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Tau
Tau
The box is open;
all its treasures have spilled out,
the sour milk that cures.

Then, a door slams shut,
and we can no longer move
where secrecy reigns.

On the other side,
one can find oneself anew,
wand'ring in the wastes.

Today, when I die,
I shall give my body up,
that I become free.
I
do
know
what it
means to
feel deeply;
never you mind
my abundant air.
Never take me for a
capricious vesper without
cares, worries, or empathy,
and know that heart with which I
am most reckless as my own heart.
For the sake of love I swallow poison
and bury what I will not let myself feel,
because it would break you into bits.
Can't you see me crying silently?
Can't you see that every laugh,
every smile, carries a lone
teardrop?...
The error is
   somewhere between
                  the keyboard
                           and the chair
True story.
Death affirms and is the term of life;
flesh and firmness, egg and *****, the means.
Breath interred within a Word and light,
deftly perched perpetually in-between:
born to discontinuous distraction,
borne through a contemptuous nadir;
     but in a moment, all's destroyed,
     and in the beauty of the void,
the helix and its hollow core appear.

Baphomet the emblem of Its power,
sacrament the reverence revealing
devilment to Wisdom yet to flower,
absent comprehension of Its meaning.
Pan personifies the All unbounded,
flouts the misconceptions of the seeing:
     Hermes the unmaskèd death,
     Aphrodite's basking cleft,
the androgyne transcends within its being.

O - not called "the little death" in jest,
Gnosis vaunted in the ebb of Lust,
though is Not, the know'r of Life and Death:
know that All It Is is what thou Wast,
Its continuity the end thou seekest
in contemplation, ***, and wist for death:
     Thanatos, eternal sleep,
     Eros, infinitely deep,
Generation poised to manifest.
An invocation.
When writing about oneself
ceases to scratch that awful
self-absorbed itch,

and the heart realizes
that writing about others
and what they've done to us
is the same itch masked
in a fresh disguise,

the trail of words
leads away from "I"  --

   like breadcrumbs
   dropped at intervals
      for poetic feet
         to follow --

            -- at last finding the untamed

where one is more than a mouthpiece
for sorrow or rage,

   for ignorant opinion or
       self-righteous argument  --

where the horizons are bounded
not by fear but imagination --

The irony: what one keeps thinking about,
one keeps thinking about
convinced that integrity depends
on never letting go.

Egotism
fettered by a soul
feels sorriest for itself.
Ruminating about oneself and one's problems creates the habit of unhappiness. What we think about shapes our perceptions.

If we think about nothing but ourselves - our comfort, our entertainment, our disappointments, whether others please us - should it be any wonder that life is unfulfilling?

My advice to all seekers of self-knowledge, wisdom, happiness, and truth:

Believe *only* what makes you laugh.
Time still stands between,
dunes arise to hide the miles
to Desert's Spring.

After departing,
a cameo in my dreams,
a name off my lips.

But the scars still hurt
when we remember too much
how it felt to be.

Swallowing heartache,
fighting the urge to be free,
it might be too late.

That's what the stars feel,
watching their neighbors burn out
vast light years away...
Dazzled by
the glamour of robber barons,
   a **** fetishist
      shills for feudal revival
         ambidextrously flogging
      bleach-white equestrian bones
   eventually dying
a looter's death.
Ayn Rand was a Russian-born American novelist, philosopher, playwright, and screenwriter. (via Wikipedia)

Mortified at Trump's presidential campaign, I can't help but think of it as the logical conclusion of garbage philosophy.

The "**** fetishist" thing may seem provocative for those unfamiliar with her work. A review of the *** scenes in The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged should provide context.

My partner pointed out that mentioning it at all might be perceived as ****-shaming. She makes a worthwhile point, so to clarify - that's not my intent, and my sincere apologies to anyone who might be offended.

Rather, it seems metaphorically apt as a description of American politics - the powerlessness we seem to display every four years in the torrent of  manipulative, exploitive electoral pandering. When will we finally tire of it?

I imagine Rand would have voted for Trump.
Five years old and they
   could not hear me in the backyard --
   I called out, the gate was locked and
  the screen door, mesh frayed at the handle,
  was locked too -- I could see it --
  and they still couldn't hear me and I
     was afraid and the mesh
     was frayed and my little finger
         just barely fit through and then
             aunt Lucy came and made sure
                 that I was punished.

