to be human is to be deceived and deceptive the only touchstone forgiveness; the only blessing birdsong
March 13, 2024
to be human is to be deceived and deceptive the only touchstone forgiveness; the only blessing birdsong
March 13, 2024
It sneaks in on mornings like this, snow flurries spiraling down the beam of a street lamp, that love for New York, for Albany. What a shame! A shame to love my country, overrun by foreign voices, the Muslim call to prayer echoing over an empty street at 6am. Who loves this place now? A facade of a facade, settled by a tougher breed, men and women adamant in their demand for prosperity, for an American homeland. Post 911, the cosmopolitan globetrotters of brand names and political operatives see far-eyed over fences into faceless space, high above the motionless figures at the bus stop. Who are we now? I stand up against DEI, but not the IRS. Parasitized by leeches with row after row of teeth sharpened by decades of insider trading and money laundering, the American royalty of senators and presidents and CEOs and celebrities. The vacators. The drainers away of wealth generated by my hands, my labor, my commitment to hard work and family. The useless class, the passengers of private jets, the soft palmed tradeless middle-managers of tyranny, skilled only in twisting the twin pincers of illegals and inflation to convince us we're bad people if we want a car. I want a car. I want to drive to work, to the grocery store. I want to indulge in the guilty pleasure of delayed gratification and save for a car, a house, a plot of land. I want to leave a legacy for my family when I'm gone, that too small dream for the globalists, the communists, the Zionists, the destroyers of liberty and prosperity, the anti- saints of the trans- human death cult, the drum beaters on the march to a billion deaths, the snake oiled prophets of a sterilized future, a cold, dark forever winter under a sky as red as the bloody recesses of sixty-five million wombs emptied by sixty-five million scalpels. Who loves us now? And still I watch the snow fall in Albany while the street lamp burns, before the communists in the state house declare that light too must be extinguished from the world to save the human race. And then all goes dark. God help us.
February 22, 2024
ours are the voices of mice as the crushing foot- steps pass by
February 14, 2024
How lonely on the sidelines of a sideshow when the big top comes tumbling down in a jumper with a name tag Hello, my pronouns! Settling 900,000 with a new suit of concrete beneath a drowning flood of three million, a poisonous flux washing through the blood of a keyhole shaped like a mockingbird coiled about by a rattlesnake, beak like a bayonet piercing the womb of a blind hag, stumbling over a line drawn in barren soil, center stage in a sideshow, the audience gasps in profile, in shadow, in a whisper as the curtain falls, let's take a bow, together, one last time.
February 1, 2024
communism is the end of all beautiful things
February 12, 2024
The man who gives you permission to commit evil becomes your master.
January 18, 2024
The trap sprung.
Bye bye
baa baa
to the white
sheep with the
shoelace in her heart,
to little old me who believed
the machine one last time
when it whispered,
"That can't be real."
I failed the only IQ test
that matters.
I failed the test of faith,
duty, obligation.
I failed.
I'm the dumb dumb
who evolved from TDS to
MAGA to anti-communist to
anti-Zionist, but the meta-
morphosis won't
matter when
the toll
of
twenty
years a married
woman comes due.
The moneychangers
under the electronic tent
demanded their usurious
interest, their toe
tag price tag
for a heavy
hand
on
the snooze button,
and the fatal flaw
has been replicated
in every cell
of my
body,
the bioweapon
replicated in
every cell
of every
pin
cushion
heart
of millions
and millions
of ordinary
people.
Mothers,
fathers,
children,
whole families
driven underground.
We drop like
livestock at the
slaughterhouse.
We've been counted out
of history, biology, unnatural
selection, the forgotten flotsam
of a statistic to rival the black
plague and bird flu, the fleshy
pavement over which the
destiny of the human
race was forever
altered by the
brutal hands
of the
most
evil
despicable
merciless
haters of life
to ever walk the earth.
You don't have to starve a population if
you can get them to starve themselves.
You don't have to sterilize a population if
you can get them to sterilize themselves.
You don't have to kill a population if
you can get them to kill themselves.
Genocide is a monstrous project.
This is the prayer of the Wicked.
No one wants to be born
into the generation
that sees the end
of the world,
and yet
here we are.
February 7, 2024
I hate how beautiful New York is in the golden light of January painted over awnings and ever- green boughs, the finches sing- ing full throated, unaware of the shame they've drawn up from a poisoned well, their bite un- softened by the sweet reminder of the endless dream, the constricted heart, the lidless eye, never to sleep again in the last days of the Republic.
January 16, 2024
Take five blocks of urban blight twice a day for four years and don't call me in the morning.
January 18, 2024
12:25pm and the bells rang out over the walls of city hall in the rain and we laughed as we ran to the bus.
October 3, 2023