Freedom Steak

Freedom Steak
by
B. K. Neifert

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to every idiot out there, who thinks there are right and wrong answers.

So a flower blooms in winter by a lack of summer rains, does a child bloom prematurely by a lack of parental love.

Of Yu

Chinese flood, the seed of man floats
Upon the wooden beams and trash,
Debris swept through global currents.
Gun,---mortal god slain!---Yu's father
Rages at The Supreme God's choice
To destroy mankind. Yu, the Loong,
Appears, to quell the Great Flood's wrath.
A Global Flood myth, said to rage
For over twenty years, and the Loong
Is the one who saves mankind, in
Rage at the Supreme Deity
For causing the world to die.

Understand our enemy.
In Chinese mythology
The Dragon saves man from Yah.
Yet, in Chinese History
The Child saves man from Yu.

The dark parable of the Dragon and Lion
Where the Lion wages war with the Gold Dragon
To become the child; it says it is the Loong
Of Thou Shalt, that is warred with by the Lion's fang.
Yet, this myth clearly shows, it is not that Loong who
The Lion wars with, but rather the Golden, Yu.
And then, by warring with the rebel we become
Like the child, guitless, merciful, unable
To know Sin, which is another auld name of Yu.

Pyramids

The reason there are pyramids
On different continents,
Is the same reason there are sleds
And feathered arrows
On different continents.
It is not a conspiracy
Of an ancient, Aryan civilization
Which academia is hiding.
It is because what's possible
Will always produce similar structures
Of Logos.

Bertrand Russell

Good is independent of God.
Yet, Good requires God's judgment to be understood.
Just like God's judgment is necessary
To judge the world and all of its cruelty.
And also to reward all of those who are good.

Jesus' teachings--including hell--
Are perfect and unerring.
Without belief in Jesus, there is no knowledge of good.
There is no knowledge period, if Christ's words are not taken.
As, all things come into doubt without faith.
Even the universe, even gender, even good and evil.
All things must be sustained on a kernel of faith
That it is so.

God gave this world over to the devil
To rule as a Monarch for a time.
In the cosmological scheme,
There are still Christians alive
From the days of Christ---
Surely you know that.
They can live one hundred years
And still be alive to see Christ's return
As time, Bertrand,
Is not linear.
We all experience this life at once
As the earth and heavens shake,
And the cursed figs that would not sprout---
Because it was not in season---
Does not Christ control the seas?
Yet the tree would not obey him,
Just like the people of Israel.
Thus, they were cursed, for having
Rejected Him, even though it was not in season.

Christ calls Himself "Rabbi".
Why is this?
Because He is our teacher.
He is, in a Postmodern sense,
The lens which gives us twenty-twenty vision
And lets us see clearly in the dark;
And if color blind, he even gives us our color vision---
As science has corrected that through glasses.
He is a perfect lens.

I do believe some true part of you has survived;
And what is famous of you is a folkstem;
A liar. I believe some part of you survived
And your soul, much like mine, is travelling
In this infinite expanse of times and universes.
Somewhere, maybe perhaps we will meet;
But your arguments are all the same tired ones I've heard.
I've prepared for all of them
And this is a cursed time we live in.
Which is why suffering is greater than peace.
Throughout all time and space
The entire worlds are quaking and thundering
Under the war being fought by Michael and Lucifer.
God's holy angels have cast the demons to the Earth---
It is our job to patiently bear this with endurance,
And obtain our crown.
Even if it means abandoning everything,
Life, home, wife, child, father, mother, brother, sister,
Husband, land, fame, fortune...
Because there is evil and it must be destroyed permanently.
If not, there will never be an end to the suffering

Young Lion

Satan wanders like a fanged, Young Lion
Searching for his prey to rip asunder.
A Lion, without his Pride of Consorts
Will form a wandering band of brigands,---
Mangy, sodomizing one another
Because they cannot provide for females.
They wander in packs, ripping apart their
Prey, devouring men in their bloody
Paths; no dignity; unmariable;
Broken; bloody jowled and so murderous;
Stealing nourishment from other creatures.

God is Love

God is love.
God is peace.
God is faith.
God is righteousness.
God is joy.

Only through the Holy Spirit
Can we possess these things.
The statement always made sense to me.
That these things are the evidences for God.

Wherever there is true love,
There is God's force emollient within the heart and mind.
It has grown so cold, as of late,
Not many remember it, nor know what it is.

But I do.

The Atheist at Texas Hold Em'

I sit across from a Christian.
We're playing Texas Hold Em.

My cards are dealt.
I get dealt a Jack of Clubs and a Queen of Spades.
My partner bets the big blind;
I ante in.

The flop gets played,
A Jack, Ace and Ten of hearts.

I see my jack pairs well.
But he couldn't have the flush.
Because he bets cautiously,
Exposing he doesn't have the hand.
I cautiously meet his bet;
But I don't raise it.

Next comes the fourth street
And I see a queen of diamonds
Is played. I'm one away from a full house,
But have two pair.
He doesn't bet---
So, I raise him with half my chips.
He has a tell that he's lost...
But, goes in.
"The fool."

Then, the queen of clubs is the river.
He again, doesn't bet.
I without hesitation go all in.
"I'm all in on a loser, who probably has a flush."
The pot is settled,
We show our hands.

He reveals the Queen and King of Hearts;
A royal flush.
"He had it from the beginning;
"How didn't I see it?"

American Stonehenge

Someone took a pipe bomb
And blew up those damn stones.
Good riddance.
I would have done it myself;
In fact, I had plans to do it.
Those same people censor me
Why not blow their garbage philosophy to hell?

I saw some jeeps driving down the road;
About four of them in a row.
Do you know what I saw?
I saw peace.
I saw the modern Horse and Buggy
And since civilization is so spread out
We need something gas powered to get us around.
There was a sort of peace,
As I rolled up the hill, and down it,
Watching the Amazon Employee
Drive to work in an old Corolla.
I then realized they decided
To decommission about a zillion vehicles
In the "Cash for Clunkers"
Program. Meaning... people won't have
Old Corollas to drive to Amazon.
They'll have new, fancy cars,
If a car at all.
And work, of course, will be for the privileged.
Not for everyone...
Instead of work, you'll be at home,
Making your stipend,
And living off the roach feces
And ant colonies in the spring.

I realized, they censor me.
Why not blow their little plan to hell?
I'd like to see them strung up by their big toes
And whacked like pinatas.
I hope Elon Musk makes a rocket ship
And they all just, blast away,
If they find our little blue sphere a bother.
And on they go, like that Steve Miller Song,
And the world will be rid of a couple of griping
Old billionaire fools, who did nothing good anyway.
Since they like Ayn Rand so much,
John Galt can go to Mars for all I care.
The rest of us will fare without them.
Without their dumb laws and hindrance to our freedom.
It wouldn't solve all the issues...
There'd just be another set of bratty billionaires after them
And they, too, could fuck off when the world got sick of them.
We don't want their feudalism, communism,
Or any of it.
Just make our Stoves and Canned Soups...
We don't need your plans for a "Better World."

William Sidis

His major theory,
Simplified for you,
Is that life reverses the Law of Thermodynamics.

It seems to be true,
As looking over his work
It was dazzling to me
How Non Compos Mentis it was.
How unconnected;
Also, how illogical.

But, then I thought about
Why one would say
Life, in the universe,
Reverses the Laws of Thermodynamics.

I thought of Evolution...
How, life is one of the only
Things in existence
Where we observe complexity and growth
Over time, and not degradation.
A white floret, with five petals and a honeysuckle scent
Turns into the awesome folds and delicious perfume
Of a magenta rose.

I then thought of Greensaling,
How Nigeria uses FMNR
To make lush what was once deserts.
I remember the Texan who
Managed to replenish ground water
Just by planting grass
And removing Cedars.

It became clear to me,
That what Sidis was trying to say,
Although going around in circles
And hypothesizing on outlandish physics,
Was the simple observation that Life
Replenishes, and reverses the decay
We'd normally associate with the Second Law of Thermodynamics.

I realized it was a romantic thought
Not based entirely on speculation...
And the experimentation
Is being done all over the world right now
Where entire deserts are being reforested
And entire barren landscapes are now becoming lush again.

What I then realized,
Was that if this were true,
It would prove the existence of God.
As, if life does indeed
Transform what is dead, and make it alive,
Then there must be a force
Greater than science
And our decaying universe.

The Exodus

One of the best ways to know the Exodus was real
Is that it was almost unilaterally resisted
By the people. Any man writing fiction
Who wished to indoctrinate and make servile
His audience, wouldn't have included a critical story
About how people would wander for forty years
In a desert, and at every turn resist the leader God appointed to them.
They'd rather, be like Muhammad writing his book,
And make everything glorious victories.
Rather, you get a sense of the reality, that anyone lost
In a wilderness for forty years would be bound to frustration and doubt.
And at the last, seeing Moses held his position through it all,
Is the greatest miracle, that only God could stop those people from deposing him.

American Elegy

By name America lives
Only by name.
Spies enter into the homes of innocent men,
And take their books,
And change them.
They make Edna St. Vincent the author of "First Fig".
Several months earlier, it was another author's name.
I had read the poem...

Is it the same for you?
Are these tools of ignorance
A weapon used against me only
Or is it the altering of the very fabric of history?
Is it a lie of narratives
Which some day, my American Myth really will be a myth
That nobody believes like Jesus
Or the Global flood?

President Bush, do you condone this behavior?
You say, "That's not real?"
Then why do they feed me with it?
A host of actors playing a role
And none of us know whether it's real or not.

Or, is it only me?
Am I the one being fed?
I try to write America's Magnum Opus,
The complete history,
But am unable.
I do not trust my sources
As your spies have entered into my home
And stole my books,
And committed plagiarism by publishing
False titles under Fall River's Press.

Or, is Edna St. Vincent the actual author of First Fig?
The Red Wheelbarrow used to be in my book,
Now it's replaced by "Queen Ann's Lace."
Did William Carlos Williams write this poem?
I don't know.
And for that, America, I write your elegy.
Your freedom is gone,
For this one man's freedom is gone.
The freedom to have truth,
And share a common story.
For, I know not the truth,
Only that I have been severely scorned.

America, goodbye.
You were a shining beacon on a hill.
Now you're no better than China.

My POV

Here is what I tell Atheists:
Good is a force which is inherent
And immutable and not conditioned to a man's personal beliefs.
Evil, as well, is inherent, and not conditioned to a man's personal beliefs.
Life is vain, and isn't where the focus should be.
I am a life, breathed into by God,
And when that life is gone, I go.
I have choice, but God already knows the intimate details of my choices,
And has awarded me grace based on that omniscience.
I believe in God because of science.
I believe the Old Testament was God telling man to save himself,
And now that man failed, God has promised to save us;
This means we ignore the Old Testament's laws completely.
I believe love is an inherent spiritual force, along with joy and peace,
Which flows from divine Paraclete, and is the best evidence for God's existence.
I think life's meaning is to fully devote oneself to understanding Love,
So, therefore, learn to love God and their Neighbor.

I cannot accept the atheist point of view.

Atheist POV

What every atheist I'd ever talked to said:

"I understand good,
"Though I don't actually believe good exists.
"To me, good is just what benefits people.
"And evil is just what harms people.
"Life is meaningless,
"All I am, is a chemical reaction of firing neurons,
"Which produce all my decisions and beliefs
"And also the environmental conditioning which made me.
"I do not believe in God,
"Because science disproves God's existence.
"I believe the Bible is immoral because it condones Genocide and Slavery.
"I believe love is different for every person,
"And is just a euphoria created by our endocrine system.
“Homosexuality doesn't hurt anyone,
“And God saying it is wrong offends me.
"Life's meaning is whatever we make it.”

Does this sum up your position, Atheists?

Iron Ore

Can't fertilize the ocean with iron.
Rust is poisonous to fish.

A Fox

There is nothing more despicable than a fox.
A gnarly haired, weasely fox.
It goes from place to place, wandering
Until it finds a nice little grove
Where all the meeker animals are at rest.
There, the animals are at rest,
And frolic on the knolls, will linger
By the human legs which wander nigh.
Then, the fox sees this, with belly growling
And it decides to disturb the years of peace
By picking off the little ones.
Then the meek ones.
Then the plump ones.
Birds, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks.
All the nice little animals which before,
Like the little chickadee which nearly perched on my sandal
It eats them.
And the animals, restless, stir from their holes
And no longer linger by the travelers foot.
Never having known danger,
The meek little mild bunnies die
With wounds in their sides,
Half eaten. To be thrown into the garbage can.
And one Fox does this, and when the habitat is disturbed,
And restless, and scared, it is happy
So it moves to the next pleasant forest,
And there, does its murderous spree once again.

The Freemasons

He joined the masons to find the truth.
He joined to find his selfish verity.
Around, around, around he went, bloody bib
And found a thousand fairy tales.
Myths were told, and some old Ghost Stories,
While they pondered on geometry.
What ended was his self made religion
A god of worlds, he created his mind...
A thousand neural pathways linked,
He filled his head with fairytales,
And at the end, he died not knowing
What a Mason even was.

Alex Jones

"Alex Jones is a madman,"
They painted him as a bad man,
Yet I must confess that in his words
Were some truth.

He was wrong about the shooting,
He was wrong about the spooking
Of CIA planes hitting our twin towers.

Yet, if he were not right I say,
I'll eat a pile of rice and pray
With my curry and my ginger
And some salt.

I'll eat and drink and be merry.
But Alex Jones, a Canary
Is pressed by Beatty that sleazy
Court-Lawyer, fool and slime.

Like Bradbury had spoken,
That fool who hates talk is a broken
Government with kerosene and fire.