(The reward for my fear was
the most frightening and humiliating
experience of my childhood)

                   I hid.

"Get out here!" my father yelled
and his voice made me flinch and
trembling I unhid.

       my uncle and aunt watched
as my father spanked me
harder and angrier than ever before,

       my uncle and aunt watched
the shock of every blow
reverberating
through my tiny body
                                    until

       my uncle and aunt watched
everything let go
and I ****** myself on the floor
in front of them

weeping and violated

I do not remember what was said after

they left the room and
I was alone with my shame
while the sun fell the walls
faded blue the ride home
was silent --

-- all over some torn mesh
      and doors they should not have locked.
I hope it was worth it.
The hunt begins. The fur
of the white wolf
beckons me forth, along the trail
into the woods.

The smoke is the reminder of Her
initiatic journey.
The trap is set.

    She guides me into it.

Hope is a clever animal.
Builds on "A Wolf Called Hope" and "The Trap".
AME: Love. RICA: Riches.
United States (i.e. incorporated) of AME-RICA (lovers of wealth).
Plain as day; indeed, what IS in a name?
Class,
repeat
after me:
I am not
my past,
my mistakes
or my shame
or my sorrow
or my loneliness
or my preferences:*
that's
noise,
crap,
icky
mind
junk.
Let
go!
Put
it­

d

o


w
  
    n*


I
am
all my
glorious
truths, and
idiosyncratic
secrets & stories,
their potential
and beauty.
We create our own unhappiness;
we can create happiness just as easily.
The unfortunate thing is that
we don't.
The savior's Hand clutches my heart.
The adversary's Hand clutches my soul.
It is the same Hand.

Yet when I think of It, It becomes Two;
from the wrist, I follow each to its terminus,
finding but one Body.

Love binds conceiver and conceived,
whose polarity conceals a Balance:
the war of the One.

Being is the Conclusion of Thought
that opens up the window of conception
which ends in Body.

Birth begins long before conception;
death shall inevitability follow birth;
between these, vespers.

Seeming parts of dreaming Self
drawing and quartering One Reality.
The Hand is my Own.
at the edge of civilization,
no rank or status

his disgrace hung
in the center of a spiderweb
yet when he looked at me, my temper broke
with a sort of poisonous respect

in the hoax there was no clear ground.

He knew I was angry

I had to believe it again

the second exit
was on the rope none of us choose
Eyes wild, ringed red, gazing out of the page --

   the watcher over the wilderness
   does not sleep.

In the forest primeval
   there is a glade — the real world
   of our filth bleeds in
   drop by drop, reddening
   the sky, and Öli
       witnesses all.

Haunted by apparitions
   of fear, figments
   coming to presence,
   barely corporeal in the dappled sun,
   the great owl knows better
       than to turn away from the unknown;

The aperture, sealed, was yet
   made to be opened, and though
   the devil tree, screaming blood, vomiting
   anguish into the wastes, was felled
      and the blasted heath reclaimed by the forest,

Daring trees grow sparsely
   and wither around the gnarled stump
   where He who has seen too much
   waits, hoping that stupid ******* coyote
   does not bring the city back with him

      ...again
There is always someone watching.
Someone is always there.
We cannot get out. This is the trap.

Everything is known - not by us.
What we have discovered is irrelevant.
Discovery is inevitable by the law of the trap.

Someone is always there.
Someone is always watching.

This is the trap.

We learn in,
we live in,
we enjoy,
we love,
the trap.

We are finished.

Someone is here.
We cannot escape.

Who cares why?

These words
are the last.
Time is over.
Voluptuous.
Wafting smoke,
wan displays, embraced.
Hold the shame.
And:
carry yourself
along the Way.

Liberation
is the name of Her
shoulders and clavicles,
sinuous and ripe
swells,
the music of Her body
thrums.

My church:
Her vesica unveiled
uncoils the serpent.
Then, and then
only,
the shuddering
agony. Be.

Ubiquity
is the stone of Her altar,
death Her skeleton key.
Many locks; one door.
Enter.
Wake up.
Matter doesn't.

Surrender
is not an option, but
an oath of fealty.
One flesh
is
Forever.
Dreams fade.

Repenting
these depraved virtues,
the vice of Her worship
grips tightly.
Die.
All honeyed luster
and deep silk.

