The Weather is dull, all Flora, withered—
Into Poetry’s ruins snakes have slithered;
Customs forgotten, sick mammals slain.
Now vampires infect me: **** on the brain…

While Disney exports multicultural trash
The vatos and thugs burn the barrio to ash.
Yet my lovely muse lifts me above the crisis:
Revealing conspiracy as rational analysis;
In her shimmering shroud, she defies the fates.
My hometown nostalgia out-bunkers Bill Gates;
I look out my window. Joy turns to mass death:
Old love-letters blown on Corona-breath.

I hide unicorn carcasses from my daughter.
Instead, we read Exodus: angels, plagues, slaughter.
She’s too young to know what is sold in the street
Or whether Hondurans arrive on their feet
And if what they carry is bitter or sweet . . .
Our online Amazon: jungle or obituary?
Webster just shrugs. It’s not in his dictionary.

The clime where Quito since hath rear’d her fanes,
And now no more her barbarous rites maintains.
He saw these vales in richer blooms array’d,
And tribes more numerous haunt the woodland shade…

Yet softer fires his daring views control,
And mixt emotions fill his changing soul.
Shall genius rare, that might the world improve,
Bend to the milder voice of careless love,
That bounds his glories, and forbids to part
From bowers that woo’d his fluctuating heart?
Or shall the toils imperial heroes claim
Fire his brave ***** with a patriot flame,
Bid sceptres wait him on Peruvia’s shore,
And loved Oella meet his eyes no more?

Sudden his near approach the maid alarms;
He flew enraptured to her yielding arms,
And lost, dissolving in a softer flame,
His distant empire and the fire of fame.
At length, retiring thro the homeward field,
Their glowing souls to cooler converse yield;
O’er various scenes of blissful life they ran,
When thus the warrior to the maid began:
Long have we mark’d the inauspicious reign
That waits our sceptre in this rough domain;
A soil ungrateful and a wayward race,
Their game but scanty, and confined their space.
Where late my steps the southern war pursued,
The fertile plains grew boundless as I view’d;
More numerous nations trod the grassy wild,
And joyous nature more delightful smiled…

“Qui Transtulit Sustinet !” Motto of light!
‘Neath the folds of that banner we strike for the right;
Connecticut’s watchword oer hill and o’er plain,
“The Hand that transplanted, that Hand will sustain.”

“Qui Transtulit Sustinet !” On the broad fold
of Connecticut’s banner this motto’s enrolled,
and flashed to the sunlight on mornings bright wings,
A promise of glory and honor it brings,
The promise of One who ne’er promised in vain,
“The Hand that transplanted, that Hand will sustain.”

Ay and surely it well has sustained us thus far,
in peace and in plenty, in want and in war.
When the foe has attacked us in battle array,
Then Connecticut’s sons have stood first in the fray;
And faith in that watchword inspires us again,
For “He who transplanted will ever sustain!”

And now, in the darkness of treason’s black night
‘Neath the folds of that banner we strike for the right!
For the RIGHT !  ‘Tis OUR COUNTRY we’re marching to save,
The dear flag of The UNION in triumph shall wave!
Faith swells every heart! Hope fires every vein!
“And Thou who transplanted, Oh always sustain !”

Rise from your grave. It's Easter Sunday
two-thousand sixteen years A.D.
Save the West with hashtag child's play
Post on FaceBook, fancy-free.

Easter pinks and chick-yellow highlights
Nestléd eggs and pastel notes
fail to charm our friends the Ishmaelites
poised to slit our kuffar throats.

Love your rabbit; keep on shopping.
Watch the game and charge your phone.
Allah's bunnies won't stop hopping
Till they make your land their own.

∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰

We paint your breeding world as queer
and every man a closet queen.
Your days like Noah’s now appear…
our King arrives to crown the scene.

Oh Father of progressive souls
whose neo-pagan mercy reigns,
bring union to fragmented wholes
as lovers rattle rainbow-chains.

We’re clubbing with the scribes of ***
(our fairy-dusted lying press)
who pay out cash for background checks
while prying more and praying less.

The starry heavens twinkle gay
and rainbows end in gold, you know).
To see it any other way
would harsh our high and end the show…

Your family paradigm descends
upon the Roman road to hell
where reproductive reason ends
in demographic show-and-tell.

