I have a habit of using quotes as pen names; "yodel a blue streak" is from Frank Stanford's 15283-line epic poem The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You.

Some excerpts, also from The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You:

really I think of simple things
of ordinary acts and nights
that take place in the desolate minds of the very common
words like water or a pile of branches
gestures with the rhythm of plankton
and the heartbeat of birds and hooves

I dress like the holy spirit and smell just as bad

I tarnish
the mirror with slang and redeal the cards
like a sonneteer of chalk and sapphires
I glow with the venom of the lover
moving forever and ever shall be without antidote
I am the fair lead of the air’s noose
I invade the gutter and the Louvre
I strike deep in the drunken paws I link naked
I atone for nothing but her pink plectrum the moon
I smile in the blackstrap syrup I blow like secret wind
it is simple as that
sexual and frank

O wreckage of milk and tiger lilies
O moon smooth as ever in the bull
the unworldly which is worldly and rain
the sadness habitual
I pass out in the wagon of cotton
I live for the day
with bruises in the lighthouse and the very scent of honey
steeped in blood

the bird of the dark
beloved of the machete
O assassinated leper wise liar
O remarkable friend of the empty
O church house of the elders of dusk
return where form is
in question like a kept woman
beyond now and ever
will be goodness
and mercy follows me like a mad dog

when I dream
Lord Byron is there he gets down and kisses my sore foot
and he really means it

only I grope along like a blue snake who can hear bells being forged

I was pillaged by ink and prepared to die.

a lion and lute I want to hear
the blues and ballads like two singers singing as one
I see everything out of perspective
for example the phoenix molting in my cave
I want things to be revealed so I can stop bleeding or bleed some more
I want to die like the flower in the west wind
I want to be a bird and a ship forever I want these chants to lead you out
of the darkness of the white water that runs between words
I want to tip the scales in the favor of the children of goodness
I want the knife to be an instrument of peace

a church house is rising in the delta
everyone and no one is building it
there is so much hammering at night the men work in the fields in the day
they are all anonymous
theirselves are spectacles like symbiotic nails and sorghum
it was long ago
they keep burning it down and they keep building it