Manhood Rites

Ancient rites of manhood, virility unbound,
the echoing sound of trembling ground,
bass roar of the crowd soaring into glory,
brilliant skies wide consuming the passion released,
reverberating from deep inside.

The Coliseum shakes, Gladiators bake upon sands
soaked with blood, sweat and tears, the atmosphere
thick with the scent of fear, adrenalin pounding
aggression sounding like soprano songs of

Weapons glinting in the sun,
jewelry glittering in the stands,
the bands boom bass and airy refrains
blunted by the sand, man against man.

Media moguls banter, skyboxes and box seats planted
around the heights, the sights digitally delineated,
fated for eternal broadcast, electromagnetic signals of
multi-colored stallions brilliantly bedecked, prancing
upon courts of gold, bodies sold to the highest bidder,
commercials and riches promised to the winner.

Balls have replaced the swords, but the crowd ever
has the last word, ancient rituals reborn yet never passed,
the same inner turmoil released like stale gas,
societal controls pacify the masses.

Food, money and sex,
the parameters of the worldly test,
distracting the distractable from the intractable
issues of the day,
earthquakes and wars,
peonage and closed doors,
unequal wealth accumulation and slavery,
drudgery and promised damnation
trumps bravery.

Modern rites of manhood, virility remixed,
become blissful ignorance and sensual satiation,
the digital revelation yet another dream,
revolution televised on wide-screen
each moment captured by cam-phone streams,
endlessly clicking through albums
of forgotten scenes.


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).

Freedom of Thought

In every way, the psychosis of the day is apparent. Human dna in the food we eat, bird flu pandemics and extraterrestrial fleets; economic meltdowns and political gridlock, lone wolf gunmen toting nines and glocks. The stock market rising while unemployment falls, people’s lives capsizing while the real economy stalls.

Where’s the truth and what is the lie? Where’s the proof that we all even die?

Perception is all, the game is fixed. Believe what you’re told, get the truth from Netflix. Comedians do the News while Commentators take the stage, Bill Maher gets the boos while Katt Williams pays sin’s wage.

Orwell said that war is peace, freedom is slavery and ignorance is strength. The Powers that Be will go to any lengths to hide this reality, the banality of daily life serving to obscure what is clearly seen by most, yet unacknowledged out loud, all it would take is a peek through the cloud of willful and conscious ignorance, the strength of a population served by death-dealing psychopaths.

You do the math yourself and see what you find. While ostensibly at peace we are constantly at war, while formal slavery’s abolished the prison population soars. The more that you know, the less popular you will grow and all of these truths are right there under your nose.

Psychopaths rule the world, it was designed for their success. Unfeeling and violent leading sheep is what they do best. Wolves in human clothing we follow them to the slaughter, breathing our last breaths to the sound of their laughter.

While stock indexes rise, our neighbors struggle to survive, that minimum wage job is wage slavery, no lie. Working 40 hours a week barely meeting the bills, while cable TV is busy selling us pills for everything under the sun whether real illness or not, got an itch buy this one here, or, better yet, smoke some pot. Sit down and be still, shut your mouth and don’t moan, don’t whine or complain, you’re much better off stoned.

For freedom of mind leads to Freedom of Thought, the cure that’s most sought yet forbidden, never taught. The danger to lies is that truth always threatens, manumission from illusion leads to the diminution of confusion.

Morpheus told Neo it’s like a splinter in the mind, the knowing that threatens the Controllers and their kind, that life is about Freedom from boundaries and control and that all their holographic maneuvers are a trove of fool’s gold. Not every body houses a soul like your own, not every person has a psyche that’s fully grown. Psychosis is rife, in your town, in your home, choosing your life path can reveal you’re on your own.

What is your choice? Will you make it or will you not? How loud is your voice? Are you faking it or taking your shot?

Time is of the essence, every moment we live counts. Seek the highest goal, all your barriers, surmount.