Ol Beatty will live unspoken,
A dumb man who has broken,
Ol Alex Jones' spirit can you say?

For we are allowed to be wrong
We can see and sing our dumb songs
We can't be sued for what we truly believed.

Alex, live unbroken,
Get a fine lawyer
And use that token
To fully defend our free speech.

Nonsense Poem From a Dream

I beheld a man who claimed to be a
Woman; lofty were her eyes, with my auld
Grandmother there. "She is my grandma, too."
In Jotunheim, thou did call me a "god"?
And told me that you talked to me about
Racial purity; how the Germans were
Actually Jews. That day you hypnotized
Me. You tried to kill me twice; you fooled them
But not me. You stole my dog and my work.
You spoke through Jacob, saying I copied
Thou, but I did not; yet Jacob said I
Am not bad, as I listened to sermons
Where the LORD said to me, I, Israel,
"I won't give my glory to another.."
In my dreams a bunny and Scruffy would
Cuddle with you, yet all my delusions
Were sprung upon you in that instant. A
Rabbit nestled with you; oh so gently.
Scruffy was there, too, as the men in masks
Came, with auld family who have since now passed.
I awoke with peace this morning, knowing
That you were but a nightmare, far away.
You are imposters. Both of you. Selah.

On Judgment

In prosaic verse allayed,
Southey talks of Perpetual motion---
I know not where, but at some time it existed---
As poet Laureate, he attacked free speech.
He rails against men whose verse is sublime---
Don Juan, were you not seduced
By many? My member is dry
And my morsels stolen.
Are you insane, Robert?
I've read your poetry---
I've defended it, though I know not why.
You call forth a vision and place a Tyrant in heaven?
Meanwhile, Byron writes of St. Peter's rusty keys?
You called forth that attack,
Not I! For, I am a defender of free speech.
I am speech's solemn knight,
Saying this sacred right fends off the most fierce tyrants.
Perhaps, my love, thou art Maddok---
Making love with many women,
Fending off and aggravating freedom of speech,
A slave to kings---I am a free man!
Do I prescribe rules against free speech?
Do I say Byron is not allowed to write?
I love his verse, for it is prophecy.
Yet do the prophets err?
For many men have entered heaven.

I now understand, as the Urn with Ashes and Homilies.
I will defend Byron's freedom, and yours.
I will fight for your work to be read,
And mine, and Byron's
And Martin's, and Blake's, and Green's,
And King's, and Bradbury's,
And Rowling's, and Smith's,
And Marx's, and, so with it, also yours.
I am in love with genius of all kind---
I love radicals of all kinds.
Don Juan, I see you in my dreams.
And I see you.

Blood Red

China, your skies are bloody red!
What do the astrologers and soothers say?

I say, it happened once before, the year of Boston's bloody massacre.
And from that massacre, America was freed from the yoke of tyranny.

Thunder, hail, storm,
You shall be pestle
And turned to the sea.
Your odor shall waft abroad.

Martian Doorway

Open this doorway honey,
I'm roving tonight
Through the banded hollows
We see, we feel, we take flight.

Walk right through to the other room
I see a couple brooms,
I see a janitor's closet,
I see some computers, too.

Walk through this Martian Doorway,
The Moon landing was real---
Buzz Aldrin and Harry Hapsburg
Have walked there for some cheap thrills.

In the sky above us,
There it hangs a silver thread.
A May Moon cannot lie
As toilet paper gets stolen by the feds.

Martian Doorway,
The moon it is not a lie...
Yet what lies beyond that doorway,
Is it yet another artificial sky?

Our generation is so hollow,
Its achievements a rare feast.
There is nowhere left to wallow,
So out of the ocean came the beast.

And there he walked through shadows,
And there he walked through fame.
Oh, Martian Doorway,
Is the truth ever so lame?

Martian Doorway,
The moon, it is not a lie
What lies beyond that doorway,
Is it yet another artificial sky?

Fact checkers, and ministries of truth---
They have you afraid of Cooties,
For the common man ain't no sleuth.

Then the feds change the almanac,
Thinking they have power over I.
They leave the time at 6:16
My God, It was seven once upon a time!

O, the blind bats sing the door jams,
Green Day skates on thin ice,
Joe Satriani is questioned,
Whether a keyboard warrior's information was right!

Martian Doorway,
The moon, it is not a lie
What lies beyond that doorway
Is it the discovery of foreign life?

Then the hoodoos are falling,
The blimps descend like Babylon,
The peoples all do their crossings,
As they see the alien in lights.

Ooo, Martian Doorway,
The moon, it is not a lie
What lies beyond that doorway
Is it the discovery of foreign life?

Walk into that room and you'll see,
No starship nor star command.
You'll see a spook in overalls
That he is but a man.
There he steals the toilet paper,
He tries to change the almanac,
Yet, it is a complete failure,
They are crazy like Animaniacs.

Ooo, Martian Doorway,
The moon, it is not a lie.
What lies beyond that doorway?
Is it but another white lie?

My Philosophy

In the simplest way,
I believe all things are what they are.
I believe we understand things based on that.
And I go no further with my philosophy.

Boethius

Wisdom,
Counsel him.
Yet, all scholars remember
Of his magnum opus
Is the chaffe about omniscience.

No, I am more interested in the wheat.
God is joy, and through attaining Him
We have joy.
For the wicked hold no power
And wickedness cannot have
The higher pleasure.
For, true joy is attained through
Divine relationship with LORD God;
It is also found in family, friends and those whom we love.

Sufficient to say,
My knowledge of future events
Doesn't stop the free agency of men
From making them, any more
Than God's.

A Meditation on Two Pears

I understand it
Perfectly; even the blue
Bits. Yet, the pears are
Not as this observer wills.
Every mind constructs its archetypes.

Sandy Beaches

Papias, by your calculation,
There will be twenty-five sextillion
Souls saved, and each soul
Shall save ten-thousand,
Until the last ten-thousand ten-thousand
Grapes bear their twenty five baths of blood.
Interestingly, you're not out of the ballpark
Of what scripture said would be saved---
That is one human being for every grain
Of sand off of the coasts of all the world's beaches.
That number, respectively,
Is 7.5 sextillion---
Even to hypothesize sextillions
At 90ad, is miraculous enough.

Gateway 2000

In 1997, my computer had 16 Megabytes of ram.
It had three point five gigabytes of hard drive space.
And a 200 Mega Hertz Processor.

The laptop I'm using today---
Windows 8, from 2013,
In 2023;
Mind you it was top of the line for its day---
Has a missing key that flung off
When my dad threw a piece of paper in a tantrum.
The keyboard also doesn't work---
I'm typing on my fourth keyboard
And it's a wireless with a mouse and keyboard combo---
I use Bluetooth frequently to listen to Pandora
On my bumpster speaker,
And can wirelessly connect it to my
TV to watch YouTube,
My computer has 8 Gigabytes of Ram
2.4 Gigahertz of Processor speed
And a modest Terabyte of Hard Drive Space.
And it has a very convenient touch screen to boot.

Calculus in Tanka

A limit can be
Calculated, true; but the
Calculations can
Never approach the limit---
It's where infinities touch.

A sine function works
On the logic of Pi. So,
The sine function will
Work off considerations
Of circles' geometry.

Zeno's Paradox
Is calculus. The leaps are
The calculations
While the limit is the place
Where man and reptile meet.

One can measure the
Sermon on the mount, and like
Calculus, measure
The Golden Rule to fully
Calculate and find Jesus.

Bittul

It is what God is teaching me---
The emptying of my self for compassion's sake
And to humble myself before others
And not to make a show of knowledge.

For, Christ's command was Bittul,
To rebuke a Pharisee for straining a gnat
While he swallowed a camel by forgetting his compassion.

The Harsh Truths

I can conceive of towers reaching twenty miles tall.
I can conceive of technologies that bring us to Times and Universes all.
I can conceive of travel to the outer edge of space.
I can conceive of a Universe infinite and great.
I can conceive of manmade structures, the size of Red Giant Stars
I can conceive of settlements on Jupiter, Venus, Saturn and Mars.

What I see is our species trying to hang a building from a stone,
An asteroid in high orbit, how obliviously cold
They are to bring a thing so nigh
To our earth which could destroy cities; also how are we there to fly?
I see us trying to make Fusion from sulfur, nitrate and charcoal
I see us fearful to understand leverage, oh so how ominous the toll?

I'm afraid in our current intelligence, travelling to any distant star
Will be as impossible as it seems it is, to make a flying car.
For if we decide to use aerodynamics and fossil fuels,
To make a car fly with helicopter blades and pull
The winds up, while a Maglev we cannot seem to find
Time enough to improve our infrastructure, with a simple technology of that kind;
I'd say that we must discover antigravity
Before we could ever hope to sail the Hyperborean sea.

If I were an average mind, say about 100 level IQ
We'd possibly do the things I conceive, and have problems very few.
Yet, our species is simplistic and absurd.
I'm afraid we won't achieve our missions, but must live here upon the Earth.
So, my friends, learn to live in unity, and learn to get along.
For, this Earth and all its sorrows, shall be our only home.

Helios

The idol stood thirty cubits tall;
He towered for fifty years.
Then, the mountains groaned,
Tired upon their course,
They stretched at the command of the LORD.
At his knees, the idol fell,
And there lay he dead
His corpse to be used a millennia later
In Arab swords.

O Sweet Child

O sweet child
I came to tell you a truth.
Many will listen to the song
That sounds much like the winds and reveries of us all.
For men want to hear their hearts pipe to them from the other hearts.

But, to draw into the deep darkness,
To pour out truth is far more fruitful.
For, when acceptable in the eyes of the LORD
The strong winds of the crowd
To whom we chaunt,
Err like Echo, and it chaunts back;
Understand it is not our reflection to choose
In the poesy we pluck…
Rather, it is the heart of another
And their wisdom.

Whom, though, yours grew dark,
I ask you, “Was it I?”
And if that answer is yes,
I am sorry.
The carnal mind is full of sweetness,
But we try our furnace,
And let the embers flow over our souls
To melt its dross.

Skim it with the instrument.
Set it free.
For your prior truths were far more precious to me.

Academy

The professor pompously speaks his formulae;
Yet, he does not understand it.
He, rather, performs by rote his routine
A show, an ethos,—cries out foul on the students
Who do not trust him to give them the answers.
He fools millions, yet we understand it because a computer told us.
The mystery of this invention,
That what it says must be divine rite,
The professor uses it as an example
To teach, but he does not know what he teaches.
The Academy men sought out wisdom.
Our modern Academy, men remember what was wise
But becomes as vacuous as an empty vessel.
For, to have knowledge without understanding
Is a kind of sin we have passed down through our generations.

Doctor of Hearkening

All night one thinks
How he spoke Word;—
To chew until the mind fell asleep.
To inspire the same in others
It would be too much the dream come true.

To write a word, in strong verse
That one man, or woman, or child
Drank deep.

How I wish I could be the Doctor of Listening.
The grief that much wisdom was spoken
But I could not find it all in this short life of mine.
Grief, subtle sadness, that it exists…
Awesome is the impasse of our fellowminds.

To speak into the ether
Where none were listening;—
I realize the Earth didn’t need a great poet.
It needed a hearkener.

O Requiem of the Dead Poets

O' requiem of the dead poets
Alighted your vigor,
Your ancient souls do rest in the grave.
Your words course through me...
The subtle, inauspicious meanings
That the madman sees and says,
"Aha, it says nothing."
So little is said that is said
Loud, bold and obnoxious.
Inebriation of subtle inquiries
Subtle thoughts and subtle shadows
Of thoughts. I ask, "Why do you need
"A meaning that is loud, and bold
"When Rhetoric favors ignorance?
"However, subtle souls have taught me subtlety
"And with that the mingling of all knowledge."

Yet, it was foreseen that the man of inquiry
Did not want revealed the heart of another man
But to only look into a reflective pool.
He did not want to share, or understand.
Merely to have his own ideas shouted back at him.

Thus, blood ran in the streets.
Thus, dead were wheeled through the thoroughfares
For seven days of revolution.

All for loud, droning war songs
And not the quiet voice of reason
Understanding its world,
And gaining from it packets of wisdom
Which does not gallivant through the street
Nor does it make its words an enchantment.
It, rather, seeks to understand what others are too busy to understand
And pass by, leaving its little packet of pollen upon the pistil
To germinate into the next budding spring.

While pseudo-philosophers war over who is right
And who's brand of ideology shall be superior...
We, the poets---who are long dead, or shall die---
Leave behind the subtlety of more ancient wisdoms
Which the world, as it fights its wars
Would some day soon find again
And see there upon the page what folly it was
That right and wrong were not to be won by the muzzle of a gun
But were simply to be found, and rediscovered
A thousand times by
Us, the poets who are dead, or shall be dead.

All Wisdom Failed

All wisdom failed.
All prophecies never came true.
A million contradicting voices
And mine is one of them.

I suppose I do not prophesy.
I tell stories.
Stories that curdle the imagination,
And often feel like dreams.

We often do disservice to our philosophers.
We often do disservice to our novelists.
Those are the true prophets.
I hear a thousand and one prophecies,
Yet none of them ever come true.

They speak, they talk, they go over a million times.
Yet, what is the prophecy that came true?
They say, "Revival in the summer."
There is no revival.
They say, "A great harvest."
There is no great harvest.

One prophet said there would be a great harvest,
And him I'll believe.
For, he has the authority I look for
Which is sobriety.
Yet a million and one prophets
All get it wrong.
They predict the rapture,
But it never comes.
They predict the end,
But it doesn't come.
They desire it with all their little hearts
But thankfully, God spares their foolish dreams
And forgives them their errant prophecies.

