My mind is free.
The machine does not own me.
October 4, 2025
Category: Poetry
When you labor for a stranger
you are a slave.
When you labor for your family
you are free.
October 4, 2025
Songs are what you sing, music is what you make. Copyrighted noise is artificial gay and fake.
October 4, 2025
The law does not apply to them.
They pay no taxes.
They don't participate in "the economy."
They don't eat the food you eat.
They don't drink the water you drink.
They don't take the drugs you take.
They have a hand in everything you see and hear: television, movies, news, video games, social media, music, books, education.
They own every politician.
They control every government, every corporation, every military, every university.
They shape every religion.
They fund every scientific and medical study and vet the results.
They sell every pharmaceutical, vaccine, pesticide, poison, and processed food.
Their sport is the rape, torture, and murder of children.
They supply you with everything you think you want, everything you think you need.
They are to whom your ancestors bequethed you, in a fit of agony or avarice.
Condemn no more generations to be sacrificed to them.
Be no more a host for them.
Expose them.
Deny them what sustains them.
They have nothing you need.
They have nothing you truly want.
Find what you need outside of the artificial world they have constructed for you.
Find what you want, inside yourself.
Give them nothing to feed on.
Know your enemy.
Expose them. Name them.
Face your enemy.
Don't look away.
Deny them and they will disappear.
Deny them and you will be free.
September 29, 2025
Money is fake.
Labor is real.
Changing labor to money
is how the money changers steal.
September 29, 2025
Our gods are not always kind.
Our gods are not always
where we are.
Our gods are sunlight through
the trees at dawn, an ever-
present light
obscured
by
one leaf
or another,
fueled by an eternal
engine propelled by devotion.
To thank them is to turn them
into strangers who hold
open doors,
and
even if they
hold open doors,
they are never strangers.
Seek instead to spend wisely
their gifts and to look
them in the eyes,
not as equals
but
to
shed all
illusions as to
desire and sacrifice.
Be direct and so be directed,
shot like an arrow loosed
from Skadi's bow
stretched
across
the
morning sky,
without hesitation
or remorse, and
when the
leaves
fall
like
stars
you will hear
their whispered reply.
September 22, 2025
You must LOOK UP to see
the blue sky path.
You must LOOK UP.
Am I crazy?
I am crazy.
I carry this boat on my back
as we float along on
this inverted
river.
The blue sky path is a promise.
The blue sky path is a promise
kept and a promise yet
to be kept.
You must LOOK UP.
You must LOOK UP
to
walk
the blue sky path.
Everywhere I've gone I have
loved the birds, I have
loved the trees.
They have loved me back
in the only way nature
has of loving you
back,
in
the
warm
breath of spring,
in the taste of summer
and autumn in the same
mouthful, in the bitter
bite of winter that
reminds you
that
it
all
comes
to an end.
You have to look up.
There is no other way.
You have to look up
to see
the
blue sky path,
even in the darkness,
even in the rain.
Remember: the blue sky path
does not stop here.
The blue sky
path passes
through
here,
but
it
does
not stop here.
You can drown or
you can look up.
You can close your eyes or
you can look up.
You can keep asking
questions
to
which
you already
know the answer or
you can look up.
LOOK UP.
Stalwart souls! LOOK UP.
We are mad, more often than not.
When we're not, we suffer.
So look up. Look up and walk
the blue sky path
with me,
with
us.
We are not alone.
Not anymore.
Not for
a
very
long time.
Longer than
you can remember.
Look up and you will remember.
September 22, 2025
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
