Game of the Day – Rapid 10 min time control


Today’s game versus IM: Rated 600 points higher than me; after getting a winning position, he blunders with an exchange gone wrong. 

Game of the day versus a really strong, 2244 rated player. 🙂

Followed an MVL game up until the trade of the queens; a difficult game to convert against a strong opponent.

abdication – improv, 28 july 2020


and wound tight around my waist as though the Jackal headed priest
appeared and wrapped me for forever, yet to come
For some it is a garden where buxomly women attend to each care
For some it’s a Mansion, high as Babel, wrong as can be,
The ziggurats are anthills to Yahoo, the God of Storms,
Or Yahweh who sometimes speaks from
Within a whirling thunderstorm
To scorn the would be judgers who,
Would judge the bailiff, not the fool
Who sinned against the laws of men
The laws of God and was brought in
Read the charge the Herald called,
The dead man entered in the hall.

The ceilings high were white as a lie

as hollow as hello
 as pale as goodbye;
The congregation sat in waiting for the Heretic to make it,
That he might reproach,
The Lord of Hosts, Elohim, the God of the World,
The fire is Free,
The fire that as a finger wrong on the marble he wrote
The mitzvot on;
And it was said if we behaved we’d have our own lot in the shade,
And if it would not come for us, not in this life, surely it must,
Be beyond the threshold of dawn on the other side of silence glittering on

But I doubt beyond the shout that rises fast and faster fades on out;
The gnashing of teeth is saved for the beast,
Not for the agnostic scholar who grinds his teeth,
In speculation if there’s God or Heaven in the Whole of Oz,
And if there isn’t there could be a people just as loving just as free;
The secret is there is no need, no need for the throne of Elohim;
They kept his footstool in Zion, and set the rules they relied on;
And Hilel said hell, I’m write, you’ll see;
The Heavens themselves will agree with me!
And just at the time came undeniable signs,
Of the power of God with Hilell;
And his friends, with a laugh, held to their stomachs and gassed,
Has it not been said that as we grew, we’d take on reason and make do,
With our own dealings without,
The L-rd himself to help us out.
And Surely any God would be,
Happy to have such children as these;
Who’d rather with reason work out the meaning
Than blindly follow the lights
The lights may tantalize and mesmerize but lead one into knee-deep lies;
And the dreams of Jinah are just thieves that steal away the yet warm eve;
Life is what we got and that is more than enough to get on with in fact,
So I think that never was so proud,
The man who reaped his harvest watered by the sweat of his brow;
And never was a son so contented that,
He asked his dad if he could be alone and sat,
To ponder the multiform this-and-that,
The puzzle They put before the rats.

The Ballerina’s Rose – an elegy – Poem


In loving memory of Garrick Bledsoe and Kayla Stephens, friends for whom this elegy was written.

The Ballerina’s Rose


What could have been a happy life,
blinked out in the dark last night.
In doing so it took the sun,
and robbed us of the light.
What is left is a reflection,
Sunlight fractured no direction.
To feel this way, that’s what we do;
To live and to love is to love and to lose.


What should have been a normal life,
happy husband, happy wife,
blinked out like a firefly.
Now those toys those kids adored,
will gather dust lost on the floor.
No more of those who were so close,
They’ve left the world, and leaving us,
have turned what we thought bright to dust.


What should be yet never is,
is something very serious;
It makes you think would may have been,
what should have been can never be;
It’s all just like the falling dream.
Where we fall from no one knows,
And when we land, we die to go—
To wake and look that we may see
the silent room – Eternity.
Why wrestle when one’s widow walks,
The story’s over, they are gone;
They left this world, but left a girl,
and while we wait alone,
for the never breaking dawn—
Let’s sing the Ballerina Song.


The light that so shines twice as bright,
may shine for half as long.
We shouldn’t wait until they’re late,
to put them on a throne.
What have we then? These hymns,
and songs?
Echoes fading long and drawn,
are not the croonings of a bird,
it’s simply what cannot be heard,
except by canyons, by the Earth–
Where we all will be interred.


Memories when written down,
Spring to life as magic somehow.
Although that future’s road is closed,
we still know how to see them so
within this pen they live again;
We’re ruled by cause and consequence—
Where are they now?
They’ve closed the lid,
with a rose she’ll never hold.
She died in darkness in the road.
Nor smell the scent,
will we again,
or hear the laughter in the den.
And we the family and friends,
wonder what there could have been.


Driving wild, hair in the wind,
Death was waiting round the bend,
not as a villain, but a friend—
The war for them came to an end;
Death is real, and life pretend.
It doesn’t matter how it ends, or ‘if,’-it will;
It’s over now, just stems and sticks,
Driftwood floating twenty-six,
Twenty six, too young to fall—
What have we left, our hymns,
our songs?
We have the Ballerina’s Song,
It is, ‘The Never Breaking Dawn.’


To live is but to write your name
in disappearing ink;
To watch it fade like footprints,
on a wave-tormented beach.
A seed we all fall from some tree,
And from us fall the Autumn leaves,
as dandelions in the wind,
we blow them and they scatter, then
they go away somewhere to grow.
How they begin, how they will end—
Appreciate your family, and friends,
you’ll never know when it will end.


They say we should not cry, nor mourn,
for those we lost walk with the lord;
We will see them all again,
and we will see them soon.
A band-aid for a gunshot wound,
that never stops, and bleeds,
it bleeds and seeps into our dreams.
And in those dreams we sometimes see,
them smiling by a silent stream.


It might sound odd, but this is true,
when you see them in a dream,
they are looking back at you;
They float around inside our heads,
and wake us wailing in our beds.
And while they’re trapped inside our mind,
we make for them a paradise.
Golden spires, velvet streams,
and for them the Siren’s sing.


These images, these scenes, our things,
where ghostly walk they through our dreams—
We cry, we pray, what can we do?
Death came for them; it comes for you.
They may be there, and looking down,
Wishing that we would not frown,
life is only what you make it,
and is why it is so sacred;
And if we choose to turn to booze,
we have but memories to lose.


They say we should we should not cry, nor mourn,
for loved one’s lost walk with the lord;
Even if that was the truth,
not a belief, something we knew—
We’d still weep, that’s what we do.
And if they’re in a better place,
I’d trade my life and take their place,
To see their family, their children play—
One more day for them to stay
so we can see them laugh and play,
“I love you” uttered as they fade.


I see them all in silent rows,
going out where in they go;
We need to stand there and to cry,
one after another, why?
The funeral was held for us,
For us to say goodbye.
What hurts the worst no one cay say,
it leaves you sleepless in the night,
a waking dream becomes your day;
They may be somewhere else, yet lost,
trapped outside of time, a ghost.
For all the ghosts which haunt us most,
are the ghosts we did not know.


When the Red Queen dies, the queen she was,
she’s carried through the crowd by love.
And her mother, my dear friend,
inspired me to take this pen,
to never let them be forgotten.
To show some beauty in this life,
in lowercase under a light,
I think I may have been too late,
to say the things I wished to say.
I’ll save them for her, face to face,
If there’s a heaven and I manage,
to find a way to sneak into that place.


