Before the Altar, We Pray (a poem)

Before the altar, we pray
To gods of the forest-night
They hear us in our anguish

Remove us from televised carnage
And mass murder of dreams
In America, nothing is as it seems

We trek to the forest at nightfall
By light of neon and longing
It smells of fire-smoke and dust

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Prison of My Mind (a poem)

On the first day, the eternal snow of stars
We felt as though we were behind bars,
But it was only the prison of my mind –
How it likes infinite repetition of
Self-irritation, leading me to hills
Of Mars to tear my body apart

We start here, again,
An interstellar journey commenced,
To escape beatings of saints
Religious zealots who rule
Island nations of woe

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Why the Riddle? (a poem)

Why the riddle?
When we get to the end,
Will the Divine face be revealed?

Or will there be another riddle
Inside of the inside joke
That’s life on this planet?

Let’s peer inside, let’s abide
To directives of love;
Maybe then, a light will shine
From above, and stop us
From digging the crater
That consumes great
Urban centers.

The Divine face is ugly,
We must admit,
To be free from illusion
When the only thing we
Hold onto is our delusions.

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Last Hours (a poem)

Can I surrender?
Or will I keep fighting egos?
Drink from the poison chalice?

Where is utter peace?
Forget the journey to enlightenment –
Surrender to base desires;

Flesh is more potent than spirit,
Holy Spirits eat my flesh
In inordinate, passionate fires –
The Mind of Christ bursts
With vicious images

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William Blake’s Angels of Death (graphic art)

Some of you may recognize this illustration – it’s one from William Blake called “Christ in the Sepulcher, Guarded by Angels.” I’m a big fan of Blake’s poetry and famously weird illustrations, so I wanted to distort one a bit with some graphic effects from Canva. I like how this turned out and I particularly like the orange hues.

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Each Time we Sleep (a poem)

The lights flickered once, and we knew
what was to come, walking in the
crumbling building,

collapsing like a sandcastle
on top of us, buried underneath now
gasping for air, losing our sense
of reality, a dream-land of

new colors and shapes,
smothered and can’t escape,
‘till the ominous face appeared,
like the Wizard of Oz
the face covered with sores

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