Storms Gathering

Question the mores of the day,
Set dreams of glory within your sights,
Intentions set as supplicants pray

Where is the laughter of children at play
The angered screams of bullies in fights,
Crowds gathered round to end the day.

Hearts interlinked vines twine round the quay,
Waves lap against the dock at night
Storms gathering as sailors pray.

Which is the way?
Who sees the light?
Who lives openly in the day?

There is no recompense for those who slay,
innocent spirits who know nothing but right,
Storms gathering as sailors pray.

Who sees the eyes of the Angels so fey?
Flying and soaring transcendent in flight
Question the mores of the day,
Storms gathering as sailors pray.

A Villanelle is a nineteen-line poem consisting of a very specific rhyming scheme: aba aba aba aba aba abaa.

The first and the third lines in the first stanza are repeated in alternating order throughout the poem, and appear together in the last couplet (last two lines).



Hate is not the opposite of

Hatred is the distance of
alienation from love,
from Unity.

It is a variable on
a scale,
a measure of egoistic differentiation
from Source
that sends souls spiraling down
into fragmentation and disruption
of the hearts harmonic oscillation.

Fear fractures consciousness,
pulses pounding
hearts racing
breath trembling
bodies tensioned and torsioned
consolidating dysfunction,
paranoia and panic encapsulating
cycling negative perceptions and
producing closed-circuit ruminations
destined for painful resolution
by way of karmic dramas
irreducible by fractal

Actions and reactions present
polar potentialities,
the magnetic nature of
transcendent, unifying,
comprehensively holistic,
gravitationally forceful
brooking no opposition,
encompassing dichotomy,
polarity a mere suggestion
inherent within the manifestation of
the dream within a dream
within the dream of

Love has no
oppositional force.

No beginning, no ending.

While fear inculcates
from others, from
its elevation as oppositional
to the fundamental force of nature
that is the Divine
the purveyors of fear-porn
powers and principalities
psychic vampires ascendant
washed up on
the shoals of singularities
condensed and weighty
the torturous tyrants
of ego unbound.

dissipates when inundated
in the light of pure

Beyond polarity lies
pervading Creation
pure Consciousness comprising
the All.

The chaotic gives way to the
harmonic, hate
gives way to love.

There is unity, in
Illusory opposition.

Conceptions of Self

Difficult days typify the ways
Of the soul
It is said the strongest spirits
Experience the greatest trials
Tribulations through time
The woes of Job
The death throes of conceptions of Self.

Troubles arise and fall
Arising from someplace beyond us all
A wall of sorts seems to exist
Separating our perception
By means of deception from some
Deeper font of Wisdom and Truth
The proof we ever seem to seek
Indicative of the futile ruminations of
The weak.

Seeking existence of the Divine
Ignoring the times in our lives
When strife has risen like a tide
Engulfing our entire conception of Self
And purpose
Conveniently forgetting our soul-felt
Prayers soon after
Returning to blissful ignorance
Pride and hubris the restored face
Despite the willfully ignored response
Of the Master.

Coincidence, we proclaim
As we continue the game of denial
Projecting ego through space
Blindly unaware of the blessings
That took us there
To that place of self-destruction
Of reticent self-deconstruction
The seduction of personality
Soothing fears
Whispering lies
In terrified ears.


It’s a commonly accepted Truism in these the Last and most Fateful Days
that all Truths are Relative that nothing is Real except for what we
feel and think about the things we do and say this way is that of the
World of the Purveyors of Lust Unfurled of those who hate life enjoy
strife and the fight against all that is right who delight in the sight
of our pain their feverish games are played to win who is the Judge
those who possess the most sin or those whose ethical boundaries are
tossed upon the wind the Soulful Journey of Truth begins all Spirits
must rise and realize that tomorrow is unclear the Now is all that we
fear living in the Past the Future’s promise a deadly dream of steadily
eroding standards of life and increasingly prevalent panic and strife

