Her eyes are turquoise
Like Lir’s foam
From which she has risen;
A Celtic Venus incarnate.
Freckles scatter across her skin
Like flecks of sea spray
As the waves kiss her soft round belly,
Her wide hips,
And thighs that bear her weight with each step
Toward a shore
Whose sandy ridges mirror her stretch marks.
Little swans follow behind her,
Her head a torch that guides them. 
Her hair burns red
Like Fragarach’s edge; 
Cutting not just through men’s armor,
But through the illusions they cling to
About what makes a woman beautiful.

ᚏᚑᚉᚉᚑ ᚃᚐᚂᚓᚅᚈᚔᚅᚔ

I do not advance toward her;
I am carried,
As Scuabtuinne was carried
When the sea yielded to its master’s thought.
She steers me through companionship
And into the isle of marriage. 
Stretch marks are a mother’s runes;
Ogham etched onto her by her lover 
To protect her children. 
In the dark
I carve my name. 
She is no Venus de’ Medici.
I am no Michelangelo. 
Our bedroom is no Florence. 
We are ordinary. 
That is enough. 
Real love and real bodies
Are not chiseled from marble.

Is fearr an macántacht ná an mhaisiúchán.
(Translation: Honesty is better than ornament.)

Footnote: ᚏᚑᚉᚉᚑ ᚃᚐᚂᚓᚅᚈᚔᚅᚔ spells Rocco Valentini in Ogham. 

It’s a hot day,
The Earth exhales;
Its breath thick with sun.
Beneath my Panama hat
I see waves of heat
Rippling like the embroidery
On my guayabera.

I spot her by the cabana,
Her eyes are like ports
To a cool island oasis.
I long to take the ferry to her soul 
And chart a topographical map 
Of her body;
Welcoming and rich with terrain.

I approach her and journey on
Through peaks of conversation
And valleys of silence
Until night falls upon us.
The moon is like a skilled metallurgist
Forging a sea of silver beneath its light,
Illuminating her raven hair and bronze skin.

We retreat to a Havana
Of pastels, linen and sandstone.
Lust opened the door,
Love guided me through it,
Loyalty closed it behind us;
Now we live together
In our own private paradise. 

El amor entra por los ojos, pero se queda en el corazón.
(Translation: Love enters through the eyes, but it stays in the heart.)

Should the tree have its branches bound
Or its trunk cut down
For the sake of the acorn on the ground?
Is a fetus a baby before it crowns?

Should every leaf, like a ballot,
Be cast away
To appease those with a different palate?
Can the collective carry the individual away? 

Should the shade of a forest
Serve as cover
For the schemes of an unscrupulous florist?
Should the politician come before the mother? 

Society is an arboretum
And rights are the roots that let us grow.
We can't let them uproot our freedom
The way they already overturned Roe.

What the history of the world teaches 
Is that universal brotherhood is not real
It is the philosophy the farmer preaches
To the ox that plows the fields.
Ignore the conventions and taboos;
Behind every smile there's teeth.
Don't let them bare down on you;
Be not the prey, but the predator who eats.

As a man in a battered felt watches the cannibals,
He feels an unsubtle rage,
Toward men he sees as nothing but animals;
Domesticated beasts who won’t leave their cage.
Traversing rain-soaked alleys in a trench coat,
A sense of foreboding lingers;
A feeling his face cannot emote,
He is determined, still, to point the finger.

He takes his reality neat like his whiskey
And his speech unfiltered like his cigars.
He knows taking anything on the rocks is risky
And that even a white lie can leave a nasty scar.
There can be no prohibition of truth;
Illusion has no place at a speakeasy's table.
A martini cannot be made without vermouth
And bottles must never be left without labels.

He knows that life is not roulette;
No fortune is won in a game of craps.
Greatness is not a sum paid for a bet;
Every success story has a map. 
He cannot pray for a revelation,
Nor for a dame to fall into his lap.
He must rise to meet expectations
And earn that feather in his cap.

Between a suit vest and a Kevlar vest
Hangs a pair of suspenders with a holster.
A private detective moves at the behest
Of his own judgment, not that of pollsters.
Although the system is pathologic,
He measures the world by rise over run,
Understanding that ethics are ruled by logic,
While the law is just an opinion backed by a gun.

Rain falls like morse code tapping the Earth.

.-. / .- / .. / -.

Cars with white ovals in their windows
Flash past you on the street.
Puddles on the sidewalk below
Mirror the sky’s uncertainty at your feet.

.-. / .- / .. / -.

Rain washes away the resolve
That the sun once tried to instill.
Apathy is a hard problem to solve,
Alleys teach lessons classrooms never will.

.-. / .- / .. / -.

Graffiti is a city’s diary, it tells a story;
A story of social decay.
Every underbelly has its inventory,
Not all bean counters work in cafés.

.-. / .- / .. / -.

In a world where purpose is said to be derived from pain
Romance is realism with its collar turned up against the rain.