*****
is the tinge of Her kiss,
Her laudanum love
the needle ******!
Down.
It all points
that Way.
In nomine BABALON.
?
You showed me the way
"out"; I showed you the way 'in':
when we came (!), we left.
The Wheel is not the axle,
nor the spot it touches road.
Reinvention is the brief kiss
of rubber on pavement
as the eternal Idea of Reality
remembers Itself in Time.
Life may not go as planned;
the worst kind of fool extrapolates
from a heap of thwarted expectations:
"Life is over because I'm upset!"

Emotions out of control, roiling,
demarcate that which in human is animal;
the worst kind of fool loudly insists,
"Life should gratify my ego!"

Disappointment becomes license,
a weak excuse for calamitous disregard;
the worst kind of fool dares to think,
"Others are responsible for my actions."

Cowardice thrives in this heath of weeds.
The worst kind of fool gives up early,
quick to resume safe, familiar weaknesses:
"I should never have dared to try."

Wallowing loves abundant company,
the likewise-dead who disavow all power.
The worst kind of fool supports other fools:
"We are special; this world is against us."

Self-absorption and delusions of grandeur
conspiring with fashionable self-derogation.
The worst kind of fool achieves impossible vampirism.
"Value me; reassure me; therein I feed."
The stink of entitled vermin.
Pain
is a warning
that points to danger --

      that the wrong choice was made
               in baring hand to flame;
      or the wrong thing was desired
               in the objectification of another;
      that the wrong expectations were held
               in contempt of circumstance;

The truly foolish
       romanticize the warning
               and ignore the danger
                          to which it points;

and the lost
      mistake the warning
               for a guidepost beckoning
                          toward safe-houses;

This obsession
the pearl of Pain in ignorance,

      for the wrong direction taken
               at the fork of Pain and Sorrow;
      the wrong outcome desired
               in pressing on unbalanced; and,
      the wrong ideal held as Truth
               in seeking fulfillment;

the burden of youth yare
to claim its potential, ready
to risk and fail.

      Wisdom says, "Push on through"...
      and also, "Know when to quit."

For men yet forget
the meaning of Pain.

Pain
is a warning
against ignorance, inviting
the seeker to set aside illusions,
coaxing the candid
to shed misplaced pride;

The truly foolish
       romanticize ignorance
               and endanger the soul
                          to which it points;

and the lost
      mistake ignorance
               for reason itself,
                          and become enthralled;

This obsession
the pearl of Pain in ignorance,

      for the wrong direction taken
               at the fork of Pain and Sorrow;
      the wrong outcome desired
               in pressing on unbalanced; and,
      the wrong ideal held as Truth
               in seeking fulfillment.
As a younger man I had many ideas about love and the purpose of relationships; many of those same ideas - and their troubling implications - regularly find their voice here, both in lamentation of love lost and in the idealization of a current mate. The same illusion underscores both.

The assumptions seem to be that 1) only perpetuity validates a relationship, and that 2) we are not objectifying someone, i.e. reducing them to a concept in our own minds, through romantic aspirations.

The first assumption is dealt with straightforwardly by recognizing that we are attracted to people who embody the issues imparted to us by our parents. The point is not whether it lasts, but to work through such issues, which may be deeply challenging.

Having done so, we stand to develop character and become emotionally and psychologically mature. In the process we learn to overcome the urge to cut and run when relationships cease to be simply gratifying, and bring us into transformative states of crisis that ultimately lead us to self-knowledge.

The second is not so easy, as we are taught that we must respect others, but entertainment media constantly imprints us with the notion that we must impress and captivate others by a series of gestures. This is basically manipulative and disrespectful, however well-meaning.

Thinking long-term, a relationship established in the glamour of extravagant gestures is the very definition of "form over function". This is perhaps not surprising, as the prioritization of gestures over character results in competition for a trophy. In other words, romantic love is fraught with objectification, which makes it difficult to recognize the Beloved as a person rather than a projection of our desires.

This is exceedingly unfortunate, as romance seems to suggest an almost supernatural quality to the Beloved that draws us in - and in that sense the object of our affections may bring us to a state of awe and reverence, a perception of something deeply significant. It should be noted, of course, that this brings us into the realm of religion - that is, we experience such awe and reverence because for us the Beloved represents something deeper than the finite - we may call this "the promise of continuity".

As such, love can lead us to very deep contemplation indeed - but it has been said that religion carries with it the risk of madness. It has also been said that religion is about relationship - and I would agree this is true, for religion itself is much broader than the picture painted by individual faiths, especially in our theological traditions.

This leads into the juxtaposition of pain and sorrow exhibited here. I've discovered that while sorrow makes possible a greater realization of the depths of relationship, pain is triggering and keeps us in survival mode (fight-or-flight). Maslow's "hierarchy of needs", then, becomes all too relevant - for psychological needs may ONLY be met once basic survival is ensured, and that simply does not happen if you're in fight-or-flight all the time.

To objectify the Beloved and rely on our illusions and projections is to miss the point of relationship. It does not matter whether we objectify the Beloved as a desirable ideal, or a failure to obtain or achieve it. The end result is the same.
Frenetic rhythms
smooth, softening and
ripening into
grooves, the space
between notes
now comes-to-presence
in dimensions
younger ears
will someday hear

waiting for unsure
notes to catch up
to the perpetual
pulse of the hidden beat
that drives this ecstatic
dance of self-undoing

orchestrating
a dynamic storyline
within the silent
odeon of an aging heart

where one day
Wisdom will sing
the Beloved to sleep.
Thou: the address to Self.
Thou art: the decree to Self.
Thou art x: the conception of Self.
Thou art x that: the expectation of Self.
Thou art x that must: the defecation of Self.
**** not thy Self.
Thou art Enough.
The chase ends
when you stop running
from yourself.
That thrill is the fear of responsibility.
'Twas the firm and fervent
    wish of a youth yet
        to flower into a jaded
           blossom, before understanding
        what it meant to love or why
    it was so important to learn
  to do it well,

whose childhood ended rather
      abruptly, watching the slow
        crumble of supposed soul-mates
            as love was not enough
        to overcome the inertia
   of their own.
Spooling out again.
Bleach my soul until it's clean.
Black out till I'm blue.

Suffering the sweet,
tongue the sore until it heals,
worry for a salve,

Anything for you,
I just can't keep swallowing,
can't keep swallowing.

Heartbreak clamping down,
never wanted you to know,
never letting go.

My teardrops were right.
The nightmare had to be true,
for it to be mine.
I put myself in,
partition myself off,
sever the tie.

Separate, umbilically
severed but

still connected at the belly

A vehicle in
the stars, a pair of
legs dangling in
eternity

Wandering alone
in the wastes,

with you,
my significance
in the void.
I have not written in years.
Stuck to an icy
   history of thought,
   the habitual web caught
the Fly in its enticing
   display of verbs
      that match the pattern:
      language is the matter,
   betraying ourselves with words.
   A tongue to its Work tied
      might make the spider
      think twice before biting;
   those venomous lies
we tell our Selves about
   helplessness and somedays
   victimization and blame,
empowering our self-doubt;

                    ∴

Devouring our might as writers,
    we have nothing if not pride;
      We take flight to the deepest parts
        of the universe of literature.
Neither nihilistic nor cynical,
    our linguistic is made of visuals.
      Verily we write with studious care,
        veracity a common trait we share:
We are an orchestra,
    a symphony of synchronised melody.
      Epiphanies emphasize tragedies
        that consume us repeatedly --
We seek to
    link our verses
      and feel deep connections
        when engulfed by depression
Verse 1 - M.P.D.
Verse 2 - Jamie King
Unbelievable:
the weight of these itches and stings,
glitter in my veins.

Unbelievable
empty stare, I am not fair
game for the fox hunt;

Unbelievable,
the lying world they sold me,
what they made me give.

Unbelievable:
I can feel the pulse beating,
hear the lies in speech.

Unbelievable
mind's eye watching beyond time
unhooks the triggers.

Unbelievable.
Power I have over them,
bend until they break.

Unbelievable -
I can hear them thinking now,
smell their stinking fear.

Unbelievable
that their endeavors fell flat,
that I am now free.

Unbelievable:
they have nothing that I want.
All belongs to me.
My father said,
"I don't love you
unconditionally."

I heard,
"I'm not ready to love
unconditionally."

Success is
learning the things
he couldn't.
Mass appeal is mistaken for quality.
Communication makes a poor commodity.
TV shows you how to be and what to think.
This normalization is enforced vulgarity;
in the common, Value is lost in translation.

For a slave, meaning comes from authority;
guidelines from following superstition;
truth from the politicization of science;
acceptance from the surrender of identity;
morality the mortar that coheres the chains.

