Category Archives: TRIP-N-OUT

MEMORY OF YOUR FACE

Burnt onto the pages of my ancient history, is the story of our love; a spiritual decree. Penned onto the memory of my simple, fleeting life, is the epic of our union, quite beautifully described. I am stunned by the depth of your soul. Shall I be forever mystified?

This evening, brazenly confetti’’d on a Hollywood freeway overpass, I saw your initials set upon a fractured heart. While my soul bleeds adoration in silence, I wonder if this is love’s crucifixion? Is this how Mary felt in the garden? No answer is of consequence, for what I shall remember long after I have died, is the memory of your face, indelibly inscribed.

CELESTIAL ORCHESTRATIONS ~ written and performed by SCOTT UTLEY 11.06.2018

I once witnessed

A brilliant galaxy platinum

Abruptly vanish

Into a hovering cloud

Of dense

Black erotic

*

I saw a stunning world

Hanging on a midnight sky

Like a black pearl

A world 

As our very own cobalt orb

Explode

Into self-red flames

Then stop to exist

*

I was once

A butterfly who loves

To dance in circles

To the beat of the sun

*

I’ve been charmed

By the ruby-red eyes

Of dusk ??

Swollen sky

*

Suspended

Mesmerized

I’ve been hypnotized

By defiant stars

Pelting Hercules ??

Over the Aegean Sea

*

A baby

Opens her eyes

For the very first time

And the Universe is born

Once again

 
*
 
Truly
 
Every face
 

Is the face of God

The lovely face of God

 
*
 
But
 
Never
 
Have I ever
 
Laid eyes
 
We are so beautiful
 
As you

MY PROPHET RISING

 

My prophet rises from snow-white sands. He is cut & bruised with bloody hands. His metamorphosis is marked by purple flowering feathered wings immaculately conceived. He reaches into the eye of the sky & fondles memories from before my time, back when this river flowed with twice its heart & the sky more volatile with twice its strike. When this desert land was twice as young, He walked along these very skies now dusked across my mind like a churning holy electrical explosion. 

My prophet rises from the deep blue sea with gaping wounds for all to see. His metamorphosis is marked by the inhalation of deep & conscious breath. His yellow diamonds are draped upon his brawny chest strung side by side with cosmic thread. He is future, present & the past. He’s courage fed by fathers brave & mothers strong. They’ve taught him well, both right & wrong. This world unceasingly expands its view. With opened eyes & a child’s pride, He is my harness. I love this ride.

My Prophet rises. I am He. I’ve wept in pain but now I’m free. Upon this sand, my heart is burned. There is so much I have to learn. My metamorphosis is marked by the song of my soul echoing through the cathedral of my mind. I know I am more than looks perceive. My well is full. I have no greed. Christ is here & surely bleeds. He is my lover. I am He.

 

 

 

 

 

THE CHILDREN OF BLISS STREET

tn TheFallofSupermanV4

WRITTEN BY SCOTT UTLEY

“STOOPS TO NUTS”

WOODSIDE-QUEENS-NEW YORK CITY

A WARM SPRING DAY IN APRIL,1972.

BLISS STREET IS A VERITABLE BEEHIVE OF ACTIVITY. STICK BALL PLAYERS OUT CUSS EACH OTHER FOR ATTENTION. A FIRE ENGINE IN FULL THROTTLE SCREECHES UP THE STREET WHILE VARIOUS NEIGHBORS CONVERSE FROM ONE APARTMENT WINDOW TO THE OTHER. THERE are SINGING AND LAUGHTER MIXED IN WITH THE VIOLENT RACKET OF ARGUMENTS BETWEEN ALL SORTS OF PEOPLE; OLD, CHILDREN, EVEN ANIMALS CAN BE HEARD IN EACH DIRECTION OF BEAUTIFUL 46 STREET OR ‘BLISS STREET’ AS IT IS DESIGNATED UP AT THE ‘EL’ (ELEVATED) SUBWAY STATION ON QUEENS BOULEVARD.