Pluie du matin n’arrête pas le pèlerin. 
(Translation: Morning rain doesn't stop the pilgrim.)

Footnote: .-. / .- / .. / -. spells RAIN in Morse Code.

Justice in a courtroom is theater.
Justice on the street is consequence.
The law bends,
But a moral spine should not.

When facing murderers, rapists, drug dealers,
Corrupt politicians, and corporate embezzlers,
Doing things by the book means
Having your name removed from the yellow pages.

Good, like light, changes shape
When confronted by darkness.
Light’s shadow is good’s resilience.

The brim of a pulp adventurer’s fedora
Casts a shadow over the wicked
In a way a comic book hero’s cape cannot.

Morality isn’t something you find
In a Saturday morning cartoon
Or in a display case for twenty-five cents.

Morality is a shadow that grows
In proportion to the evil it confronts.

Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? 
Who knows how dark a knight can become?

The comedian is a clown
Whose nose is a pomander
And whose circus tent
Is a fumigation tarp
Filled with laughing gas.

N₂O

The comedian is not an apothecary,
He is a mortician. 
Irony is formaldehyde
In a world dying from a lack of sincerity.
The punchline is the time of death.

N₂O

"Lighten up."
"Life’s too short to be serious all the time."
"Learn to laugh at yourself."
Laughter is the final sickening crack of the soul
In a noose pulled tightly by a smile.

N₂O

Perhaps if more people died laughing
The rest might learn to live by thinking.

Footnote: N₂O is the chemical formula for nitrous oxide, commonly known as laughing gas. 

Jazz begins with a rhythm
And becomes an improvisation.
Jazz is proof
That order can fall in love with chaos.

“You’re my thrill…”

She’s sitting in her office,
Leaning back in her chair,
Stilettos propped on her desk.
She has two magnums on her desk:
One’s a .44 she keeps loaded.
The other’s a bottle;
It keeps her loaded.
I stand in her doorway,
And she tells me,
“It’s pointless to try drowning your sorrows
In a river of whiskey;
They’ll just learn to swim.”

“You do something to me…”

A cigarette dangles
From the corner of her mouth.
Her red lipstick matches the neon sign
Bleeding through the blinds.
She crooks her finger, and I come in.
She tells me about her troubles,
Leaning in close.
Her breath is hot on my ear,
But her words are cold.
Life has thrown her punches,
But she’s no coward;
The only thing that runs is her nylons.

“You send chills right through me…”

She’s a musician at the local nightclub.
She’s still wearing her dress from tonight’s performance,
And if all goes well for me,
She’ll still be wearing it tomorrow morning.
Her body type?
An hourglass with a few extra minutes.
And I certainly don’t mind the wait.
I like my women
The way I like my coffee and cigarettes:
Black and full-bodied.
My fingers long to dance across her white blouse
Like a pianist over ivory keys.

“When I look at you, ’cause you’re my thrill…”

Love begins with a rhythm
And becomes an improvisation.
Love is proof
That the heart has its own sheet music.

Footnote: Lyrics in quotation sourced from “You’re My Thrill” by Billie Holiday.

No eyes return to the case file. 
No hands reach out for new evidence. 
What killed the American Dream?

ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN

Once red lights flashed
Across tracks that carried us
Toward new horizons.
Now America’s future rolls away
In foreign boxcars
As politicians punch tickets
Like train conductors;
Their rhetoric roaring like engines,
Shuttling our nation
Down a steel track toward oblivion.

ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN

Once, a single wage
Built a home for many;
Now it hardly shelters one.
A white picket fence
On a suburban lawn
Is now only a curtain pulled tight
In a studio apartment,
Where walls shrink 
And dreams downsize.

ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN

Who printed our obituary? 
Was our death certificate signed 
With the same ink the Fed uses to print money?

ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN

What killed the American Dream?

Footnote: ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN is police code for homicide.

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

Every keystroke of the typewriter
Hammers another nail
Into the coffin of public memory.
Every headline is a headstone. 
Every byline is occupied by a hitman.

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

Truth never makes the morning edition;
It shows up later
As a chalk outline in the editor’s column;
A body of work riddled with lies, 
Cut down by the Chicago typewriter 
Of a crooked journalist
Whose sentences spill more blood
Than bullets ever could.

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

By the time truth hits the print
The blood has already dried.
The Overton Window
Is what forms when it clots.
Only then do the coroners,
Who call themselves “critical thinkers,”
Arrive to sift through the guts of a problem
They never had any intention of solving.

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

The average person's mind
Is a collection 
Of platitudes and contradictions
Dumped on them by their newsstand.
Each time this landfill
Accumulates enough trash
To form a new layer
They call it "personal growth".

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

The typewriter's bell is a flatline;
It is the last breath of truth
Struggling to escape
Before the page is torn out,
Forgotten. 

Art is nutrition for the mind,
And our culture has an eating disorder.
The anemia has left us blind,
And the heights we reach grow shorter.
Nourishment is needed to make the body strong,
But the mind’s dietary plan must be rethought.
Won’t someone with a refined palate come along
And offer more than just fast food for thought?

