Excerpt for Fractalverse: Volume Four by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Fractalverse: Volume Four

Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Copyright 2018 by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for supporting me and for respecting my hard work.

~~*~~

The manuscript to
Fractalverse: Volume Four
has been time-stamped

All rights reserved.

Cover designed by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

All fractals are by Shawn Michel de Montaigne







Dedicated to those freed of the diseased clutches
of suburbanism and Trumpism, or working
with true vigor, dedication, and consistency
to free themselves.







ThePiertoForever@gmail.com







Fractalverse: Volume Four







CONTENTS

~~*~~

Thank You

A Simple Journey

After 3 A.M. In Her Soul

Angel

Asymptragon

Before the Rain Came

Clive’s Outreach

Conversation With the Redwood

Cut From the Same Cloth

Dreadnought Lookout

Emergent

En Gloriam sed Vanerrincourtiam

Fate, Up Against Your Will

Feeling and Stealing

From the Spirits

I’ll Be Back Tomorrow

Interstellar Caterpillar

Letting the Drain Take Me

Meadow Slumberflower

Pios of the Hac’th

Portal

Postponed and Made Up

Profind

Promise of a New Day

Reach of the Traveler

Really Not So Cross-Pollinated

Saved For Your Spirit

Storm of Conscience

The Afterdeath

The Carry Spirits On

The Clamshell of Del Nileppez

The First Ember of Renewed Hope

The Flame of Emalf

The Great Crystal Scaffold of Acadena Monarchies

Uncertainty Evolution

We’ll Eat Them When They Turn Off Their Headlights

XVI Angeli Magna Coronados











Dear Lord,

Thank you for the tremble and weave,
For osprey tracing high the pine-scented air,
For silver sheets of rainfall fair;
Where orange rays of draining daylight conceive

These verdant hills and tumbling creeks which sound
As through fluffs of cotton,
Through which this lonesome road winds forgotten;
Quiet walks remembered, and remembered I was found.

Thank you for this morning scene,
And fingers of fog lacing between,
For sudden bursts of golden finches, here now and then unseen;
For the life of my spirit which refutes the mean.

I want to thank you for my pounding heart
And the urge to strengthen it,
For the courage to fight my sloth and recommit
To living this life not apart

From the grace of your love,
The warmth of which
These seconds enrich
And rain down from above.

Thank you, dear Lord,

For these sterling moments of peace
Amidst the cackle of the insane,
Their corrupting, deafening grain;
These pauses that cease

The unremitting insults of the day
Carried beyond the pale,
Varied but dull, and brittle like shale;
Each step as it may

A cry, a supplication all its own,
Offered with and over the swirl and roar so pure;
The susurration, the crossroad, the cure
Here at last! At last be shown

The glory be, unsayable!
Touching! Lifting!
Gleaming! Sifting
These certain steps between uncertain novations prayable!

Thank you for the courage of my convictions
In this deluded and dangerous age;
For the friendship of the insistent Sage
And her reassuring valediction:

It isn't so bad, she says—
This time, this space,
This darkness so many embrace.
They live in pieces,

But the glory of God is one.
Truth cannot forever be denied,
And those who lied
The commonwealth will someday shun.

Thank you, Lord,
For the constant urge to create,
For the insatiable desire to mate
The contradictions. Lo the sword

Proclaims its own art,
Deeper than desire, more intense than pain,
The blank numbness against which I refrain
Any measure of victory; in this I impart

The whole of my soul.
Never to death or dust
Shall it give; nor to rust
And the unworthy jewels it stole.

So to you, dear Lord, I offer this,
What meager and gritty quarry
Is mine to give; the words in the story
So imperfect, so imprecise, but sure as a kiss.

They're mine but also not:
They're yours, truly, like this day, this moment, only mine by gift.
Thus is my wish to uplift,
But back to you, in the end, goes the entire lot.

In them and by them I have soared,
Through them and with them my heart has at last come alive.
So long afraid, so long merely to survive ...
Alive again, and so it sings: Thank you, dear Lord.

~~*~~













A Simple Journey

~~*~~

If I smile ...
... and that is clearly enough ...
then at moment, through or not felt—
and skin sternest test—
test moment felt enough ...
... smile?

