Tag: poetry

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

The masters of the universe
think they're God because
they destroy lives so easily,
turn entire societies into
traps that crush and grind
families to dust.

But they are not God.

God creates.

Zionists can only destroy.

February 1, 2024

The new age will open like the first sun
rising over a pile of corpses.

The pure bloods shall inherit a
second enlightenment.

Let them drive the rats out of every corner.

Let not one remain to seethe and fester
like a boil on the face of the earth.

Let not one remain to leech away the fruits
of their labor.

Let not one remain to become many and
poison the future with
yet another war,
yet another genocide,
yet another moral bankruptcy,
yet another outrage against all good graces.

Let the pure bloods, without even
a memory of us,
say
No more.

We
Us and them
You and them 

We are the walking dead.
We are from a softer world that no longer exists.

Never mourn for the weak, the gullible.
Sheep are bred to be slaughtered.

We are no longer ascendant. Let us go.

Be true and without remorse for what
you have to do to save the human race
from its own vilest heart.

It's too late for lambs to learn;
our fate is already upon us.

What's a consumer?
A ruminant animal.

We are worth nothing.
Spare nothing for us.

No mercy from those who must be merciless.
Wolves have only so much patience.
Tolerate nothing.

"Don't teach them this."
Sheep teach sheep false history.

Ours was the idol.

Let yours be true.

May 10, 2024

No.
I don't know anything.
I don't have anything.
I don't want anything.

No.
I don't know the time.
I don't have a cigarette.
I don't want food stamps.
Or drugs or whatever else.
You're selling or shilling.
Or grifting.

No.
I know times are hard.
I know you're a dollar short.
I know you've been on the street.
Or a shelter.
Or prison.

No.
I'm not out here at 6am
To talk to you
To entertain you
To supply or to buy
To be your new best friend
Or your pal or your bro
Or your sister or your
Mark

No.

I'm out here at 6am
In the cold
In the heat
In the rain
In the snow
To wait for a bus
To get to work
To stand on my feet all day
To earn a wage
To feed my family
To forge my own way
Into a future
I can't see
I can't predict
I can't shape with anything more
Than these two hands
These two feet
These few dollars.

Back away.
Back off.

You're on your own.
You're not mine.

I'm not yours.
I'm not here
For you
For any of you.

NO.

May 10, 2024

I don't run to catch the bus.
I run because I'm free.

May 10, 2024

What we had was a fairy tale,
a story written and performed
by monsters, a shadow play of
elaborate detail, a hero's
narrative told over
and over
while

we
committed
atrocities in their name,

for their purposes,
our true history
forgotten,
our
moral
guidance
obscured,

our very names lost.

Who are we?

They gave us a brand, long ago.
Now they're rebranding us,
discarding what's no
longer useful
to them,
cutting away
whole family lineages.

They are a false god.

They are a millstone
around the necks of
a hundred million
souls.

May 10, 2024