Medicine, purgatory and Wovenhand

Prepare the ground, the water, the eyes, the spirit, they all work vertically not horizontal. Some are calculated, some are intuitive, and sometimes the situation is created to have things work out as does a hungover Sunday sunrise.

Three gods lay at your feet David, their similarities easier to see than their differences. Old-timey drama like a house-call doctor and I think she’s gone now, doctor.

The lighting of the music is the live show ritual-ness of everything even a confession on my knees where the line both separates and unites heaven and hell.

It’s the little things memorable in the blood like the harsh daylight sunglasses and don’t look at me for no snakebite.

In the beginning was the word, a rigid psychedelia born of the pied-piper of originality and creating meaning with just a stone.

Action is in the border between things purgatory confronting the crooked cross and artistic genesis draped dripped silver decoration.

The ambience is thought itself, not technique in the isolated empty space where voices mutter through esoteric corridors.

Running-the-horses-harmonies. Elementary monk color white or brown and wavy gestures-in-tongues in the pre-lotus posture heavy.

Opposites are not opposites, like artists and shaman shepherds. Godly achievements last words anywhere, native first words.

The unborn Americana gnostic indulgence of a preacher Artaudian.