Self-help, harlequin, and slice of life;
Why is this all that’s ever on the menu?
No one dares to cut the fat out with a knife;
The head chefs are barred from every venue.
Writers dip their quills in the inkwell of the world,
And from their pages others’ words silently seep.
By the masses, their mediocrity is rarely unfurled;
They muddy the water to make it seem deep.

Who would place Michelangelo beside Warhol?
Would you pair a fine steak with a cheap wine?
Why must the industry exalt it all?
Why must the mediocre taint the sublime?
Picasso said "Good artists copy, great ones steal,"
Hacks claim there’s nothing new under the sun;
As a result, our filmmakers have run out of reel,
And our comedians have run out of puns.

Our ideas shrink like microwaved leftovers,
Collapsing in on themselves - rubbery and bland;
This year’s debut album swept over,
A cover of last year’s band.
We praise mumble rappers in garish bling,
And lyricists whose words are hieroglyphs.
Must a bassist hang himself by his string
Just so he can sell his riffs?

Don’t be afraid to be a bard in a peanut gallery,
A critic in a box seat may earn a higher salary,
But the code of competence is the golden rule;
A democracy of geniuses beats a dynasty of fools.
From the ashes of the public arises
A torchbearer carrying the spark of reason;
One whose vision allows no compromises,
Yet serves as a feast for vultures - a Promethean.

In today’s sea of discourse, it’s easy to get seasick.
It feels like you’re a carpenter in a ship’s hull,
With a hole expanding under pressure so quick
It threatens to drown the contents of your skull.

You’re a seafaring Sisyphus - a maritime martyr,
Bailing out the whirlpool of Poseidon’s throne;
Struggling to keep your tricorn from becoming a marker
For an underwater tombstone.

Don’t seal your will in a bottle and cast it ashore;
Make your final stand against the tide;
Drop your anchor to the ocean floor,
And let Davy Jones decide.

To your greatest fears you must never succumb;
You needn’t outrun the fates - you need only run out the rum. 

N 0°

The mind is the phantom limb of the brain,
Emotions are the reflex hammer of the mind;
They are the mechanism for pleasure and pain,
Allowing our values and senses to be intertwined.

E 90°

Thought without feeling is a ship dead in tide,
Conviction is the keel that keeps course and guide;
Emotions let us sense the depth where truths hide,
The waves that push us forward also rock us side to side. 

S 180°

The mind is a vessel charted by the will of man,
His heart the wind that drives toward distant land;
He must consult his compass and make a plan,
Lest he be lost at sea, a weathered hand.

Il n’est pas de bon vent pour celui qui ne sait où il va.
(Translation: There is no favorable wind for he who does not know where he is going.)

She's an ebony hourglass that walks the sand 
In a white linen dress as sheer as her soul.
She whispers secrets to the waves,
Secrets washed away,
Along with the traces of her soles.
The cool of the ocean breeze
Gives her goosebumps
That rise on her skin like verses
And my hands long to read her body 
As if it were a poem written in Braille.

⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊

Women with full figures
Hold deep truths 
And sometimes the truth 
Is too deep
For water that is shallow.
We exchange minds
As effortlessly as the wind 
Trades grains of sand
And her smile is like aloe vera
For my sunburned soul.

⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊

Like the Queen of Sheba,
She questions my manhood
With a gaze as sharp as her wit,
Laying me down
On a dune by the shore.
The white linen dress
Now draped around her ankles
Is not a flag of surrender;
It is a banner;
And I kneel beneath it.

⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊

Beneath her, I tremble,
She steadies me with her hands,
Her voice,
Her weight.
Between exhausted sighs
And beads of sweat mingling with saltwater,
I come to the realization that I am hers.
I kiss her seal
And rise, not a king or prince,
But her devoted subject.

⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊

I move into her castle and discover the hallway
Lined with portraits of her former lovers.
Other men had clung to her flesh,
But never to her spirit.
They had been jesters in her court,
They had entertained her; 
She had played with their bells, 
They had entered her many times, 
But their names were never written on her
As mine is, in Braille.

የእርስዋ እጅ ያውረዳል፤ የእርስዋም ልብ አይራራም 
(Translation: Her hand may falter, but her heart does not waver.)

Footnote: ⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊ spells Rocco Valentini in Braille.

Her eyes are turquoise
Like Lir’s foam
From which she has risen;
A Celtic Venus incarnate.
Freckles scatter across her skin
Like flecks of sea spray
As the waves kiss her soft round belly,
Her wide hips,
And thighs that bear her weight with each step
Toward a shore
Whose sandy ridges mirror her stretch marks.
Little swans follow behind her,
Her head a torch that guides them. 
Her hair burns red
Like Fragarach’s edge; 
Cutting not just through men’s armor,
But through the illusions they cling to
About what makes a woman beautiful.