(Or is it ‘smile—?’)

My grammar grandma objects.
Sense felt intellect condemnation clean towels made bed!
Washed up not felt up pressed delicate!

Gratitude? It’s above! Delicate? Like asphalt, maybe?
Enough!
Enough?
Am I supposed to smile now?
Pressed! Flowers grass rain muse fast apples tea!
Who’s counting?
Who’s reading?













After 3 A.M. In Her Soul

~~*~~

I pull over onto the thin shoulder, turn off the headlights,
and roll down the window.
I’m on a hill. The city spreads out before me, glittering and sparkling,
light-years away.

I wish I wasn’t sixteen years old. I wish I could stay sixteen forever.
The pulse in my ears sounds like electricity. It throbs in my heart and groin.

Cool, sweet air. My shirt still smells like her. It mingles with sleepy breezes.
I’m not remotely sleepy, and I’m dangerously far from home.
There my family dies slowly in bed.
She’s worried about me. She thinks I’m going to get my heart broken.
I am, but the pulse pounding through me is too strong to stop.
It’s inevitable. It all is.

I’m years from the precipice. I’m standing right on it.
I’m sixteen. I’m ravaged. I’m a fool.
I’m just a stupid kid. I’ve got no idea.
The stars twinkle above in steady, silent patience.
They’ve seen this before. Many, many times.
I’m nobody special.

I turn down the heat, turn up the Bob Seger, and drive down the hill.













Angel

~~*~~

Too many times I am caught up.
I can’t help myself.
I’ve tried to kill that part of me that keeps yelling,
keeps screaming, keeps complaining, keeps crying out.
But it won’t die.

How is it that so many find it so easy to watch it all
and just sit back and not say anything,
not do anything?
How does that work?
Honestly: please tell me. I really want to know!

How are days perceived by these people?
What does their food taste like?
What does getting drunk feel like?
What does coming feel like?
Surely it differs from what I feel.
Differs significantly.

You can see it in their eyes—that insensate, numb colorlessness.
It’s the reflection of the emptiness where their souls should be.
You can almost smell the stench of it as you pass them in their churches,
their malls, their political rallies, their cars, their amusement parks, their movie theaters.
It’s a lively stench in its unbeingness and death.
It invites even as it repulses:

Come. Become soulless like this sad fuck. It’s easier that way.
You don’t have to care anymore. You don’t have to strive anymore.
You don’t have to try anymore.
There is no justice. There is no hope.
There is only this flat, endless plain.
There is only the cracked earth beneath your feet.
It’s never going to come alive again.
That’s how they want it.
Accept. Just accept.













Asymptragon

~~*~~

It doesn’t flow, really.
Not the way we think of flow.
Not like water.
Not like greed.

A million years looking up won’t change them.
Not even a little bit.
Wonder doesn’t flow.
It’s a beach ball or a sudden kiss or the denouement in a great film.
There or not there. That isn’t the question.

If you can’t feel it in the falling rain, then you can’t feel it at all.
The truck growled by yesterday, its occupants flat, dead, gone.
Zombies. Wonderless.

They rule the world, zombies.
They make the rules.
It’s their leaders that are in office.
It’s their hate scratched into the monuments.
It’s their monuments!
It’s their stench that darkens the sky and stings the nostrils.

The truck growled by as I, wandering, came to a tiny, forever-not-noticed creek
as it tumbled happily from glistening slate into a sliver of a liquid mirror next to the road.
Cat-tails, moss, tadpoles, white-yellow-red flowers ...
Wondering.













Before the Rain Came

~~*~~

I want it to rain.
Its cool is like molten aspirin.
Slights can’t handle the sights.
Wet. Neck.
The shivering umbrella longs to invert.
The breezes swirl and sniff and laugh.

Blue jays don’t mind it so much.
They’re nervous, mercurial creatures.
I avoided the word “flighty” there.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have.

The cherry tree is shedding its pink bloomage.
Word 2003 doesn’t know the word “bloomage.”
Maybe it isn’t a word.
I couldn’t care less if it is or not.

It looks like pink Christmas next to our rig.
The soggy gray can’t dull the color.
Helluva winter, this has been.
It’s almost May!

It’s 2017. I’m fifty-five years old.
It’s all so strange that it feels like someone
else is living this life, not I.