To live is but to write your name
in disappearing ink,
to watch it fade like footprints,
on a wave-tormented beach.
From the trees we fell as seeds,
rooted rose and sprouted leaves,
to die and scatter with the breeze;
dandelion puffs caught in the wind,
we know where they start,
and where they may begin.
with no idea how they will end.


Dying flowers, rhetoric,
that is what the preachers said.
That this will not be the end.
That may be, but look, you see—
They have left us, that’s enough
for anyone to grieve.
Wherever they may really go,
she is leaving us, and so,
that is itself enough to mourn,
as shadows lengthen in the morn,
children of the light forlorn,
turn to the night so that it might,
halt a never breaking dawn.


We need to hurt,
we need to cry;
This is how we say goodbye.
All we know is what they took,
the pages from some future book,
of events yet to unfold.
And when she died, I went outside,
And wistful looked at a blank sky.
Now we’re chasing yesterdays;
our photographs become our graves.


What have we left to let us know,
they see no blue moon no sun yellow,
we have our anecdotes and jokes,
none of which replace them though.
The crazy angel, free and wild,
the wild angel cannot call,
to a never breaking dawn,
but they can dance by happen chance
In my Ballerina Song.


To cope sometimes we’ll have some wine,
to wash away our fears, our tears,
these photographs are ghosts arranged,
after they’ve gone in lacquered frames;
we sometimes talk to them in vain.
Silence the answer is the same—
A picture does not know its name.
As was the sun when she passed on,
time itself must carry on.
It takes the rich, the poor, the weak,
the strong;
We’re not really living,
we’ve been dying all along.
And most of us are doing it wrong.


The scenes in dreams of golden rings
all of them lost, no longer seem,
quite bright as they used to be;
That spark inside when it divides,
and disappears—the body dies;
it separates then dissipates,
and rejoins the circling sky
to ever go around us by.
Write a note,
set it on fire;
when it fades it just may find her.


No more will I see her there,
by the water, tasseled hair,
no more playing truth or dare.
Spin the bottle, there it is—
My first kiss, we were but kids,
and that I doubt I could forget.
Though sometimes I wish I could,
so I didn’t feel this way.
If I could change it, I’m sure I would,
all day every day.
If I could have one moment delayed,
the future would change in so many ways,
it’s possible she could’ve be saved.


A ring of smoke through one gate blown,
dissipates once more to go—
Life is a scene between these rings,
from one to another
like a porcelain figurine.
We see the ballerina pass,
and what a show;
The curtains ruffled, lights aglow;
she does her number, strikes a pose,
then bows as the curtains close.
Behind the curtain, in her robe,
the dancer does not see the rose.


To see such easy comfort cold,
sitting in a pew, we’re told—
Everything will be okay,
don’t worry, doubt, just wish, just pray.
But the one of whom they speak about,
fill empty seats within the house.
That quiet church, that sad music,
it is designed to make you lose it.
A variety of colored flowers,
decoration for a higher power.
The reason for the obsequy,
their reason to be loud,
was not a witness in that crowd.


In that quiet church, that silent scene,
I saw faces smiling on a screen.
Her penultimate place to rest, the flowers,
from the family and friends around her.
Then the music came so loud,
startling the yawning crowd.
The sympathy, the empathy,
and chasing you is misery.
The misery will never stop.
It chases you until you drop.


This is the dash between the dates,
these are the words and not the dots,
that they chisel into rock;
an angel sleeps just underneath,
With multicolored flowers, bold—
Plucked in bloom, like her, and cold,
and once picked the beauty fades;
The dying decorate the grave.


I’m just a poet you may notice,
that these words are just my roses.
Every verse is not a hearse,
I’m not here to make a grave;
it is a bridge, it is a wake;
If you look between the lines,
you may see familiar eyes;
A lost friend smile, a lost friend wave.
When they died I did not cry,
I thought it was a dream, a lie,
For her to die at twenty-six,
and him to die and leave his kid—
We’re ruled by cause and consequence.
The blood, the color, that rose red pose,
around her pooled her dead eyes closed—
The violence comes, the violence goes,
What has a dancer but a rose?


Upon that grave, that stain of Cain,
became a promise to fulfill;
that salvation for the thief was real.
So there they lay, for all of time,
no one can take it back, there is no Why;
That’s just a philosophical alibi,
that we use to justify—
Why nature’s cruel, why life is wild;
Why gift us life if we must die?
But it was true, and it was so:
There’s nothing that can change the past,
no–not even hope;
That’s why Pandora’s box was closed.
For the ghost that haunts us most,
is a ghost we did not know.


Life isn’t fair, nor should we dare,
assume some outside purpose there;
to comfort people with their fear—
There’s no edifice to settle this,
it’s all just cause and consequence.
That doesn’t mean it has no reason,
When we can’t come to terms, we burn,
but when we burn is when we learn.
Some are so bright that like stars,
as we see them burning from afar—
For even if it’s dead, and dust,
it shines in heaven high above.
Because of the speed of light,
all those stars that seem so bright,
may long ago have dimmed and died,
washed away with the time, the tide.
And out it goes into the night,
to leave us waiting and forsaken,
by a dawn that’s never breaking.


A ring of smoke through one gate blown,
dissipates once more to go—
Life is a scene between these rings,
from one to another
like a porcelain figurine.
We see the ballerina pass,
and what a show;
The curtains ruffled, lights aglow;
she does her number, strikes a pose,
then bows as the curtains close.
Behind the curtain, in her robe,
the dancer cannot see the rose.


Destiny weaves spider-webs;
the waters comes, the waters ebb.
I guess it’s nature, so they say.
They measure time, and measure days;
Morning coming, Autumn eve,
I will recreate the scene:
Two young adults, if more, not much,
where lost in that moment such
that it repeated many times;
For when our life, it flashes by,
you return to the moment when you died,
so when you die you may, you might,
get caught in a cycle reliving your life.


This is how we see the morning,
how we see the sky,
Another day, the new sun rise,
and hear the mockingbirds go by.
When the unseen sunrise comes,
the people stand in silence, dumb;
And listen to that silent drum,
the one we’re always marching to.
We all take different roads,
to the same place in the end–
forever reliving our visions again.


It will repeat, we’ll go to see,
our sleepless loved ones quiet at peace;
Destiny weaves spider-webs,
people cross and intersect;
this is the way that we connect.
All the choices in our lives,
to alleys lone and those alive,
to alleys where the good guys die.
We choose those streets,
we talk and meet;
a brick wall where it all leads.
“No Escape,” is what it reads.


To see a girl her life unfurled,
chasing fireflies at night
we ran around with such delight.
She was a dreamer, now a dream,
I came unraveled at the seams;
each patch of quilt only she filled,
cared for me when I was ill,
And thereby, being curred,
to see we live this way – absurd,
forever falling like a bird,
into an invisible world.
To stop, to move, the choice is cruel,
for time will play us for a fool.
For those who went for her, to weep
saw her there at peace, so sweet.
Her cheeks not dim,
her hair well kempt;
And in her hands that dying rose,
we leave it there and therefore buy,
our friend’s bus-pass to paradise.


To live is but to write your name
in disappearing ink,
to see it fade like footprints
on a wave-tormented beach.
A seed, we all fell from a tree,
that’s why we have that falling dream;
We’re falling all day, all our life,
And when we hit the ground, Goodbye
As we grow we too have leaves,
which fall to be caught in a breeze—
A dandelion, uncertain wind.
Cup what you have dear in your hands,
For when spring dies they’re gone again.


