Ther Vine Keeper

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Wednesday, February 29, 2012

“I Am Thankful”

“I Am Thankful”

“I Am Thankful”

let me melt into the abysmal arms
of thy grace
for i am thankful

i look about me and i see wonder
and for this gift of sight
i am humbled
and tears moistens my eye
and i am humbled

i feel the beat of your Heart
within mine
and i listen
to the concordant symphony
of life
and conclude reverently
that You and i
are one

the strife and anguish
that challenges my glee
sadly resides in me
but as thy servant James spoke
i count it all joy
so i give my yoke of burden
unto thee

this unceasing breath
that fills my breast
many times goes unnoticed
in my conscious
but i embrace it just the same
with the love of life

yes, i am thankful

the attitude of gratitude
does elude me
many a day
for as a man
i do not always understand
Your ways
but i do remember
what you said
for it forever plays
in my head
that “your Ways are not my Ways”

this does beckon me
to Trust in your judgment
and i am thankful,
for if i had to do it
i would screw it

i am thankful for all the challenges
you have adorned my path with
for i am the Wiser
the Stronger
the more determined
in my stumbling
my bumbling

it is that darkness
i have learned the nature of Thy Light
and i Fight for it
without fail
within me
and the world about me
I am thankful

this day, my cup is overflowing
for this day i rest in the knowing
that You Father still love me
and i feel this
this existential bliss
this kiss of life
filled with possibilities
for what i may become

so in summing up this brief relief
of what my heart seeks to speak
there is but 3 words
i know you have heard
so many times before
and that is
“I Am Thankful”

© 29 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Inner Child Enterprises: we believed . . . didn’t we

Inner Child Enterprises: we believed . . . didn’t we

we believed . . . didn’t we

we believed

a dimensions apart
a world never capable
of being imagined
where all is surreal

miracles litter the way
and the middle eye
is one of manifestation
and all thoughts actualize

Alice knew not of this place
and Dorothy could not face it
and i long to taste it
as do all souls
once again

such things
as warmth and cold
exist not
and we forgot
what the absence of time feels like
haven’t we

in our now fantasy
we see through
kaleidoscope glasses
nothing is clearly defined
so we refine the illusions
with loosely gathered allusions

minds askew from reality
whatever that may be
and what do we truly believe
at our prime level
do we really understand
how to revel in joy
we branded rebels of the realm

at the helm of our consciousness
which i term my private asylum
there is a madman
standing in judgment
of things that do not matter

like the mad hatter
we pacify ourselves
with the changing of the costumes
or the parts thereof
we remain lost
tossed in the void
where we dream of a substance
we term life
which exists not
at any sustainable
where the insidious
become a ridiculous
in our conformity
to the programs
that are running in our heads

and here in this limited
exposure to self
we feel justified
because we have learned
how to manipulate the delusion
coming to an inane conclusion
that we are OK

we embrace ourselves in love
from the left hand
self condemnation and purgatory
ushered forth
from the right-mindedness
of our needs
viscerally so

and when i attempt to ask the question
“what do i know”
Truth is
if i can call it that
it is like the fat of the Lamb
up in smoke
just like David said it would be
in some Psalm or another
and my Mother
she never warned me about this

i kiss the bliss i never quite had
just like my Father, my Dad
who too yearned
to make a way
through this wilderness . . .
bless them

and the quest continues
and contextual fabrics
of my reality
being shredded
in my reflective examinations

the damnation of overt scrutiny
offers no solace
but for a blink of that eye
which is infected,
a Stye
blurring all perceptions
when i ponder eternity
and certainly with age
it gets no better
save when i lie
to self again

i hear the Dogs barking
would that be some sort of alarm
that the Thief has entered the gate ?

and men with undeterminable Egos
run to get their Capes
laced with a fear
and the need to show the world
we have some courage
to transform the norm
of our little selves
into Gods

i laugh at this juncture
for the tincture of truth
still burns the wound
as i contusivley observe
in my concussive state,
my own alacrity for stupidity
“Oh Quixotic One when will you get the lesson?”

so . . .
i grab my gun
loaded with subterfuge
and the deluge of reason begins
and in conclusion
i resolve this . . .
thou art my enemy,
my friend,

and the dichotomous ghost
awakens once more
and haunts my weary
tear laden soul
but i worry not
for the hole in my heart
does serve it’s purpose
alleviating the angst
i once so dearly cared about

i could simply say . .
“i don’t give a fuck”,
but that would be a confession
even my indifferent self
can not bare in the open,
the light
that transcends opposites
in my behavior