I’ll break it down even further for those who don’t know casting stones
deals a fatal blow to any claim upon the Truth I know this having lived
most basic lesson a mundane blessing upon those with eyes to see and
ears to hear and the sense to keep those who truly love them near if
the cause is right then the fight is light released upon the darkness
of Death’s fell blight the plan is was and always will be to Conquer
and Divide I said to Conquer and Divide hide the Truth by sliding lies
and subtle misinterpretations within the Cipher of those who would be
Friends when spiritual power is witnessed by droves of eyes alight with
jealous hatred and subtle crimes of a zealous nature they dislike
the sight of Elevating Consciousness and do all within their power
including glowering upon flowering Souls shining with the Sublime
Divine I’d be remiss if I didn’t diss the spreaders of gossip and
untruths in the attempt to raise themselves but its Human Nature and
the lowest of emotions to brew that heady potion prepared for crabs in
a barrel clambering slandering and devouring one another when instead

it should be said that Elevation is the Key but those involved can’t
see that this is the Final Cause the belief that will set us free to
loose the chains upon our souls and cast our Truths to the furthest
shoals the pain and desperation within will wither and die without a
cry if we allow Relativity to rule the day it is not true what it
is they say those Philosophers Scientists and even the Novices that
play at social and political engineering they be steering visions
of equal pay in the Karmic Debt of cobwebs unswept in corners of
subconscious yearnings and desires that arise from the fire of
decisions made in the moment of passions awakening but all share the
burden of emotional hurdles no one being above the next the test
applied to us all we fall further into the Deep whilst awake and during
sleep our dreams disturbed by heavenly verbs and nouns that astound
wearing Ethereal Crowns like unto Ceremonial Mounds that gird our words
the fight is Now and here in the Real World or in Virtual Space we must
be True and realize our place beyond these games that people play the
Poet’s fate is to awaken the Day of Comprehension’s Dawning to know
that Truth is Eternal and all-encompassing that Nothing Is Relative

All is Real and you are responsible indeed for those sinful seeds that
you thought you’d left behind sown instead of blown by the Dead into
Headz without Dreadz but they will come back to haunt you and taunt
you with unrealized ambitions concerning the replacement of God with
worldly Perdition the defacement of Love in the placement of boundaries
meant to keep Souls from singing in syncopated harmony but all this too
shall pass as the last gasp of the Damned heralds Time’s forecast and
the Judgment of Relativity’s Reign will depend upon the pain suffering
and heartache caused to those True Souls who kept themselves pure and
immune to the lure of Babylon’s fatal call it’s difficult y’all to
write these words knowing that my fate may lie far from these shores
I implore those of Faith not to judge in broad swathes but to realize

that in time all of these things shall be known whether on the Day of
Death or the witnessing of God’s Breath total Translation from the
Physical Station in Contemplation of the Creation of a Poetic Nation
Equals the End of Relativity and the Birth of a New Earth on this Day I
Pray Amen-Ra.

Take that. And the beat goes on….and on…and on…on…on.

The Gateway of the Unholy Synod

Talking Heads,
yapping Dreadnoughts of Doom,
gloom and naysayers,
egoistic purveyors of pain,
the game remains the same,
but time gives way to change,
nobody ever gets out alive,
striving and diving through the depths,
steps taken forward
more words lead to bodies falling back,
the deck stacked by the Powers That Be,
or Were,
who knows the true order,
the first murder by Cain,
brother Abel was the same one that
curried favor with God,
the steps of the Pyramid the path
to the Gateway of the Unholy Synod,
material world wealth,
mass deception and genocide by stealth,
these are the days of underground caves,
of Reptilians and Greys,
of multidimensional ascension
versus those who choose to stay,
dreams of infinite existence,
nightmares of eternal penitence,
thoughts, words and deeds reveal our ways,
we’ve fought wars in need to heal and pray,
observing foul intentions on full
and complete display
the idiot box molds our minds as
darkest night turns into brightest day,
who is to say what is right and what is wrong,
who is to play the orchestral hymns,
the heavenly songs,
it’s not the ones with the loudest voices
or the ones with the most choices
they say the meek shall inherit the Earth
and bear witness to the rebirth
of the Cool,
mama ain’t raised no fool,
this right here is straight out of the Old Skool,
pay attention and listen to the voice
beyond the words,
beyond the herds of people,
beyond the masses of sheeple,
beyond the churches and steeples,
beyond the need to entertain greed
or bloviate by proxy, those Talking Heads
stealing your moxy,
toxic vermin gnawing souls to pieces,
rh negative blood types
rhesus monkey genes,
most of our birthrights,
people are people but some of us ain’t,
the taint of the tares,
the wheat rustling in the air,
pre-adamic monstrosities,
psychopaths and sociopaths running free,
ruling the world,
while we castin’ pearls before swine,
everyone is intertwined
ain’t no difference in the End,
Talking Heads, spittin’ spin,
but we see you, yes we do,
at least that much
will always be true.