Beware accolades, whether peer or stranger.
A tempting gratification yields mediocrity alone,
self-indulgent narcissism too shallow to measure;
for in the end, it is always so that the unremarkable
is celebrated most vehemently by the unremarkable.
If everyone likes it, it's probably crap. Hipsters aren't wrong about that.
Love too strong for
those who bear it
is a curse invoked
by a deficit of worth.

It is not enough to
seek validation through
a proxy designated
Heaven on Earth.

With no center of gravity,
no anchor in character,
obsession is the limit
of the capacity to love;

Projecting impossible
desires and untenable
expectations amounts
to blasphemy of.

True love may not be
forever or easy;
parting may never
be pleasant to bear;

Love is not merely
what's pleasing or comfortable;
love is a crucible;
love is not fair.

Those fleeting failures
and moments of error
are chances at triumph,
a challenge to change.

Breaking our boundaries,
ballooning outward:
love is inevitably
savage and strange.

Unbefitting to cling
to the bridge that enables
a star in its wand'ring
to cross the abyss;

To carry the ballast
of vast insecurity
over that chasm,
untenable risk;

Or swallow the poison
of foolish dependence
on whimsical paramours,
obesiance thereof,

To be hung from the neck
by detestable premises,
weak and debased
by untenable love.
To learn how to love well, we must accept everything it throws at us - including heartbreak and thwarted expectations.
THE* objectifies ALL;
OR disavows ALL.
They beget OTHER, politicizer of ALL.
There is war.

AN marginalizes ALL.
THEM dismembers ALL.
The ANTHEM nationalizes ALL.
There is war.

MY manipulates ALL.
ONE misconstrues ALL.
They beget MONEY, commodifying ALL.
There is war.

From misunderstanding
arises *sorrow
;
from ignorance,
conception.
All my life
is waves, expressed as rays,
phases, and cancellations...

...Waving by
and paving over
what I made in other ages

Undulating sway,
disrupting Self,
the Phrase, the Word, the Way --

Nameless, without
shape - within all shape -
all touch, all taste;

One expressed as Two:
compress, expand, repeat.
In balance, truth.

Lilting swells
that break in mind and water,
endless scintillation;

Every word as complex
as its counterpart,
unpatterned ocean;

All motion
the illusion of Desire,
the fire that burns to Rest...

...But only ever
simulates, for trough
but stimulates the crest;

When all my waves
have ceased and found their peace,
there ends my quest.
Dedicated to Walter Russell
Say only
what must be said
and ears will hear,
not merely listen,

Do only
what needs doing
and restless thought
will come to rest;

Think only
what creates beauty
and hearts will feel,
not take for granted.

For this world
is bright -- sharp --
it hurts to look at
for too long;

  For trauma
  demands a story --
  how what shouldn't
  comes to pass --

    For ugliness comes
    of the artifice of men
    creating in isolation
    their ******* essences

        And it is only the heart
               that can see rightly.
"Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux." ~from The Little Prince
Not "you", the ego,
but your "you-ness".

Not a family member,
or a twig on a family tree,
but the life of the tree itself,
and the soil in which it grows.

Not a person,
but an essence -
a flavor,
a perfume.

A seed unfolds
idea into matter,
and imbues it
with Itself.

Soul
wears Body
like a suit.

Mind
liaises.

*(And these
are only
convenient distinctions
for the sake
of storytelling.)
Being is self-referential.
Needed what I never got --

got what no one should have --

now I yearn for what no one should,

and it hurts like
a dog tethered in the yard
barking its fool head off

and no one is coming home
Leaves skitter as shoed feet
fall silently, wind clinging
at clothes in the death
                  of summer.

     A once-verdant echo
          sighs into place
      clouds weigh heavy
            warmth is savored
                  the grasses die
                       instinct stirs.

The world dies
      to be renewed
            in glorious flame,
      changing to stay
the same.
(igne natura renovatur integra)
A lone pearl trembles.
The basilisk eye closes,
weeping its last tear.

Failed conquistadors,
every good man in their tow
drowns in the dry air.

Venom in the dust.
The serpent slinks and recoils.
A vesica pouts.

Not one soldier spared;
a white flag hangs in tatters.
Both sides won the war.
A ***** poem.
Her flower blooms: beyond the petals
lies the living Wisdom of Her body,
the life of the Rose; Her lips stained red
by wanton kisses and holy blood.
By the flame of Her lust did I know Her
as Mystery incarnate, and chased Her to ruin
to taste of Her dew, and be drunken.