EDITH PASSES IDA’S GROCERY STORE ON THE CORNER AND MAKES HER WAY UP THE BLOCK TO 48-25-46 STREET; THE THIRD COURT OF THE METROPOLITAN APARTMENT COMPLEX. A GREAT BEAUTY AGING BADLY, EDITH HAS FIERY RED HAIR TEASED UP IN THE FASHION OF THE DAY. HER PIERCING, ROYAL BLUE EYES CONTRAST BOLDLY WITH HER BRIGHT, RUBY RED PAINTED LIPS. SHE IS HUMMING A POPULAR UPBEAT TUNE FROM 1942. (DON’T SIT UNDER THE APPLE TREE) HER SONG IS INFECTIOUS. EVEN THE SPARROWS JOIN IN WITH HARMONY. OUR FOCUS SEAMLESSLY SHIFTS FROM BLISS TO THE PORTAL OF THE THIRD COURT’S GRIT. EDITH SURVEYS HER NEIGHBORHOOD WITH QUICK AND WEARIED GLANCES WHICH SHE ALTERNATELY PUNCTUATES WITH BURDENED SIGHS AND THEN CAREFREE GIGGLES. EDITH IS THE SOUL AND THE DREAMER OF A HOME COURT CONGREGATION OF THREE.

EVELYN AND LORETTA STROLL ONTO THE STOOP FROM INSIDE THE COURTYARD. BOTH WOMEN ARE DRESSED IN TICKY TACKY CAFTANS. EVELYN IS A SHORT ROTUND FIGURE OF A WOMAN. SHE HAS CHILD’S EYES. HER ESSENCE IS THE COMPOSITE OF A NAIVE STURDY FRAGILITY. SHE IS LOADED WITH IDIOSYNCRASIES. SHE SQUINTS HER EYES WHEN SHE TALKS. SHE PONDERS THINGS AS A BEWILDERED CHILD MIGHT. SHE IS A PARADOX. SHE IS THE SALT OF THE EARTH. EVERYTHING IS A MYSTERY TO HER BUT SHE SOMETIMES CUTS TO THE POINT LIKE A KNIFE. SHE IS THE HEART OF THIS TRINITY.

LORETTA POSSESSES THE SAME DEGREE OF KINDNESS AND COMPASSION EDITH AND EVELYN HAVE, BUT HER HEART IS NOT WORN ON HER SLEEVE AS IT IS WITH HER PARTNERS IN CRIME. SHE IS KEENLY PERCEPTIVE. SHE IS THE SENTINEL WHO GUARDS HER FLOCK. SHE POSSESSES A VAST INTELLECT WHICH  SEEMS QUITE OUT OF PLACE IN THE THIRD COURT. SHE IS A RATHER TALL WOMAN WITH TRUE RED HAIR AND THE FRECKLES AND OCEAN BLUE EYES OF AN IRISH LASS. SHE SEES THE FUTURE WITHOUT EFFORT BUT SHE STRUGGLES TO UNLEASH THE GHOSTS OF HER PAST. SHE IS THE PHILOSOPHER QUEEN OF THIS CABAL.

tn SunnysideShoppingCenter97

EDITH

Hi, Evelyn. Hi, Loretta. Hot today, huh?

EVELYN

86 degrees. Unusual for April. Why don’t you take your coat off?

EDITH

I’m an idiot, that’s why. Why do you think why?

EVELYN

Why? I don’t know why. It’s hot. I don’t know why it’s so hot.

EDITH

Oh, shut up, will you? (Edith indicates to the women she is concealing something under her coat. They both nod in understanding.) Have you seen Scott?

LORETTA

A couple of hours ago. He and Patty were heading up to the cemetery.

EDITH

Oh, for Christ’s sake. I told him to stay away from her. She’s trouble. (Edith arranges items in her girdle).

EVELYN

But Edie, Scott is a good looking boy. He should be on TV. Why don’t you get him on TV, huh?

EDITH

What the hell has that got to do with Patty Ann?

LORETTA

She’s just saying, Edie.

EVELYN

I’m just saying.

EDITH

That and five cents will get you a cup a coffee. Where’s other one, whatshername, numb-nuts?

EVELYN

You mean April? Why don’t you say April? Why are you so strict with her? She’s very nice. She has a beautiful figure. She’s very popular with the boys on the corner.

