1. Providence

O, Providence's mighty hand struck down
The bricks of rebellious sons and 'twas found.
God need no man to prove He exists. Shot
Down were the bricks with lightning, of George Floyd.
Let his name now be made to ever rot
In hell, for the power of God, annoyed
Broke to rubble the emblem of black hate.
Another is to go up, God, please also, this, break.

2. Commitment

Start a journey with one foot upon the soil
Which is soft to tender soles, 
And walk a mile, or two.
The road becomes like gravel, and then the sand
Sears the feet with blazing heat.
How one walks that road, and knows at the end of it
Are riches and honor. A thousand times
One throws themself down upon the road
Crying, "Not another step!"
Yet, a breeze blows past the cheek
And again one stands, and walks.

Thou walkest because thou ought to.
Commit thyself to the path.
To wander backward is foolish;
Or to take another path would lose oneself upon the way.
So, walk until thy heart beats like a drum
And walk until every muscle aches.

I walk, because I have chosen my path
And know one day I shall find my oasis.

3. Bone Wars

Penniless, penniless
Two geniuses were made.
What man, being wise
Doth with perfect knowledge
Guess first all presumptions true?
For a mistake, friends were made enemies---
A moot mistake of pedantic dragons.

The sky is like the fumes of a furnace's smoke
The embers dashed upon the mountains.
The lightning flashes, the thunder's war,
The eerie Indian Rain casts ember's glow upon all things
Enshrouded by smoke.

Criticize me for a mistake I made,
But know I am not a god.

For the wickedness of the feud
Was theft, bribery and violence
For the sum of fortunes made by digging up bones.
Flash twice, thou lightning,
For two wicked foes
The thunder rolls.

I am imperfect, and should a man
Pour over my work to find
A detail wrong or a comma splice...
A "then" spelled for "than" or vice versa---
Do not be like Marsh and steal from me.
Do not pedantically search my words for a place to pounce.

I am not like Cope. I shall weep bitterly
For the fire in my heart would dim
Like the sunset's furnace.
The smoke of my cloudy sky would be snuffed out.
I have tried with all my prowess to give the summation of my thoughts.
For, I am a poet, not a historian.
I am a poet, not a scientist.
I only speak what is the science of the soul...
What are the Forms lying beyond this world.
And my science is accurate.
It decries the hidden wisdoms of the world.

4. Cursed Islam

What is religion, if not a purifier of the heart?
If religion teaches you to curse
Or if religion teaches you to hate
Or if religion teaches you to deceive
What use is it?

If religion teaches you to subjugate
If religion teaches you there are races greater
And races lesser, if religion teaches you
That anything beside the Heart
IS what God looks upon for judgment
What use is it?

What religion must force converts
And kill and threaten
And tell its people to lay up hatred in their heart
What use is it?

It is a cursed religion.
One which I hate.

In the Bible, God, when He lives upon the Earth
The God of the Jews and Christians,
When He reigns for one thousand years
He will permit all faiths to exist;
Yet, the knowledge of His law will be preeminent
For it is even above His name.
God, for Him to be just, 
Must hold truth above even His own holiness.
That is why Christians are taught never to lie
While Muslims, their faith is a lie.

5. Megan Fox

Mysticism, Christians trying to find an answer---
She did not go to hell.
Nobody smirks after being there.
When I went to hell
I saw a satyr with a spear
As the sinews in his thigh muscles
Bowed under the weight of his muscular physique.
He was red, the perfect color for hiding in the night,
And his horns were like a greased hair cut.
And his face. He had a face.
This creature was ready to smash my skull in
And place me in a prison
Until I called out to God
And He raised me out of that pit.

I had hoped the story were true.
Nothing would add to her beauty
But chastity.
Nothing wold add to her beauty
But wholesomeness.
But, she is filthy as she ever was
And no, Megan, you did not go to hell.

6. Fairyland

A war between Christendom and Paganism
Is that text Fairyland.
Baal, Athena, Thor,
They battle Brittos, Beowulf, Joash.
Pagan myths circle the brow
And heroes must defeat it
Within that very thought.