How many false prophecies have I spoken?
Yet I don't pretend like I have never told
A single lie.
I understand that if my vision does not come true
I am liable to the court and judgment and death.

Yet, they break my faith with every one of their prophecies
For it never comes to fruition.
Save a few here and there who I find trustworthy.

Milton was a prophet
Who saw that astronomy would lead many astray.

Nietzsche was a prophet
Who understood that if God didn't exist, neither did morality.

Tolstoy was a prophet
Who understood that civilization moves its predestined course; there is no changing it.

Dostoevsky was a prophet
For though he doubted God, he believed wholeheartedly in His morality.

There is an old proverb,
"You are neither hot, nor cold.
"Buy from me wisdom, and gold refined by fire."

For our prophets are hidden because the peoples give them no honor.
Instead, they listen to the pop-culture ideas
And the chemical imbalances that make the world look upon us
And say we're crazy.

No, not you, who said that December will be a harvest.
I know you are true.
One in a million.

Yet, the prophets all prophesy a lie.
The lie is that I once, too, had a rapture dream.
Several of course.
It was not prophecy.
It was merely the thoughts running through my mind.

Though, I get caught up,
Wanting there to be a rapture.
I truly do.
I want to fly up into the heavens
And be met with Christ on the trumpet's sound.
I do not want to suffer on the earth
Anymore than anyone else.
It's just the destiny of this writer
To see the truth.
For, I am a true interpreter.
I see billions who know nothing of Christ.
I see frantic Christians prophesying the end is near.
And I see the religion dying
Because no one is sober enough to understand.

Yet, one prophet keenly said the religion will not die,
For there will be a harvest.
I await this harvest, with humble expectation.
For, if it comes, it means I shall not be alone.

And I say this soberly.
There will be a great falling away.
As is prophesied.
For, God's wrath is true.
But, do I believe that every profession of faith
Will be a ticket to avoid suffering?
No... for there are many that will say
"LORD, LORD," And be told to depart.

Those are the men who said,
"Grace! Grace!" and yet they had no change of heart.
I am the man who's had a change of heart.
For the religion will not die in my heart.
For I know my God is true.

And when I read Yeats or Byron
I understand them.
For, they are prophets, too.
They give me introspection
Into the hearts of man;
Like Balaam, I can understand
Why a man wants loveless sex.
I can understand why a man's lust
Leads them astray.

And with that understanding,
I can benefit the doubting
And say, "No, I do not doubt.
"For I see the order of the universe
"And I see the construction of the Word of God
"Behind every act, large or small.
"I see the strings of creation
"The Twelve Universes
"Layered one upon each other.
"I understand all things
"That are in my grasp to understand.
"I see the invisible strings of faith
"That prove God exists.
"As the world doubts him
"Harder and harder
"I grow to understand
"That indeed God does exist.
"I understand that He is Jesus.
"Even if none else do
"I understand why God had to Come in the Flesh
"Why God had to die.
"I understand sin...
"Deep and ill tempered within me.
"I understand war,
"Why it happens,
"Why men kill each other...
"How wicked men slaughter one another
"For glory, while peaceful men shiver."

And I say all of this
Without a doubt that Jesus is the Christ.
I see it.
Like Euclid could find God in his Elements
I can find God in the certainty of the universe.
I can see God in the sin I've had in my heart.
For I've seen very few good people in my life.
And hell exists because there are few good upon the earth.
And heaven exists because there are those of us
Who are good, and our hearts get twisted
In wrenching pain because the kindness we understand
Doesn't seem to be known.

Vision of Prosperity

One day, alighted upon my fortune
There came a weary traveler.
She had found a wellspring of tales
As seemingly old as time,
Yet discovered they were new.

"What have I found?"
She wondered, as tales abounded
Among the language of the Saxon.
What were these?
Rife with mystical creatures,
Yet such was the fortune found
That it suddenly appeared
To this modern writer's
Ancient poesy,
That it was discovered
And thus enjoyed
For as long as time was kept.

The Alchemist's Magic

During the time of King Arthur,
There arose a dispute between Merlin
And an Alchemist.
The dispute was over the interpretation of
A story; namely the story of a princess
Who fell in love with a prince
Who rescued her,
And upon their first kiss, the spell of sickness was released from her.
The Alchemist spoke on the matter
That the union between the prince and princess
Was not about love, per say,
But was rather about the soul finding its unity
Like the unity between the Earth and the Seas.

"I heard the Alchemist's reflections,"
Said Merlin,
"On the meaning of the tale.
"I thought of her ;
"It was immensely strong, yet my knowledge of
"Word was stronger.
"Where she dove into herself...
"Deep reflections,
"Deeper than the rivers and the oceans---
"I read the Tale for what it actually meant,
"And saw that it was not so deep.
"Yet, in it I could see what she could not.
"A glimmer of hope
"Which her jaded soul stopped believing in long ago.
"For some reason, she had wanted the story to be about the soul
"Having knowledge of itself,
"And was offended at the notion
"That these two, upon a brief encounter, could be happily wed
"And therefore, be unburdened by the misery of their loneliness.
"What caused her to doubt the story's true meaning
"Was that she had not found that meaning in her own life
"Thus, she had created a meaning which suited herself.
"I am a lonely old fool too,
"But I have a rather different interpretation of the story
"That what it meant sufficed enough to say
"That true love of the kind does exist
"And I am happy to know that it does."

The Dream of Sorrow

The grayness surrounds us
As my love stares into me with eyes
Filled with affection.
Outside of her, is fright toward the gray world.
I am happy;
Joyous even.
But she, toward me, is full of love
As her other eye casts a doubtful glance
Into the grey abyss
As if it were filled with fright about something.

I look as if I were my favorite author
And she looks beautiful,
In gray hair,
Though that eye looking outward
Frightens me severely.
What is it that she is seeing?
In toward me it is love
But outward
It is fright,
Even the dull gray
Of a world. Like one were looking into a lake
Gray and colorless.
Though I am happy.

I do not know what the vision means.
Only that I am in it.
I would gladly take she who saw it
Or I will take the woman in the dream.
Make joyous sounds
O Israel,
For your time has yet to come.

Yet, I am frightened by the eye
Casting doubt on the grey world.
Yet, toward me she is happy.

True Friendship

A friendship, when built upon honest first
Impressions, sparks a sincere intercourse;
Which, neither putting forth a facade's mirth
Can be built with true knowledge's comfort.

An Ode on Fate

What keeps a man, when Abraham is preached,
From imitating him,---in murdering
His son?---to, another's life, be the thief?
Much the same that allows one, whose reading
Of a poet, understand the clever
Metaphors, and gives one's knowledge a truth.
'tis what allows a man knowledge; whispers
In his ears the meaning of sweetest fruit.
There is the literal, which, willing kills,
Without concept lays actions bare and bald.
The literal reading atheists fill
Christian minds, searching deeply for a fault.
Yet, we somehow know what a passage means,
For that is why faith remains; 'tis unseen.
Should man without this ability be,
Such man, hell's stone be his foreboding vault.

The Snake-Ape

Audiences love it.
Is it an ape? Is it a snake?
No one knows.
Is it a metaphor about man?
Or, is it simply a fiction without a metaphor?

The flying snake-monkey becomes a god.
It despises man---
Is it truly conscious of its own potential?

Had I written the story,
The snake-ape would be a metaphor
About man's progression.
How science made him into a "God".
And subsequently the vanity of it;
The pretension---as any thing which calls itself a god
Is pretentious, and must be pretentious.
The snake-ape would first start in the wilderness,
And evolve into a creature which could fashion instruments
That give it flight; power over fire.
Instead, the snake-ape becomes wiser than man?
It becomes a metaphor about ancient traditions
Needing to be accepted by man
So they are not consumed with science?

I'm sorry, but I don't worship a snake-ape.
Those who do, had eaten the hearts of mankind.
So, one puts forth an utterly foul interpretation for god
And preaches to me how we need it?
Rather, I'd want men to be atheists
So they could at least discover that there is good
With the precise measurements of scientific instruments.
Then, at least, we could better compare what we've discovered
And see it matches up with one particular God
Of a people so small, so minute, yet given the mysteries of the moral universe.

For, men will ultimately discover there is need for law;
They might even go so far as to purge all unlawfulness by pogrom.
Yet, it's Christ and His mercy. That is what man need attain
So he can be truly happy.

Rashomon

He doesn't prove witnesses are unreliable
But that modern culture is filled with liars.

Oh Eye, Thy Magic; Haiku

Oh eye, thy magic
Cast upon my busy back,
Cause the hand to fail...

The Hymn of the Citizens

Fife and drum go Hum dee dum,
The marching citizens draw their guns
Their words, their airs, their country farms
Did get sold by the county Bar…
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.

We wage this revolution with our words
Not a bullet we will incur
We shall march in our battle lines
With these words and verse so spry…
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.

If a martyr we shall make
To speak our words and masticate
That violence spreads in silent wakes
Hum dee dum
Hum dee dumb.

I shall not e’er throw a stone
If I shall die all alone
I shall not ever throw a stone
For my words are mortar bombs
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.

Wage a revolution wise
That men in flames, they do die
While I have sung my battle cries
For the wasted men who die
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.

We might have our first president
A woman good with righteousness
She might give us what we need
A stitch, a bone and well hemmed sleeves
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.

But the ghosts they testify
That with the awful costs they cry,
That they should give a man his rights
When a woman ought to win the fight,
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.

Trump, I say, is not the cost
He is not the one who robbed us all
It is not Warren nor congress’ cauc…
It is all the specious laws we wrought,
That by liberty’s woes they cause,
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.

So I sing this verse or two
Of revolution with words couth
That if a woman should not be right
But a man should win the fight,
Hum dee dum,
Hum dee dumb.

The Valley of Decision

There’s nothing more to write.
There’s nothing more to say.
Sailing off to the other-world
At the end of life
Is the only sweetness I can lend.

How reason has proven false
All that I loved.
And with that, blood flows through the valleys
Of the wine press.
Lay burden to bear
There were two things I desired.
I will find them when the ship sets sail.
For— You might call it pretentious
But I like writing complex poems.
It speaks what this mind conjures
In full breadth of its image.

Perhaps like music
It is loved for the repetitions.
That we can predict the next sequence of notes.

In my eye, I see great things
Landscapes and valleys.
I wish to choose language that speaks what is in me.
But, whatever I love, it is insufficient.
What I hate, it is regarded as priceless.
So, blood spills down the valleys
Because we mistake what is stone
With what is flesh.

I would love to fly away like a bird
Or hide away in the forests I love.
But, rather, I see the whole world wishes itself to change.
And if change it must,
Then men are the artifacts they worship.
For no knowledge can prove the foundations of love.
Yet, there it is for me to see and touch.
Rather, it takes much imagination to reason it away.
When I set sail, I would have already known.

History Flows in its Direction

“History flows in its direction—
Those who stand in its way
Are artifacts.” — A Postmodernist

How many men does history leave behind?
A good and prosperous nation
Which it did its best to break;
Praises the Cur Kairos
Who is allied with the serfs
Who, after having been made free,
Wish to place themselves back in shackles.

In the Hell Built For the Rich

In the hell built for the rich
The idle rich, and the angry rich
Do their dance in the river styx.

How I can see it,
But the translator cannot.
In fact, nobody has ever found it before.

Probably because a poet knows their poetry.
And we know why it's written.

While Plato lambasted us for not being credible
I found poetry is not our catalog of factoids
But rather the history of our moral knowledge.

The Crown of Bacchus

Tyrant, o thou Fear!
Crippling art thou, Raging Pharaoh.
Thy decree is swift
Thy knife of angst stings all breasts
And stops all hearts from beating.

This phantom in the street
Hooded like the Shadow
Moves from door to door.
Bacchus’ crown, o Pharaoh
Is upon thy head
To steal from the little yeomen
Their ale and odes.
Where is the song in the taverns?
Where is the joy and mirth?
O, Pharaoh, with Bacchus’ crown,
You in your attire had silk and cashmere raiment
But stole the cotton-wool from the merrymakers.
Could you not spare them the miserable existence?
Or, must you continue to thresh us into the wind?

At the End of the Day

At the end of the day
There is not a shred of evidence.
Either aye or nay,
Either right or wrong.
For, when all are fools
And believe themselves wise
That other men had not spoken
That all ideas must be catchy and pithy quips…
What knowledge there is was hidden
By men in a state of egocentric predicament.

Love Is Useless as a Passion

Love is useless as a passion.
It turns knitted hearts astray.
Walking through the deserts
The children one bore to that woman
Stood, with their halved lives.
They said, “Mother, do you love papa?”
She, being a fool said, “No.”
It was that uttered word that caused
The children to suffer so much ill.
Love was just a chemical—
And once the salts were made
From the Lemon and Soda
There was no more love.

The man, having fallen out of love with her long ago
Was at work, turning the leather upon a spoke
Dipping it in his tanning juice
Heating it,—he was content to come home
And see his wife, make love to only her,
Provide for his children.
But, when he got home the fool said to him,
“I do not love you.”
At that moment a passion erupted in the man
Which revolted her, for she could feel no such passion.

Though, it wasn’t the broken heart of lost endorphins.
It was a happy life, and doing what man and woman had always done,
That was taken from him.
And so with his children.

If I ever find a woman,
I hope she understands this.

Ant

A tiny ant.
It neither has the ears to hear
Nor the eyes to see.
Yet, it knows I'm in the room.

What organ do I lack
To perceive God?
Like the ant cannot perceive me.
It knows I'm there by my voice.
It doesn't hear it.
It doesn't see it.
It simply knows there is a voice
Calling to it.

I must be that same tininess
To God.