EDITH

What do you mean, she’s popular on the corner? Get out of here. Have you seen her?

EVELYN

She’s cute. Don’t you think so, Loretta?

LORETTA

Very cute.

EVELYN

Nice figure. Especially for her age.

EDITH

I mean, have you seen her? What the hell are you on?

EVELYN

Say what you mean.

LORETTA

She was up on the corner with one of the Kelly boys about ten minutes ago. Another bad day, huh?

EDITH

So where is she now?

EVELYN

She’s around someplace. Jeeze. Definitely a bad day.

EDITH

Ass kicker. Foreman’s a friend of mine. Black fellow, real nice. Pulls me aside this morning tells me the gig is up. Someone’s blown the whistle. So I hide my stash in the men’s toilet bowl. Five minutes later security comes in and frisks the whole assembly line. Everyone was fired except me. I feel sorry for them. What are they going to do now?

LORETTA

What a damn shame. Those poor girls. What the hell they suppose to do for a living now?

EDITH

That’s what I ask?

LORETTA

What about all the orders I got? I have them up the yin yang.

EDITH

Yeah? (Hopefully.) There’s plenty. I can’t barely breathe with all the crap I swiped today. I took extra just in case. One never knows, do one? God Bless Elizabeth Arden.

EVELYN

God bless her.

[Edith retrieves her grocery bags and climbs the stoop.]

EVELYN

What should we tell April and Scott if we see them?

EDITH

Tell em to kiss my ass! (Edie laughs.)

EVELYN

Edie!

LORETTA

Edie, you should watch your mouth around here.

EDITH

Fuck you. (All three laugh.)

EDITH

You’re both Bozos. Bye-bye. If you see Scott and Johanna, April, Jo, April if you see them tell them to get upstairs if they want to eat. I’m tired. I’ll see you all later. Hell’s bells, I’m tired.

[Edith disappears into the dilapidated courtyard leading to her fifth-floor walk-up apartment.]

EVELYN

Have a nice day.

EDITH (O.S.)

Yeah, sure, you too.

EVELYN

What do you think, Loretta? Edie hasn’t mentioned Craig in what, how many? Three weeks? It’s not natural for him to get up and disappear. Not like him.

LORETTA

Can you blame him? He was holed up over in Manhattan at the VA. Six months? They drug everyone up there until they’re zombies doing the Thorazine shuffle. That alone would drive someone nuts. I don’t blame him walking off the ward. Still, where the hell is he? You’re right. Something isn’t right.

EVELYN

I thought he was over at Creedmoor?

LORETTA

That was Mickey.

EVELYN

Oh yeah, of course, Creedmoor. I had a cousin there. I was there. I had real problems then.

LORETTA

There wasn’t nothing the matter with Craig until he joined the Army. Nothing. I read those letters he sent back from boot camp. Paris Island? Paris my ass. Make it sound like a frigging resort. They beat the shit out of him down there. Those people are assholes. They send him to Viet Nam. Only seventeen.

EVELYN

It’s a shame.

LORETTA

It’s a damn shame.

EVELYN

Sure is.

[In the distance we hear the unmistakable chimes of an ice cream truck.]

EVELYN

Mister Softy, thank god. So late today, huh? Want something?

LORETTA

No, thanks. I’m on a diet…maybe a small vanilla…with chocolate sprinkles… (Loretta gives Evelyn change from her purse.)…and some nuts if he’s got any.

END OF SCENE ONE

tn LaundromatonGreenpointAve

DISSOLVE TO: INT. HALLWAY-GREEN FRONT DOOR-APARTMENT 5B

Edith fumbles with keys. Door swings open revealing interior. There is a small built-in nook to the right with a domed adjustable lamp hanging over a white-washed built-in table. An iron gate spans the inside of a window leaving little visibility. There are several Snake plants scattered about vying for air with several formally stray cats. The fire escape beyond the window doubles as a convenient way for some of the occupants of 5B to access the roof as well as escape natural disasters. Overlooking this touching pastoral hangs a cheap Woolworth’s faux gold-framed replica of Da Vinci’s ‘The Last Supper’. Edith steps into a puddle as she enters the apartment.