The lustful Greeks, the violent Nords,
The inhumane Canaanites;
The Manichean Zoroasters,
The Materialism of Babylon;
Paganism is found in many forms
And my heroes must do aught battle with it.
For, as Chesterton said,
There is one rival to Christianity
And that rival is Paganism.
The age of the epic is not dead;
For religions encompass philosophies
And there is only one philosophy
Which produces love.
All else must be fought with mortal combat
And Eternal Rewards dolled out to those
Who cling to God like Jacob did the Christophany.
For, there is only one God, and he is Jehovah-Jyra.

7. Where I Came From

Robots were friendly.
Chip, the local nurse bot
At the General Hospital
Meandered about and piqued my childish curiosity.
It could think, move, it was as human
As any man I'd met.
There were no smart phones.
Man was at peace;
The stars shined bright.
The grocery store 
Had a coffee grinder
And about thirty varieties of beans.
It wasn't racist to portray Indians;
It wasn't racist to portray Black Folk;
It wasn't racist to portray Quakers.
They were iconic imagery.
Stories were at their peak;
The best ones were being made.
I was taught a hundred tall tale and fairy tales
Iconic of the American Mythology.
That was my education;
Paul Bunyan,
John Henry,
Johnny Appleseed,
Abraham Lincoln,
George Washington,
Little Red Riding Hood,
Goldilocks and The Three Bears,---
We sang patriotic hymns at the beginning of every class.
We said the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America
Which was a republic, under God.
The Ten Commandments were written on the Statue of Liberty.
They were on the pillars of courts.
There was no internet.
Bugs Bunny was on every day,
For about two hours a day.
Elvis was bigger than the Beetles.
There were ten channels on cable.
And most of all, there was love.

8. Abide the Snow

How I love Thee, oh Stately King
The worlds seen from Thy peak.
Beneath Thee, Thy black Princes' tor
Gather by the valleys for war.

It, the breath of Heather Blossoms
Stain the rocks with liquid crimson;
The Princes reign above the lot
Of men, who upon earth, the gods

They have all stopped believing in.
Thus, Mount where the Nard Flower's sin
Had grown, and the harlot's love washed
Thy foot, Thy fragrant soils soft,---

Thy Statehood beams upon the breadth
Of all worlds and cloudy hex.
Thy peak is worshiped for its height;
Princes beneath Thee ready fight;

And the steeples of thy Welkin
Ring, for Thou art the very vault in
View of those who see Thy splendor;
And raiment of the Prisms wore

Thou upon kneck and ivory knape---
The sash of Thy Kinghood---irate
That the very dogs Thou wished good
Sought to steal from we poor our food.

9. A Tale of Two Princes

I heard a preacher once preach
A sermon on two princes:

The story goes as so:
The crown prince had a list
Which, for his joy, was promised to him.
He had no expectation for the things on that list 
Prior to the King and Queen promising him the things
On that list.

The second prince,
Being far more popular among the people
For his sunny disposition,
Had nothing promised to him.
He, too, had no expectations;
And the King loved him more than the crown prince.

Thus, when Michaelmas came
The two princes were bestowed with gifts.
The crown prince, who was promised everything on his list
Was given two things from the list.
Looking for the others---
For they were semi-precious stones
Which he liked---
He became sad that the thing he was promised
Was not given to him.

The second prince---
Whom the whole kingdom loved---
Was given coal.
And the second prince said,
"Ooo! I can make this into diamonds
"If I press hard enough upon the coal."

And the whole kingdom was stunned 
That the prince who received coal
Was celebrating that he could make diamonds
From his coal. Thus, they became wary of the crown prince.

So, the King---having laid out his plan
Very carefully, to defame the crown prince
And bring honor to the second---
Took the coal from the second prince
And gave him diamonds to replace the coal.
Then, he distributed among the kingdom
How honored the second prince was
For receiving coal and doing a dance for joy.

However, the semi-precious stones
Asked for by the crown prince
Were all he asked for---
There was no other request he had
And the whole kingdom had promised him everything on his list
Down to the last sum.
And he had only received a twentieth of what he asked for.
And he wept that the promise made to him was in vain.