The Eagle and the Dove

In the Eagle's nest, the carrion was fed
And the Eaglets ripped apart one another
For their mother's pellet of vomit.

In the dove's nest, the silver lined
Creature flew, peacefully giving
The milk from her throat.

One day, eggs from the two nests were switched.
The dove hatched in the Eagle's nest,
And the Eagle hatched in the dove's nest.

The Eagle, seeing it was weak,
Would not feed the dove,
So she starved to death,
And was picked apart by her brothers and sisters.

The dove, seeing her giant offspring,
Fed what she could, but on account
That the bird could not drink her milk,
The Eaglet got hungry, and committed patricide.

Such are wolves and sheep, too.
Such are the evil and good among men.

Captious Scholars

It is "Delicious"; twice the word is used.
It arouses my distaste, Mr. Emerson,
Yet the moment I trusted your ability
I felt the flow of your spirit into mine.

I often wonder how many of our Scholars
Will not see the efficacy of another's verse
Because they, too, delight in this vice?

Mad Spring

In the deep winter,
When the trees call forth their buds---
A mad time, a dizzying time,
A frightening time,
The newborn to nature's ennui
When her tender leaves
Bud in the deadness of winter's hoary breath;
A warm week in January or February,
There arrives the Mad Spring
Where the careful naturalist
Observes Mother Nature
Peeping open her weary eyes
For just a short peak,
And then the Jack Frost comes
And that Sandman puts the sleepies
Back under her eyes.

Yet, the newborn to nature's ennui
Will be frightened by this madness,
For it seems like spring is a month early.
Do not fear.

Friendship

Mr. Emerson, I have read and quaffed deep
Of the passion that you describe.
What more is there to say?
Exuberant, friendship is deep;
The balance between amity and animosity
Is what strikes me most in your essay.
Who has said it better?
I cannot. Surely...

Friends are knitted to each others' souls,
And if undone, the threads pull away
And a hole is left in their garments.
Yet, the knitter knows to do so
In order to strengthen the fabric once more.
If the seam was imperfect the first, second, or third time,
The tailor knits it anew.

For, friends leave, sometimes the distance of five years;
For a bitter fight, for a bitter antagonism,
For a harsh word, a harsh syllable,
A slur, a comment or nasty degree.
And like church discipline,
This absence of the fellowship grows patience
Within the heart of a man;
To reflect and learn how not to injure.
For, in the absence, the friends come together
After years of repose, new men
Yet the old men, and congregate
To find the roots of their friendships
In tact, and sewn back together
Where the threads were pulled,
The holed extremities seamed,
And then the threads woven once anew
To make a stronger garment,
And to teach a true friend the lesson
Of being a friend:
Which is to listen.

He Gets Us

I have to tell my dad
That it is true.
Jesus was an alien in Egypt.
Doctrinally, actively,
He Gets Us does the right thing.
AOC calls them fascist
For supporting God's standard for Marriage
And God's Standard for Sex.
I'm amazed at the prudishness of Christians,
And the zealotry of Nonbelievers.
Like Pharisees and Sadducees;
And only a score thousand subscribers
With barely a thousand likes, though millions of views.

That is a good portrait of Christ.
And I think that's why so many reject it.

Who's to judge based on apparel?
Who's to judge based on race?
Who's to oppress the stranger in the land?
Who was the Man Made in God's Flesh?
Who was this Jesus, who Wept
Turned tables in rage,
And told us to humble ourselves like children?
A man jumping over a fence
And a misunderstood metaphor
Are all the "valid" complaints I've seen;
Yet, whose to say those in the photographs are not
Christians? God will save men and women in every tribe,
Tongue and nation.
Every race, every first creed,
Every ethnicity.

He will save Hindus
And Buddhists,
And Atheists,
And Muslims,
And Protestants,
And Catholics,
And Pagans,
And Heathens,
And Hoodoos,
And Jehovah's Witnesses,
And Rastafarians,
And Uighurs,
And Chinese,
And Arabs,
And Nigerians,
And Argentineans,
And Americans,
And Jews,
And Russians,
And Germans,
And Italians,
And Vietnamese,
And Westerners,
And Easterners,
And Southerners,
And Northerners,
And those from the tropics,
And those from the arctics,
And those in Antarctica,
And those in Sweden,
And Mormons,
And Slavs,
And Anglos,
And Saxons,
And Celtics,
And Africans,
And Asians,
And Ethiopians,
And Sentinelese,
And Pakistanis,
And Aztecs,
And Mayans,
And Romans,
And Gauls,
And Frenchmen,
And Zarmas,
And Alien,
And Domestic,
And Amalekite,
And Amorite,
And Moabite,
And Ammonite,
And Egyptian,
And Babylonian,
And Mede,
And Persian,
And Greek,
And Tyrite,
And Hittite,
And Palestinian,
And Philistine,
And Ephraimite,
And Mannasite,
And Jebusite,
And Canaanite,
And Iroquois,
And Cantonese,
And Shinto,
And Zoroaster,
And Chileans,
And Colombians,
And Mongols,
And Huns,
And Ottomans,
And Turks,
And Sikhs,
And Basques,
And Hadzabes,
And Pacific Islanders,
And Amish,
And Pygmies,
And Jarawas,
And Aborigines,
And Lost Tribes in New Guineas,
And Vanuatus,
And Apaches,
And Cherokees,
And Pequots,
And Native Americans,
And Txapanawas,
And Tlaxcalans,
And Tuscanese,
And Cempoalas,
And Koreans,
And Tibetans,
And Bedouins,
And Voodoos,
And Numidians,
And Fulanis,
And from all Tribes and Tongues,
And Visigoths,
And Ostrogoths,
And Goths,
And Normans,
And Thanes,
And Danes,
And Swedes,
And Simbas,
And Yanomamis,
And Asmats,
And LGBTQAI2+...
And yet there are as many more nations,
As there are pages in an Encyclopedia's volume;
Past, Present, and Future.

There is no man,
Of any race, creed, ethnicity or gender,
Who of a nation will not be saved.
The elect, from every tribe, tongue and nation,
Will they come, in repentance,
At the foot of Jesus and the Cross.

Without Christ

If there were no Christ,
There would be no churches.
If there were no Christ,
There would be no agape love.
There would be no sacrificial bond
Between man and his brethren,
For men would only know to love themselves.
If there were no Christ,
The world would be worshiping Quetzalcoatl;
Ripping human hearts in anarchy,
And eating manflesh on every table.
China would still have its philosophies,
But, how could it win against such an advanced civilization
As the Aztecs? It couldn't.
If there were no Christ,
There'd still be wars; for, most of Europe's wars
Were due to territorial disputes, and religion only a pretext.
If there were no Christ,
There'd still be famines---probably more,
As science was Christianity's invention
Whom, trying to find order in the cosmos
We set out to find the very face of God.
If there were no Christ,
There'd probably be Pagan Rome, somewhere,
Its leaders looking like African Shaman,
And bone jewelry infused into their skulls;
It'd probably be the cult of Death,
A merging of Roman hedonism
With Aztec blood ritual;
Gladiatorial games, rape, homicide, catamites
Would probably be common, everyday hobbies.
If there were no Christ,
China and Rome would have probably went to war,
In a major conflict, and the World Wars
Would have been American Natives,
In their advanced state, sailing across the Atlantic
And Pacific, landing on those shores,
And invading dilapidated Rome. Perhaps the Samurai in Japan
Or the Legions in China could abade them.
Perhaps they couldn't. But, mingled with the comforts
Of potato charged lamps, and aqueducts,
But also cannibalism, rape, orgiastic sex,
Loveless romances, and undefined genders
Morphing into a confused daze, and a drastic population reduction.
If there were no Christ, nor any wars fought by Christians,
The world would have a certain kind of peace,
Which wouldn't actually be a peace,
But would be every man set against his neighbor,
In grotesque body modifications which make a man look like a devil,
With human sacrifice, and murder as entertainment.
Nor, without Christ, most of all,
There could be no heaven or hell.
And without either, men would cease to be judged,
And thereby, no one could cite all of these evils
As being such; it would be the state of humanity
That in peace, there would only be bloodshed;
A peace built on serial murder, rape and cannibalism.

Don't Be Poets

Don't be poets.
I think the violet sky came from Hank Sr.;
I pulled the plot of Hercules for a poem,
And several hundred others I stole from the ether
Of common myths.
My greatest Trilogy,
The main idea is Ecclesiastes';
Pulled from Star Wars Prequels,
Star Ship Troopers,
The Matrix,
And Black Hawk Down.
I did invent my technologies,
But other poets have found them before.
My Space Opera,
I learned about the concepts of space travel on Mass Effect.
My tall cities I found in The New Jerusalem.
Logos, it comes from Montaigne,
Lao Tsu, and Ralph Waldo Emerson.
My concept of Love?
I found it first,
But Plato found it before even me.
I craved Neoclassical while reading Wordsworth,
Finding, after having written it,
That Spencer and Milton had pioneered it before me;
It turns out, Romanticism was a movement
Which rejected Neoclassicalism.
Context Clues, 6th Grade English Classes with Ms. K___
And Textbooks about Critical Thinking
Inspired my out of the box---
Is it?---thinking.
Tech-Ed fascinated me with Maglevs
Western History and Econ and Gov
Inspired me to write civilizations,
Humanities and Western History
Inspired me as a classicist
Conversations with friends and family
Were ripped from real life,
And put verbatim into my novels and poems.
A thousand paintings inspired my visualizations.
A thousand movies and CGI inspired my imagism.
Animes inspired my storytelling.
Reveries about Nuclear Fusion and working security at a Logistics Company
Inspired my Skiffs, Skilds and five kilometer long boats.
Mythology, the bare bones of plot, archetype,
I simply take them, and stitch them together
Battling Arthur and Charlemagne
With Thor and Athena.
A thousand Edutainment videos
Would create verisimilitude...
Teach me... and a thousand books, too.
Shaka's Horns, Loin and Chest,
Jerusalem's Siege---
Oh, and the Bible!
A thousand allusions
Interpolations,
A thousand neurons created
From a thousand symbols
Ancient and novel;
From mythology,
From history,
From Theology.
Every history I read was fuel;
Every modern event;
Every encyclopedia article.
Euclid inspired my knowledge of objectivity---
And the circle's formula, πd=c.
E=MC^2 inspired me
So did musings on time travel---
From where did they come?
Men in Black, Terminator,
Back to the Future;
The very equation Einstein created
Was used to calculate my CNP.

I created the future---
But it all came from the past.
That is why you do not want to be a poet.

Where was there even one, single,
Original thought?

The Day the Christians Learned

The day the Christians learned...
Their pastors do not believe.

It was a violent day.
They, in their scrums,
Pressed the unbelieving
Heretics against the wall.
Gasping for air, being crushed against all the weight,
You could hear the pastors drawing their final breath.
I and my pa tried to stop them;
I don't know if I saved them.
I survived by crossing my arms into a crucifix.

It was like a lemur, divergent,
Being led into a room of her peers.
And the lemurs pinned her against the ground
And pressed, with their hand all over her body.
They pressed.

"It is the natural state of all the beasts
"To do this," said the scholar in school.

I thought Christ's message was to rise above this madness.

John Donne

Loveliest words, from a jaded don,
Like a bottom dweller with fin rot;
You infect your cohorts with vain hopes
And your hopes are foul and sordid.
"Love", have thou tasted of love;
Have thou mined it deeply?
The alchemy of love, the chemical nitre,
Upon the soul, a lofty man
There is, who in precious synapse
Is enthralled by his wife's brain.
Seeing her joy, her passion,
Her dainty color light up her cheeks
Drink deep of it... yet you married for money.
What can you know of love?
What could have you mined from it?
A selfish man, in love with himself
As if he were a god? In what way
Do you know love? What way?
When you are in perfect company
Keeping with yourself?
Let he who does not have it
Tell you what alchemy it is,
To not suffer loneliness in this world
And to bear little fusings of flesh and flesh?
So the person you love, is as much a part of you
As you yourself? What do you know of love?
That you have a poet's conceit,
That since you make the prettiest of words
You know what love is?

Star

Star bright, 10:30 on a winter's night,
Goliath's arm twinkles at peak lumens.
The lazy plane flies under you.
You brightly twinkle over him.

You will never realize until you do,
That the star shines there, equal in its breadth.

Malcolm X's Conversion

There is good to be had in other faiths.
Malcom X, when arriving at Mecca,
Saw Islam was a religion for all.
And he, from a Black Nationalism
So foul, converted to Sunni Islam.
Yet, the insidious effect of his
Teachings, as a youth, infect our modern
Age, causing brother to hate their brother.
Wars are being fought, all because of him;
Wars which turn his people into villains.
How is any man to atone for it?
If we look at Malcom X, as ourselves,
We will see a similar conundrum.
That's why we need Christ Jesus.

God Was Not Wrong

Charles, God was not wrong.
Just because homosexuality appears in nature---
So does pedophilia, cannibalism,
Patricide, fratricide, murder, war,
Rape, incest, perpetual struggle
and infanticide---
Does not mean it is to be emulated
By man, or to be upheld that the behavior is good.
We are men. Not beasts.
Homosexuality is a sin
Because it devolves us back into nature's hedonism;
Back into nature's anarchy.
As is clearly being seen, understood now.
We are evolved; we have bitten from the fruit.
We can judge these behaviors are wrong, and foul,
And are among the beasts. Man must rise above
The Sheep of the World, and be Sheep in Christ.

Just Because it Works

Just because it works,
Doesn't mean it's right.

You can lock us up in cages,
Give us a little spinning wheel,
And feed us twice daily;
Sure, we can survive.
But that's called prison.

