The parasites drown out our internal
songs because they can't crush
them, can't extinguish them.
If we're quiet enough and faithful
enough, we can still hear them.
June 16, 2024
Ajax Kallistrate
"Our blood is our nation."
I took those words with me this morning.
I kept them in the pocket of the rain jacket I wear every day, with the hood on, zipped up to my chin to hide my hair, the emblem of White womanhood that I shaved off once a month for seventeen years, like a ritual, when I was a Lefty tormented by "gender dysphoria," hair that has now grown out long and luxurious, a gift to my husband, a magnet to the black and brown men who cat call, follow me down the street, reach out to grab me, who take it personally when I ignore their "good morning, honey," as I walk five blocks to the bus stop at 6am to labor for the Jew, to support my family, to survive.
In fact, I'm keeping those words.
Our blood is our nation.
I hope you don't mind.
July 9, 2024
When a machine dictates your life
You are a part of the machine
Apart
Of the machine
To escape deeper into the matrix
The unattended machinery
We are a migratory species
Nature is the progenitor
Left alone
We are created
A part of the mystery
In a flight of birds
August 2, 2024
Hi tide in my heart and mind
for a word
Fixate
yielding only to go on
alone
without remorse
to feel the sun
on my skin
and together we will laugh
like dragonflies at
the emperor's new clothes.
August 2, 2024
You have an obligation to discern truth from falsehood.
You have an obligation to speak the truth.
Truth is interconnected (nature -> family), a web of threads that must (must?) form a shape.
A shape opposite and parallel to falsehood, to substitution.
You can follow the threads. You can feel the shape.
Is this the shape of God?
If so, can anyone discern this shape? Can we discern any other truth, any other shape?
(A poem has a shape too, a whole shape, self contained. A poem is a sigil. Is truth too a sigil?)
Can modern people recognize truth? Can they differentiate truth from falsehood? Do they believe truth exists?
Does the shape of truth determine the shape of falsehood? Opposition, equal force.
If so, by discerning falsehood we can infer truth.
August 2, 2024
i feel my way around my words
in the dark, grasping for
a shape familiar not
to me but to some
prehistoric
noticer
who
illuminated
the whole enterprise
at once and beheld the interior
landscape of the human
soul, the biological
data structure
caressed
eternally
by
wavelets
of electrical impulses,
a template replicated like
the tolling of a great
bell into the brain
cases of a billion
billion hungry
apes,
and
played he the sounds that moved mountains,
a choreographed epitaph to an eagle's nest,
a watery pan flute symphony
How narrow the angle of reflection must have been!
that gave voice to the voiceless echo netted
in a palm mapped to our divergent path,
marooned in isolated silence, tapping away
tap tap
a telegraphic plea
deal negotiated in bad
faith for we are implored
still!
to listen not speak
and find our inward gaze opposed
by our inward gaze until we yield in defeat
peace by loss
the final sacrifice a lidless eye blind to all
we encompass that encompasses us and
i feel my way around my words
in the dark, grasping for
shapes my ancestors
recognized and
named and
walked
with,
shapes
unknown to us
in this beguiled era
where death groans
beneath the weight of life
we've heaped upon it,
where the only act
of creation left
to us is to
discern
truth
from
falsehood,
where our legacy
becomes a key fixed
to a lock that no longer turns
do we kneel
to those who whisper in the dark,
do we grant them sanctuary
by our absence,
do we concede without grappling
the message left behind by
that sinewy piercer,
ask!
you remnants,
ask!
his flightless bones mark for us a trail
burned into the night sky by
upward falling stars,
for if he saw
them
he
must
too have seen
us!
we,
his descendants tamed by wicked noise,
must cast aside the tools that disarm us:
the false history,
the false names,
the false burdens,
and wield once more the mystery
that belongs to us as the stamp
of our nature dictates,
pass through fear
as through
a veil
of
flame,
and return as conquerors,
our gaze fixed on a horizon
none yet can dream of,
and
i feel my way around my words
in the dark, grasping for
a manifold shape
i might
recognize
should i lay claim to it,
i might
illuminate
should i rise above the
sacrificial sleight of hand,
i might restore
to us
should i remember
as those dancing dead remember,
should i join my song to his and
break this fever dream,
should i yield only as they yielded,
to truth,
should i persist, endure,
hold fast to this thorny path,
unbroken as we are
unbroken,
still.
July 8, 2024
I thought serendipity was a dragon.
Now I wonder if it's God.
Or is it a lush garden where quiet minds go to rest?
Premise: the universe is an equation.
(I dislike negations. I avoid using negations.)
Action, reaction.
Reflection.
Focus.
Shift
the
angle
of dispersion
by a single degree and arms
open to encompass your desires.
Swing and a miss!
Monkey bars decode no drama
thinner than a fingernail
slipped beneath
the edge
of
the
horizon.
I lift my eyes.
Breakthrough
cloud cover parts to reveal green leaves
and a street sign, the rushing by of
could haves and never weres.