Thus, the crown prince absconded his crown
And gave it to the second prince
Whom, having the sunny disposition
Was happy for getting coal for Michaelmas.

Later on in life,
The crown prince grew to be a wise man
And the second prince to be a foolish man.
For, the crown prince never received aught
That he asked for.
The second prince, he received everything.
The crown prince grew strong, he grew wise
He labored on his princely duties---
Knowing that the kingdom belonged to his cousin---
While the second prince spent the riches
Obtained by the crown prince.
For the crown prince had obtained many riches
Yet the second prince ate all the riches up---
If there were even a gem able to be bought
By the crown prince's labor,
The second prince was the one who received it.

The crown prince, having worked hard
For his salary, was perplexed.
"Why did all the riches go to my cousin?"
And, lo, it was because he was the king?
So, the crown prince was saddened by this
That all of his labor was spent to feed the second prince
On his worldly lusts.
The crown prince, though,
Had time to understand what he would do with the profits.
He, happy his crown was stolen,
Will be a benefactor for the people.
This was what he set his heart to do.
For though the crown prince asked,
And did not receive aught he asked for from his kingdom;---
Rather, he was scorned when he asked
And given only a partial sum---
He was thankful that his wretched cousin
Had the crown and not him.
For, remember, he only wanted semi-precious stones;
And his cousin wanted diamonds.

Thus, the crown prince worked upon his princely duties
Peering over all wisdom, to divine a strategy
To save his kingdom from the barbarian onslaught.
The second prince, he was allied with the barbarians.
It came to, that the kingdom fell
But the crown prince escaped with his life.
For, he had accrued wisdom in his poverty---
For he was now poor, for all the sustenance he gained
Was given to his cousin---
And thus, through the roughness of his life
He attained a true knowledge
Which the second prince had not attained.
And, had he received the semi-precious stones
He may not have acceded the office he did obtain
Which was as a counselor to kings
With wisdom, honor and glory.
Though, his kingdom still hated him
He had attained to the truth which could have saved it.

10. My Science

My instrument is mind;
My measurement is meaning.

I ponder upon the Words spoken by the prophets
And come to accurate conclusions.
Yet, the precision---
Words can be too precise.
For, it is the accuracy of discovery
Which finds true meaning.
If the words were precise---
Not even the definitions
Of these scientific terms are---
They would carry no meaning.

For, some concepts are too dificult
To write precisely.
Yet, that doesn't mean we cannot be accurate
In interpreting them.

11. The Lotus Tea

Upon the frailty of the lotus petal
He plucks it to make his herbal tea.
He then causes those who drink to forget.

It, a tea with herbal essence
Rot-grey in color, sickly;
It is color of all men's skin;
Sometimes darker, sometimes lighter,
Regardless of how long it is steeped.
It is poisoned by forgetfulness.
Wars, heroes, ancient causes
Are all forgotten by those
Who drink the lotus tea.

Where are the prophets;
Where are the peacemakers:
Where are those who listen?

12. Cow Tools; by Gary Larson

I hath never seen the cartoon---
Yet, I hath heard it described.
The joke, thou reader,
Is thy reaction to it.

13. My Sympathies with Shakespearean Sonnet

My love, when I first met her, she had a
Face like that of a man's; her hair was foul---
She and I had not a semblance of play;
She was boring, and had no word to rouse
A glimmering thought or interesting
Conversation by which made me smile.
Then, I met him whom friendship would soon bring
The conversation my heart had, mild,
Wished to make. Wisdom he would teach me, right
Yet dark and mysterious. So, her face
I left, though her womanhood I aroused---
I learned that friendship was far more innate
Than breasts, womb, skin and amatory's cowl.
Thus, for true love I will patiently wait.

14. My Wasted Breath

What is my voice among a thousand amateurs?
What is my voice to those whom I've offended?
Among the amateurs and social justice wariors
My voice is drowned out by the Siren's who rent
The hearts of the seamen to lusty show of song's breath;
To the coves they die, and are dashed to pieces
Upon the reefs. Amateur and offended left
No place for my songs to be harked or heeded.

