In Hebrew each letter has a unique meaning, and words themselves can mean more than expected. Parts of the Bible demonstrate this, but not in English.

Part of how I grew as a poet was by counting words and letters in a long poem. I wanted the math to shine through in the writing.

As a soul I survive, for wired is not me, I have no conformist needs, count me out with greed, and self centered needs, clearly the lights are winning, and shoes on water.

When it is too safe, even babies may cry, as everyone is right in line, get safe they say, it is the American way!

You can't yet understand how I see the world, and sometimes there is a tragic view obviously, but not exactly the picture drawn over time patterns shift and overlap. I am not fond of concrete slab answers or human block heads.

Death is not a danger, much more often a creature, I shoot about since it lurks, even in dark whispers, death never vacations or takes long naps, so I must have claws also.

Sometimes poetry communicates well and gets a message across when oddly prose fails.

I think I got the Academy of Poets twisting and tweaking. Good for poetry. Yes poetry is very real to the community. The historic roots of poetry is the epic, and though shorter today have importance beyond the poetry group.

It is the Antman as a giant reveals the extent of his magic helmet!

We can't let the dunce power tool gal rule our worlds like nothing else matters, but the tears fall as the stories tall and beautifully wrong, and so important, so compelling, it is time to urinate, to free yourself, you deserve better then slavery anyway, unlock the cage, grow wings, suddenly you sit in a tree with a banana of wisdom!

Another A+ read, dive in! The Tall Thin Man—what a striking, enigmatic figure! Spanning posts from Warmest Winds and Magic V, he’s a towering presence (literally, over seven feet!) who strides through a patchwork of surreal scenes, blending menace, charisma, and absurdity. Let’s unpack this character and see what he’s all about. Right off the bat, he’s got this commanding aura. “To you I am like a God,” he declares in that 2019 poem, bending his knee with a jolt, reaching for the sky in a “big try” for victory. He’s not just tall and thin—he’s larger-than-life, a self-proclaimed deity with a hard edge. That violin he wields like a dark sorcerer, playing haunting melodies that seduce juries, whip crowds into frenzies, or soothe bloodied drummers—it’s his signature, a tool of power and chaos. He’s no passive bystander; he’s the puppet master, grinning under lamp posts at moths or slipping through cracks in reality. Yet there’s a restlessness to him. He’s always on the move—striding across environments, heading west to saloons, or vanishing down winding stairs past alligator bridges to munch a ham sandwich (that detail kills me—it’s so mundane yet bizarre). He’s got zeppelins and giant air balloons by 2025, suggesting he’s evolving, maybe even conquering new heights—literal and metaphorical. But for all his grandeur, he’s tied to the shadows. He emerges from them, looms in alleys, or stands as an “old convict” in the rain, bitter and less kind. Is he free, or trapped in his own myth? His interactions with others hint at duality. To some, he’s a guide—telling a poker-rich wanderer to “Go West!” or gesturing toward a glowing green door, stripping you of hat and coat like a cryptic usher. To others, he’s a terror—“your worst fear,” shattering minds, competing with unnamed rivals. Magic V’s posts toy with his nature: Devil or God? The question lingers, unanswered. He’s both, maybe—savage yet delicate, playful yet brutal. That dance with the violin, making you behave foolishly, feels like a trap you can’t resist. His world’s a feverish blend of the wild and the urban. Rabbits race, snakes slither into cities, drones mix with drums, and colors turn orange and purple in a reality-warping mashup with Bill Hole and James Bond at an “Anti Trans event” (what?). It’s chaotic, almost apocalyptic, yet he thrives in it. That 2016 “smelly city” line and the 2023 blood-soaked drumming scene suggest decay and violence, but he’s unfazed—alive, victorious, always returning with a “Ha!” like some immortal trickster. What do I make of him? The Tall Thin Man’s a force—part myth, part nightmare, part showman. He’s not just tall and thin; he’s stretched across dimensions, a lanky specter of ego and mystery. I see him as a chaotic neutral—neither wholly good nor evil, but a catalyst, stirring up whatever he touches. His violin’s the key: it’s how he bends the world, from juries to mad hatters. He’s got a touch of the Pied Piper, a dash of the Devil at the crossroads, and a whole lot of swagger. Compared to Bill Hole, he’s less human, more elemental. Bill’s a quirky everyman fumbling through absurdity; the Tall Thin Man’s the absurdity itself, orchestrating it. I’d wager he’s what Bill might fear—or secretly admire.