God’s wisdom pleads in vain. What’s life
when mobs are primed for anarchy –
assaulting yet again Lot’s wife
in *****’s dead democracy.

Devise a revision to revise the division–
let them tremble at this lying vision:
and, like some Antinomian libertine
abuse the grace of Christ and cause a scene
in Jewsalem, capitol of the Gentile world;
the rainbow flag is soon to be unfurled.
Messianic ******* cast away;
God’s own body must illuminate the way.
Tautology thought: theology taught:
Mufti and the atheists all distraught.
Pre-formed references yield
to reformed preferences.

Yes I , Putin de RAAAS fi tru him a de Ras of Rases. Cantrolling all dem eleckshan widout deteckshan, cyan touch Putin. Him a hack Babylonian komputah worse den cutlass hack di bush inna mi yard. Putin so cool, dem cyan even stop him hack Babylon Supah-bowl. Ras Putin secret Rasta, Ras Putin tru servant of JAH Almighty Rastafari. Vladimir a teach Haile Selassie di Solomonic wisdom, an ting weh mi seh...

Selah....

Pastors posting fluff on Facebook
longing to be liked for being hip
read from the dull world’s losing playbook
to sink with their own authorship;
virtue-signalling to the flock
(a milky slice of soggy toast)
while gallivanting ’round the block
and hoping that you’ll like their post.

America’s presidents: well deserved

(recall that cowboy Hollywood actor?)

React in vain while your meltdown is served:

let it glow—like a nuclear reactor.

Energy freed: progressively conserved,

in Uranium for all who backed her—

though some who bought it may become unnerved

and see her as less than a benefactor.

Mordecai (hallowed gatekeeper)
triumphs over Haman (gallowed hate-keeper)

Greta, oh Greta, you’re freaking out.
Our planet won’t perish. You'll grow up.
Hyped and promoted by globalist funds,
Your unbalanced drama makes us cringe.

Greta, oh Greta, you’re barking mad;
Your handlers have let out too much leash.
Time to lie down on your favorite mat
And pray to the Lord Jesus Christ.

Butter-baste in haste
For better poet-taste
Reposting pastry
Poet-tastery
Pronounced as mastery:
Poetastery

Past repast
It goes down fast
Poetic firsts shall be last
Lyrically-paced
Poetry-based
Poetry's straitjacket, unlaced
Lack of meaning showcased

Each day reminds me that I am depraved

fixated, titillated still with sin

and thinking I’m smart, I’ve ranted and raved

only to wake up again in this skin

wondering if I am actually saved.

Behold the deep cesspool I find within:

unhallowed Self, to whom I am enslaved,

doomed to start over every day.  Begin

again Lord Christ, that sanctifying work

you promised to accomplish through your Word.

**** the vipers that in our garden lurk;

tell of your blood and all that it conferred.

Explain—as on the road to Emmaus;

or dull mortality may dismay us.

Wake me up when Christ returns at the end.
When sin, death and hell no longer offend.

I almost made it until the last scene,
depressed⁠—considering what might have been . . .

But what I envisioned, that it was not;
And thus, I finally lost track of the plot.

♪♫♫♪♪♫♪♪♫♫♪

Revelation:** three, seven – the Kingdom of Heaven

The key to unlocking both glory and shame.

Philadelphia knows He’s arriving in newness

inscribing on foreheads His city and name.

(Though it could be on tee shirts or baseball caps, true –

unless someone takes time to decipher the text…

is it Greek? Aramaic? Amharic? What next?)

Don’t be mad – it’s not me but old John who’s to blame.

Of names and on numbers of Savior and Beast

I have long been a-pondering, trembling, wondering

mushroom-cloud raptures in mind’s eye a-thundering.

How will we get to that marriage-day feast?

Will my garment be ready or filthy with fall-out?

(The song says His blood will make clean if we call out

in faith for forgiveness, in humble repentance

believing that grace will abolish the sentence.)

You may wish my rhyme to be likewise abolished.

Bear with me. Forgive me, I grant it’s not polished.

I speak what I feel and I write when I’m able;

which brings us to heavenly thoughts gastronomic:

what dishes we’ll meet as we dine at that table-

strict Jewish? Angelic? Or pre-Abrahamic?