EDITH

Ah shit. Ginger! Did you pee on the floor again? Come out of that bathroom, you little… ah hell, it ain’t your fault, poor thing. It’s that bum’s fault, Scott.

[Edith sits down on the bench in the nook. She begins removing Elizabeth Arden cosmetics from under her brazier and girdle. This task seems to go on forever.]

EDITH (CON’T)

What’s this? (She holds up an eyebrow pencil for inspection.) Oh good, I forgot about that.

[Having finished with her inventory, shes sighs, removes her dentures, and then begins to sob for no apparent reason. From the direction of the street we hear the sound of April’s voice.]

APRIL (O.S.)

Teresa, you should talk, you’re the whore… (sounds of tin garbage cans crashing about).

[Edith races to the kitchen window next to the stove overlooking the alleyway below and shouts:]

EDITH

April, is that you? April? Answer me. April? Now! I’m going to come down there and knock the … April?

APRIL (O.S.)

Ow, that hurts!

EDITH

Hey Teresa, leave her alone, you hear me, Teresa?

TERESA (O.S.)

Yes, Mrs. Utley. I hear you, Mrs. Utley.

EDITH

Teresa, stop picking on her.

TERESA

Yes, Mrs. Utley.

EDITH

You little snot nose, how would you like it if I told your mother?

TERESA

I wouldn’t, Mrs. Utley.

EDITH

Get lost, Teresa.

TERESA

I will, Mrs. Utley. Have a nice night, Mrs. Utley.

EDITH

April, do you hear me?

APRIL (O.S.)

What?

EDITH

Get your ass up here. Right now!

APRIL

I’m coming, I’m coming.

[Edith moves away from the window and grabs a few paper towels which she then uses to wipe up the puddle she had stepped into at the beginning of this scene. While stooping down to manage that task, April bursts through the front knocking Edith onto her butt.]

EDITH

Watch it, will you?

APRIL

Sorry.

EDITH

How you like me to throw you out the window?

APRIL

I said I‘m sorry. What’s that on the floor?

EDITH

Ginger peed again.

APRIL

Great, I guess I have to go walk her now?

EDITH

Why? She already peed.

[Edith gets up off the floor and forgets to finish the cleanup.]

EDITH

And you’re not going anywhere. Where were you just now?

APRIL

I went to Ida’s to get a Yoo-Hoo.

EDITH

Evelyn said you were on the corner with the Kelly boys.

APRIL

She’s full of shit. She’s a liar.

EDITH

Why would she lie? And watch your dirty mouth, twinkle toes.

APRIL

She’s jealous.

EDITH

I’ll tell you one thing, if I catch you with that Marty Kelly one more time I’m going to send your ass back down to Mississippi.

APRIL

Why, you plan on having shingles again?

EDITH

You’re a pain in the ass. Where’s your dopey brother?

APRIL

How should I know? I haven’t seen him in weeks.

EDITH

Not that one, the other one.

APRIL

He’s having a nervous breakdown over at Bellevue.

EDITH

The other one.

APRIL

He’s down south someplace.

EDITH

You know damn well who I’m talking about, Mickey, Craig, Richard, whatever the hell his name is. Scott, where’s Scott?

APRIL

He went up to the Calvary to pick flowers with Patty Ann.

EDITH

He promised me he wasn’t going to do that anymore. Who in the hell would go pick flowers in the cemetery? What is he, a nut or something?

APRIL

Don’t ask me. You’re the one who had him.

EDITH

Smartass. One of these days someone’s going to knock you on the head. I wish he wouldn’t go there. It’s so dangerous.

APRIL

Not any more dangerous than hanging out in the Village every weekend. You don’t say anything about that, do you? But me? Oh no, I can’t even go to the frigging corner store without that stupid mutt.

EDITH

He’s older than you.

APRIL

The dog?

EDITH

Your brother.

APRIL

Which one?

EDITH

Scott.

APRIL

He’s only 14.

EDITH

So what? You’re only 11. Now get out of here before I smack you.

APRIL

My pleasure.

[We hear the clamor of footsteps and inaudible voices coming from the direction of the stairwell. April races to the door and cracks it open.]