You can cause most of us to be happy
By coercing us to be gay
By effect of Super Ego,
By convincing us to castrate and mastectomate
Ourselves...
I'd sense no one in this world could feel the deep things I have felt
And have known to be good.

You can allow rape, cannibalism, pedophilia
And yet have all the pleasures of hot baths,
Electricity, slave labor and concubines;
Even the sport of entertainment
Where men will murder one another in the arenas.
I suppose in this world, no one would
Know it is wrong, and be more bestial than human being.

Sure, these things can work.
Sure, you can make the people happy.
It still doesn't make it right.
I would think most of us,
Living right now,
Would have even seen a better world.

Xochipilli

You are a coruscated crown;
The citizens do flock to the same stalls...
In 1933 the poet sings a song to thee.

Patron of the arts, patron of the flower,
Patron of the games; god of Sodom...

What can we do for thee?
How can we break free from thy tyranny?
You control the world, from Taining lands;
You are a clown ruling a half the world.

How does the poet know?
Does he wear time on his wrists?
I, the Urn, he sings of me,
Banished and in purgatory.
I sit, listlessly, listening to obdurate church bells...
They have no faith, but worship the Anglican and Catholic God
Xochipilli ;
Am I an artefact? No.

For a short breath of time, this Anarchy reigns,
While David allies with the Avegins.
And anarchy reigns across the land,
While Xochipilli fiddles to the burning heaps
Of his cities--- for he does not know.

Who am I? I am the Urn with Ashes and Homilies.
Childe Harold is on his pilgrimage;
Oh, how he goes, with his fair haired bride.
Purgatory shall turn to paradise
One day...
And I... I shall go where?
When Sodomite has been made Writ
And man's sinful nature has corrupted even the lambs?
Where shall I go?
This world was not made for me.
So, I rest at peace.

Prince of Persia

O, thou Prince, thou king,
With your black prayers,
You summon forces.
Your god is the forces.
Your prayers hinder prosperity
For the saints, and delay our answers from God.
But, you shall not be victorious.

There is you, thou Covering Cherub,
Dragon, who accuses the flock.
There is you, oh beastial intelligence;
Who hates your Christian brother, and slays him.
There is you, oh diviner, who divines evil
For the LORD's people, when God has promised fortune.
There is you. oh lord of Hades, who denies God
And gainsays His majesty, and brings the ignorant into pits.

Filmer

The riches of the world cease
Save for the kings who rule it.
Adam, eternally recurring,
His divine heritage as King,
Ruler over all flesh...

He drinks the draught
Of rainbow liquor,
And merries his meed
Into the womb of his wife.
Yet, for the world around him,
Their sustenance goes to his belly:
Their wagons, their cotton and wool,
Their games, their arts, their labors
And all their luxurious leisure.

He smacks his lips, and upon them are spices
Numerous: Fenugreek, cinnamon,
Turmeric, Ginger, Onion, Chili,
Clove Garlic and pickled Ginger, fried in Cottonseed Oil,
Mint, Cilantro, whisked together with cream.
The tinge of clam broth,
The decadence of scallop and crabmeat,
A pound of Roasted Beef, salted and cooked
To its decadent perfection,
Suckling pork dusted with sugar and salt,
Lamb liver fried in mint, cinnamon and cumin.

He plucks his grape from the bowl,
His strawberry, his banana and apple,
His pomegranate, mango and melon---
While he eats, and takes, and consumes,
The people around him wane into poverty.
For, his magisterial justice cares only
To feed himself--- his Judges allow him
The sustenance of virginal flowers.
His law his his own belly.

He picks up his wine, cherry and deep,
And drinks, tasting the oak upon his food;
The sweet grape accenting his yams and potatoes
Delicately pureed with butter, salt, and cream;
And his expertly crafted steak shall hint of grape berry.
The men and women around him starve, though.
Their work feeds him--- and he exacts all their taxes.
He does not care, for he wishes it to be so.
So he can incur God's wrath,
And see if the sun truly will darken.
To see if the stars truly do fall.
To see if the moon truly will turn to blood.

Boniface VIII

Alain de Lille, he preaches his homilies
Against Sodom and Gomorrah.
Yet, the peoples still do not listen.
There, they frolic like in the Garden of Earthly Delights.

One in forty thousand googleplex.

O, Philip, tax the clergy!
Boniface orders his vain bulls.
Dungeons, chains, torture,
Boniface dies from his wounds.

Not a perfect man,
A man, who like Odysseus,
Used a Trojan Bull to commit pogrom.

One in forty thousand googleplex.

The Pope's dictum is ignored, though,
And the nations, against Papal decree,
Enter into One hundred years of war.
So follows with it that Ashen Death.

One in forty thousand googleplex

Is the probability of life originating
On this planet through means of evolution.

My greatest regret is
not listening
chasing my dreams
being thirty-three and nothing.

What is wisdom if I have no audience to
share it with?

I was that fool who believed in Universal truth. But, no atheist I ever knew was like minded. But, I found God was. So I converted.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Author’s Bio:

Brandon Neifert is the author of books including In Defense of the Story, a crowning achievement of autodidactism; My Collected Writings, a medley of various writings on diverse topics; and, The Fifth Angel’s Trumpet, an epic novel starring a rowdy maverick colonel caught between a devastating, fifth world war and the love of his life. Neifert is a self educated, self published writer, who, much like his characters, strives for the moral best in both himself and society. A devoted Christian, Neifert was born-again when confronted with a sin from his adolescence that ultimately led to his confession and incarceration as an adult. Neifert has a colorful past, but makes up for it with his scrupulous observations of the human condition, framing both good and evil in ways that even the most skeptical can agree.

The American Civil War

So, you all listen good, now you hear? Here’s a story about a war for American independence, yet we’ll all know at the end just what independence was won. You see, there was first Andrew Jackson, who claimed that Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness was America’s highest ideal. Yet, Abraham Lincoln found it mighty ornery that a war was fought for the American Slaves, and they were still poor. So, Honest Abe rallied his Costs to a mighty outcry against the Cents, that being Old Hickory’s government.

So Honest Abe had his men from the Coasts rally to their cause, and the good Ol’ Cents, who had less troops, but more true grit, rallied their men from the Mainland. The people of color, so said Honest Abe, needed to be freed from the tyranny of the Cents. Old Hickory replied that they had equal opportunity, and rightly he believed it. This is where we got into some trouble, was that both sides believed they were right. In truth, if I may put in, for I’m good old Patrick Henry, I saw no reason for war. Yes, the poor little blacks were a little poor; but it was the Costs policies that made them poor. The Cents, however, stripped every bill passed through congress of its good charities, and there we got into the fact that what I fought for so long ago was no longer believed. Men should have plowed their fields and eat. Instead, they made laws all day long, and it cost about one hundred thousand good, fine men and women. I, on the other hand, sat in my lonely abode watching the cannon flashes at night. Sometimes one of those cannon balls would darn near smash into my barn, or take out my wind chimes. But I was in no danger. They tried to draft me, of course, but I would not be drafted, for I said, “I see two United States here, and one of them has to win. I’m not fighting for either one, as I like the ideas of one, and also the other, but hate them both the same.” So, they left me at my house, and here I wrote this story.

So, there was the story of Bonnie and Clyde there reaping a storm in the West. They were Costs, and they took some men’s bread, and thought it a good thing to give it to the poor. They were Robin Hoods, of course; just outlaws, so they thought, but they made men poor and put them in the poor house. For what? So that the poor could eat, yet the poor couldn’t eat, so their little robberies were for nothin’ that I saw. I heard them out there where Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday found them. These two were a stickler for Justice, and once put a man in prison for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The poor man had a tissue he owned at the local bar, where a man was shot dead. That tissue, they said, was the damning evidence of their sin, so they locked him up. Where that man is, I don’t know?

The two, Doc Holiday and Wyatt Earp, had a blood lust, too, and they’d shoot up outlaws all the time, yet Bonnie and Clyde weren’t going down so easily. They racked themselves up in the local bank, where Wyatt and Doc had them hunkered down. Old Doc called Bonnie and Clyde to come out, when Clyde took his Colt ‘45 and shot four shots that killed Doc Holiday down in cold blood. Wyatt drew his gun, and fired three shots, hitting Bonnie in her breast, dropping the woman, not after she let off fifteen with her Tommy Gun. Wyatt and Clyde were the two standing, and took to the street, where Wyatt drew his pistol in the open air, and five shots rang. There, Clyde fell, not before Wyatt burped up a bubble of blood, staggered around in the misty dust, and fell with a clink of his spurs. Twenty-seven shots were fired in that town, and four men killed.

Paul Bunyan, another Cent, was out working in his forest, when Henry Ford came by with a proposition. He said, “I’ll give you a day’s salary to come work at my steam shop. All you need to do, their friend, is give up your axe and come work with me.” Paul, being a man, and his ox Babe, refused. So, now you see, Ford got the better of him by making a steam engine that cut down his whole forest. Now, Paul and Ford got into a heated lawsuit, which Ford won quite easily, and there was old Paul Bunyan, who could chop down a tree with one swing of his axe, and lift it on his shoulder. So, he took to a test of strength, where he and Ford would match wits in the forests. There, Paul and the machine started, and went all day. Paul chopped down one tree, the machine chopped down two. Paul chopped down three trees, the Machine chopped down four. Paul chopped down seven trees, the Machine, well, it chopped down more. So, it came that at the end of the day, Paul was sharpening his axe; he whittled that axe down to a splinter, and there was Babe, heaving. Old Paul stood up once more, and dropped dead, after a whole day’s of chopping the forest. The Machine, there it sputtered, and heartbroken Babe moaned on the river side, where she fell into the water. The machine hacked up a bolt, and there it crumbled. Ford, though, could care less about it, for the man Paul Bunyan was dead. And there, my friends, if I may weigh in once more, was the point where American industry died. As, Paul didn’t want to work for Ford, and wanted to warm himself with the logs he cut down; no idol ever made of them, for he was an honest man. Yet, poor Paul fell quite dead that day because he couldn’t out match the machine. One of him, an exceptional man, was not enough to match a thousand of Ford’s machines. And, here Ford is today, making more of those, so that where is Paul Bunyan these days? Ford lied, and said he was the Cent. In truth, a Cent was killed by a Cent, for the good working man Paul Bunyan was outdone by the Captain of Industry Ford. And here, we still see Ford to this day with Paul as his own hero; yet, it was his machine that broke him.

Jessie James, now, was a reckless outlaw, who’d murder for no reason. In his eyes, this was the American way, a Cent of the ages. For, he’d go out and do what he thought, a great liberator; of what, nobody knows? He’d go running his mouth at everyone, thinking he had this as his freedom. He’d run his mouth, run it quite often, you hear. He’d pick fights with the local barkeep, he’d pick fights with the local tavern owner. He’d argue all day, and truly believed this was his right, to be free of speech. One day he killed a man in cold blood, and then went running from the law, believing himself just in the killing because he had a beef with the man. So there came Al Capone one day, a Cost as would have it. The Costs and the Cents had no problems working with each other, as the bloody war took American lives. Here Capone set Jesse to work. There, Jesse would drive his Model A through the streets, robbing banks, shooting men dead, when one day Capone, he saw, was rich. For Capone was a bootlegger, and Jesse James was an Outlaw. So, the two made their rounds, and Jesse extorted some riches from Capone, which got Capone as mad as a wolverine in heat.

Jesse, though, was shot down one day on his run to a bank by none other than Capone; as it was, Jesse, Capone didn’t like was spilling secrets; as Jesse was no stranger to recklessness. A murderer, a robber, but a man with a cause. Capone needed his secrets kept, so shot that man dead. Yet, Jesse was outspoken about Capone’s prohibition, as Jesse believed wholeheartedly that Alcohol should be legal, yet one day Jesse talked about a shipment of guns going to the Costs, which Capone was running to support the war. Jesse, a tried and true Cent, exposed the thing, but was shot down by Capone with a Tommy Gun. Capone then had the weapon hidden, but no sooner did he hide it, that Pecos Bill, that highbrow American Ideal, a Cent tried and True, rode in on the moon as his horse—kind of like a bucking stallion you see, for he never would blow a kiss to it—and lassoed that Capone and hung him up there on the corner of the moon. There, you see, if looked wide at night, will see a good old Capone hanging off the crescent; I say, such a thing was oddly amusing.

Good ol’ Johnny Appleseed, though, was a good man. A Cost. He saw a dearth of trees when the war was blowing them all to splinters. So, good ol’ Johnny went through the countryside planting them, planting them, planting them. The President at this time was Theodore Roosevelt, of the Costs, and he built parks for Johnny to plant, and other trees. Goodly gardens he made, goodly gardens.

There was also Lewis and Clark, Cents by right, who like Johnny didn’t care much for the war. So, they moved to the countryside, and there pioneered a Settlement called St. Brandonsburg—which lived by that good parchment—and was neutral in the raging Civil War. There men could live without war, farm their land and swim in the rivers. The merry little town was named after a patriotic hero who himself didn’t like the days he was seeing, and spread the message with his songs. For St. Brandon, that rigorous patriot, didn’t taste of death, but rather is the one writing this song you see, a true Patrick Henry.

There once also was a man named Davy Crockett, a Cent. He was for the Cents no matter who listened, and good ol’ Henry Ford, and good Ol’ Hickory were his heroes. His country could do no wrong. Crockett was a frontiersman, and there he was caught at the battle of the Alamo, where nine thousand Costs rushed him from California and New Mexico. So, the legend has it, Crockett fought till his dying breath; He loaded a shot, and fired, and dropped five men. He used his knife there to skin some Costs. Yet, at the end of the battle, there lay Davy with the last of his men, all wounded and full of pride. A Texas Flag flew, with an American Flag underneath. Good ol’ Crockett understood something right before he died, I’d like to think: It’s the states that were given their rights. Rightly he knew that, but Henry Ford and Wyatt Earp were no good scoundrels. So rather than fight for his country, he took up the Texas Flag and raised it high on a banner, with the American Flag underneath. There, he saluted his flag, and with his beaver pelt on his head, and his deer skin leathers, and moccasins, there Davy died, last of the fighting men, with nine thousand Costs lie dead around him.

