Ajax Kallistrate

They own my body for eight
hours a day.

I'm their whore for forty
hours a week.

My entire life is shaped around
endless labor, endless servitude.

And it's my family who suffers for it.

I spend more time with strange
men than the man I married.

I do a man's labor but I'm no
more a man than a piece
of broken glass is a star.

I ask for permission.
I do what I'm told.

I work FOR the system.
I want to work WITH my people.

The world is a mirror, an inversion.
We live inside a machine that
consumes souls, breaks
down families,
dissolves
nations.

It makes us animals.

I can't ask why. It doesn't matter.

I keep my eyes cast down, unable
to meet shallow interactions
with farcical jibber jabber.

I don't care what you did over
the weekend. I don't care
about your 401k or
how your kid
watched
porn
at
school and
you shrugged it off
cuz boys will be boys amirite?

A racial awakening is a spiritual
awakening.

It's a call to arms, the tolling
of a great bell, an alarm
foretelling of dire threat.

How can I chitchat with a woman
who coos to her gurgling
infant through a piece
of metal and glass?

What do I have in common with
Indians and Bengalis and
Egyptians and all the
scattered tribes of
a continent as
alien to me
as
the
moon?

I come from a people stripped
of their history, their culture,
their land, their gods, and
now even their language.

"Young white [sic] men," they say,
"no longer have the words to
describe the world around them."

Mask-muzzled Baby Boomers clutch
the last scraps of wealth in age-mottled fists, my home their investment property.

Where do we belong?

It washes through me in great
seas, lifting me from the
inside out, shaking me
from the inside out,
surrounded by
nonsense
and
distraction,
demoralized by
black faces wearing
White faces, by the parade
of mutilated White women
with their breasts cut off,
by children so terrified
of being White they'd
rather be gay.

And my voice is suffocated.
To speak is to be cut down,
drowned.

And yet some do, still.

They shine in my eyes, those few,
those burning souls who know
what Degrelle knew: that to
give wholly of your self
is the only way to lift
your spirit above
a spiritually
dead world,
to find joy
in suffering,
satisfaction in virtue.

We are made for more than this
transparent world of vile illusions.

And far less than those transient
ambitions that occupy a man
to death.

We find peace where the wild things
dwell, in forest and field, in hearth
and home.

Simple places for a simple people.
Plain. Direct.

As right, good, and natural as
a baby at the breast, as
a spear in the hand.

Sustain. Nourish. Defend. Uplift.

When we do those things,
we find each other.
It's inevitable.

We must let the rest fall away.
We must let go of it.

We must set no roots in rotten
soil, fill no belly with fake food,
accept no offer, however
sweet, from an enemy.

Know them for what they are.
See them for what they are.
See, and wake up.
BREATHE DEEP.

Wake up!

We are here. Look for us.
Reach out. Come home.

Unfurl your sails and let the swells
bring you home.

June 26, 2026

Self-pity is the enemy of joy.
Even if there's no way out,
you still have to walk through.

June 23, 2026

There is a power in tending
gently to beautiful things.

May 8, 2026

what ever my suffering
my spirit is free
and my heart is full of joy.

May 8, 2026

We ARE the song.

The song is the path that changes as you follow the path (because following the path changes you).

We must remember.

The driving force of evil is to make you forget. To forget isn't to be evil, it's to be flawed. We are created flawed because flaws introduce change and the song must change to be beautiful,  and the song must be beautiful.

That flaw is free will.

The song is flow. Flow is the song. Birth, death, decay, renewal. It's a cycle. Imperfection is part of the cycle. What is must change to become what will be, to become something else, to move, to flow.

Life is beautiful because it changes, it flows, one into the other, all one song.

Evil wants entropy, to halt the cycle.
Evil is dissonance, evil is disharmony.
Evil stops the song on one note and makes it no longer a song at all.

They are the death cult. They are disharmony. They are entropy. They are anti-flow. They are anti-life.

Harmony and disharmony are counter to one another, and so harmony destroys disharmony. That's what they fear, they fear that they will disappear.

That's why they work relentlessly to make you forget. To forget who and what you are. To forget the song. To forget that you are the song. To break you. A broken instrument still makes sounds, but not the sounds it was meant to make.

(Or is there an appeal to contrast? A moment, as in a song, a piece of music, a drama, when hesitation and insecurity create potential, the will they/won't they of anticipation (completion/destruction), the salt to the sweet, that makes such contrast irresistible and therefore necessary, all bright things made brighter by the darkness, and so discord too is necessary, and so there must be a balance.)

And so, we return to balance, a slow dance across the cosmos, eons, positive flow, negative anti-flow, the bitter and the sweet, the kiss of death, the bite of life, the fullness of the forbidden fruit, knowing that knowing changes nothing, that free will is still a losing gamble, that we can listen and yet remain alone, severed from the infinite, singing the song into oblivion, divorced of context, lost souls forever scratching at the heavens for meaning, reassurance, the playthings of demons, and only ever so briefly -- how ever briefly! -- enlightened by a spark of the divine, a gift we eagerly embrace only to question in a more somber moment, yes, us, we who ask Who are we? when our spirits cry,

WE ARE!

April 18, 2026

Too much of concrete hast thou poor Ophelia.

April 18, 2026

I walked beneath wet snow
in April and my heart
was full.

Even
if
it's
the last
snowfall I ever see,
my heart was full.

I'm filled with memories
of what I'll never see
again, snowflakes
rushing across
the glow
of
the
street lamp
outside our long
ago sold suburban
home and then gone,
vanished into darkness.

Furious squals, rushing
this way and that, and
then gone as if they
never were.

And I'm okay with that.

I have an infinite number
of horizons to paint. Inside
this emburdened world,
weighed down
with such
grief
and
misery,
each path
severing a hundred
thousand others, and
sometimes we know which
is which and sometimes
we only recognize in
the aftermath what
we traded away,
and
sometimes
the worst isn't the
regret but the realization
that you have none.

I stand here, at his side,
and I regret none of it.

I'm flawed.
Not just imperfect
but fundamentally flawed.
Not broken, but badly formed.

I'm whole but terrible.

There's no way to win,
just an infinite
number
of
ways to lose.

And it's in that
recognition that we break.

Or maybe that's just me.

April 18, 2026

Sun rises misty misty lighting
up concrete and brick
and steel veins
and blood
flows
I
know
I don't want
to ride this arterial
tide I want us to be spat
out like watermelon seeds
tag-a-long together
down a water-
slide
-SPLASH-
into
an
ocean
that floats
a boat that's
never touched
water and untroubled
watch the sun rise
over mountains
and flicker
through
bare
branches
all of us miracles
witnessing miracles
suspended between
earth and sky
pinwheels
that
owe nothing
to bill collectors
and everything to
one another and the
sea and the rising sun
and so let go (they said)
of The World and so I
let go of the world
and hold on to
everything
else
as
we ride
an internal
tide generated
by an infinite wheel
a star by day by day
concealed in between
ancient gazes and ancient
knowledge spinning out
like yarn reeling in
to catch rushing
rays and fish
and all
holy
and
sacred
things and
together with
one another we drive
and are driven to the sea
to the shore to see to be one
and the same to follow the
path that changes as
we follow the path
along
the
unending
weaving woven
from breath and earth
and sky alive living free
and freed once more
and always together.

April 14, 2026

Tyranny never has to knock. It walks right in on the heels of convenience.

March 22, 2026