APRIL

Scott?

JOHANNA

It’s me. I got Mike with me.

APRIL

What?

JOHANNA

It’s me. Johanna. Come get these bags.

APRIL

I can’t. Ma won’t let me go out into the hallway after dark.

MIKE

Put a light bulb on, that will help the situation.

APRIL

What’s a light bulb?

JOHANNA

You think you’re funny?

APRIL

Ma thinks so.

MIKE

What’s that smell, Jo?

JOHANNA

You promised me, Michael.

MIKE

It’s killing me. I’m dying out here. Smells like something crawled up someone’s butt and died.

JOHANNA

Shush. (Johanna giggles.)

MIKE

Well, it does.

JOHANNA

You can go to hell for saying stuff like that.

MIKE

It’s got to smell better than this.

[Just before Johanna and Mike reach the landing April heads for the bathroom unbuttoning her pink blouse as she goes. Edith pulls out a compact from her brazier and deftly applies another layer of cake onto her face. Mike walks into 5B first. He is hauling several bags of groceries which he drops to the floor. He turns to Johanna and whispers:]

MIKE

Smell that?

EDITH

Hey Michael, what’s your problem?

JOHANNA

Here are some groceries for you and the kids. We left the car running. No place to park and Mike’s got bowling tonight so we have to go anyway.

EDITH

Hey Mike, what’s your problem?

JOHANNA

Nothing.

MIKE

How you doing, Mrs. Utley?

EDITH

Fine, Mike.

JOHANNA

Here, Ma.

EDITH

Jo, we don’t need your money. Keep it.

MIKE

Buy some disinfectant.

EDITH

What did you say?

MIKE

Something that smells nice.

JOHANNA

He didn’t say anything.

EDITH

What are you saying?

JOHANNA

He didn’t mean anything.

EDITH

You think this place stinks?

JOHANNA

Ma, take this twenty dollars, you can use it.

EDITH

I said I don’t want it.

JOHANNA

Have you seen that blouse of mine?

EDITH

No.

JOHANNA

The pink one.

EDITH

No, I told you.

JOHANNA

April?

APRIL

No.

JOHANNA

I love it. I want it.

EDITH

What’s it worth to you.

JOHANNA

Ma, don’t play with me. I’ll start crying.

EDITH

You’re a big baby. April, get that damn blouse, will you?

APRIL

Where?

EDITH

Right where you left it.

APRIL

I never even ever seen it.

Edith

You did.

APRIL

I did not.

EDITH

You did too

APRIL

Didn’t.

EDITH

Get it, please?

[April caves in and heads for the bathroom.]

MIKE

Let’s go, Jo, this place is making me sick.

EDITH

What did you just say?

JOHANNA

Nothing Ma, we’re going.

MIKE

This place is a dump.

JOHANNA

Michael!

EDITH

You have some nerve. You try raising six kids, you goombah!

JOHANNA

Ma, he didn’t mean anything.

MIKE

I didn’t mean anything.

EDITH

Who the hell do you think you are?

JOHANNA

Ma, please.

EDITH

Get the hell out of here, you rotten guinea.

[Edith begins throwing anything she can find at Michael.]

JOHANNA

Ma! Ma! Ma, stop!

EDITH

Get out! You hear me? Your nothing but a lousy wop!

[April comes running out from the bathroom with a balled-up piece of cloth. She throws it at Johanna. Johanna catches the blouse and forgets for a moment her husband is about to be neutered. Johanna sniffs the blouse and screams out in horror.]

JOHANNA

What the hell did you do to it? You ruined it!

EDITH

(To Michael) Out! Get out! Get out of my house!

[Edith picks up a massive rococo style lamp from a table. April starts screaming. Michael heads for the door.]

JOHANNA

Ma, you’re going to hurt somebody.

APRIL

That’s the idea.

JOHANNA

April, why don’t you go cover yourself?

EDITH

Out of here. You hear me? You dumb dago!

APRIL

Yeah, you heard her, out.

JOHANNA

April, I’m going to smack your ass.

MIKE

Jo, I think Edie broke my arm.

EDITH

Good, you deserve it.

JOHANNA

This is a damn shame.