Clive’s Outreach

~~*~~

If it matters ...
Well, perhaps.
Can one person’s thoughts change another’s behavior?
Can a stranger’s?

What changes people, then?
What do the gatekeepers look like?
Why are they all-powerful?
The soul beyond their post is dark
because they refuse to let light in.
The soul grows darker, ever darker.
And then it dies.
But those gatekeepers refuse to quit their job,
even when it is pointless to continue.

That’s how billions lope through this tangle called life.
That’s how those billions define “critical reasoning.”
That’s how those billions justify the wholesale
destruction of this infinitely lonesome and precious world.

Almost all the words I’ve written or ever will write
will never make it past those gatekeepers.
So I must find another reason to write.
I must find another reason to press on, push on, persevere.
For those gatekeepers, with respect to those sad, dying souls,
are omnipotent. They are God.
And one never blasphemes against God, does one?













Conversation With the Redwood

~~*~~

I’m told the shadows are evil.
I’m told loving the darkness is a sign of malevolence.
A favorite television show tells me almost weekly.

The migraine is worth it, looking up, always up.
The shadows are welcoming.
The trail is soggy in spots.
Wealth is redefined in the darkness.
Peace cannot be measured in the cathedral light.
The soul cannot help but become as a clear, deep lake within the sanctuary calm.
Those who resist the transformation, natural as it is,
aren’t worth knowing, and indeed must be opposed.

Objectivist Rand refused to bow.
How pathetic.
How weak.
Indeed, how malevolent.













Cut From the Same Cloth

~~*~~

An organic blend, rich, sweet, swirling.
Melts in your mouth.
It’s like deep sleep, the kind that overtakes you
like a rising tide at the end of a satisfying day of hard work.
Your eyes want to cross.
You stumble to bed like you’re being pulled out to sea by the current.
It’s like that.

What does it taste like?
What do your dreams taste like?
Where in those fantastic spaces do you bother
sticking out your tongue and sampling them?
It isn’t all about the visuals, after all.
Life can’t just be about the visuals.
Too many of them are horrific, and deceive willingly.

The blanket is loose and cool, but warms quickly.
Rich, sweet, swirling.
Where my consciousness sails, the chef refuses to go.
I must wait until I die before he gets to work.













Dreadnought Lookout

~~*~~

Look at our age. At its horror.
The holiest word in the world is thing.
It doesn’t matter what language it’s uttered in.
The translation is the same everywhere.

Thing. It is the word that describes how we treat one another,
and everything else, too.
As things.
Today I watched a hateful man wipe swallow nests off the side of a building
as their occupants swooped indignantly overhead.
He didn’t do this because of their droppings, no.
If such were the case, he would’ve just cleaned the droppings off.
He didn’t.
The swallows were things to him, and he enjoyed behaving maliciously towards them.
That was the only reason for his barbarism—to exercise his malice.

And so it is with the entire world.
Things.
And we wonder why the world is burning.













Emergent

~~*~~

The soul prehends the oncoming moment;
the moment comes and passes into the next.
The evolution rarely becomes the revolution.

Value. Disvalue. The tree of humanity is mostly dead.
It’s like one of those sad trunks you see with a single living branch
somewhere up it. The rest of it is falling apart.

Adventurers: Who shall sail with me today?
Why does it always have to be sunny, the seas smooth and untossed?
Where is the spark in the gray, the kiss of grit, the burn of the rope as it
slides through my grip?
The salt water is icy.
I’ve got my sea legs, and piss and vinegar in my veins.

Sweat. I smell like work and anger.
This shell I inhabit has been a marvel.
It lasts almost no time compared to the sun.
Dust to dust.

But the soul inside it ...
How deep can it go in this mortal spark of a life?
Deeper than any of God’s fiery stars.













En Gloriam sed Vanerrincourtiam

~~*~~

How far we have fallen.
The Statue is crumbling.
There won’t a Charleton Heston,
and there won’t be any damn dirty apes, either.
There will only be the kind twittering of birds in the far-off trees,
and the soft roar of surf,
and the hazy blue sky above,
and the radioactive sand below.

