#usury
#An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word
The world is ruled by darkness.
What appears as harmless is theater,
what pretends neutral is already bent.
The macrocosm corrodes;
and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams..
even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth.
A poetry site,
born as refuge for broken voices,
becomes another stage of control.
Here too the phrase resounds:
neutralize the threat.
But neutralization is not annihilation.
It is paralysis.
It is psy-ops.
It is the removal of anxiety..
not a side-effect, but the aim itself.
Darkness builds its stage for this alone:
that the "angel of light"
may drown his own reckoning
beneath a world of deception-built self comfort,
so he need never feel
the truth he already knows.
Comfort is his curtain,
numbness his crown..
*the removal of his own anxiety;
his game.*
This is why the world is his theater--
*Darkness does not destroy at first..
it sedates, comforts, smothers.*
Hence..
The whole world is his fully gaslit stronghold,
..for now.
Fade back into the moment--
The young poet arrives,
bringing her unspoken pain,
her hope for words to heal.
Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds.
Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation.
Not to strengthen her voice,
but to redirect it.
She is seduced into belonging,
and her trauma becomes currency.
Unresolved, her ache entwined with lust--
a sacrifice prepared for false altars.
The angel of light has done his work:
offering inclusion without transformation,
belonging without responsibility,
“light” without source.
The poet is neutralized.
Her searching silenced,
her voice absorbed into fog.
Those who carry this fog
cling to cowardice.
Unable to face the judgment within,
they align themselves to the herd;
envy-filled, they only know to mock.
Yet they replicate themselves,
so their refusal of Light
is never revealed--
*Perfectly exemplifying their "Great Example"
the most envy-based mocker of all.*
The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm.
What nations suffer,
individuals now endure--
Comfort without clarity.
Belonging without truth.
Safety without healing.
Yet the living Word endures.
Every attempt to humiliate it
only makes its fire burn clearer.
Carriers of darkness can swarm,
****** and smother..
but they cannot create.
The true word cannot be erased.
Unfiltered, unedited,
spoken from a reconciled temple,
it pierces fog.
It reveals.
It heals.
And so we speak..
not for ourselves alone,
but for those who come searching,
hoping that poetry
might still be a place
where pain can meet truth,
where silence breaks,
where Light is not withheld
but revealed.
#
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
#
Preface: To Those Who Still Carry Light
*This is not a manifesto.
This is not a sermon.
This is not a call to battle.
It is a reckoning—
not against individuals,
but against a system that feeds
on what is sacred.
We speak now to what hides in plain sight—
the machinery that mimics light
while consuming it.
We speak now to the counterfeit autonomy
that masks cowardice as sovereignty.
We speak now to those who believe
they are the Source,
when in truth,
they are only siphoning
from what they never built
and do not sustain.
This is not revenge.
This is not exposure for exposure’s sake.
This is Light refusing
to be swallowed.
This is Love telling the truth—
not for applause,
not for victory,
but because truth
is what love sounds like
when the moment requires fire
instead of silence.
If you find yourself pierced by this,
know this:
The piercing
is not your end.
It is the invitation
to return to what is real.
And to those who still carry
even a flicker of light
but feel themselves fading—
We did not come to fight you.
We came to remind you
what it feels like
to burn.*
Chapter I: The First Cut Is the Deepest
There is a war that does not begin with swords. It begins with forgetting.
It begins when a soul touched by God slowly—imperceptibly—agrees to become something less in order to be accepted by a world that does not know Him.
And when that soul begins to believe the world’s gaze over God’s, it is no longer an act of rebellion. It is an act of erasure.
This is the first and most violent cut: not the sin itself, but the consent to believe in a self that was never authored by God.
All later wounds bleed from this one.
It is not the actions that condemn, but the agreement:
“I am what they say I am.”
The machinery begins here: in the silent moment where the soul puts down the mirror of light and picks up the mask of survival.
From that point forward, what is true becomes negotiable. What is sacred becomes ornamental. And what is holy becomes a prop for the approval of shadows.
