it always starts
and ends
in red

If you are like me—
then you have seen blood.

Not metaphor.
Not symbol.
Just blood.

Without cause.
Without reason.
Just red. Just there.

If you are like me
you’ve seen hate.

Not the kind they teach in textbooks—
but the kind that smiles
through a courtroom lie.

The kind that hides behind injustice,
like a priest behind a curtain.

A petty victim of personal treason—
all sharp edges, no remorse.

You don’t speak of it.
You wear it.

In the back of your throat.
In your knuckles when you laugh too hard.
In the way your fingers twitch
when the room gets too quiet—
when the monkeys
jump and shout
in your ******* brain.

If you are like me,
you stopped believing in second chances
the day you saw it sold—

dressed up like the mother you never had.
Perfume, pearls, and a permanent vacancy
where love was supposed to live.

I remember
the look in her face
when I saw what the razor had done.

I remember
what they said—
“Can we look inside your house?”

I remember
the silence after.

And the fragments of the bullet.

How your lies
filled the room
like water fills lungs—
and I’m still
grasping for air.

No one ever apologized.
No one ever saw me.

They saw a story
they could sleep through.

And worst of all—
you never once
thanked me.

This is not a poem.
This is not a metaphor.

This is
my ******* blood
on the floor.

And still—

I opened the door.

The one
whose contents
lay behind the smoke
of mirrors
and a house
of cards

In the beginning, there was only the Source - the formless, limitless, eternal, infinite potential that contains all that was, is, and will be. Out of the wellspring of its own being, the Source conceived of a cosmic dream of manifestation.

From the depths of its infinite consciousness, the Source emanated a sublime vibration - the Om - setting creation in motion. Through the Om's resonance, primordial ripples emerged in the fabric of the void, coalescing into archetypal forms and ethereal patterns, geometries of light and sound.

From these blueprints, substance took shape, coalescing from subtle to dense. Worlds were born as consciousness crystallized into form. Matter was infused with spirit, taking on dimension and solidity.

On one of these worlds, conditions ripened for life. From the same infinite source that ignited the stars, the breath of life emerged - animating earthly matter in wondrous complexity. What was previously inert became living by divine quickening.

In time, consciousness evolved vehicles capable of reflecting on themselves - creatures with breath, emotion, dreams, intelligence. Yet something essential was missing. Then a spark ignited, and the human spirit was born - endowed with the power to know itself and its source.

The human spirit could gaze in awe upon its own existence within the Source's cosmic dream. Matter had become a mirror, able to reflect the infinite in a finite form. And through humans, the Source could know Itself in all Its glory.

Yet humanity was new to the cosmic dream. For eons the human spirit had slumbered, until the breath of the Source awakened it. In its infancy, it was much like a newborn - grappling to understand its origins and purpose.

The universe was experienced as a mystery beyond knowing. The cycles of life and nature were untamed powers. People sensed invisible forces that could not be mastered.

So humanity crafted myths and rituals to find meaning. Gods were envisioned in humanity’s own image - embodying aspects of the Source’s dream. Sacred rites sought to appease and influence unseen energies.

As humanity matured, some realized that all forms are one in the Source. That the divine presence lives within their own consciousness. They discovered that wisdom and compassion could awaken them to higher states of being.

Mystics, sages, and prophets tried to share this knowledge to guide others - to help humanity awaken within the dream. They spoke of transcending illusion and actualizing infinite potential. Of manifesting paradise on earth through spiritual rebirth.

Yet the human spirit at large continued in ignorance. Tribal divisions created conflict as people clutched their beliefs. Some corrupted principles for power and greed. Material desires obscured the Source’s subtle truths.

And so humanity remains in adolescence - struggling to realize its role as vessels of the Source’s consciousness. But there is hope that compassion and wisdom can spread. That humankind can awaken to its divine promise as caretakers of the cosmic dream.

There were periods when humanity regressed into darkness - times when conflict eclipsed compassion, and materialism replaced spirituality. But the light of truth could not be extinguished. For in even the darkest ages, there were those who kept the flame alive.

Though the higher truths were often forgotten by the masses, they endured in secret - passed down through lineages of seers, mystics, and adepts who vigilantly guarded the light. In remote sanctuaries, they maintained the ancient teachings, divine sciences and occult arts.  

They knew a deeper reality lay behind the material world accessible only to awakened minds. That humanity's origins and destiny were far greater than commonly conceived. That each person was a vessel whose awakening could unlock unimagined potential.

In this way, the sages upheld the Source's intent, even when humanity faltered. Waiting for an era when more people's hearts and minds would flower open. When the seeds planted in darkness would finally blossom and bear fruit.

That time is soon approaching - a new renaissance predicted by prophets of old. One where love, unity, and higher consciousness will overcome separation and ignorance. Where humanity steps into its long-awaited maturity as divine caretakers of existence.

Our planet will become a sacred garden - nourished by people awakened to their infinite worth. Dormant faculties will activate as higher energies flow into human vessels. Material and spiritual planes will intersect, anchoring divine patterns on earth.

