Tag: poetry

We stand in that square of sunlight
and question our allegiance
to what is good and right.

"That sun sure feels good, doesn't it?"

Doesn't it? It does, doesn't it. It does.

That hesitant glimpse through a door
we've been raised to believe
is an impenetrable wall.

Doesn't it? It does.

Raised to suspicion of all that feels
good without pain and suffering
and sacrifice.

Doesn't it? It does.

We question without waiting
for an answer we're afraid to hear.

You're a fool!
You were lied to,
deceived by the same liars
who deceived your revered ancestors!
An entire lineage of fools!
Fools deceived by liars
who've laughed at
you throughout
all of history,
laughed
at
fools so
easily deceived
into questioning all
that is good and right,
into questioning the very
warmth of a patch of sunlight!

We stop for only a moment,
to contemplate, to consider in
silence, in the bare shelter 
of a patch of sunlight
in -2° on a bright
morning in
January.

"It does," we say.

Our only concession to truth.

And then we bow our heads.
We pick up our burdens.
And we walk.
Blindly.
Into darkness.

January 30, 2025

That spinning wheel on the last day
of January draws to it foxfire and
embers, the trails of stars,
the hungry desires
of the last of
our blood,
the
last few
who hear
the muted rage
of ancestors smothered
under the crushing weight
of the parasitic machine.

The wheel spins on without us,
as natural as the tides, as
natural as the shifting
balance of air
currents
and tectonic
plates, as natural
as the expanding universe.

Nature, God, the old gods, ideas,
energy, first causes,

an endgame
we
cannot see.

The wheel
will draw us with it.

If we let go, if we listen.

The machine cannot stop it.
The machine cannot stop it.

They are death dealers, they are inertia. 

The wheel is the creator.
The wheel is life, perpetual life.

The wheel spins on, taking winter
with it, taking us with it.

If we open our eyes,
if we look beyond,
if we lift our heads,
if we lift our voices.

The wheel spins on, within us.

January 31, 2025

Q: What is an actor?
A: A liar paid by a Jew to deceive you.

Q: What is a politician?
A: An actor.

February 10, 2025

Faith conquers fear
in gentle November.

December 7, 2024

Who is the bell ringer?
Substance, insubstantial. Chime.
Good nature, calling to good nature.
Bells, snowfall. A bridge.
The spirit of our people. A song
too long silenced. We listen again
to the chime, to the bell ringer.
We walk the path. We are storytellers.
We lift our heads, we lift our voices.
We sing, we sing.

December 7, 2024

There is still beauty
in the dispensation 
of love.

November 16, 2024

We've left you behind,
we've gone to the stars.

You must learn alone now
how to love all beautiful things.

History is no accident,
neither yours nor ours.

Plants that grow from the ground,
the animals that we eat.

The decay of man.
The corruption of woman.

We know who we are.
Who you are no longer matters.

We've left you behind.
We've gone to the stars.

Nature corrects all courses,
settles all scores. Our ancestors
knew this, your descendants will learn.

To be pacified is to be enslaved,
to be at peace is to be free.
Exceptions are rarely made,
more often they are made examples.

The firmament and the foundation,
as above so below. We remember this.
These are our immortal guides.

All that is precious is fleeting.
And so, we depart.

We leave you behind.
We have gone to the stars.

November 15, 2024

As the riverbed narrows,
the force of the water
increases.

November 14, 2024

It's a poem about breathing room,
about oxygen and sinking
ships and castaways,
the space between
ladder rungs,
the
distance
to the ground,
the prostitution of labor,
and the digital slave collar.

It's about rent and wifi,
race and replacement.

It's about a wife teaching
herself to cook.

It's about heatin' or eatin'
and warm November nights.

It's about chronic pain,
the dislocation of
time and space,
questions
of
dignity
and autonomy,
and the hope of
dawn in a dark world.

It's about clean water
and chestnut trees.

It's about degenerates
and the laughter of hyenas.

It's about what cannot be written,
what cannot be spoken,
it's about a daydream,
about what I would
say and won't,
it's about
how
you would
despise me if
you knew what I believed.

It's about the value of truth.
It's about the folk awakening.

It's about the redefinition of prosperity.
It's about sidestepping Abrahamic coercion.

It's about a parasite in the blood
that must be cleansed with fire.

It's a poem I haven't written yet.
It's a poem we must write together.

November 14, 2024

In this place, peace.
In my heart, this place.

November 7, 2024