Bludgeoned by the hammer
and sickle, I yet look up
into that streaky
morning
sky
and wonder
at ancestors who
looked up in the dead
of winter and did not know
if they'd see the morrow
and yet felt neither
hunger nor
despair,
know-
ing
only
that they
were mortals in
the hands of
the gods.
October 1, 2024
We stumble over headless beasts,
ten stories tall, and tell each
other we walk among men
as noisome fog boils at
our feet, a putrid
miasma;
blind,
we stumble
and sink our hands
into bloody recesses
and greet them as friends,
our speech lost to the deafening
roar of headless animals,
their voices the scream
of the wind over open
wounds,
instruments of death;
knee deep in our own decay,
we yield to the instinct to flee;
weeping;
our throats raw
with the burden of emptied
skulls, we plead, deaf
and blind, stumbling
over the headless
remnants
of giants,
we
drown,
nameless
scaffolding for
a mass grave.
Unremembered.
Alone.
September 26, 2024
In the light of cool August, who knows what radiant September might bring to our foxglove people, tripping over stepping stones set in our path by horny handed beasts slavering in appetite for the flesh of infants?
Might we reach out to our nearest coz and lift him to his feet, lengthen his spine after so long bowed beneath the damning burden of the constricting serpent, the mother of lies, suckling the wealth of our blood from sixty five million wounds inflicted by sixty five million razor sharp tongues, an outpouring of purest fire once held aloft by calloused hands used only to the weight of the sword?
Might we stand together, woven into an immovable wall, a phalanx, a fortress of duty and obligation to kith and kin and race and nation and God?
Might we unite our long silenced voices and bellow a challenge to the savage interlopers whose whips have lathered the backs of too many generations to count, the youth of our men plowed under foreign soil, the labor of our women traded away for shaven coins, the brilliance of our children clouded by the poisoned well of electronic sloth?
Shall that September sun ignite the passion of our race for unchained liberty, for the planting of an ancient tree that will bear new fruit, for the sacrifice that lights the way for the twin gods of war and renewal?
Shall truth be our guide, however thorny and narrow the path?
Do we decide?
Or has that choice been made for us?
Inside our heads, lobotomized by inescapable torment?
Have we reached the end of that road, led like sheep to the end of that blade?
Are we docile now, colonized livestock for the tables of parasites?
Has this long winter frozen our ancestral blood?
They await us.
They await our hand raised in defiance or limp in despair.
They await our footfall on the necks of our enemies or onto our knees into an open grave.
The door closes.
It's time.
September 24, 2024
They cut away what matters,
scissors, grinders,
they cut you
free
of
what
matters,
their machine
wants nothing of
families, fresh air, futurity,
so they cut you out,
cut a shape out
of you, they
pull you
apart,
they
put
you back
together in a shape
you can't remember,
so smile, they
say, smile
for
the
camera,
we're all together now.
September 24, 2024
Let go of what no longer serves you.
Let go of lingering things left too long undusted.
Let go of that habit you perform like an empty ritual, that frame of reference that belongs to a younger self, that idea whose time has come and gone, that assumption handed down to you by someone whose shadow you used to dwell beneath.
Who are you when you're alone?
Look up.
Look up from this artificial bath of illuminated signals, up into that celestial origin, that wellspring of creation beyond this translucent skin of mortal life, up into a billion years of chemical history handed down to you by the cataclysmic death of a giant star,
and listen.
Listen to the beat of the muscle filled with iron expelled by a supernova long before the earth beneath your feet was born.
Listen and let go.
Let go of what no longer serves you.
Let go of what time has shown you you no longer need.
Letting go is a practice.
So, practice.
Here, in this moment.
Listen, choose. Let go.
Let go of what no longer serves you.
Material objects. Habits. Beliefs.
Places. Emotions.
Ideas about yourself. About your future. About the world, about people. About someone who once shared your life and no longer does.
Let go of what you once hoped for, what time and maturity have shown you you no longer need.
Letting go is a practice, so practice.
Let go.
Take a deep breath.
Empty your thoughts.
Exhale.
Let go.
Open your heart.
Be humble. Be grateful.
Embrace joy.
Listen, choose. Let go.
Make space for what fulfills you.