ᚏᚑᚉᚉᚑ ᚃᚐᚂᚓᚅᚈᚔᚅᚔ

I do not advance toward her;
I am carried,
As Scuabtuinne was carried
When the sea yielded to its master’s thought.
She steers me through companionship
And into the isle of marriage. 
Stretch marks are a mother’s runes;
Ogham etched onto her by her lover 
To protect her children. 
In the dark
I carve my name. 
She is no Venus de’ Medici.
I am no Michelangelo. 
Our bedroom is no Florence. 
We are ordinary. 
That is enough. 
Real love and real bodies
Are not chiseled from marble.

Is fearr an macántacht ná an mhaisiúchán.
(Translation: Honesty is better than ornament.)

Footnote: ᚏᚑᚉᚉᚑ ᚃᚐᚂᚓᚅᚈᚔᚅᚔ spells Rocco Valentini in Ogham. 

The Earth exhales;
Its breath thick with sun.
Beneath my Panama hat
I see waves of heat
Rippling like the embroidery
On my guayabera.

I spot her by the cabana,
Her eyes are like ports
To a cool island oasis.
I long to take the ferry to her soul 
And chart a topographical map 
Of her body;
Welcoming and rich with terrain.

I approach her and journey on
Through peaks of conversation
And valleys of silence
Until night falls upon us.
The moon is like a skilled metallurgist
Forging a sea of silver beneath its light,
Illuminating her raven hair and bronze skin.

We retreat to a Havana
Of pastels, linen and sandstone.
Lust opened the door,
Love guided me through it,
Loyalty closed it behind us;
Now we live together
In our own private paradise. 

El amor entra por los ojos, pero se queda en el corazón.
(Translation: Love enters through the eyes, but it stays in the heart.)

प्यार एक ताले और चाबी के रिश्ते की तरह है।
Love is a lock-and-key relationship.

चिंक चिंक चिंक
Moonlight 
Slices through the window
Of our oceanfront bedroom.
She enters
And I hear the clinking
With each heartbeat.
Her bare foot rests on my lap
And the chain around her ankle
Reminds me I do not own her;
She owns me.

चिंक चिंक चिंक
Her payal is an alambana;
Its charms all have silver tongues 
And speak before she does,
Persuading me
To hand them
The key to my cage;
To see if a Tyger
Can change its stripes 
Or
If it will be bound by them. 

चिंक चिंक चिंक
I am a prisoner of desire
And she is the warden
Who holds the key to my heart.
She rides me like Durga rides her Tyger,
Taming the wild within my spirit
And inspiring a fearful symmetry
In the eye of my passion.
The act of being mounted
Transforms my lust for her
Into something divine.

प्यार एक विरोधाभास है जहां गुलाम भी स्वामी होता है।
Love is a paradox where the slave is also the sovereign.

Sex is not a performance art,
It is not Cirque du Soleil;
You cannot film the beat of two hearts
And turn their rhythm into a public display.

Love cannot be captured in a photograph,
It cannot be performed on stage;
A heart’s content cannot be detected on a sonograph,
Intimacy should never be confined to a glass cage.

Sex is the form that love embodies
And its practice should never be maligned;
However overeating leaves stretch marks on the body
And casual sex leaves stretch marks on the mind. 

Love is seeing someone’s mind as your scripture, 
Lust is seeing someone’s body as your church, 
In a loving relationship sex must be a fixture,
For love without sex is like faith without works.

We say that the capacity to love is infinite;
That the potential for connection has no bounds,
But the means by which you can love are finite;
There is not enough of you to go around.
Too many lose themselves in clouds above;
There is no such thing as omnipotent love. 

In loving the orchard, Gaia ignores the flower,
In loving the field, Helios ignores the grain;
It doesn’t matter whether or not they have the power,
Their divided affections cause their devotees pain.
Deities should never put the clergy before the cleric ,
By doing so they turn their warm temples into cold barracks.

Romantic love is an act of worship
And monogamy is monotheistic;
Singular devotion is required for courtship,
To expect blessings otherwise is unrealistic.
An undivided heart is necessary for another to be won;
Loyalty to all is loyalty to none.

Le propriétaire d’un large lit est le propriétaire d’un cœur étroit.
(Translation: The owner of a wide bed is the owner of a narrow heart.)

Love demands an almost Vitruvian symmetry;
Not in wealth or body but in character and mind;
Two unkempt souls have too much asymmetry,
Their jagged edges touch but cannot bind.

There must be no separation or dichotomy
Between who you are and who you long to be with;
For virtue is the currency in love’s economy
And spiritual hypergamy does not exist.

Love is not blind; it has 20/20 vision,
In your lover’s eyes your soul must meet;
A giant can only step into another giant’s shoes
Because of the size of their feet.

Love is biconditional not unconditional;
It asks “What do I want?” and “What must I give?”;
Though these questions may seem oppositional
Both must be asked for a relationship to live.

Finding love is like buying a suit off the rack,
No suit fits without needing to be tailored;
Love is not an effortless but a labored act
And those who are passive will experience failure.