It’s never over and when we’re older,
we’ll hold those pictures of them closer.
And in that moment realize,
long as we love they’re still alive,
not in a grave, that silent place,
in our minds the child still plays,
on trampolines and roller skates
Points in time they intertwine,
they intersect and when we find,
a child who lived and died so wild,
has found their way to Miracle Mile.


A ring of smoke through one gate blown,
to dissipate to once more go—
Life is a scene between these rings,
from one to another
like a porcelain figurine.
We see it pass, and what a show—
The curtains ruffled, lights aglow;
She does her number, strikes a pose,
Then bows as the curtains close.
Behind the curtain, in her robe,
the ballerina never gets to hold her rose.


To be this sad proves only that,
in the end sleep we as kings;
We have the same things in our room,
reserved for all of us – the tomb.
There is no way to just move on,
when a piece of us has been torn off.
So notice those who live alone,
for all who’ve gone, who must then move,
down into that silent room.


I cannot raise them from the grave,
But I’ll preserve them on the page.
And while I think, she’s on the lawn,
her hair brown and braided long,
smiling as she plays, a song—
She hides behind the lines and smiles,
Think with her voice and pass it on,
let it echo till it falls.
The body shed, they’re on their own,
their faces on this page have shown—
That we chase yesterday, we long,
to try to see what can’t be shown,
just close your eyes and there, they’re home;
The body shed, they get to go,
to merge with clouds which hover low,
into the sky to fall as snow:
And at the winter’s ending blow,
out of our owns having had to hold,
a China doll does not get old.
The person who you love is gone,
but we must hold this vigil long.


We whisper to the dark, the night,
just in case some spirit might
in that silence hear our plea,
and wait for us to fall asleep
crawl into our ears, our dreams—
Only to leave when morning comes
they disappear and we go numb.
What we expect, the light, bird song—
Is in the never breaking dawn.


To see them so alive in dreams,
makes it hard for us to bring
ourselves to get up, out of bed,
to walk around the house half-dead.
We wish to live that sleeping lie,
to whom we give these blessings to,
it never seems enough to do.
“I’m sorry,” or, “I’m here for you,”
are band-aids made for gunshot wounds;
This is the cure, this is the truth;
at first it burns but then it soothes.
To bring them comfort, give them calm,
show the blind the rising sun.


Those faces past don’t seem to last,
although we hold on fade they fast—
Until we get to see, alas,
that life is more than just a dash,
between two dates under the rain.
No need to call out to the deaf,
or interrupt that sleep of death,
where neatly dressed they peaceful rest.
Always scared and ill-prepared,
we’ll meet them at the cross-roads there;
And in the self-same way,
for disconnected moments often,
intersect like fate.


Life is not the words, nor dash;
Life is different, life is mad.
When intersecting lines are crossed,
names can be stricken out, and loss
cripples both the weak, the strong.
You can’t go back,
you can’t move on.
You wait for dawn—which never breaks.
For those who sleep so sweet a sleep,
have never yet been known to wake.


A ring of smoke through one gate blown,
to dissipate to once more go—
Life is a scene between these rings,
from one to another
like a porcelain figurine.
We see it pass, and what a show—
The curtains ruffled, lights aglow;
She does her number, strikes a pose,
Then bows as the curtains close.
Behind the curtain, in her robe,
the ballerina was the rose.


To scream at one who hears you not,
who long ago this woe forgot—
For innocence is what has died,
the child in us, the Lord of Lies,
tells us all will be alright;
we all return to Earth, interred.
To be fossilized, conserved;
We cannot walk between these worlds,
is it okay for me to say
that I intend to haunt this page?
It might not serve to help you by,
but if you look close,
between the lines,
You just may see a pair of eyes,
familiar—watching as you cry.
And if these mazes endure ages,
they’ll live forever in these pages.


I say these things that haunt our dreams,
so we may make new memories.
Memories to help us sleep,
to keep us from choking when we scream.
That I might become a guide,
to help you guide a wounded mind,
where they’re alive outside of time,
where she smiles, and, still alive,
though to our mortal grief not bound—
Untouched by the accident,
resurrected, heaven-sent.
There is no place where she could go,
that could lessen sorrow, so,
Unless it was to come back home,
not to lay beneath the stone,
so cold, so long, forever, alone;
for they will never see the dawn.


That stone we fear that year by year
Draws ever near and in our fear
we see it clear;
we try to run, and blindly, dumb,
stumble through life, drunken bums.
Lost in a daze for on that day,
I had nothing left to say—
To decorate a grave this way,
that beauty may somehow assuage,
so learning of it in the night,
I found my pen, turned out the light,
There I lay, I closed my eyes,
and saw her waving to me, Bye.
Then I saw her going by,
in a car into the night,
and night is all she may see now;
we cannot speak; we don’t know how,
to see the dew glow on the lawn,
of the never breaking dawn.
Such few years between them both,
and as such were not enough;
Somehow that sweet girl might have found,
someone to turn her life around.
Someone to be kind, and be nice,
to smile and talk with her at night;
And now they’re gone, and we all know
such sorrow when we see them go.


One moment there, one blink, they’re gone,
we’re on that very path alone;
marching to the banging of a madman
on a drum;
Time calls us weary wand’rers home.
The next dawn died when that moon rise
unseen by two pairs of eyes,
their essence having faded to the background of the sky,
to forever go around us by.
Out of this there is no sense,
to take the young, the innocent;
Through all of this, this I have learned;
get too close and you will burn.
But that scar is not a mark
I’d have the heart to pick apart,
I’d wear it just to keep the pain,
for losing it would be a shame.
The sun suspended in the sky,
presses the night against our eyes.
It is when you can’t move on,
that you understand a never breaking dawn.


Life is too short and we all know it,
we cannot keep alive one moment,
in a glass that it may last,
a present always, never past:
Think of her face, think of his laugh:
And they may appear,
look harder and the faces clear.
Sitting on a couch she was,
beside a light where motes of dust,
ricocheted away in chaos just as us all day,
No one knows what could have been,
we know what cannot be.
In this case,
today they may
be safe–alive–inside page,
Tomorrow is not guaranteed;
anything that may have happened,
was killed by that action, fractured—
And for this there is no answer,
Life is painful, life is rare,
to think about her lying there,
pulls my heart into my throat.
I lose my mind, I lose my hope,
We look for comfort and for peace,
but no belief can stomp out grief.
This band-aid on that gunshot wound,
will always sting, they always do,
it’s hard to breathe, and still we bleed;
maybe this is what we need.


Nothing would be better
if our friends could live forever.
To never age or fade away;
all the graves could be replaced,
and turned into a happy place,
garden groves, where children play—
Where someone may just wish to stay.
We’ve seen it coming all along;
Death comes too soon, and stays too long,
and when he comes he takes it all;
But I’ve been wrong, and all along,
they’re living here inside the song.
To lead us to the golden dawn,
where days unending never fall;
It won’t go down,
there are no clouds;
the light has struck the surface now.
The nighttime came and now it’s gone,
the sun comes up and breaks the dawn.