Make space for what sustains you.
August 29, 2024
nature is my church,
my silence, reverence.
August 28, 2024
i listen to the old gods and
the old gods have bent an ear,
girded round by thickets,
they've yet bent an ear.
who listens to barren old women?
ha!
tricksters, an unnamed few.
girded round by thickets,
long obscured, untended,
an overgrown garden.
lush!
canted polewise in our direction,
at last. that two sided coin whose
faces once laughed at ancestral rites
grew cold and sad (without remorse)
at our withdrawal.
they understood none of it,
as we understood none of it,
led by the puppeteering
tunes of the Pied Piper,
the slaver,
the trafficker,
the rootless wanderer,
the stranger,
the mocker,
the liar,
the usurper,
the tyrant,
the destroyer,
to forget (without forgiving)
the compassing direction of
that path, anterior, to find
where they've been hidden,
and girded round by thickets,
have bent an ear, eager.
do remember
the blood, the purifying fire, the stars,
the towering mountain that stands
above the uncanny valley where
our people have been buried alive
under two thousand years of sand,
for it is this, and not the other,
that shall beat
beat
a trail upon fallen leaves
to mend a broken vow and
make whole a piecemeal sacrifice.
ours for us, our own, again.
we make it so.
so says the old gods, in a whisper
girded round by a subtle laugh,
speckled as they are by yew
netted sun, they've bent an ear
and listened to our plaintive coil.
even blind as we are blind,
nature cries out to nature,
and a footfall narrows the ear,
and upon that loamy shore
we find each other.
August 28, 2024
If I could text you, I'd say,
meow meow, meow.
If your fuzzy feet could
tap tap on a touchscreen
would you say,
meow, meow meow?
I'd say
I love you, fuzzy beep.
and
I never give enough attention
to so sweet a spirit.
I'd say
I'm so down, beep, so tired,
and no one is here to lift
me up, so I think of you,
of your endless
affection,
your
simple
adoration,
your curious
choice to chose
so unworthy a person
as myself, this useless
monkey, melting ugly
middle age, and
failing one day
at a time,
and
you so
unconcerned,
still beaming yellow
photons at me,
fixed upon my
frowning
face
as
if
I
were
your polestar.
Perhaps you had no better
choice, you practical animal.
Either way,
I'd say,
I'm grateful for your mistaken
faith. Ten years, or nearly so,
I'd tap out the words,
encompassed
in the warmth
of your
fuzzy
heart,
have been
not coincidentally
the ten best years
of my life. Beep,
could I have
ten more
with
you,
I'd type with my
opposable thumbs,
I'd be happy in some
smallest part of
every day of
every one,
and
your
reply, my
emoji, my laughing cat,
would once more buoy me
up above the weight of it all
and lift my eyes, my heart.
August 13, 2024
the aesthetic of
communism
is death
August 2, 2024
Hope bubbles up from underneath,
a primal origin originating in
a barren womb, pushing
against my solar plexus,
seat of the soul,
and the urge
to run
lifts
me up
toward a free floating expression
of liberty through this tiny city
with a thousand thousand
foreign eyes, every sign
a teletype narrative
for the Indian,
the Muslim,
the African,
the Chinese,
the Mexican,
a
smug
farewell
to the White man
from the Jews in the statehouse,
and I have the urge to hide
my hair, flowing river
of the beautiful
White woman,
corona
of
fertility,
emblem of
ancient slavery,
women with shapes like mine,
skin like mine, eyes like mine,
chained to the wall by
black and brown
savages,
men
whose
descendants run wild over Europe, Australia,
the British Isles, Canada, the United States,
an infection in the veins of the world,
borne on the shoulders of every
White man, woman, and child
whose ancestors were
conquerors,
builders,
visionaries,
plowed down
into the very soil
like bones and flesh and
failing memory by parasites
who have never fed their children
by the labor of their own hands,
and
yet I run
for sheer joy,
buoyed up by what I know:
that if God is truth, I walk with God,
real truth, only truth, outside the Bible,
outside the Evangelicals and the Catholics
and the Methodists and the Lutherans,
the truth that so long as one
human on earth knows
the truth, speaks
the truth, lives
in the light
of
truth,
there is hope.
May 23, 2024