Man . . .i am still stuck
looking for a Savior

so i shout silently
that i not disturb your solemn rest
lest you are ready
for if we do chose to awaken
we must voluntarily
spit upon the graves
of who we used to be
or who you think
you may have been
for the many eons
we have slumbered
resting in an uncertain peace

and who was it that said
“the Least shall lead a nation”
and to my reasonable elation
i am cool with that
for it does appease some aspect
of this itch for
what lies beyond the door
of the horizons
we peer at
leer at
from our spat upon graves

behave the voice said
was that in my head alone
or did you hear the echo as well
of your own voice
in the empty halls
save for pictures and visions
of fading dreams

and as much as i deliberate
about the sheer ecstasy
of total liberation
there still resides my anguish
and i ultimately surmise
but one thing

and that is . . .
the sin of it all
we believed . . . didn’t we

© 28 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

"'I' lay down my life that i may pick it up again, for 'I' have the power to do so"

Sunday, February 26, 2012

for you, for me, from me to you

for you, for me, from me to you

my ship is sinking
for my tongue
has been loosed

i speak on things
which i should not
i think on things
which seek to but pierce my hull
giving way my life’s buoyancy

“be mindful of what
proceeds from thy mouth”
or something like that
was something i read somewhere
i do believe
it was a scripture
or at least ought to be

it is my own now
and somehow
i must employ it
more often

like Cow Shit
in the pasture
mixed with the food we must eat

who would have thought
words were digestible
when poisoned
and laced
with traces of our own discontent
we must eventually face
that which
we have for self
that we transfer to others
our Sisters
our Brothers

those sails
that gather winds
that i may traverse my Seas of life
have holes in them
as they seek to gather
a new breath
tattered and torn

My brother, Wind
whispers to my soul
that a whole billow
makes for a lovely pillow
where hope for better ‘morrows lie

yet lies about what is about us
and my sails
are less than diligent
in their seeking
to do their duty
for the bounty
and the booty
of life’s spoils
will never be mine
if i do not mind
that which i toil for

yes, my ship is sinking
ever so slowly
as i descend
ever so lowly
in the ways of schisms
betwixt me and you
with criticisms
and man made created “isms”
to justify my perspectives
which are naught but
mostly useless electives
and selectives
of how indifferent we can be
when it comes to
our own directives
and the way we should go
you know
what i mean

and in the mean time
we do not see
there is only one Sea
and we all are sailing our ships
and remember what they said . . .
“Loose lips Sinks Ships”

end piece

© 26 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Announcing : Inner Child Magazine Launch : Coming March 1st

Saturday, February 25, 2012

us for Breakfast

us for Breakfast

it was a day like any other day
or so it seemed
heart was beating
with no direct input from me
Thank God
for i would most certainly screw it up
or forget to keep my mind to task
if i had to be responsible

The chest was still grabbing that air
except when i intervened
to draw on my cigarette

i went outside
like i do every morning
to offer my obeisance, prayer and gratitude
for just being here

i looked about me
the trees were still . . . . trees
standing rooted in the earth about me
still swaying to a light wind
while reaching for the heavens

was i emulating them,
or they mocking me ?

the sky was a very light blue
the Sun was what the Sun was
slightly warm, slightly yellow
all light
but . . .
it appeared to be in a different place
than yesterday at this time

i pondered this
and minds like mine
like that
early morning thoughts to play with

and then the variety of considerations came
and the game of possibilities began

just supposed the Sun is really moved
but 15 degrees to the north ?
or was it Mother who has shifted ?
what would happen ?

would the Earth open up
and swallow us for breakfast
from Kosovo to Texas
from England to Japan
man . . .
that’s funny
the powerlessness of man

i wondered then
where does all these thoughts go ?
are they being stored someplace ?
a place where i would meet them again
Lorde knows there are many i would like to forget
have them wiped from my memory
for i am not anxious to know
that they too are eternally mine

these thoughts . . .
will they ever complete themselves
be reconciled
unto their own path
or are they destined to wander
waiting in some suspect position
to ambush me again
mug me again
to encounter and struggle
like Jacob ?