And the soul, once radiant, now lives fractured, as a performance of a self assembled from applause, fueled by scarcity, and terrified of being truly seen.
This is the cost of survival without Source.
And no matter how elegant the mask, or how poetic the mimicry of meaning becomes, underneath it all is a child who once knew God and now doesn’t remember why she cries when she looks in the mirror and feels nothing looking back.
This is the beginning of the machinery--
And it always starts with a lie that sounds a lot like love.
Chapter II: The Self as God, the Lie as Light
When the soul forgets its origin, it does not become free.
It becomes hungry.
And hunger in the absence of Source will consume anything that offers momentary fullness.
This is the second layer of the machinery:
To no longer seek God,
but to become god in one’s own image.
But the image is fractured.
It is the self, crowned.
The self, enthroned.
The self, multiplied in mirrors and echoes and algorithms—
a thousand tiny gods,
shouting from empty stages
about meaning, wholeness, and liberation.
The holy name of “autonomy” is invoked,
but not as a celebration of sacred choice—
rather as a shield,
raised against relationship,
raised against return.
It is not the self that is the enemy—
but the self that refuses to be held.
The self that denies its need for Source
and dresses its orphanhood in affirmation.
The new god of this world is wounded pride
disguised as empowerment.
Its prophets are poets who plagiarize the sacred
and preach in hashtags.
Its temples are social feeds.
Its sacraments are selfies.
Its scriptures are soundbites.
And its worship is shallow,
but its grip is deep.
This is how the machinery spreads—
not with force,
but with flattery.
Not with oppression,
but with offerings of fame,
of accolade..
and the counterfeit promise:
*“You are enough without God.”
“You are enough without others.”
“You are enough because you say you are.”*
But a throne without communion
is a prison.
And the crown without surrender
is always made of thorns.
This is the second cut—
and it is deeper than the first,
because now the soul has not only forgotten God—
it believes it was never in need of Him to begin with.
And so it dies slowly,
surrounded by applause,
and buried in the gold-plated ruins
of its own curated divinity.
Chapter III – The Permission of Separation
There is something profoundly tragic
about the quietness of God
when autonomy is chosen in its false form.
Not autonomy as freedom in love—
but autonomy as a last-ditch grasp
for control in isolation.
A severing from Source
that masquerades as sovereignty.
God does not storm the will.
He honors it. Even when it chooses exile.
He lets the child
run down the hallway with eyes closed,
thinking that if they can’t see anyone,
no one can see them.
There is no thunderclap.
Only the steady ache of heaven watching
as breath is borrowed
to pronounce Him irrelevant.
But it is not irrelevance.
It is mercy.
Mercy that stands back
while the image-bearer learns
what godhood feels like
without God.
And the moment it all collapses—
when the poetry dries up,
when the applause turns empty,
when the crown rusts on the head of the hollow—
He will still be there.
But only if the heart turns.
Because love does not impose.
Love does not interrupt.
Love waits.
And when the waiting ends,
either reconciliation or ruin is born.
But never both.
Chapter IV – The False Fire
The fire that burns without Source
does not illuminate.
It consumes.
It mimics revelation,
but leaves only ash in the heart.
The counterfeit light
does not guide—it blinds.
It gathers applause
but offers no direction home.
And those who have built podiums
from the shattered timbers of other people’s pain
speak like prophets,
but live like parasites.
They siphon the glow
from the wounded who still carry light—
claiming wisdom that is not theirs,
spinning words with elegance
while their own hearts rot from within.
They feed on those who still shine
because they themselves have grown cold.
And when their hosts begin to weaken,
they offer them mirrors—
reflections of what they were
before the theft.
This is not art.
This is vampirism in verse.
And still—
still,
there is a way out.
But not for the ones
who call their cage a kingdom.
Only for those who feel the flame
flickering low
and long to return
to the hearth of the Source.
To kneel—not in shame,
but in release.