Spiritual death is real. It’s actual.
It’s here, all around.
When truth is rejected,
when reason is abandoned,
when flags become more important than those who hoist them,
when the words in the moldering tome become more important
than their meaning,
when the robes of the Savior become more important
than the imperfect flesh beneath,
when crosses burn and swastikas are painted on gravestones,
when lies become official policy,
when hatred becomes doctrine,
when war is called peace,
then our doom is real and looming, if not already here.
Deservedly so.













Fate, Up Against Your Will

~~*~~

When the kiss fades, the glory taints, the shadows collapse,
and the eyesight is blinded ...
Blinded ... oh, yes. Blinded.
Snippets: Where the arm meets the shoulder, the shirt falling down
her side, loose folds, comfortably pretty.
Half moments between zero and one, parsed forever,
the charge never abating, never splicing, always whole.
Always whole.

Shocked. Head over heels. I bite the dust. I bleed.
I can’t stand. Not for a long, bitter time.
Not until my spine fuses and my blood boils,
not till my brain flattens and my tongue swells,
and the tears, the fucking tears, they never stop. Never.

But you’re happy. Or—were you ever?
Are you capable of it? Do you ever wake in a cold sweat,
the night wheeling,
the stars pricking your forehead like a pin cushion,
the air cold and rancid with grief,
with separation, with a vision of incompleteness, unwholeness,
unholiness?

Folded kisses. False.













Feeling and Stealing

~~*~~

The moment is mine.
It isn’t yours.

It’s mine because I am myself within it.
It isn’t yours because you don’t even know who you are,
and haven’t for decades.

That makes you insane with rage, doesn’t it?
That simple fact.
That simple, damning fact.

Go on, medicate yourself.
Pretend it’s just another day.
Fool yourself that it’s just another hour.
Delude yourself that it’s just another minute.

It’s how you gain all that approval, isn’t it?
It’s how you fit in.
It makes you a “pragmatist” to your peers.
It makes you “practical” and “level-headed” and “straightforward,” right?
Right?

And yet I can see that you are a fermented failure.
I can see it even if no one else can, or chooses to.













From the Spirits

~~*~~

Paris was abandoned today.
The world was abandoned today.
The fact-free herd is celebrating today.

Here I am, contemplating my mortality.
I do that often. Perhaps it is commonplace once you
race by your fiftieth year.
Perhaps it’s a good thing.

I never had children.
I never had the means with which to raise them.
I never had the weakness of spirit needed to give up
my wishes and desires in order to gather the means
with which to raise them.

Even so, I can’t help but look at other people’s children and wonder:
What kind of world are we giving them?

How is it that I, a childless man, care more about children than
those herd animals who had those children?
How can those herd animals, who voted for bloated and orange,
even look at their children today?
What kind of person could do that and wish to remain alive?

What will happen when those children grow up?
Those children ... who were raised by bloated-orange-voting herd animals ...
Will they, like their parents, also turn their backs on the world that gave them
their very existence?

Will there even be a world to spurn?













I’ll Be Back Tomorrow

~~*~~

Days aren’t like that for me.
Experience isn’t a whore like you make her out to be.
Data aren’t purely empirical. Along their edges reside Mystery.
Bet that really pisses you off, doesn’t it?

It’s Mystery you hate.
You’re like a serial rapist.
It’s power you seek. Domination. Control.
It isn’t to understand as much as it is a desire to exploit.

This universe will forever elude you.
That’s beautiful.
Reason can travel only so far, and then it turns tail and runs home
and hides under the sink.
Matter loses coherence.
The imagination falters and mathematics cry foul.
Sucks, doesn’t it?

Maybe not so much.
Maybe evolution isn’t bounded.
Certainly it isn’t determined.
I know you want it to be.
You’re desperate for it to be.
That way you can excuse your rape, right?













Interstellar Caterpillar

~~*~~

What does the sky hold that the space between my ears can’t?
Bark sloughs off the tree, and grass grows beneath it,
and flowers attract bees.
Work is force times acceleration.

When the book closes,
only darkness reads its pages.
When I close my eyes at night,
only dreams read my soul.

I watched the International Space Station zoom overhead a few nights ago.
It looked like a tiny sun hurrying across the dome of night’s empyrean phantasy.
Infinity smiled, but the world thought it was a frown.