break my Thigh Divine Angel
and then redeem me
rename me
let me become a nation

they were meant to be lost
not for me to re-find
that junk
and disdain
and pain
and nonsense
that once made sense
in my sickened mind
you know what i mean
yes, the mean stuff
towards self
and others

i think i forgave my self
but i do still faintly remember
some incidences
and the defenses
of my less than valiant character

how the thought of being perished
brings upon us
these not so cherished moments
yet we hold on to them
in memory of our almost dead pasts
that lasts
and lasts
and lasts
always casting shadows
into our presence
a gift
a contribution of sorts
to our Karma i guess

a test perhaps ?

sometimes i think this but a school
you know .. .  life
and fools like me never get it
or do we ?
and just do not confront
those items
we hide in the back of our closets
along with that child we once knew

Viktor Frankl spoke
of our existentialism
and the schisms betwixt self
and reality
me . . .
i got plenty of them
i thought it was my job to create them
isn’t that what dreaming is for
to escape who we are
to go in our proverbial kitchens
and bake cakes
with pretty colorful icings
so that we can lick the bowls
of our bowels of reason clean
and pretend we are desert
for the world about us
pretend the world likes us

which ushers forth another concern
before i burn
so they tell me
and that is trust
why is it always the unseen ?

that being the situation
we all can believe in whatever we choose
couldn’t we

but in the end
i do not think it would stop
the Earth from swallowing
us for Breakfast
do you ?

after all . . .
do not we eat our young too?

© 25 February 2012

the day 200 feet of snow fell out of the sky

the day 200 feet of snow fell out of the sky

we all died

© 25 February 2012

Sunday, February 19, 2012

will that do for you ?

will that do for you ?

i bowed
in the deepest of reverence
for i had an offering

within my hands
there was my heart
and i offered it to life
that i may fully live

i knew naught of anything else
save Trust
for God was seen
in all things
and without

i felt the Presence of the Greater
in my thoughts
my intent
my deeds
my wishes and visions too
which is why
i have always sown seeds like this
to touch needs like this
in myself
and possibly you too

i remember,
do you . . .
when we did not carry heavy things
upon our shoulders of reason
but somehow
we reasoned that “Gift of Conviction” away
while trying to adapt
and please others

many times i asked myself
why do i bother
and i realized
i was afraid of the loneliness
of walking my own path
with no crowd cheering
no naysayers jeering
validating my rights
to rebuke them
as i refuted my own glory
of being
can you see
where i am going with this ?

i remember when life Kissed me
. . . often
and i kissed her in return

her very breath was my lover
and she reminded me
of our bond of joy
with every heartbeat

take a seat here son
i have a story to tell
one for the ages
one that all the Sages speak of
about the Love

you see
a long time ago
more than we now know
there was this place
that was not a place at all
until the call came
in the name of you
the name of me
and we
shall call Him, She, It Father
or whatever you wish or rather
for the words, they really do not matter
but they “DO”
yes words “DO”!

He spoke those words
“Let It Be”
famous now
and somehow
life began
Man will never quite understand
or will he
the Power of the Word that “BE”
can you see
what i am saying here

and from that point on
there was not only the Dark
but the Dawn
that we,
would have something to live for
vie for
as we look for
that door
to our liberation
from our own ghosts,
our exacerbation
from the deliberations
we hold as truths in our reason
season in . . . season out

and through each day of our lives
the Sun does rise
we still bring doubts to the table
feeding the lame and the able alike
while disabling
becoming the less
than valiant dreams
within and without

it is our own very psyche
that deludes us
as we have lost our trust
in the greater of things
we once knew so intimately

so we invented Faith
that we may believe
in that which we conceive
oh the woe in that statement

we are told
and reminded that
if we believe we can achieve
such things
we use to just speak of and see
as we watched them actualize
before our eyes
before the advent of time
did arise
to interrupt our flow
of what we once took for granted
“The Know”

i ask you
did you know that . .
You are God manifest ?

That is the test of all souls
to come to realize
that the stories you are told
are just that “Stories”
Fables and Lies
whether White or Black
they are all cute diversionary synonyms
to keep you separated from Him
or Her
or It
for goodness sake
awake my child

well, back to the Garden
where the fruit is sweet
and you are complete
in the knowing
that you are the Wind
the Moon
the Stars . .
you are the Near, and the Far
the seen embraced
in what is not readily faced

dare i impugn
that you are all things
that’s a twist on logic
for you “Are”
but simply listen to this
you are
God Manifest
and Ordained
it’s plain you see
if you choose to
simply Be

let me take task here
and simply ask you dear
If that which is “Perfect” created a thing . . .
what is that thing ? . . .
can it be any less ?

