At a city intersection stood a man who spoke of trumpets in his head, an entire orchestra that performed solely for him. Bloated and shirtless, conducting the air with his hands, he stopped to twirl the ends of his beard before grabbing the torn wings of his coat as if preparing for flight. Passersby paused to take notice of this man who proclaimed he was a conduit, one of sound mind, incapable of resisting the beauty of this nonstop nightmare.

Excerpt from Light-Years in the Dark: StoryPoems (see more)

photo-art design by todd crawshaw