Shall they serve us from silver or common ceramic?

Being clay to the potter, an unfinished vessel

I leave all these questions for others to wrestle.

Yet there’s still one more realm I explore in conjecture:

the sounds at that gathering.  Classical?   Rock?

Unending revivalist Christian refrains?

Shall we headbang in heaven with glorified brains?

Psychedelic/Psychotic…? or  Handel and Bach?

(Lighten up. It’s the end of my bible-school lecture.

You’ve seen a few rooms of my castle-in-air,

and we ALL know it’s reggae they’re playing up there…)

Idealize them once they’re gone.
Pity is bestowed by victors;
Evening thus recalls the dawn—
Truth revised by truth’s depicters.

Swooning for the Noble Savage,
That comes later. First comes war.
Conquerors arrive, then ravage:
Dominance worth fighting for.

The conquerors, in retrospect,
Describe their subjugated foe
In shades politically correct
(After they’re defeated, though…)

Ambushes and scalps for dinner—
Pretty pictures of the past:
Airbrushed touch-ups from the winner;
Real depictions cannot last.

Idealizing distant lives
While snug inside your comfy home
Is fine; your living standard thrives.
But Gaul had other views of Rome . . .

Sworn to **** the Church (or at least forestall),
Reviling Jesus, Christians, and Saint Paul,
The Pharisees finally blow their cover.
Things in Rome are starting to boil over;
Vesuvian rumblings portend Pompeii . . .
Judah await their Messianic day—
       But Claudius plans to expel all Jews . . .

Hateful superstitions cloud their views:
Torah with Talmud their rabbis confuse.
Not-so-Abrahamic agitation
Fails again to unify the nation;
Waiting for Moses/Elijah/David
Some expectations are waxing fervid
       And Claudius moves to disperse the Jews.

Zionist riots make the nightly news
Every Roman synagogue now must choose:
Goyim government tells them to desist—
Caesar demands incense—and some resist.
For subversion (or just causing trouble)
Imperial power rewards them double.
       Meanwhile, Claudius expels the Jews.

Failing empire demands what saints refuse;
They wait for Babylon to pay her dues . . .
Forced to pack up and leave, all Israel flees.
No plagues, no Passover, no exit fees.
Like Lot, they had to leave in a hurry;
Enriched by God in interest, gold and worry.
       Now why would Claudius banish all the Jews?

Stand historically in Josephus’ shoes.
Rabbis babble on while Rome’s legions lose . . .
Empires die. It’s agonizingly slow.
You think it happened suddenly—but no.
In retrospect, not different from today.
And History will have the final say:
       Why then did Claudius expel the Jews?

Paella ingredients for Tuesday w/Hernando de T

   velvet + jewelry sale
      
♣ Polish Ferdinand's scepter

Finance conquest of territories for glory of Catholic Spain

>Get throne reupholstered

♚ Subjugate inhabitants of the New World & locate gold for Imperial crown

Leeching appointment with physician ♦ BRING ROSARY ♦!!

♝Talk to Toledo archbishop RE: burning heretics (next Sunday)

♥ Get Ferdinand’s ermine robes from cleaners  ♥ ♥  

> Smite Moorish Saracens/drive out of Spain (if time before nxt weeknd)

The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God
                                                          (P­salm 14)

As your tattoos fade and your piercings close
your slang becomes outmoded. So it goes.
Bliss and Ignorance must yield to Wisdom
Experience learns to suffer its Freedom.
Time accelerates, seasons quickly pass—
you realize that your head was up your ***
years on end, Reason lost to Vanity;
only God can restore the sanity.
Now the music sounds different, stupider;
low, less able to conceal Lucifer.
Your once-massive ego now lies humbled
in rubble where your defenses crumbled
edifice built upon your ignorance
of God, Evil, Life—and of Innocence.
Gradually, your soul awakened to death;
your pulse knows a limit, so does your breath.

Ruthie Ginsburg is gone, and that's sad.
Trump will find a replacement to add.
Let us look on and cheer
As appointment draws near;
The progressives now drive themselves mad.

From the ACLU to the Court,
she promoted the right to abort.
You may claim she was God's
but she seemed, by all odds
more a midwife of murderous tort.