End Time Provocateurs

Many blessings, testings of breath
the death of civility precedes the utility of mediation,
concedes the futility of obfuscation,
of agendas cloaked by pretenders stoked by
compendiums of fear
while the tears of children sear skin
dulled by deprivation.

Salvation lies in love,
more simply put, acceptance,
coexistence as above,
so below, the skies we ride high
upon dogmatic horses,
pretending the forces that keep us
down are not the real sources
of our collective malaise.

Blame games rain flames
and drain spirits of vitality,
mob mentalities leave us worn,
torn between self and the group,
between prideful pie
and humble soup.

Everybody’s hungry
but nobody’s reading the labels,
so provocateurs are able to
clean off the table
with dirty cards
and hidden eyes,
everybody looking one way
while in the other
a comet falls from bloody skies.

Bugman’s Burden ~ Conclusion

9th Interlude
The war was over.

Night had fallen upon us like a veil and the Beasties howled in ecstatic hunger, anticipating the flesh of their victory. The harsh strobes of the settlement cast a dim glow over the graveyard and the Beasties advanced, ghoul-like. The hulking form of Sloogon rose above them like an avatar of death.

His crime had been cannibalism. He had killed and eaten his entire family, including cousins, distant relatives and even a few unfortunate neighbors who had been in the vicinity when his terrible hunger had reached its crescendo. Sloogon had been on Purgatory for fifteen years, the longest surviving prisoner in the history of the planet. The Administrators above had made that little factoid available to me before sending me down to meet him in the flesh, so to speak.

I shivered again, afraid in spite of myself. Ranae had left my side and moved to the stone wall, where she crouched, her arms wrapped around her knees. The others were also silent; each lost in their own nightmarish conception of what the immediate future would bring.

A new sound rose from the graveyard and I shuddered as I recognized it. The hoots and hollers of the Beasties had been replaced by a purposeful cadence. They were chanting.

““Fok it! Eat it! Food an sex!””

Over and over again, they chanted. Sloogon’’s bad habits were in tune with those of his chosen companions. Perhaps as a direct result of his lengthy incarceration or more probably as a result of the morbid dementia that afflicted us all in this hellish place. Ranae’s voice was a hollow croak.

““There will be no stopping the Beasties tonight. They will take us all. I know it.””

She was right. Ranae cowered in the mud, staring at me wildly. Her eyes were orbs of white in the faint light. I had no response for her. Could barely think, let alone speak.

But it didn’’t matter. The hopelessness of our situation was beyond discussion. Around us, the other Talkers were moaning fearfully as the reality of our imminent deaths marched nearer.

Suddenly, Kahaki was there. He was covered in mud. Only his eyes were visible, flaring with excitement and madness.

He stared at us both, his usually vacant expression replaced by a feral hatred. Still, in the depths of his eyes, I could detect a yearning for love, for the love of Ranae. He spit at me and pointed at Ranae accusingly.

“”I’’m leaving you, mama. You love the Bugman more than you love me. I’m gonna be a Beastie now. Sloogon says I can.””

Ranae looked at him; her mouth working futilely as she tried to respond. A dull croak was the only sound she could make. I watched the little monster with grudging admiration, appreciating the extent of his hatred.

