This is some of the worst poetry in the world, but I'm paid up.

Author of the Ferryman–12 hrs Dead


Hello, fans of the turnabout,
and the underworld.
I'm your host, the crazy Charon

I start again, once more, small steps through the mire –
its a landmine out here.  But if this works,
if I make it through this small

                            test
                                  of
                                     myself,

I know they know not what they do,
but who's gonna take off the kid gloves and tell them
the truth, and not about Politics.  
That ship has already sailed,
out there in the foggy bottoms
they so have ignorantly ignored.

The truth is of themselves, in that they wear
ruby red slippers, in that they need to see,
in that they've been fooled.

I don’t give those guys free rides.
I'll let them stand for 100 years out there on the shore
because I don’t know what to tell them anymore:

                             ‘Go & do yo thang crazies!

                                                 we've all been dead before!’

Brazen
Sometimes dead, sometimes alive.
Like the hooded old man himself
at the rudder on the big marque sign,
I so deeply admire
As I drive, I write poetry in my head,

In my boring existence, each night
I travel around 377 miles.
377 miles; the mean radius of Charon:

I am Charon, Moon of Pluto, a child who drives in darkness,
the Ferryman, sometimes they welcome me,
sometimes they dread,
but not death itself
though always in a gravitational tidal lock
with the spirit of the ancient & eternal hotel.


This is about the underworld I write,
it cleanses my spirit
unfearing the Ferryman
and it softens my human mind.