A ring of smoke through one gate blown,
to dissipate to once more go—
Life is a scene between these rings,
from one to another
like a porcelain figurine.
We see it pass, and what a show—
The curtains ruffled, lights aglow;
She does her number, strikes a pose,
Then bows as the curtains close.
Behind the writer and the prose,
this is the Ballerina’s Rose.

Revolving Window, 1st draft – poem – 14 March 2020

Regret is how a man
can drown
without getting wet,
Fear is the lie,
that we’ll survive,
If we just do our best;
Hope is the bet,
we make that yet,
we’ll glimpse the other side.
A summer breeze,
that stirs the leaves,
In a tempest as it climbs.

Into the waste of empty space,
beneath a star-strewn sky
In our distress we seek redress,
Silence gives no reply;
So in our longing for belonging,
We take this as a sign;
For if we heard,
these whispered words
we’d hear time ticking by.

We forget that never yet
has one returned from there –
the revolving doorway,
empty stairs –
the garden tended is not there;
What lies behind that curtain fine
we can never be quite certain;
Take it all in stride and hide,
until the hour falls.
Until you pass the revolving door
and hear the silence call.

The Siren’s song was far too long,
we never heard it all
We washed ashore as we were born
And wandered through the hall
Looking this way, to and fro,
whence we came, nor where we go,
were we supposed to glimpse, to know?
And such regret may help us yet,
if we can rise, as do
The leaves that lift upon the breeze
and settle with such quiet ease.

Digging up the Bones of God: the Flat Earth Movement – 13 March 2020


Digging up the Bones of God
On the Flat Earth Movement and its Antecedents

First of all, this will not be any attempt to discredit nor slander anyone who holds the beliefs discussed herein. Rather, I will try to ascertain the motivation, the thinking, and the impetus behind the growth of such movements in recent years. Secondly, we must keep in mind that we are dealing with people who, for the most part, are engaged in a type of science; in the case of the flat Earth movement, people are actively seeking knowledge, though it runs contrary to physics, our cosmological model as understood by modern science and observation. Today I wanted to say my piece about the flat Earth movement, and in a follow up discuss the anti-vaccination phenomena.

What we have are a group of people that are making a number of assertions, which, when added up, seem to show them that the Earth is flat and, moreover, they have been lied to by government agencies and the scientific community. I believe this base impulse drives these communities, the flat Earth movement and the anti-vaccination movement. When we look at it from this perspective, it is not hard to empathize with this sentiment; the last fifty years have given us ample evidence which demonstrates the extent to which our elected officials and institutions are willing to bend the truth in order to further their own agendas. These impulses are natural, and rather than resulting in a healthy skepticism, lead them to embrace notions outside of the norm. Furthermore, though it may be easy to simply dismiss the earnest, truth seeking people among these groups, it is unproductive and ultimately accomplishes very little. When attempting to explain why someone may be wrong, it is important to realize that we have to meet someone where they are and not attempt to talk down to them.

A quote from one of the leading figures in the flat Earth movement, “…In fact, it’s just silly when you think about it. Astronomy and astrophysics and all of that, they aren’t even real sciences. You, obviously, are going to claim that they are. But you can only observe. You can’t make hypothesis, or make predictions, all you can do is observe…” Later, he adds, “Do you just believe everything the government tells you, that they are right about everything?” And freemasonry is brought into the discussion, for some reason, which is an attempt to show the physical structure of the planet we live on. If the argument were strong enough, these comments would be wholly unnecessary, but from the perspective of someone who believes in the flat Earth model, this is not irrelevant at all. Far from it, actually, it is the linchpin around which everything else revolves. First they must prove that ‘they’ are lying, and somewhere at the end of that road is a flat Earth, Freemason plots, and a society of elites who control the world, sometimes Jewish, sometimes gentile, but always invisible and impossibly competent, powerful and all-knowing. Godlike, you could say.

That the flat Earth movement has yet to create a model that can be tested and observably make predictions does not seem to be a problem for this man, though he asserts these claims with all the confidence of a Nobel laureate. What we have here is a group of people who have been left behind, left out of the mainstream scientific discourse, and have a deep-seated feeling that they have been lied to for their entire lives. Many of us have now seen the now infamous Netflix documentary. During its runtime, a prediction is made that, everyone present claims will behave in one way if the earth were a sphere. Yet, when the results come in and it does just that, no one is willing to meet this head on. It is practically ignored. What is it that we have here? Is it a case of confirmation bias?

Perhaps this is more of a case where we have a group of people who have found a community where they have found acceptance, a sense of belonging, in which the work they are doing is attempting to rewrite the book on some of the most fundamental and perplexing questions to ever trouble the minds of human beings. Rather than the Earth being a single speck amid untold billions, instead we have a special garden, lovingly crafted and distinct amid the celestial bodies and part of a unique, special creation unique in the entirety of the universe. This realization may give one pause in attempting to debunk such theories; scientists and those conversant in physics and mathematics can, to their heart’s content, give example after example. But as long as those examples come from an establishment they have roundly rejected they will be roundly rejected, as the science is not being rejected as much as it is the establishment it represents. As long as that establishment has been linked to institutions which have, in their minds, deluded and misinformed the public for so long, attempting to refute these ideas by relying on information gathered from these same institutions will be met with hostility, rejection and mockery, and are likely to never convince.

It is also important to recognize the role of conspiracy in modern culture. It plays a role once played by religion. Instead of all powerful Gods who control the forces of nature, like Zeus and his thunderbolt and Poseidon’s mighty waves, there are shadowy, all powerful groups whose footfalls shake the Earth and only they, those in the know, privy to the secrets like the initiates of the ancient mystery cults of Athens, can feel their tremors and recognize their true origins. As we see again and again, if someone believes that the Earth is flat, it is also likely they believe in other conspiracy theories. Browsing the Flat Earth and Globe Discussion Facebook page, home to 125,000 members, one is likely to come across other, often unrelated conspiracy claims. Is it a coincidence, that in finding the truth about the globe, they also decided that every other conspiracy was also strong enough to persuade them? Or is it more likely that, once you roundly dismiss the world and its history because of the sources from which that information is derived, the only way to rebuild the world is in a way that maintains the Gods, albeit in different forms, and to reclaim the dignity and uniqueness of humanity? Claims are not supported, rather they are repeated; what has no place in a normal scientific discussion, like the trustworthiness of the government, is irrevocably linked to these movements because they have no trust in these establishments, nor the institutions from which our counter-arguments derive.

I would argue that this is what is going on, and that it is not about what proofs they may present; for each argument to be presented can be easily rebuffed. The gradual set of the sun, for example, the day and night cycle in which half of the world experiences darkness while the other daylight, while each becomes less dark and more bright by gradient, is enough to disprove by observation the notion of a low-orbit sun, we are trying to convince people that what is, essentially, a new religious community that we have dug up the bones of their God and measured them, classified them and put them into a category, as a butterfly specimen is pinned to a display case by a needle. Some may be acting in bad faith, and others may just be curious, but for the majority of the community, working with contradictory models and acting on faith, it is more accurate to look at this for what it is: the attempt to reclaim the uniqueness of humanity, the Earth, and their dignity in the face of what they feel to be a world full of lies, deceit and misinformation. They are not scientists, they are theologians. And we all know it is so much easier to preach to a choir.