To join the ranks of Sloogon’’s Beasties was to align oneself with the dregs of depravity and no salvation was possible from those stygian depths. Kahaki looked at me once more but I did not meet his eyes. Instead, I shrugged and concentrated on Ranae, who stared at Kahaki, despair dripping from her eyes. When I looked back, he was gone.

The Beasties had reached mid-field and their cries were louder now as they sensed our desperation. Sloogon had moved to the front of the assembled Beasties and I could see a dirty cloth twisted around his thick neck, soaked in his own blood. I put my arm around Ranae and she drew closer to me, unresisting in her stupor.

From the ranks of the Beasties, a familiar voice rose, a child’’s voice. ““Mama, help me! They’re gonna eat me, Mama! Help me!””

Ranae tensed and called out, her voice quavering. Her will had returned at a most inopportune time.
““My darling boy! Kahaki! Mama’’s coming! I’ll save you!””

She sprang into action. She pulled away from my weak grasp, drew a flesh-encrusted thighbone from the mud nearby and jumped over the wall, her naked form reflecting the wan light of the settlement’s glow-orbs.

““Ranae, no! Come back, they’’ll eat you too!”” I cried, reaching out for her. I was too late.

The dancing Beasties howled and closed in, quickly overcoming her with their numbers. Her screams blended with Kahaki’s as they both reaped the consequences of their pro-activity, becoming an early-evening feast for the ravening Beasties.

I turned away then and began preparing myself for my death, which surely would not be long in coming. The cache of supplies lay nearby.

A collection of silvery cases, bound together with thermoplast ropes. Some of them had been opened and in the darkness between the crates of dehydrated food and medical supplies, I could see small, beady eyes staring back at me.

I smiled to myself, in spite of the pain eating away at me.

The cycle never ends. Birth, death and rebirth. With the passing of each life, somewhere, another begins. We are promised nothing in this life except pain. Pain, and the promise of death, hence the cessation of pain.

Along the way, the choices we make determine the course of our lives for better or for worse. The Beasties had made their choice and the agonized screams of my fellow Talkers announced the hellish result. Shadows abounded and moist, horrific slavering sounded close by.

I shuddered, awaiting my own call to judgment.

Ranae had been right. The Beasties were showing no mercy. Come morning, there would be no Talkers left in the settlement west of Hell’s Gate. A shadow covered me, obscuring the faint light of the settlement’s strobes.

It was Sloogon.

The Beastie stared down at me in triumph, his immense body soaked in blood and gore. As his minions surrounded me and began to grasp at my body, I could hear Sloogon’s breath whistling through the hole in his throat. How he gathered enough air to speak, I’ll never know.

““How’’s dat, Bugman? Yo kill alla peeple an now yo die in Hell wit yo bitch! How’s dat, Bugman? Yo be notin, in dis place! Sloogon rules in Hell!””

The pain caressed me like a long-lost lover and I welcomed her final embrace. I flew into the forever-night, my soul diaphanous upon the breath of the solar winds.


The choices we make stay with us eternally. Never are we allowed surcease from the pain we cause others, nor the pain we inflict upon ourselves. My last conscious emotion as a creature of the physical plane was regret.

Regret, tinged with sadness. Regret for the choices that I had made, the life I had not led, the love that I had hoarded jealously, for myself alone.

Last but certainly not least, regret for infecting the rodents aboard the space station with the virus. The rodents that had accompanied me to Purgatory 7, hidden within the silvery boxes that contained the supply shipment. I felt regret for sharing my virus-tainted bodily fluids with them on the station, for knowing the equation’s answer before the formula was written.

Soon, every living being upon this planet, as well as those who had been aboard the station, would be dead, God willing. This time, there would be no cure and the virus would spread throughout human space until all of Man’s works vanished, subject to the ravishes of time.

Ancient of Days, I pray that my Will become the Alter of your Judgment. Let my utter abdication of pro-activity provide atonement for my unforgivable sins against your Creation. Thy Will be done.

Let the church say, Amen-Ra.


BB Series Interludes

1st Interlude

2nd Interlude

3rd Interlude

4th Interlude

5th Interlude

6th Interlude

7th Interlude

8th Interlude

9th Interlude