What is my voice among the Siren's? All for souls
They sing, their asp like bodies and naked breasts
Upon the serpent's slough, and they sing of nothing old
But what is new and in their hearts, which sings of the West
The vacuous Gnosis of Mnemosyne, to which truth
Is found only in Cholesterol, isolated
In singular mind and sympathies uncouth.
What is my voice among the sirens? It is Wasted.

15. Vignette

How many words do I see?
Master poets lose themselves in the din.
Fortune's wheel
Turn to formulaes 
Of money, markets
And robotic algorithms
Of buzzing hashtags.

It is not a fun game;
I do not enjoy it.
I do not enjoy trying to find out
What the masses want to hear
And telling it to them.
Truth is my unicorn.
And when none believe in it---
A thousand songs are sung
But noone truly listens.

The Skalds sing of the virtue of silence.
Of wit, and those who have it;
If you do not, to stay silent.
For speaking out of turn is foolish.
Yet, that silence---
It is all I can think about now.
To listen---
But it's hard because so few have aught to say.

There are a thousand poets in my eye---
I unravel the scroll.
Is it beautiful?
Or is it the song of the modern age?
All wishing to have their say---
Yet none saying.

16. Illusions


A charming conversation tattles about
The quiet book store---of bass and alto.
It's deep, sincere. Nothing they say interests me.
But, it is wholly interesting to them.
And that interests me, because it is good.
It is something I wish people had often.
Finding their class, their clique, through buzz words
Which aligns them to each other's world.
It is not gossip. It is not crass, nor base.
It is not about money or sex but 
Common interests. And the boredom sets in.
Not mine, but theirs---the chinwag disrupted
By their better angels, to enable work.
"This is the only good Fleetwood Mac song."
Now they are speaking about common interests;
Common enemies. Common hatred.
Kyle comes in, and they are bored. I am not.

I listen, I interpolate, I hear...
Illusions. Now they speak of stories...
Are they visions? Are they real? Illusions?
Like when the tv seems to know my thoughts?

Illusions interrupt my meditation
Which are equally interesting to me.

17. Logos

Those of the Beautiful Race---
The Ethiopian with thy beauty---
Aristotle tried to relegate you
To a slave for lack of Logos.
There is nothing inherent in you
That can steal this gift from you.
However, if the Cracker steals it---
And they do---then men of all races
Will be subject back under a yoke and bondage.
For understanding is the foundation of our freedom
And without it, there is only force.
Without it, there is only war.
And powerful men and women---
Black, white or brown---
Will steal from us, who are less fortunate---
Our voice. Understanding, wisdom
It is anyone's gift who seeks it.
Do not revive the sins of the past
By burning with fire the very Word
Which will set you free.

18. Aristotle's Slave

I am free
Because I understand.
❦
All are slaves
Because they refuse to listen.

19. Good Art

Art which skill had wrought,
Whether natural; romantic:
Affirming volition or fatalism:
So long as it captures the truth
And is wrought with skill,
I call thee art.
Truth is antinomy.
It mends contradictions;
It plays with the war between light and shadow.

20. Imagine

I've imagined there's no heaven
I've imagined there's no hell.
I've imagined there's no possessions
It's far worse than you can tell.

I've imagined there's no countries
And all were under the brotherhood of man.
There'd be no freedom to die for
There'd be nothing but boredom's hand.

Imagine if we all were silent
And imagine this song enforced.
Imagine all things were given
By the Brotherhood of Man's gun's force.

I have imagined the lyrics
I have thought about the song.
To me it's an anthem of despair
And it can only be so very wrong.

Men are all so differnet.
MEn are all so wise.
To force all men to conform
ANd never share their lives

It would be the most bring world
One with only peace.
For men would live in silence
And there'd be no children playing in the streets.

Sometimes what divides us
Is the very best of this world.
What men fight for
Is the greatest, valued pearl.

If men were wholly thoughtless
If men were wholy slaves
Then John Lennon's world
Would be there to all men save.

This world cannot contain us
For men are so very diverse...
To force all men as converts
To a world which censored verse...