Letting the Drain Take Me

~~*~~

“Life is a militia against malicia, or malice,” so says my favorite aphorist.
For too long I have fought the wrong war and the wrong enemies.
It wasn’t that they weren’t enemies; they were.
Just the wrong ones.

My evolution has been slow and many times regressive.
I devolve, and then must trudge through familiar mud once again.
I see my own blood under my feet.

Again and again
I end up re-fighting those wrong enemies
before wising up and moving on.

I’ve finally come to a place of acceptance:
Life is a war.
It is.

But I can choose which war to fight.
I can fight worthy enemies,
not the unworthy garbage I have for decades.

I can see the world each morning with fresh eyes.
I can write—even if no one is reading.
I can speak out—even if no one is listening.
I can laugh—even though I feel like crying.
I can cry—even though the rest of the world plods numbly along.
I can thrust both middle fingers defiantly at the creeps and maggots
and leeches and abusers and horrors that have swarmed over this planet
like a disease, and I can fight back.
I can fight back!













Meadow Slumberflower

~~*~~

What moment draining breeze held waft ...
Or instantiated, bluish-purple, just a hint of a glow ...
Lonesome but never alone.
Discreet like a number in a forest of vowels.

Volume, as in space filled with loud music.
Loud music, as in volume filled with space.
Not to be covered completely, though.
The air in its center is dry and cool.
Stars twinkle above, and they know all.
They’re wearing ear-plugs.
Is eternity a blanket too?













Pios of the Hac’th

~~*~~

You say you want a just society,
but then you sit on your ass.

You say you want decent healthcare,
but then you sit on your ass.

You say you want a pension and social security,
but then—yes—you sit on your ass.

You complain that government doesn’t work for you,
but then—here we go again—you sit on your ass.

Sitting on your ass,
you bitch and moan about “them,”
ignorant ass-sitting dickwad that you are.

You say you deserve this and that and the other,
but then you would, wouldn’t you?

You’re an ugly American, ass-sitter.
An ugly fucking American.

Thankfully, your kind is vanishing.
You’re dying off.

Let’s pray that what replaces you
is a damn sight better.

A-fucking-men.













Portal

~~*~~

Within isn’t a complaint.
It isn’t what warms you at night.
The breath of it all!
I do my best to ignore the ignorance.
I inevitably fail.

It isn’t protection either,
or some means to make me more profitable.
I rely on existential popcorn to get me through the challenges.
It’s purple and sharp, and plentiful.
It feels good after watering.

Instantly doesn’t flavor the soup.
A moment’s notice doesn’t read the note.
The shapes change with time.
I tally the figures.
They lie and are meaningless, but I tally them anyway.

The week is new and old at the same time.
The waters are refreshed, but familiar.
The port wants change, but a few degrees at a time,
and nothing confrontational or obnoxious.
I try to give to charity every day.
It’s never enough.













Postponed and Made Up

~~*~~

I think it’s easy to blame.
I certainly have. More times than I can count!
I may in the future too. It depends on how down I get.
Overwhelm is an easy recipe, for it requires only one ingredient,
and one setting.

But back to blame.
It’s all so unfair. We know that. You know that.
Our wishes and desires go mostly unfulfilled, and then we die.
Those few we manage to bring to fruition we cling to with everything we have.
A lot of them won’t last. They’ll be ripped from our grasping clutches.

We all have our own little war.
It conscripts us when we are born, and doesn’t
release us until we become a fatality of it.
We have no choice in fighting it.
Many pretend theirs doesn’t exist.
But it does.

So where does that leave us?
Right back to blame, that’s where.
Some pretend to be beyond it.
What they do instead is deny everything.
It’s all an unprovable illusion.

But the war rages on, no matter how they view it,
no matter how they delude themselves that it is something it is not,
no matter what fancy-sounding ism they label their denial,
no matter how many degrees they earn writing papers about it,
no matter how many awards they earn from the other pawns.

But is it all meaningless?
Not at all.













Profind

~~*~~

Reflection yields too often to dissection,
not introspection.
A moment’s loss is often ten that gain,
but we refuse to see that.
The highway zips by,
the scenery unseen,
a mountain hideaway,
or the ocean’s bright sheen.

