Build your own guitars. Find your own voice. Write your own songs. Grow your own food, And buy lots of records. Under the dark skies on an Alabama farm, inside a house built with his own hands, Riley relentlessly un-Yielding churns poignant poetry into teasing tales, and looms them into the ever-twisting fabric of musical illusion. The Luthier bleats: 'A mighty oak strains upon a cliff. Roots like white knuckles, as he wonders if he should hold on -' ''Cause she was so fine, so damn fine... but she was somebody else's wife.' 'Now there are six lanes buzzin' by, and cars are just a blurr. And there's a concrete ditch full of cigarette butts, where the cool waters were,' Enjoy my 2nd CD.