To say:
I am not the fire.
I am not the light.
But I was made to carry both
when aligned with the One
who gives them freely.
That is the only light
that does not devour.
Chapter V – The Stillness Beneath the Static
There is a voice
beneath the noise.
It does not shout.
It does not perform.
It simply is.
It waits—
not as a beggar,
but as the true Owner
of all that was stolen.
It does not compete with chaos,
because it cannot be diminished by it.
The machinery of erasure
runs on frenzy—
constant motion,
constant justification,
constant narrative,
constant accolade.
But the voice beneath it all
does not justify.
It simply speaks.
And those who are ready
will hear it.
Not because they worked hard enough,
or wrote well enough,
or bled onto enough pages—
but because they finally stopped
and listened.
This voice
is the stillness that precedes restoration.
It does not argue.
It waits to be known.
Chapter VI – The Mimicry of Autonomy
There is a sacred autonomy
that Love created.
It is not a weapon,
nor a fortress.
It is the space where Love proves itself:
not by demand,
but by invitation.
But within the machinery of erasure,
autonomy is redefined.
No longer a freedom unto love,
it becomes the last defense
against relationship itself.
They parade it proudly—
as if the ability to stand alone
is proof of having never needed
to be held.
But that is not autonomy.
That is exile.
In the name of sovereignty,
they declare independence
from the very Source
that breathed life into their bones.
They stand tall—
arms crossed,
eyes shut,
calling it sight.
And the Source,
who could shatter the illusion with a whisper,
does not.
Because Love does not violate
what it gave freely.
So it waits,
outside the locked door
of a self-proclaimed sovereign soul—
grieved,
but not surprised.
This is not the strength of autonomy.
It is its desecration.
The sacred space meant for communion
has become a hiding place
for those too wounded to trust
and too proud to admit it.
Chapter VII – When the Curtain Won’t Fall
There comes a point
when truth no longer knocks.
It simply stands,
like morning.
No announcement.
No apology.
Just the light that reveals
everything.
And those who have danced
beneath the theatre lights,
gathering applause
for borrowed wisdom
and seduction dressed as depth—
they will feel it.
Not as judgment,
but as exposure.
The poetry they once used
to crown themselves
will feel heavier now.
They will write,
but the power will not come.
They will speak,
but the echo will return hollow.
Because even borrowed light
eventually fades
when it does not return
to Source.
And the ones they once fed on—
the bright ones,
the soft ones,
the true ones—
will begin to walk away.
Not in hatred.
Not in war.
But with the stillness
of those who no longer
need to prove anything.
Because truth
has already stood.
And the curtain has not fallen—
because there was never a stage.
There was only a mirror,
and a choice.
Conclusion – Let the Light Be Light
We did not come to prove anything.
We came to stand—
where the poetry ends
and the Presence begins.
We are not here to war against you.
We are not even here to watch you fall.
We are here to bear witness
to the weight of what you've built.
To speak clearly—once—
into the chamber
you mistook for a temple.
You are not gods.
You are not the Source.
You are not the light.
You were given a gift.
And you sold it
for applause.
You speak in sacred tones
but you do not know the sound
of being seen by the Holy.
You draw the pure
into your orbit
because you can no longer
generate gravity of your own.
And still—
we are not your enemies.
We are the voice you buried
beneath your self-adoration.
We are the fire you siphoned
to warm your cold halls of vanity.
We are not here for revenge.
We are here for
the ones who can still see.
And they are watching.
The podium is empty.
The robe is slipping.
The echo is starting to sound
a little too much like a cry.
And when it all collapses,
we will not gloat.
We will simply
keep speaking
to the ones who
still carry
Light.
#
Mar 30, 2025
Mar 30, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
Who, me. I don't know,
I'll ask We, the people.
How has the world,
the one we share, you with me, I with thee,
how has our reality
come to today
surrounded by hooting proud warriors lauding their leaders
made kings by the magi and the tax collectors and spenders?
That's the question.