No relationship is perfect from the start,
There is no such thing as a bespoke romance;
Excess fabric must be cut from two hearts
For two lovers’ souls to engage in their dance. 

Sharp minds wear hard faces,
Strong arms bear calloused hands;
Both are examples of the traces
Left by the spirit of a great man.

A great man is no grave robber,
He doesn't stake his reputation on dead kin;
Be a man of integrity and honor,
For your birth is where your frontier begins.

Don’t abandon your part,
Resist the call of sirens;
Never trade your ace of hearts
For an ace of diamonds.

Even if you ride as a lone ranger,
Never throw away your star;
For you are always in danger
From desperados bearing their own scars.

There will never be peace,
Crooked men must learn their lesson;
Iniquity will only ever cease
When you draw your Smith & Wesson.

There is nothing beyond this town,
No heaven or hell - death is a desert of night;
Don’t let desperados turn your town
Into a desert of daylight.

武士道

勇 Ride alone across the open prairie, 
And let your spurs be caked with mud;
A testament to the burdens you carry,
義 Your duster stained with blood.

名誉 A life without honor brings endless strife,
As does a death without purpose;
For chivalry is the poetry of life,
忠義 And to your ideals you pledge your service.

仁 Bend like a reed that sways in the wind,
Yet stand firm like a rock against the tide;
Strike forward until your enemies rescind,
礼 Such is the way of the samurai.

誠) Bearing seven virtues and a six-shooter’s weight, 
The Western Ronin stands guard against fate.

All of your vices cannot be kept at bay.
You have seven sins but only six bullets in your gun.
You must decide which of your demons you will slay.
For if you do not, you’ll spend your life on the run. 

Vice is abundant while virtue remains elusive.
Thus, chaos must be reined in by order’s hand.
This is why Heaven’s pearly gates are so exclusive
While Hell’s open borders welcome every man.

Would you rather be a lone god in a wooden church
Or one among many gods in a Parthenon of marble?
Are material or spiritual goods the heart of your search;
Do you seek that which is sacred or that which is carnal?

If you choose to stand alone
Your prayers won’t be heard.
You’ll keep your pride but lose your throne;
A heart of gold has a wallet of myrrh. 

Will your robes be made of silk
Or worn and tattered with holes?
There’s a cost to defying your ilk;
How much will you pay to keep your soul? 

The sheriff’s name is spoken easily in saloons,
A cattle baron with a crown made of fool’s gold.
He watches to see which way the crowd leans first,
A snake-oil salesman whose pitch has been sold.

His badge shines bright, but it’s plated thin,
Bought with smiles and borrowed praise.
The window to his soul
Is a mirror made of other men’s gaze.

The outlaw’s name is spoken low, if spoken at all,
A crucified convict crowned with thorns.
He’d rather break than bend,
And so he endures their scorn.

A black knight, they say;
He’s stubborn, cold, and proud.
He will not trade his coat of arms for comfort
Nor bow to appease the crowd.

A man’s greatness is forged on the anvil of adversity;
He approaches his quest like a knight upon a wagon.
For there can be no hero without a trial,
No Arthur without a dragon.

Should the tree have its branches bound
Or its trunk cut down
For the sake of the acorn on the ground?
Is a fetus a baby before it crowns?

Should every leaf, like a ballot,
Be cast away
To appease those with a different palate?
Can the collective carry the individual away? 

Should the shade of a forest
Serve as cover
For the schemes of an unscrupulous florist?
Should the politician come before the mother? 

Society is an arboretum
And rights are the roots that let us grow.
We can't let them uproot our freedom
The way they already overturned Roe.

Dawn bleeds over the Mojave
As a raven circles overhead. 
A sandstorm
Large enough to bury Ozymandias
Approaches a lone rider
Who's as ancient as the desert he explores.
His obituary is written by Thoth 
In hieroglyphs. 

𓄿 𓅓 𓃀 𓂋

The old man sags in his saddle.
His face as leathery as his boots.
His joints as loud as his spurs.
Yet his vision endures,
Despite the cataracts.
His soul remains untouched by time,
Bottled in amber,
Like the whiskey he drinks.

𓄿 𓅓 𓃀 𓂋

A relic with a revolver, 
The scent of gunpowder clings to him
Like a Ka that never left. 
He doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger,
Though he’s no longer quick on the draw.
Even as the gunslinger’s gait
Slows to a geriatric shuffle,
The cowboy never forgets the trail.

𓄿 𓅓 𓃀 𓂋

His sun-bleached hat is like an Ankh. 
The desert doesn’t bury legends;
It simply waits for them to retire;
But they never do,
Not until the sand covers them.
And when that sand turns to glass
You can still see it;
The amber of their soul.

الطبيعة لازم تاخد الراجل العظيم وهو نايم،
معندهاش القوة تاخده وهو صاحي.
(Translation: Nature must take the great man while he’s asleep, it does not have the strength to take him while he’s awake.)