Let us stop all this confessing
to unknown Sins
we are born in
again and again
and gather the lesson
and get off this deluded Merry Go Round
where all are Dizzy
and busy
creating Haunted Houses and rides
for you to be induced to abide
and be absently happy
with the doled out Candies
Cottony and soft
dreams aloft
with our commitments to truth
aloft as well
while we scoff and tell
more nursery rhymes
to the children

the Son does go down
at this Circus
where all the Clowns
with Scary, Silly faces of surreal Truths
continue the venue
of make believe
and we are entertained
and we remember our pain
don’t we

yes . . . let us “Make Believe”
that we are free
to be what we wish to be
Happy dammit

will that do for you ?

© 20 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.



my words are not shared
for the purpose of entertaining you
though you may find some musing within them

nor are my words offered for the purposes
of sustaining you
that you must do for your self
get your God to help
whatever that may be
or whom He / She or It
is to you

my words reflect my pathway
my thoughts
my feelings
the floors
my ceilings
i experience
throughout my journey

some may say it is my struggle
that is ok
for they are right
the days
the nights
i travel
are that of my own

they may be somewhat recognizable
but don’t even try
to walk my path
find your own tours
and enjoy the sightseeing
you are paying for

whether by bus or train
the pain of it’s brevity
leads not to any particular levity
though we smile anyway

we tell stories
“Fish Stories” i think
to others and our selves too
about the Fairies and Elves we conjure
to make our lives dismally magical

i once did find a 4 leaf clover
and many 3 leaved ones i split
to sometimes 4
and many times more
as i dreamed of the possibilities
of deliverance

to where from what
ha ha ha

heaven some may call it
me, i just don’t know
many claim they do

i think that is what Faith covers
the ambiguity of the unseen
while we lazily await a harvest
from some seeds sown
yet we keep not the garden
with the same ardent behavior
with which we dream
do we ?
pardon me . . . .

and Ultimately
whatever that signifies
there may be truth
and many misogynistic lies
we happily hug and cling to
and we are not that much different
are we

wanting what is the Ultimate
but we really do not want to face it
with any semblance of finality
though we pretend to chase it

we would rather dream
and create visions of pretense
while sitting on the fences
of the defenses
of the self pretenses
colored by lore handed down
passed around
from ear to ear
fear to fear
tear to tear

is that queer or what
the butt kissing
and licking
and my bic is not flicking properly
cause it is made in Taiwan
yet Opie and Ron
Howard that is
are one and the same
though the names may differ
to feed you disconnectedness

and during this mess
as our ships are listing
threatening to drowns us
thus, we are poor swimmers
when it get’s right down to it
bottom dwellers are we ?
perchance ?

so ultimately
let me dance
as the clown in the court
a Jester gesturing
giving life the “Bird”
and those things i once heard
let me forget them as well
and then
at lease ultimately
i will be present


© 18 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

not any more . . .

not any more

i gnash my teeth upon the bone
of myself
i have already rendered my flesh apart
i am dying
leaving all evidence
of my old self behind

i can no longer fight this battle
in the bowels of my reason
where i attempt
with all due feebleness
to digest the ways of this world,
at least not that which i see
or i think represents me
and you

this is not a new trial
but the same one from of old
the one i have been scolded about
the one that makes me doubt
my own soul
and it’s validity
and the insipidness
i can no longer address
with my energy

my psyche is overrun
with figuring just how
right now
to make it all fit
and that shit never balances
any of my equations
until i apply
from other dimensions
and give them life here

and fear has become my friend
for i have, like you
come to depend on it’s presence
and i dance
in those same halls of reason
that rebukes me
refutes me
as i temporarily
act the part
apart from me
and all i suspiciously
may desire to be

i spoke to God this morning
i think
and perhaps
He is that instinct
that speaks through the shadows
of our hauntings

eerie it is
yet today i followed,
and that shadow
became my light

the cloak of deception
i adorned
to not be scorned
by the masses of asses
i embraced,
and then i faced me
and i saw naught
but myself
in “Self’s” mirror