[The lamp Edith has been threatening Mike with, goes shooting through the air. It hits Michael in the back. All hell breaks loose. Johanna manages to help Michael to the door. There are words exchanged. Finally, Johanna and Mike are out the door and down the steps in a flash. Edith runs to the door. April follows after her. Edith shouts out into the void of the stairwell:]

EDITH

And don’t come back.

APRIL

You hear?

EDITH

You hear me?

APRIL

You hear her?

EDITH

Shush. Listen. Let me hear them.

[Total silence. You can hear a pin drop. After a few beats, Edith and April turn to face one another, and then they both break out in laughter.]

APRIL

What an idiot he is.

EDITH

I keep telling you.

APRIL

He’s a jerk.

EDITH

He’s stupid.

APRIL

He’s a danger to him and everything else.

EDITH

Look what he did to my lamp.

APRIL

He didn’t leave that twenty bucks either.

EDITH

He’s a cheap fuck.

APRIL

Tight ass.

EDITH

What do you want from a wop?

APRIL

Lower your voice, you don’t want Loretta to hear you say that.

EDITH

Say what? Dago? Guinea?

APRIL

No, wop.

EDITH

Wop, wop, wop, wop.

APRIL

Ma, stop it.

EDITH

I’m singing. You don’t like my voice? Guinea, guinea, guinea, wop, wop, wop.

APRIL

Ma, stop with the wop, just stop. Loretta will hear.

EDITH

What are you talking about? She’s not Italian.

APRIL

Her son is.

EDITH

Who, PJ? He don’t know nothing.

APRIL

Any soda in the kitchen?

EDITH

Cool Aid.

[Scott comes running into the apartment carrying a few dozen gladiolas.]

APRIL

About time.

SCOTT

Look what I got you, Ma?

EDITH

So pretty.

APRIL

You stole them from dead people.

SCOTT

I don’t steal. They gave them to me.

[Scott goes into the kitchen to find a vase.]

APRIL

Dead people gave you flowers?

SCOTT

The guards gave them to me.

APRIL

The guards are on strike.

SCOTT

So is your face.

EDITH

Don’t be funny, Scott.

APRIL

Banana face.

SCOTT

Bubblehead.

EDITH

Be nice, you two.

APRIL

I know you are but what am I?

EDITH

You two aren’t funny.

SCOTT

Ma, you want to know what I heard about April today?

APRIL

Hey you.

EDITH

Hay is for horses.

[There is a hard curt knock at the front door.]

EDITH

Who is it?

VOICE

Mrs. Utley?

EDITH

Yes? Who is it?

POLICE OFFICER ONE

Police.

EDITH

Who?

POLICE OFFICER TWO

Police.

EDITH

Police?

POLICE OFFICER TWO

Police officers. We’re with the Long Island City station. Is this Mrs. Utley?

EDITH

This is she. How can I help you?

POLICE OFFICER ONE

Mrs. Utley, we need to speak with you. It’s about your son. Open the door.

EDITH

Wait, hold on.

[Edith crosses to the chair next to the couch. April and Scott sit motionless as they witness the rest of this scene unfold. Edith grabs an overcoat and fusses with her hair. She crosses back to the door. She unlocks it as she speaks.]

EDITH

Did Mrs. Writz call you about the yelling? It’s not my fault.

POLICE OFFICER ONE

No, Mrs. Utley, Mrs. Wirtz didn’t call us.

EDITH

It’s that bum’s fault, my son in law, Michael. He’s nuts.

POLICE OFFICER ONE

No, Mrs. Utley, this is about your son.

EDITH

My son? You mean Scott? What the hell has he got into now? I told him stay away from the cemetery.

[Scott moves closer to April. The two of them stare in dread as they watch their mother‘s countenance change from one degree of concern to the other.]

POLICE OFFICER ONE

No, Mrs. Utley, it’s about Craig Utley. Do you have a son named Craig?

EDITH

Yes, I do, officer. He’s been missing. Is he alright? What happened to him? Did something happen to Craig?

POLICE OFFICER TWO

Yes, Mrs. Utley, something terrible has happened to your son.

EDITH

Oh no, what? Is he dead?

