That which is writ worked on heart not on stone.
A work written by acts of life not mere wordsmith hewn.
Not proverbs for proverbs sake, wise-signaling much.
A crescendo of newness a newness as such.
To make new the old man.
Treasures old and new.
A Christ child, a married monk a cell made for ‘2’.
Into your cell go and learn what’s without.
By going within learn outside without doubt.
A Trinity, Duopoly, a unity monopoly.
What a terrible atrocity when we all do own everything.
I’m a Monk to be married a husband as Monk.
I’m a classical heir of medieval funk.
I’m a Theological DJ ..Dilloneous Monk.
An Ubermensch Scrap man with Junk in the Trunk.
An Ubermensch Every man Dandying Uptown Funk.
I’m busting it downtown.
I’m grinding at Cornerstones doing nothing a round clown.
A fool not a tool depending whose in the shed.
Negative opinions don’t touch me. Spirit men arrready dead.
I’m hooked to the sojourning wayfaring life.
A metaphysical pirate awayed from life’s strife.
My diction and phonics is One Word all do Know. It’s not fiction though subtle reality owned.
I’m stick stuck on moving thus staying in place. I’m paradox left, right and center unslaved.
Liberated by serving reality et all. En masse the masses together we fall.
Musings of a Picture Frame Conversationalist. 