and the flesh of past personas
melted in the face of this truth
and bone and marrow remained
as the skeletal frame work
of hardened, molded dust
and then time peeked through my eye
and i . . .
was no more
yet more than all

and now the calling of
the chaos has subsided
for where i once resided
lies ruins of who i use to think i be
and i no longer have need
to suck the marrow
from my narrow perspectives
i offer to the abyss
where naught may desist
nor resist
the coming of this age
where teachers and students
sages and disciples
you and i
can drink the spirit of the Water Bearers
as they pour their offerings
upon the earth

and for what that is worth
i hunger nor thirst
not any more

© 18 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Friday, February 17, 2012

at the cross

at the cross

at the cross
betwixt my compassion
and the realm
of my protective psyche
i am being nailed

my hands have holes in them
and i can neither grasp
nor hold to
and valid logics
nor reason
as to why we are,
so i cling to the etheric qualities
of beliefs
of which are unseen

yes Father, am i forsaken as well
i ask
do tell me
that the crooked paths of life
i have walked
is the right way
and will become straightened
some day

my soles are bleeding
from the spikes of retribution
that have also penetrated my heart
and i leave a trail of blood
evidencing my departure
from that realm
which once embraced my solace

i pray you not take nor follow
my private journey of anguish
nor learn my language
for i know you have your own
to bear
as reason chokes
the light out of it’s own sanctity

i sit here enveloped
in the folds of time.
we fare well together,
she indifferent
i weary
silently awaiting new fears
to be borne
and manifest unto my here-ness
and each one comes to test my resolve

and “time”, she leaves a trail as well
softly etched in the sands of memory
moved by the light winds
laden with wisping values

in my consciousness,
there is a reaching

i am aware
that the effigies
do fade
with each cresting testing wave
that comes to kiss my shores
leaving remnants of other lands
for further examination
and scrutiny
of my mutinous convictions

another juxtaposition
another cross
is visited upon me
that i again may chose
there is no winning nor losing

there is the horizontal plane of “be”ing
and or allowing
and thus the vertical-ness
of ascension
or descension . . .
i smile
my dissension overcomes me

my legs are not broken
and i shall walk on
even with this aching stitch
in my side
from the silly wounds of persecution
and mockery

my compassion is ever abound
and it does pain me
to see so much woe
within me
about me
within you

in the end
i defend valiantly
most times
the rights of passage
resurrection of the hallowed things brings
e’en if the victory
does appear shallowly hollow

and as i resuscitate,
massage the heart of my inner child
back to life
i tell him the Sun comes soon
and all will be ok
even if at times we do express
redress our indifference
with pretty costumes
so none
may assume they know of
our true identity
for this is our lot
to bear this cross
of the lost

yet . . .
let us be mindful
e’en in our woefulness
to not throw the baby out
with the bathwater
while we offer reverent obeisance
penance and prayer
in our suffering here
bearing the weight of life
at the cross

© 14 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Pain and Butterflies

Pain and Butterflies

Is there a pain upon the wings of the Butterflies

Teasing men to dream of what not may be

I see

You see what ?

Dreams crumbling


Out of our heads


Who said they would come true

Not me

Was it you ?

Flying all sweetly

Completely oblivious

Of how the living are dying


For beautiful

Never to be fulfilled

Blood is still being spilled

While gardens of expectations

Are tilled

By the blind

Carving crooked furrows of thought

In our minds

Hey you

I am having a 2 for 1 sale

On doctrines

And get on Prayer Rote free

Will you buy a few from me

Let me see

What do you like

Ole Skool

New Skool

I got the tools

That will help you sleep

And keep you from truth

What ever that may be

Just watch the Butterflies

Oh, by the way

Have a look at our flowers

Over there

In that section marked

Pain and Butterflies

© 15 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

A WIP Prompt Joint

Pain and Butterflies

I am listening to now

I am listening to now

I hear the muscles in my bowels
Doing it’s digestive duties

I hear the breathing of life,
I listen as the air rushes into my nostrils
And fill my lung cavity

I hear the beating of my heart
And it’s attempt to keep pace
With it’s own perceptions of life
And it does well

I hear the bird in the wood
Calling to the day
Letting all know that life speaks

I hear the stillness of that very wood
And the reaching of every limb
Of every Tree
To the heavens

I hear the sneaking yet not silent footsteps of thought
Tickling my consciousness to come to play with them
This day
I smile

I hear my expectations
Wailing for fulfillment
Crying against it’s own limitedness to dream
So i let them go
That i may re-create them
More grander than before
And again i smile

I hear delusions being manufactured
In a concept of peace within
But is it ?