Say goodbye. All her honor is spent.
A new judge now begins their ascent.
Ruthie's star has gone dead.
A black hole . . . or a red?
(Only Jesus can say where she went.)

There was a cold limerick one time
whose rick was cut off from its lime.
While not quite a Lime Ricky,
its flavor was tricky
and sacrificed taste to the rhyme.

Race-baiting covers for agit-prop agents
splitting white hairs in their dark distress;
with name-calling, bullying, lunch money payments
and shifting the blame for their people’s mess.

Reparations are due for your boring screed
that you scrawled at the helm of the Black Star Liner.
You owe it to those who were forced to read
your obtuse agitations (you Afro-whiner).

Poisonous shout-outs to fallen comrades:
holy Saint Michael in reaper’s hood—
endless blathering racial tirades
poor comrade—your dreams are misunderstood.

You’re obsessed with injustice. That’s nothing new.
You’re a David anointed to overthrow Saul—
(as long as he’s white and less rabid than you,
oh prophet and scribe of the activist call…)

Stay mad at the system. Revile all your foes
with raving, with preaching, with bitter bad words.
Insult all your enemies; list all your woes
as you document stink on your turds.

☭ ♡ ☭ ♡ ☭

You posed yourselves (in radical English)
with fellow-travelers on the barricades.
recalling bygone barrio fusillades
though you speak only red diaper Spanish…
Beholding the party cooperative
where ****** tourists are shown Cuban truth,
you cherished the lies of your leftist youth,
half-informed, predictably progressive.
Stuffed full of radicalized rice and beans,
flatulent, dreaming of ignoble Che
you charmed the sultry proletarian queens.
In your new Guayabera, bonafide,
you hailed the revolutionary day;
pale thorn in the suffering People’s side…

Ogun owed Oxun for the fee he paid
to divorce Yemayá in the watery deep.
Babalu Aye‘s messenger delayed
(no *** in the bargain – price too steep)
until San Martín, divine caballero
deceived the third wife of el Indio Guerrero.

(Obatala‘s beats got lost in transit
the rhythm robbed by macumba-bandit.)

Eleguá cleared paths for He Who Opens Pores.
Black roosters smoked puros at midnight. Outdoors,
Santa Muerte was asked to turn down the noise
so Nana Buluku could get some sleep.

As she gathered Ashé, reduced to a heap
of Yoruba fool’s gold anointed with blood
Oduduwa pretended he understood;
but his mother-in-law knew he never would
until Olódùmarè returned from the feast
having sacrificed roosters while facing east.

The santero drew me a pictogram
to protect me from forces my poem conjured
but the blood of a sacrificed perfect lamb
affords more protection, I knew. He wondered.

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Networking, presenting the numbers
Adjusting the data for benchmarks
Reviewing best practices
Speaking vapid motivational drivel
Accompanied by pastel-toned slideshows
Full of dull corporate graphics—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Acting with intention
Staying centered
Celebrating balance and cultivating awareness
Curating selfless acts of charity
(yet still suppressing God at heart)
Being connected in authentic community—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Believing in yourself to achieve your goals
Seeking your own inner light to guide you
Recognizing how deserving you are
Working towards what makes you happy
(denying there will be a judgement of your soul)
Creating your own reality—

   On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose . . .

Paul as an antichrist—
Jesus as dead:
The devil's deceptions
Can mess with your head.

Church as the enemy:
Lucifer's light
Makes Babylon blacker
Than Egypt's own night.

But God is outside us:
Externally true—
An anchor; a reference point
Greater than YOU.

Kalifornia sub-let of the love set / squatting in squalor to dwell in splendor / Temporary Autonomous Zone ignites ignoble night / misfit labyrinth of fire / in dearth of ****, the mirth of Death / coming to Crowleyan conclusions / smoking to get lit / the flaming maze, maiming, flays / demonology of **** vs. methodology of death / distinguished Burning Man, extinguished / idyls of the idols reduced to ash / Light My Fire / sitting shiva vs. dancing shiva / rave on

I'll write some
Vapid ****.
Check the stats.
Try to
Steer you towards
My serious compositions.
(Road signs).

Jewish activists lay dining,
publicans with plebes aligned;
upon the Roman chaise reclining:
Israelites well-bred (and wined).