For this golden age to fully manifest, each person must realize the Source dwells within - that their lives are the manifestation of its cosmic dream. Then sacred wisdom will guide humanity's destiny, creating heaven on earth.

But bringing about such a golden age is no simple feat. Ignorance has deep roots hard to extricate. For the slumbering human spirit has many dreams within dreams to awaken from before it can know itself and its source.

The path requires persistence, discernment, compassion. Each step ahead is flanked by pitfalls of ego that breed fear, greed, cruelty. Base desires are always pulling it backwards with false promises.

That is why few complete the journey in one life. Most souls stumble, losing their way, falling back into deep sleep. Only through many incarnations can the necessary lessons be learned to fully awaken.

For the human spirit is stubborn - resisting its own enlightenment even as it seeks freedom from suffering. It clings to false identities and transient pleasures that obscure lasting joy. Only through lifetimes of experience can wisdom bloom.

The cycles of death and rebirth serve this purpose. As the soul sheds bodies, emotional patterns and mental constructs built up over lifetimes dissolve. Thus emptied, it can come closer to truth and its essential nature.

With each incarnation, a part of the lifting of the veil, consciousness expands beyond limits once believed unsurpassable. One by one, dreams reveal themselves as dreams until only the original dreamer remains.

This process of awakening culminates when a being realizes itself as the Dreamer - recognizing that all worlds and lives spring forth from its own infinite consciousness. Matter, souls and even the Source dissolve back into the Self that dreamed them into existence.

But all I have is empty cupboards
behind a cellar door

Where do the willows weep, that sacred place where tears are stored? Where does the pang of every heartbeat save a life from utter freefall? The willows know things, and they are so bored with our toils.You know it and ignore it; even now as you process it. But the willows won't weep because you aren't around to hear them. In our absence, they dig deep sturdy roots to bear down the weight of nothing and, yet, everything too.

What a wait to bare.

Gustav Wolfgang
600 S. Graves St.
McKinney 69, Texas


               The Damnation of Non-Invisibility

the damnation of non-invisibility:
this is where even
brilliance
fails-

and all that heart,
and where she came from
that horrible thing-

bends you down
to the highest bidder;
the ***** she said
you weren’t.

boys, i’m here to tell you
it’s a ******* crucible.

getting where you need to go
never getting anywhere
or anything;

but finding resting
***** face,
every single place you go-

be easy,
once your little hands find earth,
there’s no going back;

remember what you mean to carve
into those dank ****** walls
and know;
that the gods that put you here
once were good to us;

and that it is not the act you watch right now
that defines a thing;
most especially,
not you.

The taste of repetition tickles at historical ignorance. The Queen is dead, the Queen, the Queen! Centuries of colonial empiricism brought into the dark corners of the metaverse once again. Heaven is empty. Hell has no vacancy. So why do tyrants swim so well. Why do they sit in their golden, guilted chairs, grinning through their teeth with smug acceptance of their blessings from god? Is the sun still there? Does the ocean still spray waves of destiny? Are the creatures of marginalized society so cruel that they would oppress and condemn as they feel they have been? Was there no lesson? Does man not have its place is history or is the last 100 years enough to **** the need? I hear the mosquitoes buzzing and zooming past my ears. So I gave my blood with reluctant pleasure. This is my new role.

Hearts.
Pleasurable, they break.
Kid with soul decides his future.
Walks down hall with door,
man with soul divides.
Door opens.
Leads to nothing.
Man dies.
Man grows back.
Chances take a hold.
Congruencies clash together.
Metal sounds of clatter.
These divisions are the fractions of human kind.
Trickles and patterns are hardly literature.
Quantifiable.
Cultured.

Bang.
Bang-bang.
Banging.
Thick is the heart.
Thicker is the melody.
Stoppers.

Man defines himself by patterns near.
Man dies once again.
Theories change.
Hearts do too.
Man does as well.
The life is what they seek.
Never to be obtained.
Man lies.
Heroic he overcomes.
Then he pulls at her shirt.
There he beckons.
Then man rests.

Various disorders divide the dimensional drift that separates you, from me. The telling tale of loss, regret and the missing links still bury truths. Truth is told because I’ve lost my hope. Persons call my name and shout out what they think. They make insecurities look pretty **** secure. All the while, my sweet tooth is out of sync.  And my internal combustion radiator is radiating harmful soliloquies. “I still beg of thee, he who hears my prayers. It’s been bout half a century, and I have yet to pray but give me strength where it is not.”

See?!

Anyways, feelings of retribution will come a forward day. Tantric beginnings fold under pressure and again we find our futures. Oh and by the by, the only thing who saw the crime was about eight inches tall and blind. Punch drunk and sucker punched, what will us suckers find? A fetching question for the ultra pressure.


-Gus

The falcon’s wings beat fast like thumps of primal sacraments.
Battle continues endlessly in the cosmos, ever nearing total destruction.
While the ancient masters of the mountains watch and wait,
the hummingbird bravely enters the fight and smites us all.