Furthermore, you will often hear references to the Bible, the energy of the Heavens, selective quotations and claims from pre-modern scientists. The flat Earth movement may not be exclusively religious, nor all its members inclined towards religiosity, but the impulse that once drove us to religion is one and the same that drives those who now seek to remake the world among themselves, among people whose faces they can see, whose problems they understand and whose eyes they can look into without flinching – ‘real people’ – not representatives of institutions that have lost their credibility. Only a flight into space has a chance of putting this to rest, but I guarantee you if some eccentric billionaire was to pay to take the leaders of the flat Earth movement into space, far enough up to see the curve receding in the distant and giving way to the shapes of our beautiful planet, they would find a way to dismiss their eyes before giving up their God.

The Sacrifice, 1st draft [new poem]


The Sacrifice

Draft 1, Brandon Nobles, 15 February 2020

Lindow Moss was a close community,
built atop a rubbish heap, a dour bog,
Somewhere between near and far.
A miasma to the north, just past the bank,
through virgin forests, the kind that ring,
With bird-song in the bloom of Spring
The equinox sun shines down on the drus
that the shaman strikes with passion and hums;
Praise God!
God be praised!
Said the priest atop his Dais;
Beside the pyre with a torch, he gave it to the heap;
As the rains give seeds the Mother needs,
the millet and the rye.
Meanwhile the chosen sacrifice,
bound and gagged cried for his life.
Cheers and shouts cut through the air
The sacrifice had been prepared.

The flames spurred the winds to action, when,
The demons, they kept peeking in;
And God hath risen from the Moss,
above the priests, above the heap,
Above the ground which God bequeathed.
The people of Lindale turned to the priest,
The shaman chief,
who chanted deep inside his throat,
a sacred rhythm no one knew.
The ground shook loose its crown of dew,
the glittering rainfall
God is great!
The Sacrifice was brought in bound,
wreathed bout his brow with a laurel crown.

Give us Grace dear Lord of Rains
Lord, virile and fertile!
Give us millet, honey-suckle!
Give your seed to Mot!
That the womb of the Earth gives birth to the crop
That we sing these songs for our Great God, Mot!
Give us the children, give us the crop!
Give your Great Seed to the Goddess mot!
They took the scapegoat, crowned and bound,
Atop an ever-burning mound
Beneath a mound of peat built high
Beneath a circle of rose-red burning concrete
arranged beneath the Goddess’ Wreath
as worn by the offering that is Given;
The sacrifice was twenty-five and groomed, well-cut
All his life;
Raised for the People, for the sacrifice.

Repaying a life for life.
They did not know his name, but sang,
Feasted his good health in the afterlife.
They’ll sing of him for centuries;
The way he burned for the Gods in peace.
They sing of him when they knead their dough;
The virgins long for the Lindale crow.

At Lindale Moss in the countryside,
Each solstice the village builds a pyre.
And gives to the flames the royal heir,
Each summer the Shaman chief would take
A walk through the woods and sit by the lake
And go into visions, to the spirit world
To commune with the ancestors, hear their words
the world is alive and it sings such lies
filling him as smoke through a blown-glass
Contorting and forming to the touch of fire
Across his nerves, fingers on nylon strings
Played by a ghost in his waking dreams
The mirage conveyed that he wished for Slaves,
And indicated the time was at hand.
Beckoning the old man into a trace.

Back at the camp the logs were stacked,
The Heir to the Fire was drugged and wrapped
The priestesses in virgin dresses
Rolled him up the hill;
From behind a shrine on gaudy pines
Followed them up a slight incline
Surrounding men and women cheered
As the sunlight struck the cement grill;
The sacrifice was stricken twice
Senseless, the poor boy fell;
Twenty-three and bread to bleed
He lived a short life, the sacred creed
Gave them rainfall, gave them seed;
And returning him to the womb of the Earth,
To the Lindale Crows this assured Rebirth
In an air-conditioned Spring like Eden
Milk and honey rolling greenlands.
It was a tough life, but oh well,
to prep for paradise is hell.


the glass long in breaking


The Teacher said,
“Consider, children –
that noble art, the fine tradition,
of mending what is broken and not blurring out
or censoring a living thing to hide the shame of mending
Something broken does not need
to be hidden but seen
the art is in its breaking,
The human touch is that tape
propping up a botched Eden with elbow grease
“So, children, art has the type of scars,
left by the long breaking jar;
which must strive to hold itself,
the moment it is dropped.
The lines appear the time is here
the space between each shard disappears
the drinking vessel by association with us,
The Shame!
The children of Adam gave sin to the Saint!
Children, look upon the glass, the rag
The duct-tape holding shivering glass –
But I tell you, it is the human touch
To feel such empathy for a cup!

The student said,
And think, Master, then of the cup;
Are we not cared for by our Lord?
And the master smiled and nodded.
“But why his silence, Father?
No succor for the fragile,
nor heed for the hopper.
No weed for the daytripper smack for the Bopper –
Where was God when they cried out then,
Not the glass, but God’s own men?
He is a sadist, this mad potter that –
Casts with lots such things as that!

The teacher eyed the boy, a smile,
How curious thought the old man, while,
The others in the room had taken sides;
“And what is the greatest gift we could have of God?”
The master asked and waited, calm.
Shouts of “Faith!” and “Peace for all!”
Shouts of Messiah and the Fall;
“Children, please, you must believe.
The truth, how sad, but none the less correct for that,
God’s greatest gift is his absence, for glass,
may shatter beneath the most loving of Hands;
the hands that held the hells below and lifted mountains
through the snow,
would wrap around each one of us,

And in that cocoon – as safe as the womb,
as warm as a summer evening,
Our Lord brings sand and casts in hand
The long in breaking Glass;
Oh, sweet children ye are such,
A cup, nay a fount,
That yearns to be full to keep God out;
The jungle we have is not to be wrapped
In silk and kept in a case in the back
The glass is Atlas and he cracks,
But long in breaking he keeps track.
If Atlas were felled in the embrace of El
Is broken by the love that held the reserve,
the glass that’s long in breaking is the glass
that long endures.
wrapped in silk, even silk will press,
and in that cocoon as warm as the womb,
pressed sweetly and kept safe from the world,
Is broken by the love that held the reserve.
The glass is Atlas when he staggers and trips
and sad for sure but we break just as pure
the glass long in breaking endures.

The student asked, why then,
Not making the succor more milk than cement?
Is the balance of Rent in this Universe
so great that we must trudge through this desert first
Talk less of Atlas that beggar, Alas!
And more of why we must be as glass,
If we were made from sand to be loved,
Then sure,
The children can endure their maker, no?

of a glass Atlas and he staggers

And splintering like porcelains things
They burst into ash into smithereens
But the glass long in breaking
Cracks beneath embrace,
of God and ever slightly breaks
hairline fractures spread in shouts of crooked violence
The love of God is instruction through silence.

To survive it we must be the same glass that
long in breaking keeps holding that –
The space between the shards of glass
that Atlas left when he staggered left
and caught on the floor of the Universe,
To hit rock bottom beneath the Earth,
To hit such a bottom, God damn it hurts.

