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Ajax Kallistrate


When you say "people are simple"
you mean "people are animals"
and then you treat them like animals.

That's the error of hubris.
The correction is humility.

Butchering other men's children
cannot make you immortal,
cannot make you other than

To be human is to be defined by

There must be a dividing line
between Man and God.

One cannot become the other.

Just as man cannot become woman,
and woman cannot become man,
Man cannot become God, and
God cannot become Man.

(Christ was resurrected.)

Be humble and rejoice.

To want to become God
is to assume you know
what God is,
which is impossible
for Man to know.


We can't know.
We can't truthfully desire
what is unknowable.

We can only reject what we are.

So be humble.

Only in death can we get close to God.
Only when we are unbound from our
individuality, our memories, our instincts,
can we return to formless unity, can we
know God.

Again, humility.
We cannot do this in life.

Collectivism is a perversion,
a false unity with God.

It separates us further from God
because it separates us from
who we are, right now, from
what we are, right now.

Simple people know this.
They have always known this.
This is the wisdom of simple people.

May 10, 2024


I don't speak your
language, sir.

Twice divorced.

A million miles away,
the terrain looks the same.

We are all your sons and daughters now.

April 4, 2024


I heard once the story
of an unspoken serenity

in the smallest voice
of an alien language

tuned out from inside
an internal dial

a frenzied motion to
a place of peace

in the fraction of a second
between constriction

and expansion in the little
halflife remembered sound

unforgotten sleep
awakens me

to all
that isn't me

April 4, 2024


I spend all day in a windowless
room doing meaningless work
in a meaningless room doing
windowless work around
meaningless people with
windowless eyes around
windowless people with
meaningless eyes

I spend all day
days gone by
bye day
from the sun
and the air and
the rhythm of life

I spend all day
in my head
with a head
full of longing
for a window
into the heart
of the world

for the meaning
of the skip

I skip the eight and the forty
for the blip of a laugh
in a meal with the
flick of a switch
and the thump
of a bus

I spend all day
far away
from the tolling
of the time clock 

aware I wonder
will I ever wander
another stream to
hear you laugh
feel your


we look up
into brightest blue sky

April 4, 2024

radio days

I see my unhappy childhood
like a shadowbox play, a mini
drama enclosed inside a
greater drama, and in turn
an even greater drama
I may never recognize.

Little people, little hearts,
spinning flywheels of grief
and pain for so little reason
seen from the wider lens of
the cheap seats.

Where have the radio days gone?

The double-edged voice of
my mother raised to sing
the song of the arrogant Jew,
the man who makes the
whole world sing,

she all unknowing, unaware,
aware and knowing only
simple, impermanent things.

The dog's breakfast.

Let's leave the radio on
so that he might sing too.

March 26, 2024


The chorus of international actors
chanting in unison, "Your race no
longer posseses such men."

fades to a plaintive whisper
when you realize

They're wrong.

March 25, 2024


to be human is to
be deceived and

the only touchstone

the only blessing

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

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

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