How much of the aggregate is fog,
or rain, or stifling heat?
If I look inside, why do I think that space is less?
What if I am more than three dimensions and time?
What if consciousness plays with the quantum foam
like a child with soap bubbles in the tub?

Prioritizing. Is that the most abused tool in the universe?
You call them goals, but aren’t they really just avoidance?
There goes that minute ... and that one ... and that one.
Finite and undetermined.
A quarter to ten is the same as half past three is the same as
eighteen past any hour.
If I climb the rocks, will I slip and fall?













Promise of a New Day

~~*~~

It always comes down to a fight, doesn’t it?
You want something; someone doesn’t want to give it to you;
so you must fight to get it.

Most of this species wants too much.
Most of this species wants what doesn’t belong to them.
Most of this species doesn’t even care that their greed
will leave their own children starving.

This isn’t what I signed up for.
That is, if I signed up for anything.
I don’t remember doing that.
I was given no choice in being here.
I was tossed in the middle of this shitstorm,
one I had no hand in starting.

I remember my classmates way back in 1980.
Oh, how they derided the adults!
Those adults had totally fucked the world,
and they were going to right the ship,
and right the wrongs,
and make things true and honest again.

Most of them voted for Trump.
So much for righting the ship,
righting the wrongs,
making things true and honest again.
So much for not becoming their parents.
So much for not fucking the world.

So what does it come down to?
I think it’s obvious, don’t you?
With all my heart I have refused to grow up.
I have refused to become what they did.
What all of them did.
I may have been tossed into the shitstorm,
but that doesn’t mean I have to add to it,
or that there doesn’t exist a friendlier port
away from it.













Reach of the Traveler

~~*~~

A visitor, and a promise.
A compromise with eternity.
A mage light all her own.

She’s finding herself.
It hasn’t been easy.
It hasn’t been quick.
Moments in the sun number in the millions.
She remembers none of them.

How different is she from us?
I’m afraid to ask.
Who are we when we ignore the obvious?
Who are we when we turn our backs?

What is suffering but the breeze through the trees,
or the slow curl of the river?
Who are we when we bleed?
To lie down in the grass is to be covered in sunlight and flies.

In her journey, the world is saved.
In her friendship, it is renewed.
She spreads her wings over me,
and sleep comes like a drug.













Really Not So Cross-Pollinated

~~*~~

Shoes should be comfortable.
Shade is just as important as the sunshine creating it.
Movement should be considered.
Crossing iced-over streams is foolish.

Life is bigger than words.
Aphorisms barely cover a cross section of it.
The breeze whispers mysteries, but never their ending.
My shoes are comfortable. And dry.

In any moment, both good and evil.
We aren’t even a hundredth of the way out of the primordial goo.
The Milky Way arches majestically overhead.
I wonder if those sitting around the campfire over there
are wearing comfortable, dry shoes.













Saved For Your Spirit

~~*~~

It’s wandering that helps.
Wandering while wondering.
The sunlight smirks.
I hide in the shade.
But only for a moment.

Too many sounds; too many sights.
My brain doesn’t care.
It wants to focus on my problems.
It wants to focus on idiots.
It’s maddening.

I love morning,
but my body loves unconsciousness.
Sleep is release,
and release is shade.

I need new shoes.
Walking has worn the ones I have out;
besides, I can’t dry them out.
The day isn’t as hot as recent ones.
I don’t have to stoop against it.
My friends greet me as I pass by.













Storm of Conscience

~~*~~

Frayed and exhausted here at the edge.
Maliciousness never seems to run out of energy.
There isn’t a moment of quiet.
Earth is dying.

Soulless people doing soulless things.
If it is a “cave of ignorance,” as Plato says,
then it is a cave of our own making,
and it lives inside us.

I don’t know how much more I can take.
I can no longer stomach the news.
The team I loved for forty years loves treason,
mendacity, hatred, and a useless despot.
The sky is burning.
The oceans are boiling.

I’ve been around long enough
to see it with my own eyes:
people destroying their spirits to fit in,
to make money,
to abuse their children,
to gain approval at work
and at church.

It isn’t ugly. It’s beyond ugly.
There is no proper word for it
in any language anywhere.