That’s the final break, when the space between the pieces is no longer close enough
to be held together by the attraction of the pressure which did bring
The glass from sand through magic and chant into the glass that lasts;
The glass long in breaking is not ours, after all
We must not keep our glass, sweet children,
lest we be,
fused into glass at the moment of transmutation
When in the hands of God the sand as wind trod up like a Saraband
And in that force was turned to Glass,
To break and break long but to last.

by God but slowly starts to break

Born into splinters a fissure’s spool
Sends fracture lines throughout the glass
And – image it, you fall, and land
Above a cliff, caught by a pane
of glass that breaks the moment you land.

The glass long in breaking having survived the hand of God
has dignity as one might have a scar;
And paralyzed we empathize with the Mantis who ever righteous
Bows in submission with arthritis –

Early improv, 9 october 2019


Come, take the Cash, May my Credit Spike and Void
The bank, the bars, the Hapless Worker Who
Pushes buggies sweating as they Do,
In Sierra Leonne whose heaves and groans
Offer quite a rich delight, for that special someone
That special night.

Oh silence, judge us not!
The beast that had to kkill to Live!
Pardon, my Lord;
The thief who stowed away and Crossed
The Shimmering Curtain – ah, a scent of moss!
Is it not for him whose thorny crown,
Who paid the loan the forgotten Earthling, he
East of Eden kicking leaves;
Cursing the Wind, Cursing his God,
Be Fruitful, bring in the wine!
We’ll toast to the Justice of Job an’
In thyme, may we make just,
Those in the pitch black shadow that
is cast, Time has a shadow,
This Rust,
Is the future’s whisper through its mirror
That it has its eye on us.

A time will come when the sun will freeze
And dawn will hang suspended, trembling
An autumn leaf caught in a breeze
Lifted by a breathe, Breathe, now,
Sing! For the silent Lord!
For the Two-Faced God who Butched Job,
And Satan who was patient,
And did not raise his sword;
Shame on thee, oh Mighty Lord;
How you rebuke the many, the few!
Because they did what you knew they’d do!
How can a God lament what it is
To be accused of a Fall
Diagnosed with Sin
Condemned to burn for something He earned,
Maybe him, but not us;
The straggler in the room, in lust;
The gambler whose eyes red and shot
Rolled on Jesus and his Lot
He raked in empty armfulls, Ah!

Mercy, merci beau coup,
Ha’el shli loh baha’nim
Red rouge vahtza-hov
Prekaynizye shel Sherchezade!
Tell me a Tale, lift from the Well,
A glance of the Cleansing Ale!
Who confounds the Weavers and the Webs,
Looses the strings round flies, when trapped,
But the poor spider she sits beside her,
And looks up, Mas shim’kha?
I’m a spider darling, no parlez vous Akvish
You cannot hang a painting with Peace,
No glass hammer can hold
The weight of the Gallery and the Gold
Between the canvas, and There, our Lord!
Peaks through the space between
the cecar cabinets and beams,
Sending coded letters through
The spinning silk of a spider,
Eik ahah’va, nahon, my home is far,
Lilah, oh tov Lilah come and be,
Sweet as lemonade on the beach.

Sing as do the cockatoos,
Croak as the rooster greetong anew
Dawn, the cosmic cue
Curtains up, Mah yuh’sah now?
We’ll all die never knowing how.
Never knowing why, that’s it,
Don’t fret, don’t weep, it’s within reach
The air we breathe is air we keep.
When you fall just reach, and there,
Where fingertips grasp at the air
The silence catches and reflects
The empty space – it reaches back

And lifts into a jeweled burst
The sense of hearing – it goes first.
I was afraid of silence as a child,
I was, and thought – with dread;
How terrible it’d be
Without Heaven;
Or in Hell,
But in the end I could take,
The condemnation in the lake,
But not the silence without end,
Suspended in between the rain,
Between what was and deja vu;
And it hits me as a Seraiph’s kiss,
We have nothing to fear;
Without ears there’s little to hear.
Embrace it sweet child,
My sweet dear.
Count memories, not years, not time
Where we came from, through the ring,
Through the outdoor through the Spring,
Pray that Eden was a dream. 

Yara’s Near-Life Experience – 9 October 2019, a poem


Come, take the Cash, she whispered
a quick breath escaped as the spirit itself,
Spilled out between the bars of the Liquor Shelf;
The day outside the formaldehyde stench of
the halogen aisles she forced a smile,
As the hapless ones who do
Live on filtered brilliance, light
Is not gifted them direct,
But, as the sun the light upon
the alabaster shines,
To stay inside while there is time,
To hold onto those moments where
Time and space are knotted there
And music attends the scene, like a dream,
A carousel of kaleidoscopes,
“Sweet girl, sweet dreams.”

She never took her meds, not Yarah,
And deja vu is a stereotype
The floor rose up to embrace her as a lover does
As a pool that is too cold,
When one first jumps in.
After a time a change comes by
And the two states exchange;
Where now it’s too hot to get out
To face the cold of the world without
The pool was a seizure-room
She went to
When she collapses and knots up,
as warm as the womb.

She came to herself and looked down,
Seeing there,
A sprawling mess of curly hair,
She thought she was dead for a moment, and there,
By her body she could see,
A reflection on a moving screen;
So the floating ghost that hovered round
Could watch the figures while she was out.

But she heard it, yes, there – did you –?
The silence calls, just silence, shh —
It’s overwhelming, a voice of Gold,
Complete, total, the screen flickered
and she screamed.

Oh silence, judge us not!
The beast that had to kill to Live!
Pardon, my Lord;
The thief who stowed away and Crossed
The Shimmering Curtain – ah, a scent of moss!
Is it not for him whose thorny crown,
Who paid the loan the forgotten Earthling, he
East of Eden kicking leaves;
Cursing the Wind, Cursing his God,
Be Fruitful, bring in the wine!
We’ll toast to the Justice of Job an’
In thyme, may we make just,
Those in the pitch black shadow that
is cast, Time has a shadow,
This Rust,
Is the future’s whisper through its mirror
That it has its eye on us.

A time will come when the sun will freeze
And dawn will hang suspended, trembling
An autumn leaf caught in a breeze
Lifted by a breathe, Breathe, now,
Sing! For the silent Lord!
For the Two-Faced God who Botched the Job,
At least Satan, hate to say it, had
the decency to stay His hand.

Oh, the Devil is on Tap, for sure;
But God would make a mother fucker wait,
Until they had too long stood before the gate;
Burning their vigils to their devils
Shame on you, all due respect,
You vicious pervert, and she wretched;
Sticky hands went towards her palms
Lifting her back into her,
And floating, she just watched;
The flickering screen turned black and green
And the door opened with an electric breeze

“Breathe, sweet child,
Mercy me…”
Yarah did not know, though she always thought,
There was no echo in the dark,
No hand to grab you when the air
Was all between you and the snare.
And thinking she would die she let out such a cry:

To be accused of eating Fruit,
Diagnosed with sin because of a rib
Magically made into Eve and then!
Since she couldn’t trust her gut
That a snake was not something to trust –
We all must die and burn and flail
In empty pits of freezing hail,
The straggler sat in a dim lit room,
A gambler with red red eyes shot and gloom
Hung o’er the Waiting Room.
The Gambler rolled again, and lo,
He raked in the air by the armfull there,
Cursing the air he had to breathe.
The straggler in the room, in lust

Voices, mother, is that you?
Mercy, merci beau coup,
Loose the strings, release the flies,
The spider beside shouts “Mas shim’kha?”
And she hears drill through her ears
The thump of a hammer made of glass,
Thumping against a wall and cast
A painting – oh, of me, ah, alas.
The floating ghost hung back, and sighed,
Was she forever trapped,
Had she really died?
My little lemon, get up, come on.
Take the canvas and expand
Use that silk, be the spider.
Hypnotized by electric light
Automatic as the lilies and the rose,
nor the crows that scared van Gogh!
Oh Lord!
The light looked back, a brilliance shared,
The moon was a little stepping stare,
A taper light no more, it could,
Make peace with its dimness as it should.

