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
