I went upstairs to watch it move. I kept it there under some clothes in a small box. It felt so warm when I held it. Then I dropped it. It didn't move for a long time, and the next day when I touched it it felt funny. It wouldn't crawl. It wasn't warm. Something was bad inside. I knew it wasn't mine the way it was. It's still up there. I don't want it because it's cold. I won't go near. I stay downstairs. It's warm down here, and I'm happy.
Dear readers, this is my third book of poems, and inside are a special collection of what have turned out to be not only MY personal favorites, but also the favorites of many of YOU. Some of these have never been available in print before...
David Hightower’s lyrically expansive meditation on the whims of fate and the unpredictability of the human condition fill the pages of THE HANGING MAN DREAMS with thrilling music and mesmerizing imagery. Hightower’s richly infused voice echoes the e
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