She heard her mother speak, or was it –
No –
“Don’t fret, don’t weep, it’s within reach
The air we breathe is air we keep.
When you fall just reach, and there,
Where fingertips grasp at the air
The silence catches and reflects
The empty space – it had reached back,
From a floating mote lost amid a puff of smoke
Yarah drifted into senses and in a sense awoke.

Suicide, the taking of what does not belong to oneself:


Why I Decided to Just Fucking Die


“Chemical imbalance” and Serotonin Syndrome

Taking certain medications, inadequate treatments for manic depression such as SSIDS (like Paxil, Zoloft, anything my editor will point out she can name) can make physical joy – without aide – that feeling of ‘not pain’ impossible. Simply, one cannot be pleasant, happy, have energy, only an intense and overwhelming and unending compulsions. I spend a weekend working on translating Russian tabloid magazines that gossip – the idiot’s rhapsody – about political matters whenever some hack journal/online thoughtless think-piece peddler comments about whoever is currently taking over the world and why we should kill the dragon. It’s whore work. It makes me feel sticky all over like the universe is stuck to me and won’t let go and it has my skin AHH AHAHAHAHA it’s not easy to deal with it. What are your options if you don’t want to murder yourself to stop – what? Compulsion towards wanting to write books, which I may get as far as 50-100k words into, before I’m FUCKING POOR I CAN’T EAT SO HERE’S A JOURNALIST IN RUSSIA WHO THINKS HE KNOWS SOME SHIT THAT WENT DOWN AT THE KREMLIM BETWEEN WALUGI AND you see? Click here for Top 5 Reasons Why you Shouldn’t Commit Suicide.


Your life does not belong to you.
Did you pay for it?
Is the air not fucking free?
Look around and think. Listen to the silence, and yet? What’s that telling you? Click off now or you’ll regret this!
I’ve sinned, too; regret, regrets, the terrible things we do, to our lives and the lives of others. The wrongs I’ve done to others – slight lies, fabrications of any sort, stealing, fire setting, cat robbery, notebook theft, anything I do, it sits on me like ever-coagulating concrete that wraps and squeezes forever tighter but somehow doesn’t solidy or break. The compulsion must be to atone; I’m sorry I wanted to look as though I am better than I am; the cat was outside and you weren’t treating her right anyway; I’m a klepto impulsively and autistic; high functioning just means your condition leaves a footprint, a deep stinking pit of stink and shit. I’m sorry, I’m not as good as I would have anyone believe. But I am trying to be better than the person I am to atone for the person I was, through action and purpose and thought and action for my life does not belong to me.

3 When You’re Thrown Away and Can’t Understand Anything

I was adopted by two kind Southerners; a hardworking spinster who raised 5 kids – and adopted two more, my Brother Kyle and myself, and worked 6 days a week 12 hours a day and NEVER FUCKING RESTED A SECOND. My adoptive father was always ill, but he gave me everything when I got a home; I met another man who would have adopted me – who turned out to be married to a relative – and he kept in touch with me, encouraging me to write him letters. I sent him copies of Dr. Seuss, telling this man that I FUCKING WROTE GREEN EGGS AND HAM. Y [shame]

But he said they were great, keep it up young sir. And I did, and I said look at all these words I know; and I’d list everything I could make sense of, and he would encourage it greatly. He told my father, who bought a series of books – a poor man’s encyclopedia. This kind stranger, not related to me by any means, taught me how to convert my fear of silence into expression, and art. It showed me how to put together ideas and notions in ways I feel are sublime and beyond grasping, like the air that you grab when you’re falling and nothing’s there – but this is when nothing holds you. An inexpressibly beautiful and edifying sort of word mosaic. And I have never needed a penny since. I sold my first but when I was 19 and started selling essays to my friends who went to college as I went through uni; I did this full time. In my spare time I wrote and published 3 more novels, The Make Believe Ballroom, Dream of the Louse, Songs of Lalande, and then I found a site that you would let you make money from translation. What? How hard could that be?

Now I’m a whore and compulsive and suicidal become of that physical joy incapability earlier which becomes harder and harder to cope with without DRUGS. I’m sorry mama, I did my best;
Let the poor boy get some rest
get that boulder off his chest
Let him have his fucking death
Why does he want to die so bad?
Why is such a soft glass so sad
Can’t do what you love because the shit you love
Doesn’t sell enough because it’s poetry, enough!
No rhymes and silence please!
Get some work done on your book sir,
I’m trying!
Schizoprhenia in public?
Atonement is confession in the way you can best express it
And if I say goodbye this is how it’ll
the doorway through silence and moment of change
where the sea becomes land and the land reaches up
Grasping to be a mountain above
and the mountain itself reachers higher and yet
is only trying to be the sky itself.
And the sky stretches too into darkness to blue
Where smoke goes when it dissolves as rain tends to do.

1 When You Prepare for Death. (Suicide by strawberry)

I won’t do it… I cannot. You made a promise, you SHIT. And you’ve been trying to clown around, talking to yourself and shit.
Get back to the point.
Crazy, you see. “Take your pills, you’ll be better.” Walking but still dead is no way to live. You can access my finished novels in [link later] if you’d care and if I stop writing it’s not because I failed it’s because I was to week to keep the promise I made. If – i’m not, you shit don’t be melodramatic.
shame, that boy hears things, you know

Say what you will about the devil, he’s on time. God is that silence, that nothing that either embraces and takes or holds, as the air you grab when your dumb ass leans over to far and the point of no return destabilizes your internals. . I’m sorry I’ve done this to you. I did it for me, if it helps keep me breathing, then I hope you don’t feel like you’ve wasted your time reading. I confess that I’ve lied but oh Lord have I tried to make myself better before I died. But I can’t make it work with my work and exert the effort that I need in pain. The feeling can be best explained with something one might experience.

If you’re allergic to, say,
I grew up in a place where money goes a long way. For example, right now I live in a 3 bedroom house with a 28 ft x 24 ft bedroom, living room and fireplace, but everything is packed into one room, like a house in a cubby. A small, small world. But when you don’t need money, have to provide for a child, you have to stop doing drugs and get your shit together.

2 Trying not to Commit Suicide by Self Justification

I kept my son in good care, well-fed, writing books. Writing essays, working with friends, being fed by more talented friends with better credentials and kinder than I might not be in such a place; but the lesson of this kindness keeps me here. The people who bear, for the sake of what I say, the pain of my silence when I’m not hear to say anything more. I believe that people have a niche they can slide into, and outside of it the world does not fit them. It’s uncomfortable in skin that doesn’t fit you. But the air is free. And, I’d rather continue to reach, like the mountains do yearning ever to metamorphose into air, but I’ll remain, and let the waves erode me before I voluntarily let them knock me over.