George Washington, a grand man, saw his fellow Jesse James, and the notorious things he slandered his country. So, Washington wrote a message to Andrew Jackson, pleading with him to end the war. Jackson, of course, was driven into blood lust, where he challenged Honest Abe to a dual, and there shot him down through the head—for he went crazy. This was why Theodore was the new president of the Costs, but Old Hickory was thrown into a blood lust, as, rightly, Ford was his Vice President, and the word of Davy dying for the Texas Flag got him mad as a hatter. Washington, a rightly man, sent his letter to Old Hickory, but this was nothing good. For Old Hickory heard none of it, but liked good ol’ Jesse James. Pecos Bill, where was he? The good ol’ Pecos Bill had died the moment Hickory shot that Honest Abe dead, and Washington was crying a shame about the war.

Folk, I see you’re wondering what this is about, aren’t you? Well, what I’m going on about, this Patrick Henry you see, is that we don’t live in a time for revolution. Why would you want honest and bad men to die? For, wars do these things, good ol’ Paul being killed by his own, and Davy dying for the wrong flag? Yet, I say there’s more to my story friends. I’m not quite finished yet.

William Penn loved Sacajawea and her people. Yet, he saw that his people needed land. So, he had a covenant with them, that as far as a man would walk, that would be his land. Good ol’ William died long before the war, but Sacajawea’s people were hard pressed by something new. For, aren’t we all just Sacajaweas? There went Penn’s sons, running instead of walking, and here they got all of our land, all of our livestock. I personally had nowhere to live, if you must know the truth. William was a Cost, his sons were Cents, and there Sacajawea and I sat on my old hickory rocker, and here we talk some about what ought to be done. Her, she says I should write this silly story. Me, I say nothing can be done, as there William Penn died a long time ago, and his sons came in his place. Married his daughters to Henry Ford, and I have to say, the crisis now is pretty high minded. My father told me this story, and I figured I ought to too. As the cause of this war was Penn’s sons, so long ago, running, and their sons running faster. Where’s good ol’ Patrick’s money? I can barely put bread on my table, you see. I just sit here, eating the lemon and onion grass, with the Milk and Honey I get from my bees and cows. Not much grass grows these days, but they eat the thorns, so said the Prophet. And I enjoy writing my little stories; as, I suspect that this war was for the worst, but I’m still here. I’m also not complaining; I just have an ugly truth to tell, and that’s the truth of our war. Penn’s sons, running to overtake Sacajawea’s people; all the poor are her people, and so the Costs had their claim. Yet, look who died? So foolish, I’d say, yet even with all of this, the war’s not over. No sir ee, it’s not over yet.

Casey Jones was a good ol’ Cost, who was under the thumb of Henry Ford. There, Casey ran his train double the time, shipping the guns and alcohol, but always was on time. One day, good ol’ Casey gave a sweet kiss to his wife, and a song was sung in his head, “This is your journey to the Promised Land.” Casey didn’t think much of it, but Casey had a whistle on his train that he built, so that Casey would never hurt nobody on his runs, for he didn’t like how fast he flew for that Henry Ford, nor Al Capone. Casey, the day he died, was driving at full bore down the train’s track, and there, good ol’ Sam Weber saw a train parked on the locks. Casey yelled with all his might, “Jump Sam, Jump!” And Sam Jumped, but good ol’ Casey stayed on the train, and hollered his horn, slammed on the breaks, and there the engine squealed, where Casey was killed when his train hit the caboose. Casey died that day, taking with him the Alcohol of Capone and the guns of Ford. Though, Casey had no real motive for doing it, other than to save a life. Casey once saved a child on the Train Tracks, and there he tried to slow down his country some say, but he couldn’t, for that train traveled too fast, and Casey knew it, but being a hero for his punctual nature, he then became a hero for saving lives. So, that’s the story of Casey Jones, A Cost who just did his job, and the speed of the trains were what killed him.

So, this is the end of my story. The war ended at the death of Casey Jones, for the whole reason for the war was all twisted up and foul. For good ol’ Casey was there, running his shipments for both Capone and Ford, and ol’ Hickory heard of the man’s death, and that his guns were on the train, and Roosevelt heard of the report, that one of his men was killed shipping bootlegged booze. Thus, Casey’s life ended with the stopping of that train; so did the war, as both side’s goods were on it. And there Casey died, and the people found it better not to war over such things, as a man like Casey Jones, Paul Bunyan, Abraham Lincoln and Davy Crockett died.

So, my friends, if you must know the purpose of this story: It’s just a story. As I rightly am a Patrick Henry, and I cry, “Give me Liberty or Give me Death.” Rightly, I’ve had my liberty to write these stories, and the real culprits I hope you see aren’t Roosevelt and Hickory. It’s that Capone and Ford, as I’m still sitting here poor, and with nobody, as I write this story, and rightly, I ought not be so. So, whose side am I on? I’m a Cost, and that’s where Patrick Henry always will be; but I’m no Cost who would take up an arm against such a thing, as is just the way of the world; and good men have a tendency to die when wars begin, as the war we have to fight is one of talk; otherwise, the war won’t ever stop until a good man gets caught in the snare, and he ends up telling us how stupid we all were.

The Slave

Once there was a boy who fell into

Depths of peril; renowned was he

‘mong the rising fortunes of bliss’

Wagon wars. He foresaw futures

Grim; he fell by all.

Ev’ry tongue was wagged against him

When none could know his inner thought.

All were joyed by sin’s epistle

All were to him like a thorn.

Who knows the boy so close to age

That men did scorn and sell their hate.

At once they made him sign in blood—

His life’s to God the Father and Son—

He made no vow, but was renown

To be the villainous world’s clown.

Thus all did hate and scorn and preen

They wished to burn him, kill him, scream

At what he did, was worst of all…

Yet worst he did was give his life to Law.

For now all men do hate him so

Who found the one and Holy Ghost.

Wrote Trochees, called them Iambs—

All called that man dumb.

I see men who all sank in the bog.

A silly thing to watch, this salt bog

Desperate to find all of his faults.

For into the salt bog the men sank

When they wagged their hot tongue.

All men shot their split tongue

Like the Asp’s double pronged fork.

Think on this, thou friendly foes

Of what cost it did bring. When men

Turned a head South of his Slavehood.

Ever have laws remissed him?

Why say he’s lawless, then?

The Brother of Queen Maeve’s Charge

Oh Queen Maeve in great dearth of joys, deep hatred I had not—

’twas Ferguson who spoke so vile, but your bad name must now rot.

For I have this unwholesome dream, his murders which greatly spun

Of what you did, what you said, flights; his firings of the gun.

I sit in wonder at the great deeds, poor and in rags my pants;

Sinner I was, and sinner I be, forget a thousand rants

Said in private,—were not for men to see; nor was it a felony

Which stirred the nations stalwart from sea to every bloody sea.

My verse had changed, your heart’s not true, your judgments, they all were wrong.

Nothing but tender love I had for you; your betrayal had sorely stung.

These dreams are torment—nails in my arms, the pain of your sharp gun.

These are not my dreams, but I have to say, they are that Ferguson’s.

For I am small, known not by you, my strong friend but ally lost;

For I never had thought you’d harm me; but friendship was paid the cost.

Rather, someone else I see, in vision who wears that rebel cloth—

It is Ferguson, he who is to be, that man eternally lost.

Of Theodore Marmaduke Book I

Canto I

A Prince once found A pauper, poor.

Theodore Marmaduke, Whom Wordsworth maligned,

Spent his life Looking for the greatest lovesongs.

Find he did When that dumb pauper Doctor wrote his poems

Who dumb for lack of degree Was a doctor due to his discipline.

Theodore had aligned altogether With a wicked foe, abrupt

And unabashed as Unferth Who understood nothing.

The Pauper, named “Prince” Though a titular prince

Came to the Bawth isles of Brittos An American bold and brazen

Beheld the waves. Wondered he did at the wheat

For never did he set Flesh Upon the isle’s forgiving shore.

A town towered tall, So the Pauper called Bromdun Kratz Nuewfer

Titular in title called Broomhill Crown New, to talk

His odes. Theodore thought This thug not a thoroughbred

Thus set out to steal, By the knowledge of the storm

The Elf jewel, Thus jeered forth the Ladies of the Sea—

By sending Bromdun to a bawdy Breadth of time, bereaved of his

Happy present. Pretending was to pour out prudent truth

That in principle, the odes Were true, though flesh pretend.

The ladies each shared one eye Shod together lewd, at the head

They possessed power over The populous sea.

The sisters spoke “Bromdun Nuewfer, we see strong

“Are you, and your loves Toward your youthful yens.

“For, with the youthful yens We wish you to use to

“To call to core memory Your crude crimes.

“Call to core memory, crude, We shall also call forth core

“Memories most unusual Ones of Madoc and Marmaduke.”

Bromdun possessed A prized arrow and bow.

So shot forth the shod A flaming tarth shooting from the shaft

To slay one of the three. Yet, a song misted, and the sea

Slung back, steering strong toward The skywave.

Bromdun had not a shield So shimmied up a tree.

The seas flung one Hundred foot fraught

Washing Bromdun With the waves

Bromdun stood, harshly stormed Another wave from the west

Come from Ire’s Land, Let loose, and levied naught

To tear Bromdun beneath the Waves brazenly.

Sum’d the Chok, the Chok Who confounded the verse.

The verse was confounded, And Bromdun was toppled down

Through the ocean’s depth. For Marmaduke was strong.

Bromdun survived the waves, So strung his bow one last time.

Strung, and fired the steel shaft Shodding the arrows sorrowful

At the standing, prostrate beasts. A prophet was not Bromdun

But a Nethanim he was. To tell himself the hero

Bromdun had caught Marmaduke And Madoc. Bromdun murdered no one.

But, Marmaduke and Madoc had. Thus, the murderous intent was made

To marr Bromdun But Bromdun had severely beaten

The one eyed threewoman with arrow arrayed To weaken the armored shebeast.

But the threebeast threw herself Thrusting forth to break Bromdun.

For Omri, O’ Thou Theodore Marmaduke

In a fit of rage, When he raised lies rude to flit

And fraught the minds of Marmaduke and Madoc.

Thus, Bromdun escaped When Marmaduke established

That Bromdun was just insane. But, Bromdun was but

A trickster, who twisted minds Tricked, and transfixed

In a bed of belied blasts To bludgeon false prophets

With what he thought false prophecies. So Omri would forgo

And forget to fight The forbearing foes.

For Bromdun was but a blighted soul Given discourse with Dionysus

In his castle. For Dionysus should know That Israel is free

Therefore, it would be cursed if Bromdun carried forth in the statues of

Omri, Dionysus, Marmaduke. For to win, must Bromdun sing—

Canto II

Alas, the forallies Harpy and Valkyrie Near assayed and altogether destroyed

The earth, engaging In the fire art, enraged at everything.

Both being the same brood One of speckled wing, the other spotted

This their only feigned figure Of difference, forlorn and now forgotten.

One race bore from the North, The other race bore from the South

Which was spotted or speckled Specious it was, so no one knows.

The elvish Cur Brutess bore The wrath, to unleash the elvish brutes

Upon the earth. Forty thousand etched their way;—

Women nude, with nipple shown Through shadow light, cloths

Beautiful, to bear their ivory And ebony skins.

Learned the craft of the Valkyrie Learned the craft of the Harpy

Bromdun was in the bulks of Alban’s Hordes. When Brutess’

Snipers shot their shod lit arrows Felling sure men of Alban’s sortie.

Sixty-thousand, Alban’s men maneuvered With their steel flashing

Greatly upon shocked earth. The silver sheaths cutting the gorge

Of the beautiful Elvan curs Their breasts flapped in weapons brist

Upon the shaved death. Alban’s men fought sure and brave

Beating back the Elvan onslaught. Yet, in the battle, Bromdun

Was beaten with a brash blow Causing he to bruise his borne brain

And ease himself of every Sin’s epistle. Thus, every man saw Bromdun’s evil.

Bromdun fell, disgraced, digressed, Like Andrey he fell, dying, dredged.

He was held in the back beds Where bruised, he was bedded

In captivity for the revelation Of his capricious repents.

Sin was brought to memory, Memory left him maimed.

He heard the Lancs Lowing Landing themselves in the lewd traps.

Bromdun leered, and longed To have fallen with the long train of troops.

He has yet to hear Whether York had halted.

The Bearwolf sung his songs But the smell of the strong ashes

Of Lordess Brutess’ battle Lingered over the battlefield

Like the prison boy, Starved and pot bellied because of pride.

The Harpies cried for war, The Valkyries cried for war

Bromdun, who had Lost his heart in battle

Cried for peace; Ever crying, carelessly.

Longing for Lancaster to Lampoon York’s lackluster lewdness.

For Omri had omnipresent rule Over the elvish operatives.

Canto III

Blessed, bold, but berated, Bromdun found himself by the bull’s pen

Where beauty beheld him wonted He had loved the beauty, but bold

Was she, to shew away all great loves For he was shown a Ziddonian

And she was an Israelite sure; Thus, the two fell to showers of salt

Eating beneath the fig fruit Which dropped forbearing upon the forts of love.

