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.

Youth, we like to be idle.

The far away hopes

Of utopia

The guaranteed 80,000 dollar job

How we just stumble into it one day.

We want to sit, and make money

And comfortably eat and squelch

And sow our seed into every heifer.

Then, by the age of twenty-seven

We begin to see the Earth is flat.

We see, “I am well fed.

“My roast Pork is delicious

“And I can go to the market

“And get it whenever I want.”

“I have a house over my head.

“I have family members I love.

“My dog is nice.

“I might not get as much sex as I wanted…

“Really none at all because I’m not married…

“But, there isn’t anything so unreasonable

“That needs to be changed.”

Then, some high minded intellectual

Gets elected to office, and changes something.

“I was treated nice at the doctor’s.

“Now I’m treated badly.

“I was treated reasonably

“Now I’m treated unreasonable.”

The reformer had never grown out of youth.

They had never seen the great benefits of the system

They wanted to destroy.

They, unthankfully

Want to change something.

And frankly, any conservative knows

There are little things that need changed.

Perhaps criminal records ought to be done away with.

Perhaps people should get free healthcare.

But, nothing so radical as being taken care of…

As a youth is naturally disposed to this mindset

When they see that their only lifeline is their mother and father.

They cannot conceive, at that age

That someone other than a parent can take care of them.

At about age 30…

If you’re spiritually mature…

You realize that it is possible.

Maybe perhaps not for you…

Or, maybe there are other problems

That you understand are not true for everyone else.

Silently, you meditate on all the silly notions of youth.

Then you realized that the world was barren in your novel;

That was the necessary feat to bring the Utopia you loved.

And it didn’t last long, at that.

Somehow, we all know that as kids.

Perhaps at a certain age, we bite into the Pomegranate

And realize something we couldn’t as a teenager.

But, the most destructive people are those who never grow up.

I am not the narrator of this poem.

It’s just how I feel people think:

I sit upon my bench

Judging the world

Wanting to make all right.

Eagerly I search

For the final solution.

If I could be idle,

And smoke marijuana

And twiddle my thumbs

With the remote control

That kills the villain

In the pixie dust.

If I could just hallucinate

My sexual desires

And all day, all night

Spend my time at the feelies

Playing… Murdering…

Wouldn’t life be nice?

It would be the dream I have.

No man could offend me.

No woman could touch me.

I’d have all I ever wanted

In my pocket.

Therefore, I will pick up my rifle

And join the cause

To bring this to the masses.

Or… I could be just the opposite extreme

And fight to preserve what is already here

Claiming it was never broken to begin with.

Either way…

Grand Masters convinced

That Chess is a broken sport.

Computers innovate the game.

Frankly, I don’t believe it.

I think because the computers went one tick faster

Found one trick better

Before we could find the winning move…

I think that’s why computers are making us stupider.

They, calculatingly,

Connote there is no creativity

And, therefore, our battle with giants

Doesn’t let us make the smaller steps

Needed to progress.

Let me describe a feeling.

Maybe you’ve had it.

That feeling like we are going to save the world.

How high, how delicate,

Intoxicating, vain and prideful,

We get that drunken high

Of having to save the world from danger.

It feels like adultery almost;—

Or, what I would assume adultery feels like.

Thrilling, we speak the words

That will save the world.

Our product becomes the great saving bounty

Of the cup… the cup of inebriation

To say, “I and I alone can do this.”

How our hands will not save us.

How we say, “We take the bull by the horns”

Disregarding the very fair warning

That by doing so

The bull had to have slipped

In order for us to have tackled it.

How many poems will I write?

They usually get deleted

The ones that contain such feeling…

That greedy gain to fix what only we can fix

To stop the breach of what we

Quite possibly

Have broken.

Angrily we type to solve the world’s problems

Angrily. I do it, you do it, we all do it.

To take the step back

As the torpedo of our words

Fire for the cove

Blasting to pieces allies.

Angrily, I look at every foolish one of those words

I have spoken, and would rather someone else had said it.

Great is our freedom of speech;—

So much so that the government wants to steal it from us.

Why? It doesn’t matter.

Proles dance to the siren of the nude

Nymphs, whom make the internet go round and about

As we responsible intellectuals

Try to solve the world’s crises.

Frankly, I do not know if we can,

But it is our freedom to “Ought”.

And ought we do, but freedom exposes a weakness…

That we can be wrong.