Atonement means the metamorphosis of one, different person into another. A thief that is rehabilitated and gets into heaven at the finish line. I will never be such a sinner, nor sin in such ways again; not before my friends, for them – my garden, the world! – and God, you miserable silence, I’m not afraid of death. *Hits blunt.* Don’t fear silence, though; you can’t hear it when you’re dead. Embrace the air that’s there that grabs you back and takes you thought that hallway of metamorphosis… into nothing, through the glass walls of silence …
Check out my collections of poetry, Counterpane – years 21 – 29. And The Wheatfields East of Eden, my poems from age 5-21. You can get my short stories and novels and here all the shit’s on the same page if you give a fuck; and typos should remain in art like every one of a van Gogh smudge.

Also check out my story “Horton Hears a Who”.


Hospitalization and Recovery.

I’m fine and working on translations. Learning new language to help me facilitate more idiotic rhapsodies while I work on my upcoming book. If my editor will still have me.

Oh thank you all for coming and thank you for not leaving, he said to no one. Ah, I can always hear the silence speaking …

Improvising poetry, just for fun – 5 june 2019 – A Stranger’s Land


When the army’s came and took the North,
Yisrael fell first and things got worse;
Deported to Babel, in long caravans,
From the Hejaz to Iraq on scalding grains of sand;
The cream of the crop was taken and dropped
into a kingdom just to stop
A movement to replace their throne,
a king of their own who feared the Lord,
not some cretin with protection,
Under an empire’s wing, there’s plenty of room
for shade, for all,
to wither away with each custom, each Law,
until it is a story, then,
told b campfires now and then,
until the Exiled ones return;

As they set off in the night,
the caravan was lit up by the light
As God’s own house burned to the ground,
a book to praise the fires formed;
For if God is the Word and the Word was inscribed,
by fingers of fire on stone from the skies,
the Laws of Moses were inscribed.
When the stone cooled there emerged,
in the whirlwind unperturbed
proof a penatent voice is always heard,
if prophets less;
As people marched from Canaan on,
Nebudchenezzar from his throne,
Like Marduk’s rage to raze their homes.

A generation passed and some forgot,
the language of their home and thought,
it may have just been one of those tales,
an excuse for children for the pain life entails;
But haMashiokh King Koresh,
Anointed of the Lord, no less,
decreed that those who there remained
might return to their homes again.
And beneath the sky where stood
Solomon’s temple now, though bare,
as a mirage danced on the air –
it was as though a tiny hole had slipped into the world,
and looking through the eyes which saw
burnt into the land of all a new covenant and law.
The temple, yes, it would arise
from the ashes phoenix like
Vyohmer Elohim (so said the Lord)
And on he went, thus “yehi ohr”
And God said let there be light,
Vehi ohr, and the light returned –
Hallelujah, Adonai,
May your lost children learn,
To understand thy silence and not
seek out such words.

Where the plot had been marked out,
the measurements and workmen found;
They’d give their Lord a chariot
a merkebah with flames, a jet,
that he could leave his solemn home,
Escape the holiest place to Roam,
to hear his people sing their songs
by the rivers of Babylon.

Oh! How can we sing for our Lord
In a Stranger’s land?
Oh moon, ye lesser light,
How light you, sometimes are we
In the longest nights while wakeful we toss
And turn and dwell on home, just there,

The rose garden and the vineyards
Bloom in absentia
To remind,
The whole of what we left behind.
Oh moon, you lantern for the lost
Beacon, guiding light that drew Nomads across
The tip of Iffrikiya into Ethiopia; from Nubia to Egypt and Anatolia;
Yerushalem and and the remains of the wall;
That’s the secret, that’s the key;
To stand before the winds and cry, Not me!
If you want me dead world,
You’ll have to kill me;
Obliterate each hint and footprint that told of our of exile,
A group of people all lonely, together but nowhere, silent but buzzing
Busy are the bumblebees that have that work or die for the Queen disease
Though it’s a farce and much to brief,
As Arjuna stood between two massing foes
As some strung bows and others horns
The battle call the blood, fair Morn,
Remind me of Tomorrow and it’s gift,
Is a distorted etch sketch of brief events
The cat in the marketplace, mew, and off,
To those who sang in exile by the Rivers of Babylon

How do we worship the Lord our God without a temple, speak!
His Ark and covenant were plucked beneath the dear Lord’s feet;
And as his temple crashed in flames
He whirled about, a word, a name
A judge and jury, an unending flame,
The holy fire that we’ve seen in the deeds of Elohim
Suggest that more than anything that he,
Thrived on awe and pageantry;
And never seemed to show a care
Of the most righteous whose constant faith,
Was an act of piety and aped;
So we rubbed our hands as insects may have done,
To summon the fire that puts to the pire
The seal of justice for the Cryer.

So the deeds and stories passed,
Treated with gloves and handled like glass
Out of fear that the God who loves,
Would give us no choice and let us be wrong?
Doubt not that God holds all things,
As all are Potencies,
And each effect within the set of space and time
We have
The carptender God can set off and plod
For some long needed repair;
Water oh Lord the fields that are dry,
And give not sight to the blind, not one,
But cure blindless, please let it be.
Give the world the courage to reject the ease of war
Over the challenge of peace;
And kneel knot before thy God unless he’s earned his keep.

So we sing a song of our Lord,
In a foreign land by the stream;
For God doesn’t dwell amid incense or tell,
The alphabet to aunts;
He must have greatly underestimated a bit or all of his creation
When this being who is divine asked us to take on faith despite
The questions formed inside a mind
The Pastor tells me God designed;
But I’ll sing for my people, instead;
For they are not of flame, and yet
They are potencies of God, we must,
See the magic in their touch,
Serve our fellows and in doing so serve God;
That we can be as the Mantis,
Purest in piety;
Who mindless folds his hands to pray
Unaware of the listening being, above
Who breathes life into new worlds
And makes sparrows out of mud.

So shine on us, you borrowed light,
Give comfort to us in the night,
As we skip the rocks along
The reflective rivers of Babylon
Which in their squiggly waving lines
Was disturbed by a hand divine
And draw with skill and dignity
The Sacred City was the lesser
Of that potency;
And if I do not make it past
The bridge to Jannah and am cast
Into the molent seas,
To live as one who does not yield,
Who leaves his share for gleaming ‘ere
And pays the Sacred Tax;
The coin was cold inside the bowl and rattled hollow
And who knows –
Who can? With human reason dare we ask,
What goes beyond the door and room,
With God’s footstool and his broom,
Where there the fire in its lair,
Radiates a sense of life through vibrations into time
A metronome which keeps the track
Of planets as they circle black.

If all is lost and I must die,
I will die praising Adonai.
And if the story was nothing but
Tales of tragedy and the worst of luck,
But amid the cries of those who died
Is the prayer living on,
A shadow that keeps walking though
The interference in appearance suggested the strength of soul;
It takes a ray of light some great great wealth of time,
30,000 years a photon for one ray to arrive
At the surface and once there reaches the Earth 8 minutes later,
And the light is only stopped,
When it accentuates our form
The sunlight came all this way only to be ignored.