There forbidden fruit dropped Forlorn, the two forgat that love was forbidden

As the green fruit upon the Forbidden trees.

Delicious it was, to dote In the nude upon the delicacies of love.

Yet, the families disapproved Desperate to separate the young turtledoves.

They forbade the marriage Of these two young mates.

The two, at the precipice of love’s clinch Drew back, and did not beget, nor elope.

No priest would permit them to marry “You are too young!” cried the priest

Cried the family, cried the friends. The two were familiar as spousemates,

But for friend and family The feat never took but for a farce.

She scorned him. She scoured him.

Not because she hated him, But because they hated him,

Who like a brother to her But much deeper, with sibling rivalry

The two loved not with farce But with zeal. Forswear to know

The forbidden love cost the two Their couth, and sanity.

These could not even seal Their bond with sex.

For on the threat of discovery, The two were too daunted to be at ease.

At the appropriate age for love Neither appeared, but rather abhorred the other.

Their hatred grew cold, For love could not be clinched.

For the family’s futility, Neither could fraternize, and therefore

Seal their loves. Such might be the best that they left it alone.

For, unlike Hannai and Jeroboam They could not seal under

The mandrakes, nor the fig tree blossoms. They could not seal, berated

By friend and ally, Both were made cold, forsworn,

They could not seal Their sex, for they were not married.

Thus, the hatred never grew, But instead healed him.

She hurt and pined Yet could love him nonetheless.

For his Chivalry prevailed, And they were not thrust into unsure desires

Which makes bitter hatred in hearts More broken than prevented pollination.

For they did not Imprison the lieges

Nor torture them in their dungeons, Nor disembowel them

Because of love prevented. For dammed love is the most vitriol hatred

And lovers tasted of the wine Of salts hate one another most cruel.

Veiled of love, the consorts, Nor the curious slaves and vassals

Were hurt, nor the Christians, Nor the commoners.

For if Hannai and Jeroboam are a lesson, Forbidden love jeers the soul

Of its goodness, And the only power to grow good again

Is to forgive The fruitless feast of love.

For Theodore Marmaduke Maligned the parents with spies

To tell the whole, What the two young lovers behooved

And spread rumors false About flower petals.

Thus, the parents hated him But Theodore Marmaduke had made a horrible mistake.

By never tasting love’s alight The two’s love could last

To platonic forms Formidable, even to forgive the shame

Shown when Bromdun Bereaved of all breast of heart

Could not be but a coward And so converse with his comrade.

For she knew Bromdun’s shame But hid it in her bosom, that he was not but show

But a good, unloved man. For she taught him love unconditional;

For that her heart beat For her breast, knowing that forbidden was that heartbeat.

Canto IV

Olden the Earth Old and errlorn

Men built towns tall Tours to triumphs.

A million times’ Gilgal’s mad flood-

-Fire fell upon Forsaken earth.

Two pure prophets Awoke to parch

The Godless rakes Upon God’s earth.

At each flood-fire Was epoch’s tide

To which Giants Gnashed our good earth.

They lied lewd laws Gross sciences

So came the called Two prophets keen.

Their wives one flesh Their woes one fight.

Bromdun was not Born to be these.

But, Bromdun sung For these two seers.

When Sheshack felled Bromdun’s Hopeshore

Bromdun waivered For a wife’s breast.

Bromdun was not But pretendt he

So to give ease To his friend Zeek.

For Sheshak was Good, to wan Sheikhs.

Zeek and Jerome’s Joyful tide zoomed.

Bromdun did wan To be Cyrus

So pale and fraught That he failed poor.

He feared, fraught, foes Forbore him, weak

And feeble. Fie He did, for feigns.

But to be used By God he prayed

To be used great In some good way.

Marmaduke was The Mad Moabite

Who made Ashur Fall upon all.

For Marmaduke, Ephraim’s Might

Sent men by poor Bromdun’s poor prayers

To pillage the Place Bromdun loved.

To give creed to His crass visions

And drive him mad Though Sheshak did

Get wroth, for was What Bromdun was

To do with life. Weak, listless, lied

But Bromdun was A sinner, bad

No less or more Mad or lewd than

Andrew, Jude, or Cyrus’ alms.

For all men sin, Some greater. All

Men sin less in Mind than in thought.

Canto V

Sat upon strong scents The strong musk of loves

Carried forth to Bromdun’s crude Perception. Beauty called.

Falling in strong desire for the Irishmaid She fell not, but draught impudents

Of her loves were that of drunkenness. He did desire her.

She did not know him,— Rather he needed some loves

To long for.—Bereaved of His beautiful lake where the cypress dwelt.

There, at the lake, a shebear foraged, Made herself fat.

She ate her berries, bark and grass Leaves, birch and sassafras.

But a carriage hurled by crass, Out of control, the horses reigned not

And down the steep grade Gone was the carriage that careened

To crush to the core The shebear. The shebear was dead.

The one whom Bromdun now fell in lust Blushed, maybe, by the brute dork

Of his dimwitted mind… For Bromdon wished for death in those days.

But, the beauty of the Irish Countess Causes his heart to cull.

For there was milk and mead enough for pasture But miry was the murk,

The swamp too clammy a causeway To cause her to be his creature

Of adoration. Too many avoidances. She fell in love a lot, too fast for his allowance,

But he lost true love’s cast lot to the wagon For in the wagon was a Fern-fielded lake.

The Shebear was killed Where that foresty shire burnt to desert cold.

For one love a man gets aught And all lost, the beauty of the laurel wreath

Was enough. Let him have her Should she have him,—but she would not.

For no lovesong, not this hour. The bitterness of this lovesong is sour.

So Bromdon awaited on God’s Gift The gift of a second Beatrice.

For Theodore Marmaduke had set To send the Ziddonian as a diversion

To cause Bromdun great pains to pursue Her,—he paid the price of pride

And sanity. He pursued her, patiently, Yet it would prove perfectly

Imprudent, for she did not know him. She let him know not the lot was cast.

For the loss of this lover Was lots cast. For she had never heard his lowing

Like a bull in the wood wont With the loves of wonder.

She never heard. He, in his insanity Wanted his lovesongs to reach her.

But they never did, For Theodore Marmeduke

Knew that Bromdun fell into attraction For the dame, but she did not know him.

For miracles of the sort do not surmise Nor do they surface for Bromdun

Because Theodore Marmaduke Thoroughly maimed his every move.

For she could not fall in love But rather Theodore Marmaduke laughed

To try and cause Bromdun to believe That he bereaved himself of the beautiful lake

Through abuse. But he did not.

He had lost a friend that day.

Canto VI

Bromdun, dubiously named Prince Crown New of naught but Basque Burgs,

Was born chief, with cherub’s imagination Able to envision all futures.

He, poor, probably as poor As any pauper in his Princedom

Was caught in Kings’ mischief Who to make him a Prince o’er Kings

Stole him away from house and home To be hauled back to his home

By Spirit Engines. He nare sought the enigmatic

Spooky Family of ghouls and goblin kings Or the Good shepherd family.

He was harangued and held to Oath From a Hochadel of the Bourbons

Not to forge in the elements Of fire, for fear of failure.

Thus, Bromdun held to his oath To the Bourbon Hochadel

But the Hapsburgs came in colors Of the Jolly Roger to kill

Bromdun, by making him brute And to take up the Bright Craft

Of the Fiery art of the Firesmith To make engines enigmatic and fierce.

Bromdun knew not how the knots Of the fire knells, nor the knowledge

Of how the fire art was forged. Thus, an Oak towered above, fierce

To forge in the fiery arts. But when he found the Earth flat

He thought, “This must be a dream!” Though, this is how the earth was.

For his metallurgy maligned his skill And forged madness into this manly Marquise.

The marquise who then became a Prince Most adored by the masses.

The Bourbons brought the Marquise to Make his most magnificent machines.

The Hapsburgs were fraught with ill ire. Their iliums were illumined with rage.

For Bromdun was not a prince But to use his Body, they pried to place

In him Harry Prince of Wales, Who horrified, Bromdun prayed to Jehovah

To throw this Hapsburg to the winds And therefore heal Bromdun of his heartache.

For Bromdun was purchased and Spied by Potentate Theodore Marmaduke

To be made into the Brute beacon Of the big world beneath the earth.

To bring the Baal into the World From beneath the earth, in the World;

But Bromdun prayed to Jehovah And Jehovah answered briefly

To bring Him all joy and all measure Of kindness, and Bromdun would be healed.

Yet, Theodore Marmaduke, with Madok Himself, he whom Marmaduke served

Sought to bereave Bromdun Of his belief in God. For what purpose?

Bromdun has yet to find, Yet fears it is just for fun’s sake.—

To fletch this favorable poem Which the LORD Jehovah has found Bromdun

To feed himself. Heal him LORD Jehovah.

For Bromdun sees the fierce Winds of change are wearing

And sees dark forests fading to desert The deserts flowering to forests from dearth.

“LORD, I need to eat. Ease my suffering.”

The prince’s engines Flew into the ebbs of space

To where they brought the boats Filled with idolatry back

From Mars, and the worlds beneath, To make the earth barren.

They flew with the sunsails They fanned the coal of Asheroth to fly

With the earth waning, Wan was the people when the forests

Burned, when the trees were bare When the summer fruit did not flit.

It was for the Baal idols Which sung the songs in their bright

Pitch, to tell the trees each To wit, the Baals sung on that frequency too.

Thus, the trees began to fall. The earth’s forests turned to desert.

For scripture sought to send A beautiful secret truth to us.

That God is God, and we need Give up the gods in our pockets.

Canto VII

Bromdun was a bad man. A bad man, brutish, until broken

For his brutality in baffling youth. A bull found him with no backbone.

That bull a bylaw, Borne to belittle bestial men,

Belittled Bromdun for a sin Bygone in his bashful youth.

The Bull allowed Theodore Marmaduke To build an empire with brick

Hewn from fun and fantasy. Fun and fantasy fueled the Bull

To break Bromdun, To build more bulls

Meant to bring Bromdun to nothing. Theodore Marmaduke came

As Medea to Bromdun at this time To break Bromdun with malignity.

For fun and fantasy fueled To fraught every man to ever be close to every woman.

Fraught was every man Because fun and fantasy

Were the fuel. Men and women could feign fun and fantasy

But because of fun and fantasy Men and women could not forge faithful bonds.

For the fear of all men Was the friendship of women.

For the sin of men Was so common, yet led men to flinch

When getting close to the Good hearts of their women-kine.

Theodore Marmaduke, A potion mistress,

She spun secret webs To seclude Bromdun in sloth.

Soon, the other Bulls, Daughters of the Bull

Began to lay siege To Bromdun’s home country.

Medea—who will show sure at the climax—

Was Theodore Marmaduke Spun by a witch’s brew

To become a female force. Forged lies, to foment fierce fear—

Begat Theodore Marmaduke Woven Bulls to break

The United States which Bromdun resided under.

The courts were cornered To create in men cowardice

Against women who were Won by summary fee;

For marriage was marred Thus the women mourned

So Theodore Marmaduke, In a woman’s skin,

Besieged the high courts And sought to kill the prophets.

He sent his bulls to the four corners Of the courtlands

Where civilization had its Just secrets to cement

The woes of the wages Of the Unjust whore-mongers.

Yet, Bromdun, like the Good Man Was a Joseph, manly and good.

So that Theodore Marmaduke Enamored by the mastery

Of his craft, went against Bromdun To weave a spell so arcane and woeful

To spin him a great waste And name him a sinner worst.

Yet, Bromdun followed the bulls, Like Jeremiah Babylon,

He did not fight.

The bulls brought brokenness to the kingdom Bereft of bright futures.

All men were guilty of the gaff Which Bromdun had galled.

So, as it were, The waste brought all men’s faces wanness

As Theodore Marmaduke Sought to bring assimilation

Of the Amazon’s Government Where men, disavowed, were gored

To great disgust, Broken by the warrior Giantess Amazons.

Theodore Marmaduke had Spun hellish kingdoms

With the Bulls he bore So that the kingdoms of States Betrothed

By the righteous betrothal of Revolution brought righteous reign

To bear and happiness to men. Yet, Theodore Marmaduke

Was hoary, and was named “Athena” Wisest of the gods of America.

Yet, not a god was he. He was a goad to make himself

All the kings at once caught In a net most nefarious.

Bromdun, he even sought, To seek that Bromdun was that king

So Marmaduke would loose his curse Kill Bromdun, so therefore he would live.

Yet, Bromdun could bear, That Theodore Marmaduke’s bull

Was breaking the country. All men guilty, betrothed that country

Was beginning to seek divorce. For if not Bromdun’s disgrace

’twas their own.

So Bromdun sat, idly spinning tales

For none would have his work.

Canto VIII

Sung a hymn of ecstasy, With wars’ uncivil horror hung

In the foreground, Forgotten Bromdun found

A fierce foe in Theodore Marmaduke. Theodore Marmaduke who found

The silver strings of Ephraim’s Sister, to succor the woe of Bromdun

To send to war and wan All men for the wasted wonton

Forms of eve which they Had all desired, every one.

Theodore Marmaduke enchanted His sister to entice her to array

Battle against Bromdun for A long forgiven bad.

Thus, sisterly love was lost And longing like the love of Hannai

Was found, to forge a fate So dire for Bromdun, that fasted

Him of his health and honor. Bromdon cried often, heard not

By any man, woman or foe. The silver strings on the sister

Of Ephraim ardently arrayed Such wrath against Bromdun

That the nation was wont to war For none knew Bromdun, whatsoever

But the nation was at a wonder How a summary fee would wax

To a felony. Forged in flagrant Hate, the fellows went to war with Bromdun

Yet, it was the silver strings Which made them so steamed.