Jesus never did wax wroth
while brokering deals for global fail.
No martyr’s noble tablecloth
enfolded Christ, Omega male.

Messiah, Lord of marketing
was favorably credit-rated.
Power points to Christ as king;
One worthy to be worshiped/hated.

Beta beasts and Alpha tyrants
rich investments when installed
tabulate their dull aspirants
chewing cud and unappalled .

Many a sociopathic brute
has steered the bride (Christ’s clueless wife)
away from every attribute
pursuant to eternal life.

You ****** better not forget
when trees get watered at the root
and global profit rises yet
that Jesus wore a business suit.

Vendrá como ladrón, la palabra confiesa
Cuando la novia diga ven, cuidado . . .
No tomes lo santo por el pecado
Pensando con la segunda cabeza.

San Juan la vio bajar con delicadeza
La musa de apariencia turca
Enjoyada, velada en trasparente burqa
Para inspirar la segunda cabeza.

Manoseando realeza:
De los cielos viene tu gran sultana
Aunque ella parece mexicana
El alma floja, la turca tiesa

Contemplando extrema belleza:
A cada cabezón su gigantona
Para cambiarla en la llorona . . .
Ahora tú piensas con la segunda cabeza.

A las domésticas la limpieza
Tentándonos en sus uniformes.
A ellas: escribir cuneiformes.
A ti: leer con la segunda cabeza.

Lo que las chicas tienen sí cura la pereza
Meneando, cumbiando el bugalú.
Nos fascinan; affecta el espíritu:
El hombre piadoso y recto tropieza.

Muchacho filósofo en tu pieza:
La novia se prepara para su prometido.
No seas burro, no seas entumido . . .
Quita del huerto toda la maleza.

Medítelo duro con tu segunda cabeza.

An oppressive and bearded dictator
has expired, and we sing "see ya later".
The intransigent pride
on the Communist side
makes Miami Cubanos' joy greater.

Of RINOS, I'm not such a fan, sir...
and I offer no delicate answer.
The rhinoceros-brain
of that war-hawk McCain
tries to coo like a dove—but it can't, sir

Repent therefore and be converted,
that your sins may be blotted out,
so that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord,
and that He may send Jesus Christ,
who was preached to you before,
whom heaven must receive
until the times of restoration of all things,
which God has spoken by the mouth of all His holy prophets
since the world began.
                                                        Acts 3:19,20,21

That one thing we deserve, I dare to name:
Death, and then deathless torment in the flame.

But first, let go of bad theology
(all well-meaning misanthropology)

then send yourself a gentle gift, like this:
click: narcissistic selfie mirror-kiss.

The brightest song a body’s ever held?
The one that broke your waters where they swelled.

You summon joy; that ***** stayed out too long.
Ashamed, she hastens, staggering along . . .

I’d be content to have (besides some wings),
just this: the Restoration of All Things

And then to you, if it were mine to give,
I’d give forgiveness. Seek the Lord—and live.

Art history matters. New Master’s degrees
Lead to dull innovation in poetry. Please
Try to write us a poem where meaning is plain
And no MFA patriarch needs to explain.

a statue carved by Bernini/a plate of eggs painted by Velázquez  

Jane, dear Jane, you’re a porcelain idol.
The time has arrived for your verse to unbridle
Itself and reveal some slight traces of life;
We know you are smart, but that dull butter-knife
Of your poetry, smearing the references ’round
Is like Sylvia Plath/Gertrude Stein/Ezra Pound…

personal pan pizza with unlimited free toppings

Those weird sudden line breaks confuse us, in fact,
And the rarefied dishes you name-drop get cracked
On the floor of your poetry, leaving us shards,
Risking splinters for muses and mystified bards.

my arm breaks off  like the shell/of a freshly-filled cannoli

You deadpan in monotone, stunningly brave,
But your tortuous verses go straight to the grave.
Academic obscurantists murmur and nod
As they lower the corpse of your work in the sod…

carelessly thrown baby/a designer toilet cistern

You ought to re-frame and then tighten your lines,
So replete with Old Masters and euro-trash wines:

(…weirdly-named liqueurs in a Rococo  palais)

Why would you not, then, aspire to coherence,
Dismissing the need for white male interference?
Your verses cry out for some fatherly guidance
To try and make sense of your history of silence.