Ajax Kallistrate

Heaven is looking out a window.
Hell is looking in.

August 12, 2025

Come pick me up, future self!

Let's sit together in the warm
glow of green LEDs
and vinyl.
On
which side
of the street did you park?

Twelve minute walk to the bus
and you're already there!
So take me with you
and we can
reminisce
about
6am
shifts
and ice
storms and broken sidewalks.

Remember when you used to
weave around whores
and drug dealers
and hear
nothing
but
slurs
and foreign tongues
and hate for our people?

Let's listen now to the comforting metronome of a turn signal!

How much do you pay
the statehouse
Jews 
for
the
privilege
of being a slave with an engine?

What's it like outside the noose
of this tether, on the other
side of this vile 15
minute city, out
there in the 
whole
wide
rest
of
this vast
fallen world?

You've seen something other
than Albany in the last
ten
years,
how marvelous!

You've seen something other
than the inside of a bus,
been somewhere
other
than
a
dirty
retail
concrete
warren, felt something
other than despair.

"The yoke of slavery," he wrote,
"is, and always will be, the most unpleasant experience that mankind can endure."

To work so hard, for so long,
for so little, and every
day a dollar buys
a little less,
and
every
paycheck
is a little thinner
as the pedo tyrants
shave a little more off
the top and the balance
beam crosses the
midpoint and
crashes
down
on
the
backs
of workaday normies.

The triumph of the Jew!

Our bones ground into dust
to scour their empty
streets, their new
slaves content
to stare into
their black
mirrors,
eat
animal
fodder, submit
to needles and pills,
and work like dogs until
they drop, never feeling
the freedom of the
open road, never
having the
liberty
to
stake
their claim
in a world of
their own choosing,
to build, to create, to make
a family into a nation, to hear
the echo of an ancestral
voice in the cry of a
firstborn
child,
to
lift
their
eyes to
a horizon they
conquered with their
own ingenuity and stubborn
persistence to
BE FREE.

So come pick me up, future self,
and you can tell me all about
your new life and the work
you do and the home
you make
and
the
garden
you tend
and the family
you cherish and
what road you took
to get there and maybe,
maybe someday
I'll join you.

March 14, 2025

Is it mad to be mad in a mad world?

(Poetry is a homeless river.)

We float on buttered coffee and hook states, unaware of compass points and driver's license, steering only by the dim glow of tarot and offerings burnt over a cold sink.

(Poetry is collage; it only makes sense in the greater context.)

I cut flowers for people who can afford cut flowers when we can't afford food. I cut fruit for people who can afford cut fruit when I can't afford to stand here any longer.

(Poetry is a bridge that only meets in the middle when the overseer isn't watching.)

What isn't nailed down gets broken off and I'm afraid our gods hold no truck with carpenters.

(Poetry is play. Poetry is an overgrown garden.)

I'm a pair of legs in perpetual motion, always falling forward, never catching up to myself. I've sacrificed everything that brings me joy, save one. Family is all I have left.

(Poetry is a phantom, a dusty godlet, a will-o-the-wisp with a strange sense of humor, a pattern, a puzzle, a song, a prayer whispered into the air, into the ether, into the greater rhythm of a mystery I will never understand.)

I play. I sing. I bow beneath the weight of my misery. I listen for the songs. I listen for the pattern, the rhythm, the steps of the dance.

(Every poem is a song, every song a prayer, every prayer a spell, a wish, a divine overlap of patterns, puzzles, rhythms, the known and the unknown.)

I pray for wisdom.
I'm listening.
I'm listening.

August 12, 2025

Artistic expression sustains the soul.
Economic servility destroys it.

February 21, 2025

I've forgotten the company of trees,
I thought, overwhelmed by profound sadness.

No, came your wise reply, old stump, colored by ancient humor, patient affection.
You have remembered the company of trees.

August 10, 2025

Blue sky are you really blue;
deceptive plane, scattered
photons masking stars
and infinite space.

Or is that a lie too?

White clouds are you really
white; false shapes, a
collection of liquids
luring the
un-
conscious
mind into fantasies
of gods and monsters
and a meaningful life.

And I know that's a lie!

Dogs eat dogs.
There is no
Heaven
and
we
walk on
two legs only
out of shame.

I can't see the sky,
the clouds.

Grass
is a green mystery
littered with needles.

I go it alone most of the time,
leashed. Tamed to dys-
function.

Branded.
Suffering.

The
pangs
of an internalized
clock shake
my head
like
a
palsied
geriatric in middle age.

I can't go it alone,

I say to myself,
out loud, a
bus stop
savant
in
ragged
clothes im
too tired to repair,
too poor to replace.

I circle the drain
in an industrial
sky.
My
clouds are
concrete shoes.

I am not blue.
I am not white.

I am human
and
in-
human;
animal,
livestock,
laborer,
servant,
slave.

Deduct that from my pay!

I'm whipped.
I cower.
I can't
see
the sky.

Blue sky,
blue
sky
are you
really blue?

April 30, 2025

as vivid at a distance as photo-
graphs, indifferent prints
up close, in and out
of
focus,
these nine sigils
i bought at the mall
one optimistic afternoon, 

a woodland retreat,
a farmhouse,
a country cottage,
a fishing cabin,
a single-story suburban,
an alpine sanctuary, 
a formal colonial,
a summer house,
a hunting lodge,

nine consessions to
faith,
to

autumn leaves,
to a lake view,
to pink flowers,
a shingled roof,
smooth stones,
a rough hewn fence,
an arched porch,
snow muffled evergreens,
warm lights in the windows,

to
a home
for he and i,
to rest and security,
contentment, prosperity,
sanctuary, solitude,
peace and stability,

nine lenses to focus
purpose, intent,
desire, energy,
momentum,
potential,
thoughts,
words,
acts,
to
manifest

running water,
red ribbons,
stone chimney,
cedar wood,
fir,
manicured landscaping,
wildflowers,
filigree cornice,
wicker chair

to
find
grace,
snow melt,
butter yellow
curtains, footfalls
and laughter,
we can,
should,
will,
diverge
from this real
space to an imaginary
space to one of one dimension
to a mental picture
refracted by
the prism
of
intent
and purpose
and desire, and
transform potential
energy into kinetic
energy and reveal
a hundred
hundred million
choices that will
coalesce once more
into real space and time
and in time unfurl bloom
open enclose enfold
our little family,
our place,
our purpose,
our knowledge,
our understanding
and wisdom, and
bring us home.

December 17, 2024

Time is the servant of the Jew. 
When it dominates your life 
so are you.

May 21, 2025

Our riches lie beneath the great vault
of Heaven
and
above
the good green Earth below. 

May 21, 2025