The Afterdeath

~~*~~

A perpetual country club, where you are served drinks
by perfectly formed cherubs?
You would want that.
An overlook into the fiery pit
where you can watch those you hated in life
suffer for eternity?
I’m not surprised that you’d want that as well.
Probably more than anything else, that’s what you want.

What’s waiting for you on the other side?
Nothing.
Oblivion.
The end of you.

The reasons are many, and if you had an ounce of
honesty, you’d admit them.
But you don’t, so you’ll think I’m referring
to you not going to church enough,
or the fumbling, semi-arid sex you had before you got married,
or that you didn’t give enough money to the Republican Party,
or that you didn’t work harder at fitting in,
or getting that bigger McCastle,
or because you didn’t keep your lawn mowed,
or your tighty-whities properly laundered.

Your soul has long since died, and you don’t know even know it.
Nor would you care if you did.
Go to church all you want; it won’t help.
There is no Hell on the other side.
There isn’t because the Hell you’ve created here by your unbeingness
is more than sufficient.
No, what’s on the other side for you and all like you
is simple ... nothingness.
That’s a good thing.













The Carry Spirits On

~~*~~

For Aleta

------

It’s the isolation that has always been the toughest.
The path allows for nothing else.
You once commented that I was “a very lonely, sad little man.”
Not so little, I should think.
Lonely? Sad? Indeed. Both have been my life’s constant companions.

I could have been you, I suppose.
You married at twenty, and then did everything you could to fit in,
and damn the cost.
The loneliness that has walked with me
through much of my life terrifies you.
You have had multiple affairs on her husband, even a child by another man,
and destroyed several businesses as you schemed against your colleagues.
You consider yourself a socialite, a proud card-carrying Republican,
a suburban, a “loyal” wife, a brilliant businesswoman,
a first-class interior designer.
You have spent your entire life fitting in.
You have spent your entire life running from solitude.
From loneliness.

I’m certain society considers you vastly superior to me.
You’d be very proud to know that.
It’s your society, after all.
It’s your herd.

I just couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t fit in.
I tried, my dear; believe me, I tried!
But it was killing me.
I couldn’t continue.
I couldn’t be like you, and all who say you’re a model of success.
I couldn’t be like you, and all who defend your way of life.
I couldn’t be like you, and all who share your toxic worldview.

I couldn’t be like you,
and so loneliness and sadness and I have become very close mates.













The Clamshell of Del Nileppez

~~*~~

They didn’t write music to please the masses.
They left that to the Bee Gees.

Fame is more often than not cotton candy:
Tasty and colorful, but nutritionally vacant.
Or perhaps not so tasty.
Who’s the latest to cash out way before his or her time?
It’s like McDonald’s—billions and billions served!

I was raised in a culture that proclaims that fame is the
end-all be-all of human existence.
I was brainwashed in that poison, and have since spent
most of my life taking daily antidotes to it—
meditation, long walks, quiet moments at home,
prayer, taking care of wild birds, gardening, listening to great music.
(Meaning: not the Bee Gees.)

A small fandom, enough to support me.
Correspondence with them, enough to make a few new, real, and trusted friends.
No bestseller lists, but perhaps some effusive emails.
A fan base that grows slowly, but doesn’t explode—or implode.
A lasting legacy of excellence.
That’s enough for me.













The First Ember of Renewed Hope

~~*~~

Connection from the very cells of my body.
Images, sights, smells, touches ...
The world is a cruel place.
But not nearly as cruel as the people crawling over it like piss-ants.

Prayer. Not on bended knee.
Honesty. An asymptote.
I fight for it every day.
Not so much with others. Just myself.
What use being honest with piss-ants?

The grass is dead this time of year.
The heat feels like a confession.
I want the wind to blow it away.
I want the seeds of tomorrow’s hope
to scatter widely and without care.

The older I get, the less I care.
Or ... the older I get, the more I care,
just about fewer and fewer things.
I won’t be able to save the world.
Increasingly, I don’t care.
Fuck the world.
Fuck the piss-ants.













The Flame of Emalf

~~*~~

The directive is to be nice.
Smile.
Don’t offend.
Don’t challenge.
Don’t cry when kicked or abandoned.
Always pretend everything is okay.
And be sure to pay purveyors of said bullshit money.
Lots and lots of money.