POLICE OFFICER TWO

There is no easy way to tell you this. We found his body in the East River this morning. It looks as though he had been in the water for a few weeks. If the weather hadn’t warmed up, we probably wouldn’t have found him. We’re sorry, Mrs. Utley.

EDITH

No, you’re mistaken.

POLICE OFFICER ONE

I’m afraid not, Mrs. Utley.

EDITH

You are. You are mistaken. He was fine a minute ago, just fine. He’s doing well. Ask his doctor, you’ll see. This must be some kind of a joke. It’s not funny.

POLICE OFFICER ONE

No, Mrs. Utley, this is not funny at all.

EDITH

My son is fine, I know he is. He’s going to call here any minute, you’ll see.

POLICE OFFICER ONE

I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. I wish it would, I really do.

EDITH

He is. He will. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

[Edith runs to the phone on the wall in the kitchen and picks up the receiver.]

EDITH (CON’T)

Call damn it, call. Johanna, tell him to call.

APRIL

Johanna’s not here.

[Edith slams the receiver several times into the phone’s cradle. She finally sits on the bench in the kitchen nook and begins to sob. Scott and April rush over to her and cradle her in their arms.]

APRIL

The phone was disconnected, remember, Ma?

POLICE OFFICER TWO

April, do you have the telephone number to a relative, an adult who may be able to identify Craig’s body?

APRIL

My sister’s husband, Mike, he can do it. He is the best one to call. You want his number?

POLICE OFFICER TWO

That would be wonderful, thank you, April.

POLICE OFFICER ONE

Mrs. Utley, we’re sorry. We are very sorry. This is the saddest thing we ever have to do. God bless you and your family.

END OF SCENE TWO

calvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

MOON BEING

Part of my face is an immense crater. It is here I spend all my free time,

sitting beside myself sipping tea on the lips of my cheek bones. 

We talk endlessly about your perfection; what a profound  defect of character that is. 

We then respond ad infinitum. We compare notes. We laugh, cry, and wistfully whine, 

sitting beside myself, sipping tea, watching you.

A FINE, FINE DAY

Let lovers be born upon holy ground on this fine, fine, day. May they grow happy, healthy and free. Let there be peacemakers born onto this earth on this grand, grand, day. May they follow the footsteps of Jesus, Gandhi, and King. Let there be shamans born into this world on this most spectacular of days. May every voice be a clarion call to lovers to love. On just such a day as this, may God open our hearts to a brand new way. Let there be laughter heard all over this world on this miraculous day. Let there be comfort in every heart everywhere on this love-laden day of days. Let there be peace all over this planet on this perfect day. Let there be joy. Let there be joy. Let there be joy everlasting on this fine, fine day.

EDGE OF THE WORLD ~ WRITTEN BY SCOTT UTLEY ~ BEAUTIFUL MORNING PERFORMED BY SENSATION

I followed the song of the nightingale through the forest to the edge of my mind. I remembered to cut lilacs from the bank of the creek as I raced to the place we first met.

The Muses found me naked singing lullabies to shooting stars over a blue harvest moon. Fearful for my sanity, they summoned the Elder Blue Sprytes  & Green Wood Elves; all very odd creatures revered for their great healing powers. Do you remember the cliffs of desire where we first met at the edge of the world near the temple of the heart where a forgiving ocean meets the grateful sky? Do you remember Frey, the golden bear who wished us well?  

The Elder Blue Sprytes were certain I must be either crazy or insane from hunger so they fed me cherry blossoms. They were trying to distract me with fantasies from the other side of time. 

The Green-Wood Elves insisted I was a sign from the great source of our belonging. They proudly displayed their magic to me. They showed me how they had learned to make stars sing. I had never heard a true symphony until that day.

They taught me how to expand my heart beyond what I had believed was its ultimate frontier. They showed me how they weave their magic spells with the hope I might finally free myself from the ghosts of my past & the image of you when we first met. I could never let that happen. Sometimes Green-Wood Elves can be so naive. 

I love this cliff near the den of the bear where the sky drinks the sea & mountains stand tall at the edge of my mind where we bathed in an ocean of forgiveness. That was 10,000 years ago but here I still stand. The Western Wind says you will be home soon. I knew you would return. Hurry. My whole world is waiting. I’m still holding lilacs too.