It wuld be the hell I fear most
It would be a world untrue.
It would be a world of pieces
All held together by tyranny's glue.

I say it couldn't work out...
It is only a dream...
For blood would be the War Shout
Which all men would endorse.

He was only a dreamer...
Not a wise man you see.
For I can imagine a world of peace
With religion and countries.

It would be ruled by the Father
And His glorious Son.
He would not be a Tyrant
And we'd all have what we should.

A field to pasture
A few friends to love.
Food in our stomachs
And men would live by good.

I listen to the Critic from 1855.
He says "Walt Whitman" is both British and American.
Funnily enough, when he describes poetry
I sing with passion, and I understand.
Then he begins to sound like a critic;
And all credibility is lost on me.

How could the man who so brilliantly 
Describe poetry two paragraphs earlier
Begin to snark at Walt Whitman?
Should a poet sing like Walt Whitman sings
In our modern age, I would rejoice.
I would purchase his work greedily,
And add it to my bookshelf.

I understand the controversy, though.
Walt Whitman---but I would say Byron had done the same---
Brought a crude and selfish vein to poetry.
Poetry is not singing about the self.
Though, some poets sing about themselves
The great poets---the more subtle poets---
Sing about the Earth. They sing about the trees
Or the birds, or battles,---or, they invent mythologies.

I like Walt Whitman because he has a complete education.
He teaches me nouns, and many of them.
He informs me on the way life was in 1855.
He teaches me a lot.
However, the critic said he's either a failure or glorious.
Neither of these were true.
Walt Whitman was a poet
Who must have written else he despair.
A wise man, who had many thoughts---
And there in lies the problem with modern poetry.
There is little thought behind it.
It's not the narcissism I dislike about modern poetry
But I dislike the disregard it has toward things outside the self.
Good poetry ought to have a healthy interest in other things
Beside the self.
I suppose that is why the critic didn't like Whitman
Was that he sung odes about himself.
He, being among the first to have the audacity to do it
Invented the ego. Not that Hubris was never a part of poetry,
For I certainly have hubris---
Which is healthy for an artist who recognizes their talents
When very few other people do---
Though, I am creating a revival of poetry all by myself.
I'm inspiring one or two of you
And by my inspiration, you write a poem like mine.
And then it trickles down, so that poetry revitalizes.
I am the catalyst back to a day when men were wise;
For though few do read me,
I give a glimpse into the hidden art and purpose.
The mystery of solving other men's riddles.
And one day all will have read me
At least some little thought I had.
And that day I suppose poetry will be enjoyed
Again; not merely an indulgence in self love.

Dear,
Ms. Kramarik

There's a girl, much the same as you. I see all of the same talent. Her paintings don't sell for millions of dollars. My writing doesn't get purchased. At least not yet.

You're my favorite Artist, Ms. Kramarik. Not because you were a prodigy, but because you drew the best portrait of Jesus. What kind of world do we live in, where talent like yours doesn't get patronized? It's a secondary hobby. It isn't taken seriously. I've seen a man paint Michelangelo's bodies in the most photorealistic eye I'd ever seen. I do not know if it gets patronized. I do not know if it gets sold.

The things done with art---the disinterest in it, the utter disregard for it---is wonderfully wrong. Everyone who paints like you---and there may be at most a couple thousand---ought to earn their living off of the craft. What is the world without art? What is the world without music or poetry? Without stories? When money dictates our stories, when money dictates our art, and when money dictates our music, it tears people like us apart.

Art needs to be sold--- There may be nine billion souls on the earth, but only a couple hundred thousand of them painters. A couple hundred thousand of them writers. A couple hundred thousand of them musicians. Everyone wants to believe that talent is equally distributed among all people---but, due to a writing disability, I could never reach the level of proficiency you reached at four. Not everyone can be an artist. Not everyone ought to be. And painting ought not simply be championed by the newest fads. It ought to be based on the merit of a painter.

