The aesthetic of the Aryan
is the love of all beautiful things.
March 30, 2025
Ajax Kallistrate
We can neither remember
nor forget what we never knew.
We can neither forgive nor avenge.
We can neither grieve nor honor.
We can only wander like lost souls
in an underworld hollowed out by deceit,
a people untethered from the horrors of
a family history stolen by a cadre of
shameless liars.
March 30, 2025
the little houses stare
back at me.
peaceful.
attentive.
as if all I have
to do is reach out
and they'll take us in.
March 30, 2025
some day
some warm place
will take me in and
i will curl up
curl up
and
sleep
March 30, 2025
If you know where it is, you might
not know how to get there.
If you know how to get there,
it doesn't matter where it is.
March 30, 2025
broken things
are constellations
of
stars over
blackest Heaven.
March 15, 2025
i must hang
on in Hell
to
hold on
to Heaven,
and
i'm losing
my grip, i'm
losing my grip.
March 13, 2025
we must separate ourselves
to preserve who and
what we are.
February 25, 2025
You looked up at me like you
were going to tell me a secret.
We see with our eyes,
you think.
We see with anticipation, expectation,
assumption, context, history,
propaganda, illusion,
desire, fear,
and
so
are
we too, blind.
Ghosts.
We live life on rails, behind bars,
our noses pressed up against
the limitations of drywall.
We peer, squint, blink,
rub, splash, call out
to one another,
request
a
second
opinion, demand
confirmation. Is this it?
Do we know?
Ten percent is too generous
to grant conceited
animals.
One,
maybe,
and then
only for the
materiality of
round numbers.
The rest?
The difference is a lifetime.
Divine creation or evolution,
the question is moot in
the minds of animals
who function on
a linear plane.
A decade,
we can remember.
A hundred years?
A hundred thousand?
A hundred million?
We've long since stopped functioning.
We think we see and we're wrong.
Dead wrong.
Holmes was right, Watson.
It doesn't matter.
We were born into Plato's cave.
We will die in Plato's cave.
The puppet masters own your entrails,
and mine too.
Demons,
gypsies,
wizards,
extraterrestrial space aliens,
Babylonians,
the Pharisees,
Eastern European degenerates,
Talmudists,
Ashkenazi Jews,
Zionists.
Does it matter?
Judaized, negrotized, this land
is their land now. Only the
blind see red stripes
and believe
in liberty.
And what do the rest of us see?
With our glass eyes, our natural armor,
our own anticipation, expectations,
assumptions, we cast a
jaundiced gaze over
this blasted
civilization
and
the only
thing we lack is
the stubborn confusion
I spent a lifetime trying
to straighten out.
Otherwise, the decay is just as putrid.
We discover and abandon hope,
backtrack from false paths,
and keep our eyeballs
fixed on the wheel
that reaps and sows.
We are no smarter.
We bear no fewer burdens.
We shall sink beneath the horizon
all the same.
So when you looked up at me,
I canted my head, as I saw
and thought, you have
a secret to tell me.
I'll keep that, for now, and believe so.
February 23, 2025
There's a place where the rain falls
straight down when the wind is
still, where everlastings nod
in time, keeping pace,
and cats watch
from their
wisest
course,
warm and dry
upon a window shelf.
There's a place where ice breaks
over shallow stream, liquid
crystal, rising and falling
over smooth stones,
and crayfish and
tadpoles,
pond
skaters
and dragonfly larvae await
the chuckle of laughter,
the surge of breath,
the brilliance
of
sunlight
reflected on water.
There's a place where an engine cools,
pinging under the mighty heat lamp
of August, crabgrass triumphs
over gravel, peel painted
board creaks
under-
foot, and
the welcoming
hinge of a screen
door lifts two hearts at once.
There's a place where a cool breeze
drifts through an open window,
too cool for a shawl, and yet
the sound of falling rain
on wet leaves heals
some forgotten
wound,
and
the dog
is at the back
door, shaking loose
the past, the way a dog does,
and an hour from now the sun
will have warmed all the earth
into steam and the leaves
in the garden will glow
translucent
emerald,
and
every step
will sink into loamy peat.
There's a place where the wind whistles
over rock and heat lightning flashes
its silent signal across a mono-
chrome landscape of tree-
tops and shadows,
and the
cats
are
asleep
at the foot
of the bed, and
in the place where
time would be there's
the sound of running water,
the laughter in the thicket,
bare feet, and the love of
all beautiful things.
February 21, 2025