   
      

IS IT ANY WONDER? SOPHIE ELLIS BEXTOR ~ SCOTT UTLEY

I was born of vapor rising from the hairline cracks of skyscrapers. I could fly before I could run. I could run before I could walk. I’ve seen the world in flames. I’ve heard my mother sobbing. I know your pain because I am an old man dying. I am the wind that churns. I am a young bird weeping. I am the center of the hawk’s red-eye. Is it any wonder I cry so hard? Is it any wonder I laugh so loud? I am a towering tree. I’m a shooting star. I am the ocean I swim in, the mountains I climb, the lovers I’ve known, the light & the dark & the children at play. I am a song of souls singing this song called life. Is it any wonder? Life has always been perfect from the start. We’ve always known how to sing, yet we simply forgot the song until now. You see, you are an old woman speaking her wisdom to the universe. You are a young bird singing. You are its mother laughing all the way, every single day. Is it any wonder?

PERFECT FROM THE START

I was born a prodigal son with tattoos plastered across my face. In a mysterious & enchanting old-world script they said, “Dear Mother, I will recklessly forget your glory. I will scatter the riches you give me upon a sweet, naive & unsuspecting full moon. I will choose to suffer before healing. I will rip my soul to shreds. I will shine as bright as any star you have ever created. I will be folly before I flourish. I am your son. I am my mother’s son.
Love me. Laugh with me. Smile with me. I will fulfill your plans for me because underneath a veil of chaos, my heart will never forget that whatever your will creates is divine & cannot be separated from its source. Whether I remember it or not, my soul knows everything. My soul is the beating of your heart at midday. You rejoice in my healed and fractured mind because you know I know you never make mistakes.
And so it was. And so it is. So you see? I said, “Come and see’, and She saw. She did come & the entire cosmos did see that I was never unworthy of her love because she desires that all life should flower eternally with joy regardless of the path her beloved children choose to take. Is it any wonder why I cry so hard? Is it any wonder why I laugh so loud? I am the wind that churns. I am a young bird weeping. I am the center of the hawk’s red-eye and … it is hard to believe it’s been perfect from the start … yes … perfect from the start.
Growing up in the cracks of skyscrapers. I learned to run before I could walk. I’ve seen the world in flames. I’ve heard my Mother’s sobbing. I know your pain because I am an old man dying. I am the newborn’s breath. I am a tree standing tall and proud and … I am here to say it is more than fun or games or unbearable pain. It is joy and laughter. It’s the look of love and …
I am a young bird singing. I am its Mother weeping. I am the sun & I’m laughing all the way each & every perfect day. It is hard to believe but it’s been perfect from the start … every day in every way, yes, perfect from the start.

ALBERTO GIACOMETTI ~ SCOTT UTLEY ~ I’ll FIND MY WAY HOME ~ JON & VANGELIS

Our planet? A trillion times infinity. Our nation? Simply a quark in a maze that defies the logical, a  paradox more than brilliant surrealist expression. She is lost in a spiraling galaxy within the heart of modern man. Look overseas. Pierce your consciousness. Elucidate the meaning of your purpose. Speak your inquiries unto the southern hemisphere. Seek answers north, seek reason south, then reverse, about-face, repeat.

MY NAME IS PROPHET

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart.

The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter yet light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned! Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.

Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me, I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.

My mother was born & raised in New York City’s West Side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Opposites do attract but apparently, cosmic humor loves tragedy. Rarely does it make anyone laugh.

My mother and father did the best that they could to overcome their fate of birth relying on a passionate belief in the power of love. “Belief” and “knowing” are two different things. My parents eventually found a peaceful solace but in the arms of different lovers; my father, in the arms of another woman, my mother, in the love for her children. They taught me how to dig deep to survive. With great good fortune on my side, I discovered I loved getting my face dirty.
 
I wonder if being born deformed and senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul-numbing weight? I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

COVER ART: Scott Utley by Scott Utley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

My name is Prophet but they call me, ‘Hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I am diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine.

Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of the divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable