Subconsciousness Relic

There is a relic called earnest love.

The redeemed know it is so.

Remember the relic, and hold fast to it

Lest you torment your heart with fear and solitude.

Regarding the fierce storm of love

Replenish it with touch, when with your friend

Whom you are naked with, two souls

Lost in the barrens of this world

Fulfilling the commandment

“You must love your neighbor

As if they were you.”

Fulfill the commandment,

“Two will be one body.”

It is priceless.


How To Earn a Living on Writing

The secret is

That when nothing comes,

You set out to make sure something comes.

You latch onto something,

Once as banal as a Coke for me,

And numbing you break through the torture

Of the dull pain in your head.


Study for hours.

Rest. You need lots of rest.

But for all purposes, do not let the muse come to you.

You must be like Romulus and Ramos

Founding Rome.


A muse is a jackal,

And there she is twirling about above you

Great and mighty.

She says, “Chase after me, my dear,”

With her slender face and pointed ears

Her beautiful face and burgundy hair;

Sexy she might seem bursting from the pools

Of imagination, with her slender form of youth at the age of love.

No, she will stray away from you.

Stray far away from you…

Therefore you must take her like a spoil of war;

Like we Jews who conquered the Philistines

And so many like them.

Then, she will abandon her lover

And follow after you.

Take her, beat through the headache

And the thunderous aches of war.

Conquer, enter into the city,

Or encamp around it,

And she will flee to you,

Seeing that you are stronger.

For a muse will not come to you…

She, rather, likes to be taken and swept away

By the passions of her loves.


Every conversation,

Every argument,

Every great debate,

Use it—

For there can be no great writer

Who waits for the muse to come.

She is like a lover in that regard.

You cannot wait for her,

But you must buck horns with her other suitors.

It is why I am not suited for love… I am afraid…

But I am suited for this profession.

Because I am afraid of the flesh and blood of woman

But the one in poetry I can readily chase.

Writer’s Headache

When you have writer’s block

You have to push.

Stories do not come,

Push through the psychical pain.

It is pain, is it not?

Yes, it is pain.

That is the work of storytelling,

Pushing through the pain of the writer’s headache.

Tapped out of material

One must—to be a professional—

Push through that headache,

Dulling, and acrid in the frontal lobe.

What insanity will it reap?

What great mystery will it unravel?


Push through the pain.

Writer’s block, to me,

Is a headache.

It always comes, pushing like a dull, numbing pain

On my frontal lobe.

Pushing, painful,



Push hard enough, and a new story will be forged.

A new horizon will be reached.

Push, and it will be reached.

It will be claimed, the prize,

Which is the reward for working so hard

For driving yourself nearly mad.


Wisdom wells up in the soul

So the man who is responsible will

Well it to words with writing.

Well it to words, with writing, and withal, the wonderful wakes of imagination will tell

That the exercise of this is my secret to keep writing.

Fresh new stories about writer’s block,

It comes, and then comes the next epoch of my work.


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.


Further Readings:


Gore-Booth, Eva. “Scene of the Triumph of Maeve.” Poetry Nook,

—. “To Maeve.” A Treasury of Irish Literature, Sterling Publishing Co.,

2017, pp. 237.

Neifert, B. K. “Daniel and the Druid.” WordPress,

Yeats, William Butler. “Fergus and the Druid.” Selected Poems And Four Plays of William

Butler Yeats. Scribner Paperback Poetry edition 1996. 1957, pp. 7 – 8.

—. “To the Rose Upon the Rood of Time.” Selected Poems And Four Plays of William

Butler Yeats. Scribner Paperback Poetry edition 1996. 1957, pp. 6.



A Prayer

Bear with me in my foolishness,

That we may find what is my sin.

I am poor, so therefore live with my brother

According to the ordinance of Leviticus 25.

I have worked the hours of a day laborer

These past ten years, but have not been recompensed for my labor.

I cry out for my labors, yet the peoples say, “He is prophesying for gain!”

I prophesy because of the labors stolen from many of the poor of my people

Who go about their tasks, but become too meek to make meat

For none will take them into their homes.

In fact, even brothers, when they see the poor are struggling

Conspire together to cast him from his home

And band together to seek his life, and to throw his soul into prison.


Yet, the people say, “The prophet preaches for gain.”

If I do, then the gain is only for you;

Do I have need of riches in great abundance?

For I want the poor to be upheld on this earth

And to eat, and drink, and be satisfied with good.


The people say,

“The prophet preached his good works

“And has given a publishing of the free will offerings.”

Have I? I have compared myself to you. Yes.

Perhaps I am a hypocrite.

I lay this to bear, that perhaps I am,

Having suffered much for the Christ

And spoken with the Apostles

And also with the Prophets.

Have I suffered like Paul?

Was I scourged? Was I cast into prison?

No, but all I love have stopped their ears from listening to my mourning

And have plotted to throw my soul into prison.

I feared continually, every day, that I would be cast onto the street, to be a vagabond,

Where I will certainly perish and die, for I am meek.