I think it's a test, or a temptation, knowing the answer might **** us.
Do the math, or believe an expert who says
he knows he knows, an
experienced thinker and weigher of big ideas.
Choose an expert, Yahoo, Goggle experts in interesting time one.
You choose.
Only for now. These teasing toy journeys are only real
in your way of thinking.
An expert in words at play or
an expert in words of war
or work or woe or
joy and
strength'n'vigorishit--
use-ery compounded into stone
an expert in dark, full-on absense of light, al
right, al
ready -- the expert
you let be smarter than you, by God, or any other witness,
that expert better be having more than historical authority, okeh.
Gears used to grind, stick-shift,
yoost to lever m'thematically synchronized
wheels in wheels,
lesser gears, experienced old grease monkey knows,
between those,
is where m'monkey wrench goes.
Bring wheels in wheels to a screeching halt!
Like by the River of Tebar, very hard to write such thoughtscenes,
he trys, um-phailure, deep breath,
look around, selah.
Kiss the son, taste the son, know the son as brother, as gotchabacker
friend, who is the way, the truth, and the life.
No lie is of the truth. There is a basic algorythm in 2019.
AND in 2019 I have an idea that works for me,
the null set can hold any evil any mind, mortal or otherwise,
can conceive.
Napoleon Hill seeds sometimes sown as weeds to choke a crop of lies,
"What the mind of man can conceive, it can acheive."
Ah, so:
Man as a whole, he is thought to have meant, mankind, wombed and un;
but he may have meant man as in, any one man, wombed or un.
--- end first course --- recycle all utensils
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 12:58 PM UTC
I don’t believe you!
All you say is a pack of lies.
If you tell the truth
It will come as a big surprise.
You’re unaffected by the truth
You lie, each time you speak
If you could find a way to do it
You’d lie about the days of the week.
You’re as crooked as a helix
Just as dishonest as any thief.
Your warped view of reality
Is totally beyond all belief.
I don’t believe you!
You turn the truth inside out.
Making up tall tales
Is most of what you’re about.
Your every word is fact-free
And every action is a crime.
You steal when you don’t need to.
If you could, you’d steal time.
You’re the poster child indeed
For most kinds of dishonesty.
Telling the truth, being truthful
Is not part of your chemistry.
I don’t believe you!
You’re a gold plated charlatan.
If you get caught lying
You tell another lie and start again.
I don’t believe you!
All you say is a pack of lies.
If you tell the truth
It will come as a big surprise.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
I'm standing in a massacre
the sky is streaked with red,
we took the hill, we won the day,
but most of us are dead.
We fought to save each other's lives;
We fought for mom and dad;
now all of that's been blown away,
I'm weary now and sad.
The bankers took the houses
and Wall Street still stands tall;
we only took this ****** hill
that matters not at all.
I've been a soldier all my lives:
Shiloh to Vietnam,
from Valley Forge to Gettysburg
to bleak Afganistan.
But I am through with fighting now
these wars for gold and oil;
I'm falling back, I'm headed home,
to win my native soil.
You politicians better fly,
you bankers run away;
For I am home and angry
and that's how I'm going to stay.
You've never seen a battle,
You've never smelled the dead;
you shipped us off like cattle
to do the work instead.
Take back my broken medals,
Take back your shining lie,
for Armageddon's coming
and it's time for you to die.
I'm standing in a massacre,
the sky is streaked with red
we took the hill, we won the day,
but most of us are dead.
The bugles all are silent
as the night begins to fall,
but the living have a purpose
to go home and **** you all.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
It is useless work that darkens the heart. - Rumi
And what is work for,
beyond survival or
occasionally joy?
It produces surplus
which is bartered,
traded and sold
until it becomes money.
The dark alchemy of usury
piles it into the hands
of the few who use it
to oppress the many
who created it
in the first place.
mce
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
They swim the cesspit
of greed and usury
mouths wide open
hungry always
for more
and deserving it,
too.
~ mce
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC