Ajax Kallistrate

to be human is to
be deceived and
deceptive

the only touchstone
forgiveness;

the only blessing
birdsong

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
scalpels.

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

How lonely on the sidelines of
a sideshow when the big top
comes tumbling down in a
jumper with a name tag

Hello, my pronouns!

Settling 900,000 with a new
suit of concrete beneath a
drowning flood of
three million,

a poisonous flux

washing through the
blood of a keyhole shaped
like a mockingbird coiled
about by a rattlesnake,
beak like a bayonet
piercing the womb
of a blind hag,

stumbling

over a line
drawn in
barren soil,
center stage
in a sideshow,

the audience
gasps

in profile,
in shadow,
in a whisper

as the curtain
falls, let's

take a bow,
together,

one last time.

February 1, 2024

communism is the end
of all beautiful things

February 12, 2024

The man who gives you
permission to commit evil
becomes your master.

January 18, 2024

The trap sprung.

Bye bye 
baa baa
to the white
sheep with the
shoelace in her heart,
to little old me who believed
the machine one last time
when it whispered,

"That can't be real."

I failed the only IQ test
that matters.

I failed the test of faith,
duty, obligation.

I failed.

I'm the dumb dumb
who evolved from TDS to
MAGA to anti-communist to
anti-Zionist, but the meta-
morphosis won't
matter when
the toll
of
twenty
years a married
woman comes due.

The moneychangers
under the electronic tent
demanded their usurious
interest, their toe
tag price tag
for a heavy
hand
on
the snooze button,

and the fatal flaw

has been replicated
in every cell
of my
body,

the bioweapon

replicated in
every cell
of every
pin
cushion
heart
of millions
and millions
of ordinary
people.

Mothers,
fathers,
children,
whole families
driven underground.

We drop like
livestock at the
slaughterhouse.

We've been counted out
of history, biology, unnatural
selection, the forgotten flotsam
of a statistic to rival the black
plague and bird flu, the fleshy
pavement over which the 
destiny of the human
race was forever
altered by the
brutal hands
of the
most

evil
despicable
merciless
haters of life

to ever walk the earth.

You don't have to starve a population if
you can get them to starve themselves.

You don't have to sterilize a population if
you can get them to sterilize themselves.

You don't have to kill a population if
you can get them to kill themselves.

Genocide is a monstrous project.

This is the prayer of the Wicked.

No one wants to be born
into the generation
that sees the end
of the world,
and yet

here we are.

February 7, 2024

I hate how beautiful New York
is in the golden light of January
painted over awnings and ever-
green boughs, the finches sing-
ing full throated, unaware of the
shame they've drawn up from
a poisoned well, their bite un-
softened by the sweet reminder
of the endless dream, the
constricted heart,
the lidless eye,
never
to sleep
again in the last
days of the Republic.

January 16, 2024

Take five blocks of urban blight
twice a day for four years and
don't call me in the morning.

January 18, 2024

12:25pm and the bells rang out
over the walls of city hall
in the rain and we laughed
as we ran to the bus.

October 3, 2023