Where is the King of Ireland? Many moons have come and past, since I spoke of Tim last. Coherence comes and soon it goes, into the wind from which it blows. My mind is scattered and soon we begin, the end. the finish, the remainder of Tim. A pen rests firm within the depot. Green lights fly far. Tim walks the path of the old ones. Tim walks alone. In the distance Tim realizes there are eyes watching him in the distance. Running now Tim falls upon a small break of table cloth that has been place there by the chicken. Has he been here before? Is he walking.. running .. in circles. The rooster crows. Is he? I love birds.

Where is the King of Ireland? 3 eggs and 2 slices of bacon please. I have seen more in my 58 years of existence than you will see in 58 minutes. Why do I run from the miracle of life. Why do you run from stores that provide shoe laces at discount prices. I have to say that when this all started I thought long and hard - then I gave up and decided against it. When do we have time to look at art when its art. Paint and oil. Canvas. Brushes moving. Sunny Sunny Day. I love birds.

Where is the King of Ireland? Deep in thought a frog does sit, upon the log to ponder it. Where to jump, what to eat? There's a bug, a snack, a treat. The tongue moves fast, it snaps, its sticks. The bug returns, the frog was quick. Now belly full, the frog is tamed. Jump once, jump twice, jump .. The chicken has now eaten the frog. Tim races after but cannot reach the place of windows racing by at speeds faster than 42 miles per hour. What. Jingle. Pencils write about reliving what pens cannot. Stop and think before buying too many earths. I love birds.

Where is the King of Ireland? For many it is like having chocolate covered berries but at the same time having an ant bite in your nostril. Flowers pose a problem - they smell. When a flowers gives off a scent it attracts glass rocks. Drum roll. Mountains peer through the sun to see the light on the side of the hill. Forever. The bell strikes and strikes - never to light a match. Tim - he has returned to tell the tale of the chicken. It lives. I love birds.

Where is the King of Ireland? The summation of the words spoken to the rightful toad are equal to 4. Anger. Emotion. Foxes wander through the wilderness, not aimlessly but with a purpose. That purpose is known only to the man who enters the cave of the bear. The bear is not home. The man eats. From here the fox watches the man only to see that he must not be a man but really a pair of mules. Streets made from bricks last as long as the bricks. Fair warning - find the man. He waits. I love birds.

Where is the King of Ireland? Look at the faces. Turn at 10 paces. The mind how it races. The heart how it paces. Blue ink. Finding time in the middle of a second is like finding gorillas in a swamp. The road widens, as it narrows the fellow walking moves away. Click click click. A herd of elephants grazes on sand in the lush fields of golden petunias. Brown salmon eat meat. From there I can see the moon and the sun - I must be standing on a hill. Finally I see the chicken. I love birds.

Where is the King of Ireland. Tim roams the desert. There is no water, no food, no walkman. Tim roams the desert alone. Gorillas watch from the roses. Gorillas trade places with Tim. Coffee mugs rain. The letters. Once there was a man. Assembly. Broken boxes made of chalk create water that lives from the sanctity of human emotion. Where the blood runs to I can't find. I love birds.