Unto Her did I bear the Cross
as a lamb to a lioness; I did tremble
in the light of Her intoxication, 'til
She arched Her back like a bow of sinew
and notched my arrow into Her string,
firing me into the stooping starlight,
the ***** of the Queen of Heaven.

Her mons the sacrificial grounds,
the exhibition of the shameless harlot.
My Cross the altar of the Work,
my blood the seed of Life.
In the retort we join unto Death
and new genesis, pouring Self
and Self into the Self-less.
I no longer see a terrifying future in the Revelation of John.
She's a rainbow

-- that rainbow in every
rock song about nothing,
a hidden hook that snares
a sucker's wallet

   *I'm so hot for her, I'm so hot for her


She
is the philosopher's stone transmuting
garbage lines into shiny trinkets
in desirous minds

   When you're old, nobody will know
   that you was a beauty


         What would pop culture be
         without woman to exploit?

   She's a gooooooood girl
   crazy 'bout Elvis


Obscured, behind
the Micks and Pettys
   the Kellys and Ushers
      the Pauls wailing MAMAAAAA
         the free spirit groupie cliché

is Woman fictionalized
by peacocking pimps
deceptive plumage splayed

is Woman
   sung about
   talked at
   reduced to an abstraction
   dispensed with
   forgotten
   and sold
   and the men
get rich.
{i remember}

She comes to presence
in a great wave of grief
that has no bottom.

{water cannot swim}

Feeling the unbearable
weight of womanhood
tearing me open,
revealing my own sorrows.

{a channel of life}*

To be a gate of love and blood,
the flesh of desire,
bearer of all burdens,

was so traumatic I was reborn
in the body of a man.
Pain is awakening: the expansion of consciousness.
There is no half-way mark:
ignorance in sleep, health in full waking,
bound the gulf of hallucinations we call life.

In that Abyss of lies we deceive ourselves
until at last Truth annihilates the deceived,
unveiling the hidden Glory of the liar.

In the mantle of victimhood, Identity accretes
like a pearl on the tongue of a mollusk;
and a narrator, lost in the telling,
comes to mistake the story for reality,
wounds for tragedy, scars for harm.

Identity forms about Chaos,
a shell of experience that shrouds
a kernel of Truth.

A pearl is but a grain of sand
made beautiful by pain.
Home is where the heart
breaks.    (fall into bed)
Familiar smells entrance
and lull, the warm
hearth of embraces
shushes    (a murmuring wellspring)
where spirit fails,
soul and body crumpled up like
scratch paper.

Hemmed in by excess
of Self, persona
blind to its orchestral
shadow,    (wrought by irony)
the mind scribbles
and raves unrepentant.

       (subtlety aches for
       skillful instrumentation
                to give it breath)


Singing the pain
of ages past to mourn
these harrowing visions

Beating on in leaden
veins to the lurch of a pulse
    (the crows take cackling flight)
         time the river pours off

The edge of the map.
Enough with the stains.
You're offensive, period.
Born with half a brain.

Logic trumps feelings?
Men are better. Then, women.
Drowning in being.

Can't control themselves,
shopping for trinkets and toys,
crap to fill the shelves.

Desperate for love.
Insecure, pathetic things.
Who do I speak of?
This is a concept piece. A series of 4 provocative haiku, meant to make you think.
Designed to be difficult for men to read aloud without sounding like an *******.
Without careful attention to punctuation, some lines are misinterpretation-bound:
for example, "Your offensive period" and "men are better than women".
My intent was to suggest disrespect to women, though men are the real target here.
Dedicated to ******* misogynists, who are more insecure than women ever could be.
Belly up to the
cannibal *** and feed, pig.
Be just like the rest.

Marrow in your teeth,
the flesh of your suckling brat.
You voted for this.

Your nose in the mud
tills up those pricey truffles,
while you eat your young.

Securitizing
your future derivatives.
Your fat on their plate.
4 haiku for election year. Color me underwhelmed by our choice between corporate tools.
To-night is dark, so
  step lightly and carry
  a large lamp into
  the howling woods

Wisdom says run, run
  to dark caves and
  harrowing silences
  mirror the bottomless

The abyss, gazing
  headlong into itself,
  recoils in horror,
  shudders dis-eased

And only lamp-light,
  courage flick'ring
  in oppressive depth
  persists, defiant

A stain on un-becoming
  a trampler of stars
  peddler of filth
  who knows all the answers.

— The End —