I have none to uphold me, except men who have despised my soul.

This is not the suffering of Paul, it is correct.

Rather, those I have loved and trusted have despised me;

And what I would have to liberate me from this strife

Those who despise me more and more would not liberate my sustenance from the hand of thieves.


I have been under investigation for a word;

I have been spied on for a word

And every word has been taken into account

Even my secret prayers.

They come to pass, and I say, “Who, who has done this?

“Is it not the LORD?”

And I wonder at the deep revelation that this is.

Yet, my wages are not liberated.

And war will not liberate them.

Rather, who is it that will liberate my wages from those who have robbed me?

Have I taken a loan on usury? Is this why I am being robbed?

Is there any way in which I have committed a fraud?

No more than they do who call themselves “Prudent.”

I say this, “Where is my wage? Why am I still under my brother’s roof?

“I have worked my day labor. I have given myself to work and labor,

“But now I am too wearied, and all my clothings are rags

“And I cannot but sleep, for I have no task throughout the day.

“I cannot dig, but I can offer counsel and aid to the poor.

“Where is my wage? Where is my price?

“I will use it unjustly?—is this why they try to devour my sustenance?

“Must I be with those who have despised my soul?”


The LORD said unto me,

“Do not worry, for I shall bring you the sustenance you desire

“And you will not fear the Heathen who tormented you any longer.”

I say to myself, “It will not be. Will not my soul be among the jackals,

“And my heart among the thorns forever?”

The LORD says, “Oh ye of little faith, believe, and it will be established.

“For Your word is Mine, and I shall establish it in its time, will you not see it?”

I then say to the LORD, “Yes LORD, You will establish my work, but how long?”

The LORD says, “No longer will you be called despised, for the LORD has worked

“A work, and has validated your fears for the nations to tremble.

“For you have not prophesied in vain, but have established your word

“As a judgment against the nations; ask and it shall be granted.”

I would not be fearful, but would ask this,

“Let the maid give birth, and let the Assyrian be broken in this land.

“Let the thorns grow up, but Milk and Honey be eaten by your servants the Prophets

“And Apostles, those who were not hypocrites.

“Give them the desires of their heart, which is food and sustenance,

“And satisfaction with offspring, and let us feed on milk and honey

“For our lives,—and the safety our souls with good.”

The LORD says, “One more thing you must ask.”

“Then LORD, let me have the desires of my heart

“To establish Your Word throughout all generations,

“And do not cast my soul into eternal torments,

“But give me everlasting life in your Kingdom. Amen.”

My Politics

That people get a guaranteed day of rest.

That people have off their holidays.

That the poor can eat, and aren’t harassed by the government for panhandling.

That the poor can always get shelter.

That abortion be a capital offense.

That freedom of speech is upheld.

I believe in Net Neutrality.

That people not get arrested for crimes they didn’t commit.

That investigations work on evidence, and not subliminal tests.

That courts work for justice, and not quotas.

That people have the right to property.

That people have the right to practice their religion.

That people have the right to bear arms—didn’t see that one coming, did you?

All 27 of the amendments, except prohibition, unless it is Marijuana.

Article 1 Section 8 which states this is a utilitarian economy, not a capitalistic one.

That communists be allowed to eat from their books.

That socialists be allowed to eat from their books.

That capitalists be allowed to eat from their books.

That I be allowed to eat from my books.

That the Bible be upheld in all of its principles,

Not just the ones we like to cherry pick.

That people realize “Charity” was a better word than “Love”

In Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, chapter 13.

Marriage be between a Man and a Woman; no other thing.

That the nation be a Christian Nation above all other things.

That the nation uphold its founding values, found through the ENTIRETY

Of the constitution, which includes public funds for research

Public funds for Roads, public funds for libraries

And public funds for Post Offices, and also caps on trade inequalities

And regulations on measures and standards.

That so called Christians stop being hypocrites.

The Rejected Stone

When Prometheus set to create fire

To forge into the nether the constructs of Grecian fire,

That fire called democracy,

His final blasphemy toward his God in Heaven,

The Masons who built,

Brick by brick,

The democracy we know today

Set forth, laying a foundation of stone,

But one stone they threw aside.

They looked at the awkwardly placed stone

And said, “It has no business in our pile,”

So they threw it aside

And set forth with guns and blood

To build their nation.


Soon, the nation was won in combatant at arms

But it was seen that men were wild and fanatic.

There was nothing which could,


Give man the ability to rule himself.

Thus, they looked quietly at the corner stone

Awkward, but on the bridge they had built

It would fit perfectly.

It, a polyhedron,

With awkward seven sides

And three facades,

There was a place where it would fit perfectly.


Prometheus raged that this corner stone was needed

To build the Grecian Fire.

He raged, he flung for his weapons

To burst down the bridge,

But the founders took irons and clamped him

Sending him into the furnace abyss.

For the corner stone was Christ,

And the founders saw it was acceptable,

And the chief of corner stones.