Complaining isn’t okay.
Those screwing you don’t like to hear it.
They want praise.
They want squeals of delight.
They want promises of happiness and light.
They don’t like their rape to be called what it is.

Fighting back is bad manners.
Raising a fuss is frowned upon.
No one likes a gloomy Gus!
No one likes a boat rocker!

They think I’m a pain in the ass now?
They ain’t seen nothin’ yet.













The Great Crystal Scaffold of Acadena Monarchies

~~*~~

It manifests in my dreams like fragile crystal.
It’s so precious that even my dreams fear it,
and so I can touch it only very infrequently,
and then only for a few painfully brief moments.

So much of this life is a battle against brute stupidity,
against the deadness is their eyes,
in the violent slop of their movements,
in the meaninglessness of their conversations,
in the waste of their day-to-day lives.

I don’t write these poems for you.
I don’t create these fractals for you, either.
I don’t take the time to edit them and love them
into full being for you. Ever.

I write them because they want to be expressed, formless and wordless,
from the deeper, lightless reaches of my soul.
They want form. They want words.
They want light.













Uncertainty Evolution

~~*~~

It’s there for everyone to see,
but no one notices it.
It’s beautiful—a swaying, fragrant mishmash of greens,
blues, purples, reds, yellows, whites.
I take good care of it—as I do every year.
And yet it goes utterly ignored by everyone
who walks by.

Does that mean it’s worthless?
Does that mean my efforts to take care of it are meaningless?
Does that mean I’m worthless and meaningless?
Because winter is coming soon and will reduce it
to barren, lifeless stalks, does that mean it was fruitless
to grow it in the first place?

Of course not.

Who are you to look in the face of eternity and
proclaim knowledge of its infinite wonders,
its infinite outcomes, its infinite consequences,
its branches of branches of branches?
Who are you to declare that because you
find something worth zero time or attention that it in fact is?
Who are you to think that you know what’s important?

Worthless? Meaningless? Barren? Lifeless? Fruitless?
I suspect the measure of each is directly correlated
with how much you agree with them.
But with respect to you, not my garden.













We’ll Eat Them When They Turn Off Their Headlights

~~*~~

We ignore the horrors of our lives at our peril:
the destruction of the Commonwealth;
the erosion of our liberties;
the coup of our government by a hateful cabal
of vastly Caucasian testosterone mutants
with a jaundiced eye towards global domination.

We tolerate the intolerable, and call that tolerance.
It isn’t.
It’s surrender.
It’s cowardice.
It’s enabling.
It’s aiding and abetting.
It’s complicity.

When will you protest? When the ovens are re-lit?
When your neighbors begin disappearing?
When you are standing in line, the last of your family,
and the fires of the furnaces light up the endless night?
When?

Because believe me, that’s what those jackals want.
Their leader loves him, and has a copy of his book at his bedside.
His angry pasty-faced oldsters who voted for him
and who advise him want that.
They want you in line.

But you’re not going to listen to me, are you?
You’re too inured in your meaningless, moronic
suburban unexistence.
You’re comfortable with appearances.
You’re happy with lies.

You are, in effect, an essential part of the problem.
You are, in effect, no better than an actual zombie.
You are, for all intents and purposes, already dead.













XVI Angeli Magna Coronados

~~*~~

Whence goodness?
Whence justice?
Whence victory?

It isn’t the color of his skin that makes him vile.
It isn’t his religion.
It isn’t who he sleeps with.

No, what makes him so hateful is what he is inside.
It’s the rot of his dead soul.
It’s his life philosophy, which says:

Hate others with differently colored skin!
Hate others who worship differently!
Hate others who don’t share his sexuality!

He dreams of violence.
He dreams of oppression.
He dreams of wielding suburban tiki torches and spewing hate.
He dreams of genocide.

And now he has a “president” in office who dreams the same things.

People’s souls can die. That’s right.
What you believe—what you act on—does matter.
And if you don’t think about what you believe;
if you don’t forge for yourself your own path,
one will be ready and waiting for you.
One that leads, inevitably, down.

That’s what the vast majority of humanity does each and every day.
And that’s why we have vile individuals like that guy and his so-called “president.”



Thank you for reading







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