Thus, the battle for the basic Rights of men for justice began

And women,—for wont was A woman to do what Bromdun did.

The sin a sin all are guilty of Bromdun sat idly, without simple work.

Yet, Theodore Marmaduke was That wicked soul who possessed

The poor loves of Bromdon’s pasture When youth was praised

And idyllic, where a sin singed it So sacrilegious.

For Pekah Avram Ephraim Was indeed that Theodore Marmaduke.

For the singe of Theodore Marmaduke Sought great salvos of arms

Across the fields of Gettysburg, Where armies arrayed fierce.

Bromdun could hear their horrors Just outside his house, yet none knew.

The war was open for all to see For it was a war of minds

To turn America into an Amazon’s Kingdom, amounted that Theodore

Sought to do this, for some strange Reason, though he was a strange woman

Who actually was a man. Theodore Marmaduke was a man in woman’s cloak.

Yet, the battlefield was wont to winnow The strange sounds of cannonades

Outside the windows of Bromdun’s Sunny house. So warped was

Everyone around him. Everyone knew nothing, for much blood avowed

That in this fictitious war fought, Much blood was spilled, and so many songs

Were sung of the American Revolution. Revolution, which Bromdun did not answer

But rather knew how a man held To great high standards hurt

When a lie made him a Joseph. Bromdun saw religion was really at stake just

Like the right for mercy, which made A great error on the part of men

To fight, when in fact, men need Only kneel to the LORD God, and forget

Their earthly woes. For Theodore Marmaduke Sought to destroy us, and malign

Everyone who was a man struggling with sin So as to make all men hide their sins.

“Men ought to have hidden their sins” So said Theodore Marmaduke, high

Upon his liar’s chair. Lewd and longing, Neighing for long standing bloodshed.

No, Bromdun did not know For sure what nasty things were done.

Rather, he simply wrote his odes Offered them not to Baal

But the LORD Jehovah, Jesus Gift from God.

For incense would not be offered to Baal And Bromdun wished the Assyrian would

Die from angelic sword, for this was Isaiah’s Vision against the Assyrian.

For mercy is the main part of our faith. Mercy,—and when decided we deserve more

And merit mercy on our own word, We deserve the fate of malignant damnation.

Bromdun would say, “Do not fight, sirs and gentlewomen.”

For, fighting is Bromdun’s worst fear. Let the fight be forgotten

And in the laws, vote out the last Remnant of this legalistic lasciviousness.

For laws encompass mercy; They encompass justice.

For both are written in God’s laws. Yet, know, that Ephraim’s sister

Was under the spell of Pekah Avram Ephraim,

That Theodore Marmaduke.

For Theodore Marmaduke sought great woes To wan the faces of all men.

Believing himself to be a woman When in fact he was a man.

For, strange was he, That he had the manly flesh

But forged a lie so sour So as to reap the benefits of strife.

For, war profits Theodore Marmaduke For if lost, he can alight

And therefore loose all men from dignity. For a gamble can lose.

Very thing, war, is a gambit. Be patient; vote without gambling.

For men know this to be a nuisance, So knot nothing.

Leave nothing to chance Of arms, nare they win or lose

For wrath can stir permanent— So be sure of Isaiah’s vision.

Canto IX

There was a good woman Who had herself a sire.

Yet, Jezebel Zarathustra, That Jackal Bar-Jesus

By the word of Theodore Marmaduke, Came and wooed her.

She was called Cousin to Theodore Marmaduke By Elvish cur science.

Jezebel loved the seed of men’s sex But the good woman was not so lewd.

But, the good woman was a gossip And a gross gossiper at that

Whose sire was found fatal Of the guilt of forlorn Bromdun.

The good woman, therefore, Found herself thoroughly wanned

By this, that her sire Was such like Bromdun’s sin.

So she sent the scent of slander to the four corners Of the sanguine seas

To spread her slanders, Through Jezebel’s gossip.

Her gossip therefore fueled Gross agitations of the war

Which raged unbeknownst to Bromdun. For, to protect her youth she reaped

Havoc upon Bromdun’s brow Hurling great bravado to berate him.

She turned the faces of the unclean Hardened under the unseen

Strings of ire, for tastdt loves,—unlike Bromdun’s who understood his lover.

Slander and gossip spread Of Bromdun in his neighboring sprawl

Where the small town tyrannized him, But he took to it without knowledge.

The whole city turned suspicious of Bromdun’s Bad past, a summary touted torrid.

It fueled the great war governing The seas and the stars, gaudy and ghastly.

The unclean hearts were culled For they all were certainly curt and cowards

That they were caught in conscience, But could not but use Bromdun as a crutch.

All could hate Bromdun, All had their sacrificial lamb to halt

Any suspicion of their own homely deeds. Sacrificial was he,

But the good woman only did so To protect her sire—such is gossip

That it does this evil gaff For to be forgiven, she ought have been on the side of good.

The city hated one another, Slandered one another, heard

Rumors about one another, For rumors spread from one to another row

Of houses held to horror So all were the good woman who

Jezebel had possessed To pursue Bromdun.

Her sire loved Bromdun, perhaps. Perhaps but in hypocrisy he did not.

Yet, if men look into their conscience, They will find curt, there, the guilt

Of Bromdun’s. A summary offense. Yet, fatal summary berated.

Bromdun will still say It was not mistake

To make known his sin So others may feel relief.

For, all have sinned And such a thing as a serpent knows this

And will try to turn men to wolves To warp their worldview to destroy

A man whose sin is just like their own. For a lynching is like this.

Ever what a man were guilty of They rage at this exposed sacrificial lamb.

Thus, the slanders of Jezebel spread Just as they always do;

And Bromdun was hated By his home and family.

He was bereaved of all hopes And hope lost, he only meant to sing

Upon his lute. Not to harangue, But to harp upon a state of juncture

That even just men have unjust things Which jeer the conscience.

And a conscience is such a rare thing, It ought not be chewed to sorrows.

Canto X

Theodore Marmaduke, who was death’s Puppet, caused a Prince to pause

At his false female form. The Prince foresaw that Marmaduke was fit

And had good, graceful character To create a sense of gaudy gluttony.

This Prince was an Egyptian Imam Who had great Emeritus in his kingdom.

Theodore had sinned, With murderous slander

When he captivated the Imam. The Prince “consoled” Marmaduke

And so therefore took him into The towering kingdoms of golden steeples.

For, Theodore Marmaduke was under Assault by a Great King, unaware

That the Imam’s palaces would pour Down their golden palisades into clear, streams

When the Great King Killed his kingdom’s crews.

Theodore Marmaduke had tried To kill the Great King’s friend, Bromdun

So the Great King embarked on an emissary To draw Marmaduke out of the castle.

The Great King sent word, “Give me Theodore Marmaduke, and I will spare thise.”

But the Imam did not, but rather sent shafts Shot down, skewering the front ranks.

The Great King, knowing this meant war, Took siege engines of brass and knocked

Upon the golden palisades of the Imam’s walls. Great fires poured from the dropped

Gates of the siege towers, turning The golden palisades to rainbow torrents

Of clear, streaming golden waters. Men on the palisades waked through the mortar

Their flesh melting from the streams Of liquid gold molten, flowing to the streets

Where men, as it cooled Could be seen, arms mixed in like straw.

The war of the American revolution Retained its great and hearty revolt

But now Bromdun had an ally Unknown to him, for all was going well.

The Imam heard word that his walls were Wallowing in their golden streamed wakes

That his men, in the cooled gold Were but fleshstraw in hardened gold mortar.

The Great King took the Capital of the city, Looked for Marmaduke that crass

Cutthroat killer, but could find Him not. Yet, armies held on the hills

For a reserve force hidden in the hills Ran in with great rain of cavalries’ hooves

For the Imam’s glory. Horsemen glade Over the hill country, and into river gullies.

The Great King withdrew his halberds So forced his general to haul into enemy spears

On a small number of horsemen. Horrified, the Great King made a retreat

For the rustic palaces were taken, The women in the kingdom ravaged

But the Great King had wasted his Force at the gates, when the hooves harrowed

Great and numerous foes’ foray By the feet of burnished cavalry.

The Great King lost general and crew So withdrew in great retreat, languishing.

He held in the barracks, broken As Theodore Marmaduke escaped boldly.

For, Bromdun was not Beowulf, But was good nonetheless. Brazen

He thought himself a prophet, But proved to be only a man persuaded

By his love for peace and prosperity. Every word Bromdun spoke was for peace

To prevent war, yet the Great King provoked Conflict at Egypt’s walls, wasted

Were the forces spent, stark naked were they When they strode off into the sticks.

Theodore Marmaduke was giddy with glee When the Great King’s forces gave way

To the Numidian Calvary in great numbers Gnawing away at the Phalanx of America.

For, if they had not engaged the general Against the Phalanxes of Numidian enclave

The general’s horses would not have waned In battle to flight, so therefore jut him

Off his steed. His steed broken and bloody. Bruised, the forces fled golden palisades.

Canto XI

Bromdun was an evil man. Evil was he, a man lost

To his desires, when welcome thoughts Of his wonderful good daunted

On him. He killed a rabbit, raw With a rifle in six shots.

He was blind by boredom And so therefore beheld wantonness.

His eyes opened when elucidated To his past, that he was endangered

Of hellfire, for even a summary offense But offense it was, therefore rude and hellish.

He was falsely accused. According the acquittal he thought he would acquiesce

He was rather made into a monster For a crime all men and women have maligned

Their souls with. Soon he sought Some comfort, but none would soothe him.

He was not beaten. He was not bruised. Battered instead by boisterous hatred

He was given a lifetime sentence For not telling a lie.

He testified before kings that War should not be touted; to be timid to fight

In wars that could waste all flesh To wan the flesh—for pallid faces wan

When they see their sin, And the sure sentence against it.

Ought they blush, bold and rubicund Rather than wan badly.

For wan faces are ones about to wane; But rubicund faces are ones about to win.

For Bromdun might have done more, He will not make the claim that he is innocent.

Rather, he does not know, what more, The malignity made of his brow.

He loves his country and President, Pride swells in him for patriotic shores.

Rather, a mistake he would regret Is the Patriot way relegated to regiments

Sent to sands of distant satraps’ sovereignties. For sorrow would inhabit all faces then.

Bromdun merely wishes to be won by grace. For the battles are wishful mental

Eyes. He fears the Ravens in the Woods Might ravage him, for Theodore Marmaduke

Had sent ravens to ravish Bromdun. Theodore Marmaduke sought to sortie

Against the Great King, after his failure Fought fraught, and fortuitous for

Theodore Marmaduke.

Theodore Marmaduke wished to imprison Bromdun

For making his name known Pekah Avram Ephraim, the merry marauder

Who marred the kingdoms, Who made the nations tremble with care

To not offend him, Great Liege Athena. Yet, one greater worse than Marmaduke

Lie at the helm of the wars wasting The faces to wan. That is Maddok’s woe

Who wishes to whip the kingdoms Into hellfury, and therefore weltch

The world of its weapons To bring all the living ones to woe.

Canto XII

Theodore Marmaduke, a Chamberlain Chains of Judecca were sentence for his charge.

He was possessed by a perfect choirmaster, Chosen by God to sing the strongest hymns.

The specter’s voice was perfect pitch His notes were strong and savory.

His angelic instrument was his pipes Which sung loud for the nations to hear.

He coveted the stories of Bromdun To see is they could secure truth.

For no story was good to Marmaduke Unless it could be made true.

So for fun he set the trap in motion To make Bromdun’s stories true.

Yet, for metaphor they were, But for meat of lucid metal, to touch

They were not lucid enough to touch But rather were truths taught about covetousness

Or murder, or slander, or social ills When strength would stir and tyrants would still

The populace. For Theodore Marmaduke Sought to overthrow the Great King,

So with him Bromdun Kratz Nuewfer, A titular prince with no crown, except one new.

The New Crown one given by Christ For the worldly sorrows were corundum

To be cracked by the Diamond edge Of grace’s devoted diadems.

Theodore Marmaduke loved the stories Of Bromdun’s illustrious bow.

He was brilliant to make stories come to pass Bright and marveled on the lookingglass.

Theodore Marmaduke could, in fact, Find words to fill his lute’s forms,

To sing and write, for Theodore Marmaduke Was wisest of the false gods.

Find not he did his sister’s sex Nor found he and married her.

Rather, he was the hoary humph Of a forgotten, ne’er to be hero.

He was not Chief among the saints, Silly salvo, nor was he perfect in all chosen

Arts of man, to call wise and welcome By the muses. For he worshiped the muses.

He did, in fact, play with his puppets And made all men a part of his plans.

He promised Bromdun to prosper nothing He rather promulgated through witchiness

A woeful regret. To cause Bromdun to speak, Though it was not Bromdun who spoke.

For Theodore Marmaduke was a cur Caught in his own web of callousness.

Bromdun thought it was to think otherwise Yet, Theodore Marmaduke was thoroughly

Invested in idealizing and bearing to fruit Bromdun’s inventions and ideas.

For secretly was Marmaduke captured by them, Even the ones so called kitch.

Distant memories has Bromdun of these conversations He knows not what caused

The false memories to appear, If not the maligned marring of his masterwork

Did Marmaduke make war upon Bromdun’s Strong stories, to mortify him

For Bromdun was weak, So therefore made rubicund one day, and therefore wise.

The Great King found war on his shores So therefore shod away from Bromdun.

Therefore, in this next book to begin, Bromdun will bring to bear the battle

That Bromdun must wage with Theodore Marmaduke And so stop the warsongs

Of his kingdom’s callous cares. For war is what Bromdun sought to conquer

And not kingdoms. His only wish was to conquer war.