I say this because it's true. I don't doubt the world has no lack of artists, but we are still a rare breed. Those of us who can produce works of art. If you have to go to school for it, it is not in you. If you go to school for it because it is in you, there's little the school can do beside teach you the techniques. You were painting at four and I was writing at ten... It is not a bad thing. It is not something that ought to be moderated. Rather, if we decide that all men are endowed equally with the same gifts, we tend to shun the ones who are naturally gifted. And we elevate the ones who simply pay the money and put in the hours. And they come out painting when they should have been an accountant or a Lawyer. Do you understand, Akiane?

The world grows larger, so there are more of us now competing. So, the world has decided to shadow ban us, and make it so we cannot earn our meat. They want to turn someone like me---useless for everything else---and make me another brick in the wall. I'm the spray paint on the side of the brick building. One of my little pet dreams was a city that allowed Graffiti on the walls, so it would beautify the city. Obviously, graffiti is just a way gangs mark their territory, which amounts to the reason why that dream will never happen. Yet in some places, it is right to have an artist come and spray paint their art upon the wall. And it is beautiful. Why cannot you or I create on the traditional canvases, and make money, too? You made money. But I see so many artists turn to their art and say, "It is nothing." As if the enormous gift weren't meant to be fully explored. No... what happens is so many artists see their art and figure there is no money in it. For some of us, it is all we can do.

So there are extraordinarily gifted individuals who can paint like you, or write like me, and they choose to ignore that gift, and pursue monetary gain. And there are extraordinarily unlucky people like myself who need to write, yet the markets will not allow it because they are saturated by a third type of people, who by industrious studying of markets, trends and alchemic moldings of words or paint, they find themselves in the position of making money off the crafts that we ought to. And sure enough, you have made your money. But, I cannot yet.

Dear,
Ms. Lee

To Kill a Mockingbird is a masterpiece. Go Set a Watchman is probably the reason everything went to hell.

Writers have a responsibility to speak into the social discord. We have the necessary responsibility to speak into social problems, and to work out solutions. To Kill a Mockingbird was a solution to an age old question. It was a solution to Racism, Sexism and many other riddles. The core theme of the novel being "Justice." The acknowledgement of Tom's innocence, the acknowledgement of Mayella's guilt, the acknowledgement of Tom's inevitable sentence. It speaks to truth.

Now, there are radicals trying to remove it from the curriculum. Why? Because it is a novel portraying truth. Anything true, the modern radical is trying to destroy, or defame. The unfortunate truth is that Racism and Sexism have taken their reverse forms, so that the harder truths are impalpable.  However, turning Atticus into a racist was a poor publishing decision. The only thing I can see, is that this is an alternate universe. As it is an alternate universe where Atticus won the Tom Robinson trial.

The destructive catalyst to our modern Racism, is that To Kill a Mockingbird has become controversial and pushed into the realm of "Radical." The story is true, and it aggressively prosecutes False Rape Allegations, and it condemns the women who are abusing their unique position.

The danger of this modern day, and the danger of our modern world is the ignorance exuded by the populace's tastes, to promote Hate. Do blacks hate whites? Is the stereotypical image of them, travelling in gangs, obsessed about their skin color and hating the Cracker a true portrait? No. It is not. But, equally dangerous is the assumption that such individuals do not exist. And art ought to critique those individuals. A sickness of ingratitude filters through the populace. And as many faux remedies they create, it all stems from self love and selfishness.---Forgetting the childhood lessons necessary for understanding this complex world.

The danger, of course, Ms. Lee, is that your bastard child has been leaked to the public by a Money Grabbing Ms. Carter, and it was published irresponsibly. It may have been a first draft. A first draft is not the work. It is not where the work was meant to go. For, when a writer is creating, the subconscious juices flow and meld together to create masterpieces. A work such as To Kill a Mockingbird needed to be of its own accord, without the first draft published. It is not the authentic writer's work. The authentic work is where the novel had originally gone. What the novel, in all its creative glory, had become. Not what the novel was in its first incarnation. Atticus in the first draft might be racist, but Atticus in the true, Canon story is a hero. 

We need not defame our heroes, as the surrounding controversy has destroyed a beloved classic. It does not matter what an author's first draft was. Only what the author had polished it into.