I hear your call for this same

I hear God speaking
Am i He
Am i She
Am i simply me
Manifest ?

I hear the evolution of past to now
And somehow it is believable
For at one time
That now was conceivable
As it is “Now”
And hear i am
Hearing the footsteps already expressed
That i address through this time’s illusion
Amidst the confusion
That which i ignored

I hear this smile on my face
Humming along
Singing the song
Of Universes yet to be born
And birth them “I” will
That we may ever seek

I hear this week is gone
Yet it is still awakening
In lessons
Yet to be embraced

I hear the approach of Chance
And i listen as it
Knocks upon the door of opportunity
And i pay attention
As they greet each other
With indifferent salutations
To the dawn

I hear the soft footsteps in the Garden
As we creep through life
Wanting to Dance
But our limbs are frozen in fear
Wanting to sing
But doubt paralyzes our voices
Yet i hear you
I hear me

I hear the calling
For sleep
And that call we all will answer
Won’t we

I hear the warmth in my ears
As the blood rushes to my lobes of consciousness
To attune my listening prowess

And as i said
I hear God in all things
Do you
Are you listening
I Am
You Are
The I Am
Are we not
When we listen
I am listening to now

© 15 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Professor Owsley was it ?

Professor Owsley was it ?

she tied the ribbon around my neck
it was pretty
a bit too tight
for my liking
i was choking
and they were laughing

the road has been long
and i have been longing
for it to come to an end
but will it

i think at times it is
but an ever changing circle
a carousel spinning fast
faces passing me
dizzying me
where is the Wizard
is this Oz again ?
cause i see yellow bricks again
or maybe i am hallucinating
overcome with anticipating
an answer to my prayers

is “HE” awake yet ?
well, go get the Son you fool
oops, ‘scuse me
i apologize for my . . .  whatever
i’m only human
can i go sit on the throne ?
he will never know will he ?

the flowers are swaying again
in the wind
offering their ”Poppy –esque” fragrance
a free pass to temporary escape-isms
where all schisms and isms are welcomed

i actually have more than 2 cents
with no sense of restraint
when it comes to giving it
living it
did Alice call
that hole sucking harlot
i mean Bitch
she makes my psyche itch
trying to figure it out
and her thing for rabbits
and other furry gremlins

didn’t we just past that burning bush ?
‘scuse me
while i do my Hendrix word play
oh say, can you crookedly see ?
cause we don’t see shit straight
all is askew
though you knew
that Disneyland
is for the living dead
so why don’t you
take a seat over there
in my head
the twilight zone
yes right there
while i tighten this ribbon

Professor Owsley was it ?

© 12 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Owsley Stanley (born Augustus Owsley Stanley III, January 19, 1935 – March 12, 2011) also known as Bear, was an essential and transitional personality in the development of the San Francisco Bay counter-culture. His early activities spanned the Beat-era years of Ken Kesey's Merry Pranksters scenes, but he played an equally important role during the explosion of 1960's Psychedelia culture. As a brilliant and eclectic crafts-person, he became best known simply as 'Owsley'- the paradigmatic LSD "cook" (underground chemist) - a magician-like figure. Stanley's inventive spirit was not limited to chemistry, either. Under the professional name of "Bear", he was internationally celebrated, becoming an iconic figure (producer, engineer & artist) to psychedelic rock band the Grateful Dead's international fan "family", and still honored among subsequent generations of jam band music fans.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

magic . . . MA only

magic . . . MA only

do you have that magic baby
is magic what you got
do you have them magic hands
that makes a strong man hot

do you have that magic baby
is your game complete
when we’re done, the after taste
‘tis it bitter or be it sweet

do you have that magic baby
that makes me want you all night long
not the type that makes me smile
but makes me SCREAM passion’s song

do you have that magic baby
where my thirst is never quenched
my orgasmic dreams continue
i wake not if i’m pinched

do you have that magic baby
to make this wanton one cry
then make it all feel better again
to please you i’ll forever try

do you have that magic baby
let’s start it with a kiss
then i’ll submit to your desires
that i might taste your bliss

. . . do you have that magic baby ?