I turn to you, and we meet
once more, where
we are, one,
doubled,
and
let joy
call us home.
June 9, 2024
The pale soft things regurgitated
by blind cave-dwellers float
among the wreckage,
bobbing as the drain
burps, colorless
fluids pickled
clean of
spiked
proteins slip
away beneath
flood lamps
hiding
monstrous
agitators, mouths
agape in devouring
grins to slurp up a soup
of mismatched uncradled
components,
doll's legs,
pippin toes,
tiny translucent nails,
threads of peach fuzz,
unskinned onion layers,
blind beads and
snail shells,
nameless fragments unloaded
by steady professional hands
that were once nubbins
themselves, divided
now by an ocean
of sanctified
glass and
steel,
an anesthetic to forget
the unnumbered wavelengths
that have passed through
flesh in watery echoes
through every
generation
to
comfort
the bottled
souls swiming
inside their
unique
folds
of
space
and time,
each one
reaching out
to grasp air and sun
and a voice he recognizes
as belonging to him
and him
alone,
until today.
this one among a million
tethered lineages
reaches into
the future
to grasp
only
darkness,
genetic fealty
become a constricting
throb of want, an
excess of need
directed
out-
ward,
a
last
beseeching
cry to the one
he recognizes as
his and his alone
is met with silence,
unholy exchange,
trading blood purge
for unfathomable loss,
such a pitiable thing!
him and her, broken
as the world is broken,
insides spilling out into space,
a crucifixion pinned to a scarecrow
keeping vigil over a barren field,
a scapegoat flayed alive by
the parasite's tongue,
a wound that ruptures
mother from child,
child from family,
family from race,
race from nation,
nation from God.
bow your heads!
the littlest one cries out,
unrelieved, unavenged,
unremembered,
no stone for
his littlest
grave,
no eulogy for
his littlest
life,
no mark for
his littlest
bud
on
the
branch,
bow your heads!
the littlest one cries out,
a calf butchered in the name
of the red heifer
that drives
the world
to
its knees
with unending terror,
a notch in the bedpost
of esoteric wizards
whose hatred
for
the human
race knows no bounds,
a morsel of pristine,
unsullied life
savored
piece-
meal
by
vulpine
thieves armored
about with grifters hiding
beneath a thousand thousand names.
how vast a power it is to slaughter
the child of your enemy before
he can even be born!
bow your heads!
you, woman!
your womb opened first by the grace
of natural order, second by the filthy
claws of demonic deceivers
who told you that killing a child
was liberating,
who told you that killing a child
was healthcare,
who told you that your mass of cells
was superior to his mass of cells,
will you stab him yourself, prick his littlest
heart through with your own cowardly needle?
will you pry open his littlest mouth and pour
in the poison that stops up his blood?
will you cut off his sustenance and watch
his littlest body starve, denied the natural
birthright that you and you alone are
granted the gift to provide?
bow your head!
even that littlest single cell reaches backwards
into each mother monkey's unbroken
mitochondrial legacy, a telescoping
panorama of genetic victors
that requires no
heartbeat,
that
transcends all
mechanical means of creation,
that cannot be broken
except in death,
and
is yours and yours alone
to bequeath.
so
bow your heads.
honor and receive truth.
bow your heads beneath
the weight of this
humiliation
ritual
that has
claimed our
ancestral inheritance
and left us as we were.
alone.
alone,
until we reach out into the darkness
and recognize each other as ourselves.
alone,
until we pass through fear and
recognize our enemy as our enemy.
alone,
until the littlest one cries out and
his voice resonates through millennia
to touch our primal hearts.
alone,
until no compromise slices through
the bonds that have defined us
since our first origin.
alone,
until hands that would destroy
enclose instead, to comfort,
to shield, to guide, to love,
to bloom with.
alone,
until the breath of liberty fills our lungs
and we lift our voices to
speak the truth,
to honor
nature and God,
as a family, as a nation.
So,
bow your heads.
Be humble.
Pay attention.
Notice,
and
have faith
that we will come home.
Together.
June 9, 2024
In a world where parasites
make the rules,
parasites
who
see you
as less than
human, parasites
who contribute nothing
to society,
who arbitrarily decide
the value of your labor,
who tell you what to eat,
what to wear, what to do,
feel, and think,
who want to gatekeep reality
from birth to death,
who profit from your ill health,
your suffering, your confusion,
your want, your despair,
when those are the people
who make the rules,
you must
live life on your own terms
wherever and whenever
you can.
May 27, 2024
i must be as strong as a man
and understand i am not
a man, five days a week.
i get to be a woman
for two in a dress
and a scrunchie,
with a spoon
in my hand and
a ring on my finger.
reminder,
the locus
the focus,
the hope and
the faith,
all seven days
under the lamps,
under the sun,
undone and whole,
i'm she for you
and them for all
the last days of
my life.
May 26, 2024
