I have nearly an entire shelf filled

With just books I’ve written.

Myriads of journals

Hand written in my sloppy English letters.

There is something annoying about reading it

Though. It’s like all the magic is gone.

I already know what it means.

 

To be frank, I can find some subconscious notion

To dwell on.

But, there isn’t the mystery of knowing someone else.

There isn’t the desire to find out who the person is you’re reading.

It, rather, is like looking into a mirror.

Vainly, you can like how your hair is combed—

Always backward—

You can admire your jaw bone

Or your personal facial structure.

Really, it’s the same kind of vanity.

 

A more loving mystery is in writing the thing.

In putting it to words,

Immortalizing it in ink.

Then someone can read you

Do the thing you enjoy while reading others.

 

Reality is very strange, how we love our

Image… the vain among us.

Personally, I love someone else’s thoughts.

They, with some other’s

Bounce, collide, battle wits.

Tolstoy with Emerson.

Orwell with Conspiracy Theorists.

Fascists with To Kill a Mockingbird.

 

Battle they do, the Russian Wisdom

With American. The Old Wisdom

With New Fears. The modern rebel

With the ancient wisdom of Joseph.

 

But frankly, finding them is more a treasure to me

Synthesizing them; showing how modern theories

Are bald-naked compared to the masters of ancient yesterday.

How Taoism states there is.

How Christianity gives a name to what Lao Tsu claimed was unnamed.

How modern day philosophers get every presumption wrong.

How Postmodernists were intentionally blind.

 

Frankly, though, they must battle their unending wars in literature.

But, let me rather find the soldiers.

I’ll pit them against one another and predict their futures.

I’d much rather the battle be in metaphor

Than with actual sticks and stones.

 

At the very most, reading myself is not going to dig up

Ancient treasures.

It, rather, is just a way of reminding me

Where I had come.

From Anarcho-Socialism to discovering the Platonic Form of Word.

Rather, the intellectual journey we all make

If we’re responsible about our education.

 

Many keep journals.

So do I.

None of us know

What is really going on.

 

None of us know

Who the good guy is.

 

I just hope this gets fixed.

I hope Trump is innocent.

I hope.

The following is a criticism of Fascism.

 

Great feasts dawn the banquet halls;

Pulled pork, roastlings,

Succulent beef and lamb stews;

Hummus, corn and olives

Mashed yams and potatoes.

 

Greater is the entertainment

The halls of Bach and Handel

Agnus Dei and Billie Eilish;

The most fantastic reveries

Soft skin and paramours.

A bank filled.

 

It may even be that this continues on for eternity.

Meanwhile Kings and Courtiers strip away the rights of poets

The rights of Whistle-blowers who see rampant evils.

War could send young men across the seas

To die… bombs could level cities.

Yet the sumptuous feasts keep the people happy.

It keeps the Courts in power

Whom the men and women know nothing about.

 

Men eat. Women lay down upon their backs.

Children engross themselves with violence.

The poets, though, the poets cannot sing.

Great feasts dawn the banquet halls;

Pulled pork, roastlings,

Succulent beef and lamb stews;

Hummus, corn and olives

Mashed yams and potatoes.

 

Greater is the entertainment

The halls of Bach and Handel

Agnus Dei and Billie Eilish;

The most fantastic reveries

Soft skin and paramours.

A bank filled.

 

It may even be that this continues on for eternity.

Meanwhile Kings and Courtiers strip away the rights of poets

The rights of Whistle-blowers who see rampant evils.

War could send young men across the seas

To die… bombs could level cities.

Yet the sumptuous feasts keep the people happy.

It keeps the Courts in power

Whom the men and women know nothing about.

 

Men eat. Women lay down upon their backs.

Children engross themselves with violence.

The poets, though, the poets cannot sing.

One might, in the future

Posit that poetry was my religion.

It was not.

 

Rather, I used poetry as a vessel

To establish—by two or three witnesses—

What was true.

 

First, my knowledge came from the Bible.

And often poetry—even wicked or not—

Would affirm the teachings I find in scripture.

 

It may be the ugliness of Communism

Or the reality of communication.

But, great poetry foreshadowed

The truth;—

It proved truth could be found.

 

It did not supplement my religion.

It, rather—even if professing not to—

Confirmed it.

 

Because what was often on the pages

Did work.

More often than not, our most flagrant Atheists,

In their poetry, were prophets.

More than in essays

The poem had predicted and far surpassed

All other human inovations

By showing us where our race would end.

 

Because it was dreams;—

Poetry is vision.

Whether a demon or a saint

The poets had foretasted, eerily,

Every major change in history

In principle, and they did this

By understanding the passing bodies of knowledge

Established throughout time and space—

Captured in the portraits of literature.

 

Poems are prophetic

Because they built off of the other great poets

To see more clearly a vision

And to make less opaque

The future.

As Keats noted, the future is…

We poets are rather windows to it.

The radical is the catalyst to it;

And often radicals find in poetry

A formula for their own success.

 

I, I, liked to merely understand it

What all was in my limited grasp to understand.

However… I would also like to preserve my right to do so

Which is why my poetry was written.

Not to change the world, but to simply preserve

This freedom of man to see glimpses of the future.

Here is the truth.

I had prayed that you were the false prophet.

I had prayed that Trump was the beast.

While in captivity

I prayed, and I said,

“Isis would come,

“To show itself the power

“Of the pagans

“To be consolidated by the enemies.”

 

The next day, Isis was born.

I had prayed this prayer…

 

Also, in a vision,

I had spoken to Ramsey

And told him I would say the most absurd things

In order to frustrate him.

 

If you are a Christian,

Please forgive me.

But, from the beginning

Before this was,

I had said I would say absurdities to frustrate.

He can even attest to it.

 

And seeing the most absurd things I have spoken came true

And seeing the enemies are getting closer to being exposed

Let there be peace between us.

For I had only spoken error

To expose the LORD’s enemies.

It is what I had told Ramsey

And I do not repent

If it means these wicked foes were caught.

 

Jesus Christ is Come in the Flesh.

A man ought to have gone to war

In 1942.

 

In 2019,

One man could turn the sky red.

 

There is a difference between now and 1941.

It was before weaponized plagues.

It was before the Engine of Satan

Prophesied by the great poet Milton.

 

Let the law overthrow the engines of statehood corruption.

Allow the law to do what it’s supposed to.

Allow brave men to speak out

And to overthrow corruption with their voice.

 

Because freedom and reason must triumph over power.