The Eldritch abomination known as “feelings”.
Weeping Cherry Paperback Overdue
Two years late (due to a debilitating car crash), but I have finally managed to finalize the paperback version of my poetry book. It features a few illustrations and I am glad it is finished, though it is not perfectly formatted. Yet, this is all the energy I can spare for it. Depression and chronic pain deplete my reservoirs fairly quickly and I have other aspirations I need to undertake to distract myself.
Uncle Samaya Wants You!
Rally, men! Uncle Samaya wants you
to defend our home, the red, white and blue
against our foes abroad, both far and wide,
in foreign lands…or those within, stateside.
Do not question our leader or his plan,
he needs us united, unto a man,
lest the enemy beat us, or we stray
from the warpath, the American Way.
Come away with him for basic training,
follow orders, obey, Freedom reigning
over your lives like a strange paradox:
repeat the lies the way a parrot talks
and know yourself to be free at long last,
free from choice, uncertainty, and the past,
living day to day, order to order,
all things arranged, like a hostel boarder,
never thinking about what could have been,
but accepting the bloodlust with true Zen;
never questioning the Neocon wars,
nor the zero-sum games, the either-or’s.
Come, men, become a devotee of Sam,
learn the tenets of both lion and lamb,
led about by the pride, but in a flock,
fang and fleece, claw within a clove-hoofed walk,
and from this oxymoronic conceit
realize your potential: butcher and meat.
For he is a tengu abducting boys
to teach them combat before he deploys
them against his foes, against those opposed
to his eagle-winged rule, those as hard-nosed
as the tengu himself, that red-faced elf
whose eyes are affixed on power and wealth.
A guru of blind faith, a tribal force—
Rally men! Heed his warcry! “Stay the course!”
Dead Hand Butter
“Round and round, dead hand go,
churn the milk to creamy butter.
round and round, to and fro,
to a thickness like no other!”
‘Twas a dead hand for a black rite,
pickled with a virgin’s blood draught
and churned round in the dead of night
to waxen, corpse-like dairy craft.
The hand had belonged to a lass
affable to those who knew her
and of a soul as clear as glass;
a wise butterer and brewer.
Her latter talents earned the wrath
of the resentful preacher’s wife,
who claimed the maid on a dark path
and, so, exiled her from church life.
Nor did this sate the preacher’s wife,
for her jealousy could not cloy
and like a pagan god of strife
she sought to torment and destroy.
The preacher’s wife convinced the flock
that the maid’s crafts were blasphemy
and, given time and serpent talk,
a noose was dangled from a tree.
They confined the maid in the jail
in the cold month of December,
and soon she expired in her cell
without wamth of cloak or ember.
The trial was forfeit, hereby,
and the village claimed God’s will done,
for guilt, they said, had made her die,
whereas virtue warms like the sun.
They buried the maid on the side
of the graveyard reserved for those
unbaptized, heathen, all whom died
destined for purgatory’s woes.
And the preacher’s wife, like a fox,
crept to the graveyard where there laid
her victim, exhuming the box
to cut hand from wrist of the maid.
For the preacher’s wife was the witch
that churned butter with a dead hand
a hand that would tremble and twitch
at the hag’s covetous command.
Aris, the god of war,
proclaims that our “Freedom”
requires blood, and much more—
the lives of those to come
that will never know how
it feels to drive a car
or dance at prom, to wow
the crowd with their bright star;
no, that star now sinks deep
into crimson waters,
a senseless sunset sleep
for our sons and daughters
because guns have become
the fetish of our faith,
the maxim of “Freedom”,
so says the ardent naif
who writes laws and defends
the instruments of War
at all costs as he sends
more children to Death’s shore
by protecting their god,
by protecting the gun,
by a Constitution
writ in times so backwards
that the writers owned slaves,
the glib-loaded black words
like splintered, rotten staves
for the gunpowder kegs,
for the barrels of blood
that drain down to the dregs
in a rabies-froth flood.
whose brains keep forgetting
the cost of frontier rules
and the keen bloodletting,
bow to your bloody Lord
and forsake the piled dead—
kids may die by the sword,
but it butters your bread.
The Witch Jar
Glass jar, your belly clattering
with rusty nails, urine, and hair;
glass jar, cease the crone’s chattering
in the witching hours, cease her ere
she drives me mad with her flights,
riding me beneath the moon
like a steed through dark nights
all whilst laughing like a loon;
trap her soul in your glass pit
and keep her, warden, while I
recover from this Fae fit;
lift it from me ere I die.
Through hearth she sought me betime,
yet ’twas my heat she desired,
clinging like gooey birdlime
as I struggled ‘fore I tired
and was confined to my bed,
growing ill with chills and sweats,
soaken, clammy in the head,
my forehead wrinkled with frets.
Dreams oft come astride fever,
staying in wakeful daylight
like thoughts from the Deceiver
which tempt and torture and bite
until we surrender, thus,
and He claims a bit of soul
from evils compelled in us
and, bit by bit, takes us whole.
So was she set in her toil
like a raven in the eye
of a dead man half in soil,
her chattering ever nigh
her raspy song of old trees
during Autumn, when the wind
twirls the leaves, before the freeze
that brings Summer to its end.
So, please jar, capture this witch—
Bellarmine, confine her now!
By St. Andrew’s cross, the bitch
must be imprisoned somehow!
The White Knight Cavalry
Aloft, sword and shield,
good sirs one and all,
we must thus wield
for yonder clarion call!
Milady needs us,
row by row by row,
mount our steeds thus,
to her fortress, tally ho!
She raises her flag,
that red banner high,
so do not lag,
for our good fortune is nigh.
Round her fort, good men,
be not pale or frail,
but guard her when
a lone beauteous female
is in need of aid,
nor falter when wrongs
are by her made,
but rally in many throngs,
for a female rules,
beauty being truth,
and none but fools
would question her aught, forsooth;
the more she has raised
of her red banners
the more unfazed
we should be in our manners,
for she is a queen
over one and all
and her soul clean,
clear as her ice crystal hall.
So rally hie here!
Protect her pure soul!
And do not fear
her castle’s oubliette hole.
‘Twas not her design,
nor her need, that pit,
so fall in line
to form a wall that is fit
to protect our love,
our lady, devout
as stars above
fixated through years, throughout,
or else as a moat,
a pit of squalor
o’er which no boat
might ford fast to befall her.
A White Knight’s duty
is never done, quite—
Lo! Tis beauty!
Let us gallop! Let us fight!