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The lastest from the Cosmic Boneyard

Not a day on the calendar

I sit here waiting for the rain singing praises to the gods of the south wind searching the cabinet for my liniment  and chasing spiders  using my boots as their summer home my poor guitars every neck and bridge in need of adjustment all the stings old and oxidized (my new band name) there comes a day  never marked on the calendar when suddenly we pass from Fall to Winter the easterly dry winds calm the last leaves crunch underfoot fire season is over and the rain comes riding in  on a fresh south breeze a gift from the heavens

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