like a 'copter. His wings stretched wide. Alert like a sniper. His beak is his pride.
The seal of oblivion is masked by the lead door of hate. Maybe you will never know the foul odour of the bat. Perhaps you know her scent already. My mask is hideous. I cry into the gutter.
Maybe it doesn't end. Maybe it carries on. Maybe it doesn't compose. There is more. The melody reflects life, becomes life, imitates and is itself imitated. The song is us. We are the creators..
We knew the mold of the desert whose sands had cast a thousand ancestors into stardust, forever scattered across the earth, riddled with the mystery of the moon. That was long ago.
Ah the whimsical waves caress me, as I wade from Bangor Beach. A hot September yesterday, a memory still within reach. A man on a surfboard spoke to me, as I waded out of reach.