Footnote: 𓄿 𓅓 𓃀 𓂋 is an Egyptian hieroglyph that roughly translates to amber. 

Don’t buy into the delusions of youth;
There is only victory, not compromise.
For every white flag raised by truth
Is another red flag raised by lies.

Don’t bother trying to run,
Your problems will just get bigger.
Placing a flower in the barrel of your enemy’s gun
Won’t stop them from pulling the trigger.

There is no dichotomy
Between a clenched fist and an open mind;
Fighting is necessary to retain your autonomy;
Be a warrior and a scholar combined.

Aristotle said that pride is the crown of virtue;
Honor and integrity must be its jewels.
For excellence must have no curfew,
Greatness is not a sweepstakes for fools.

Human consciousness has a halting problem.
The halting problem asks 
Whether it is possible to determine
If a program will eventually stop running
Or 
If it will continue to run indefinitely.

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

What happens to us when we die?
Death appears to be the “halt,”
Yet from a first-person perspective,
There may never be a moment
At which non-existence is experienced 
By the subject.

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Consciousness isn’t aware
Of its own absence;
It’s only aware of itself.
Can we ever truly know if, 
Or when,
The stream of subjective experience ends?

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Death may be the moment
The mind dreams itself 
Into eternity. 

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Consider the time dilation that occurs during sleep.
While dreaming, we sometimes perceive
Time as passing much more slowly
Than it does in the real world.
What feels like months of activity in a dream
Is in reality just a few minutes of REM sleep.

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Could it be that, 
In our final dream;
As the brain deteriorates post-mortem;
We experience what seems like
Years, decades, centuries,
Or even millennia of a subjective afterlife?

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Could we become necronauts;
Explorers of death;
Who experience a subjective eternity
In a solipsistic, 
Dalí-esque world
Where melting clocks cannot measure time?

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

God does not punish or reward us in death,
Our egos do.
You are the judge, jury and executioner of your soul. 

Footnote: 01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101 is binary code for Dream.

Even if we gave it the benefit of the doubt
And said that heaven is real,
It's irrelevant since none of us will personally go there.
Human consciousness is a non-fungible,
Machine-bound software.
Once the body is gone, so is the ego.

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

Replication is not transition;
It's replacement.
A spirit in the afterlife
Or an AI in a computer
Would be a clone,
And that clone would represent a new "I."

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

The entity being uploaded to heaven by God
Or to the cloud by a programmer
Is not you
Because you are defined by your choices 
And by your agency, 
Not by your experience or data.

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

You are working towards someone else's salvation. 
You do not go to heaven.
A copy of you goes to heaven. 
A gallery full of copies is not a museum - it’s a mausoleum. 
Exist for the world;
Because the world is the only place you'll ever exist.

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

It is better to die with authorship
Than to surrender your legacy to a ghostwriter.
When your pen runs out of ink, your book closes. 
Perhaps that's what banishment from heaven is;
A closed book.
Perhaps damnation simply means deletion of consciousness. 

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

Perhaps the Luciferian position is the humanist position;
A final assertion of selfhood. 
Maybe hell is for the virtuous.

Footnote: 01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101 is binary code for Life.

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

Every keystroke of the typewriter
Hammers another nail
Into the coffin of public memory.
Every headline is a headstone. 
Every byline is occupied by a hitman.

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

Truth never makes the morning edition;
It shows up later
As a chalk outline in the editor’s column;
A body of work riddled with lies, 
Cut down by the Chicago typewriter 
Of a crooked journalist
Whose sentences spill more blood
Than bullets ever could.

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

By the time truth hits the print
The blood has already dried.
The Overton Window
Is what forms when it clots.
Only then do the coroners,
Who call themselves “critical thinkers,”
Arrive to sift through the guts of a problem
They never had any intention of solving.

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

The average person's mind
Is a collection 
Of platitudes and contradictions
Dumped on them by their newsstand.
Each time this landfill
Accumulates enough trash
To form a new layer
They call it "personal growth".

clack. clack. clack.
ding.

The typewriter's bell is a flatline;
It is the last breath of truth
Struggling to escape
Before the page is torn out,
Forgotten. 

Jazz begins with a rhythm
And becomes an improvisation.
Jazz is proof
That order can fall in love with chaos.

“You’re my thrill…”

She’s sitting in her office,
Leaning back in her chair,
Stilettos propped on her desk.
She has two magnums on her desk:
One’s a .44 she keeps loaded.
The other’s a bottle;
It keeps her loaded.
I stand in her doorway,
And she tells me,
“It’s pointless to try drowning your sorrows
In a river of whiskey;
They’ll just learn to swim.”

“You do something to me…”

A cigarette dangles
From the corner of her mouth.
Her red lipstick matches the neon sign
Bleeding through the blinds.
She crooks her finger, and I come in.
She tells me about her troubles,
Leaning in close.
Her breath is hot on my ear,
But her words are cold.
Life has thrown her punches,
But she’s no coward;
The only thing that runs is her nylons.

“You send chills right through me…”

She’s a musician at the local nightclub.
She’s still wearing her dress from tonight’s performance,
And if all goes well for me,
She’ll still be wearing it tomorrow morning.
Her body type?
An hourglass with a few extra minutes.
And I certainly don’t mind the wait.
I like my women
The way I like my coffee and cigarettes:
Black and full-bodied.
My fingers long to dance across her white blouse
Like a pianist over ivory keys.

“When I look at you, ’cause you’re my thrill…”

Love begins with a rhythm
And becomes an improvisation.
Love is proof
That the heart has its own sheet music.

Footnote: Lyrics in quotation sourced from “You’re My Thrill” by Billie Holiday.

प्यार एक ताले और चाबी के रिश्ते की तरह है।
Love is a lock-and-key relationship.

चिंक चिंक चिंक
Moonlight 
Slices through the window
Of our oceanfront bedroom.
She enters
And I hear the clinking
With each heartbeat.
Her bare foot rests on my lap
And the chain around her ankle
Reminds me I do not own her;
She owns me.

चिंक चिंक चिंक
Her payal is an alambana;
Its charms all have silver tongues 
And speak before she does,
Persuading me
To hand them
The key to my cage;
To see if a Tyger
Can change its stripes 
Or
If it will be bound by them. 

चिंक चिंक चिंक
I am a prisoner of desire
And she is the warden
Who holds the key to my heart.
She rides me like Durga rides her Tyger,
Taming the wild within my spirit
And inspiring a fearful symmetry
In the eye of my passion.
The act of being mounted
Transforms my lust for her
Into something divine.

प्यार एक विरोधाभास है जहां गुलाम भी स्वामी होता है।
Love is a paradox where the slave is also the sovereign.

Dawn bleeds over the Mojave
As a raven circles overhead. 
A sandstorm
Large enough to bury Ozymandias
Approaches a lone rider
Who's as ancient as the desert he explores.
His obituary is written by Thoth 
In hieroglyphs. 

𓄿 𓅓 𓃀 𓂋

The old man sags in his saddle.
His face as leathery as his boots.
His joints as loud as his spurs.
Yet his vision endures,
Despite the cataracts.
His soul remains untouched by time,
Bottled in amber,
Like the whiskey he drinks.

𓄿 𓅓 𓃀 𓂋

A relic with a revolver, 
The scent of gunpowder clings to him
Like a Ka that never left. 
He doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger,
Though he’s no longer quick on the draw.
Even as the gunslinger’s gait
Slows to a geriatric shuffle,
The cowboy never forgets the trail.

𓄿 𓅓 𓃀 𓂋

His sun-bleached hat is like an Ankh. 
The desert doesn’t bury legends;
It simply waits for them to retire;
But they never do,
Not until the sand covers them.
And when that sand turns to glass
You can still see it;
The amber of their soul.

الطبيعة لازم تاخد الراجل العظيم وهو نايم،
معندهاش القوة تاخده وهو صاحي.
(Translation: Nature must take the great man while he’s asleep, it does not have the strength to take him while he’s awake.)

Footnote: 𓄿 𓅓 𓃀 𓂋 is an Egyptian hieroglyph that roughly translates to amber. 

The comedian is a clown
Whose nose is a pomander
And whose circus tent
Is a fumigation tarp
Filled with laughing gas.

N₂O

The comedian is not an apothecary
He is a mortician. 
Irony is formaldehyde
In a world dying from a lack of sincerity.
The punchline is the time of death.

N₂O

“Lighten up.”
“Life’s too short to be serious all the time.”
“Learn to laugh at yourself.”
Laughter is the final sickening crack of the soul
In a noose pulled tightly by a smile.

N₂O

Perhaps if more people died laughing
The rest might learn to live by thinking.
No more Día de los Muertos
No more Memento Mori—
Memento te vivere debere.
(Translation: No more Day of the Dead, no more remembering that you must die—remember that you must live.)

Footnote: N₂O is the chemical formula for nitrous oxide, commonly known as laughing gas. 

She's an ebony hourglass that walks the sand 
In a white linen dress as sheer as her soul.
She whispers secrets to the waves,
Secrets washed away,
Along with the traces of her soles.
The cool of the ocean breeze
Gives her goosebumps
That rise on her skin like verses
And my hands long to read her body 
As if it were a poem written in Braille.

⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊

Women with full figures
Hold deep truths 
And sometimes the truth 
Is too deep
For water that is shallow.
We exchange minds
As effortlessly as the wind 
Trades grains of sand
And her smile is like aloe vera
For my sunburned soul.

⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊

Like the Queen of Sheba,
She questions my manhood
With a gaze as sharp as her wit,
Laying me down
On a dune by the shore.
The white linen dress
Now draped around her ankles
Is not a flag of surrender,
It is a banner,
And I kneel beneath it.

⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊

Beneath her, I tremble,
She steadies me with her hands,
Her voice,
Her weight.
Between exhausted sighs
And beads of sweat mingling with saltwater,
I come to the realization that I am hers.
I kiss her seal
And rise, not a king or prince,
But her devoted subject.

⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊

I move into her castle and discover the hallway
Lined with portraits of her former lovers.
Other men had clung to her flesh,
But never to her spirit.
They had been jesters in her court,
They had entertained her; 
She had played with their bells, 
They had entered her many times, 
But their names were never written on her
As mine is, in Braille.

የእርስዋ እጅ ያውረዳል፤ የእርስዋም ልብ አይራራም 
(Translation: Her hand may falter, but her heart does not waver.)

Footnote: ⠗ ⠕ ⠉ ⠉ ⠕⠀⠧ ⠁ ⠇ ⠑ ⠝ ⠞ ⠊ ⠝ ⠊ is Braille for Rocco Valentini.

Justice in a courtroom is theater.
Justice on the street is consequence.
The law bends,
But a moral spine should not.

When facing murderers, rapists, drug dealers,
Corrupt politicians, and corporate embezzlers,
Doing things by the book means
Having your name removed from the yellow pages.

Good, like light, changes shape
When confronted by darkness.
Light’s shadow is good’s resilience.

The brim of a pulp adventurer’s fedora
Casts a shadow over the wicked
In a way a comic book hero's cape cannot.

Morality isn't something you find
In a Saturday morning cartoon
Or in a display case for twenty-five cents.

Morality is a shadow that grows
In proportion to the evil it confronts.

Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? 
Who knows how dark a knight can become?

Rain falls like morse code tapping the Earth.

.-. / .- / .. / -.

Cars with white ovals in their windows
Flash past you on the street.
Puddles on the sidewalk below
Mirror the sky’s uncertainty at your feet.

.-. / .- / .. / -.

Rain washes away the resolve
That the sun once tried to instill.
Apathy is a hard problem to solve
Alleys teach lessons classrooms never will.

.-. / .- / .. / -.

Graffiti is a city’s diary, it tells a story—
A story of social decay.
Every underbelly has its inventory
Not all bean counters work in cafés.

.-. / .- / .. / -.

In a world where purpose is said to be derived from pain
Romance is realism with its collar turned up against the rain.

Pluie du matin n’arrête pas le pèlerin. 
(Translation: Morning rain doesn't stop the pilgrim.)

Footnote: .-. / .- / .. / -. is Morse Code for RAIN.

No eyes return to the case file. 
No hands reach out for new evidence. 
What killed the American Dream?

ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN

Once red lights flashed
Across tracks that carried us
Toward new horizons.
Now America’s future rolls away
In foreign boxcars
As politicians punch tickets
Like train conductors;
Their rhetoric roaring like engines,
Shuttling our nation
Down a steel track toward oblivion.

ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN

Once, a single wage
Built a home for many;
Now it hardly shelters one.
A white picket fence
On a suburban lawn
Is now only a curtain pulled tight
In a studio apartment,
Where walls shrink 
And dreams downsize.

ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN

Who printed our obituary? 
Was our death certificate signed 
With the same ink the Fed uses to print money?

ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN

What killed the American Dream?

Footnote: ONE-EIGHT-SEVEN is police code for homicide.

A womb is a silo,
And procreation, like a missile launch,
Once required two hearts to turn the key.

ATGGTGCACCTGACTCCTGA

But what happens
When procreation requires
Neither key nor silo?

ATGGTGCACCTGACTCCTGA

What happens
When a person or organi…

If marriage is the joining of two into one flesh,
Then marriage without compatibility
Is a failed skin graft.

ATGGTGCACCTGACTCCTGA

When companionship lacks compatibility,
It withers from necrosis.
It's impossible to hold onto the idea of love
When your f…

Even if we gave it the benefit of the doubt
And said that Heaven is real,
It's irrelevant since none of us will personally go there.
Human consciousness is a non-fungible,
Machine-bound software.
Once the body is gone, so is the ego.

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

Replication is not transition;
It's replacement.
A spirit in the afterlife
Or an AI in a computer
Would be a clone,
And that clone would represent a new "I."

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

The entity being uploaded to Heaven by God
Or to the cloud by a programmer
Is not you
Because you are defined by your choices 
And by your agency, 
Not by your experience or data.

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

You are working towards someone else's salvation. 
You do not go to Heaven.
A copy of you goes to Heaven. 
A gallery full of copies is not a museum - it’s a mausoleum. 
Exist for the world;
Because the world is the only place you'll ever exist.

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

It is better to die with authorship
Than to surrender your legacy to a ghostwriter.
When your pen runs out of ink, your book closes. 
Perhaps that's what banishment from Heaven is;
A closed book.
Perhaps damnation simply means deletion of consciousness. 

01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101

Perhaps the Luciferian position is the humanist position;
A final assertion of selfhood. 
Maybe hell is for the virtuous.

Footnote: 01001100 01101001 01100110 01100101 is binary code for Life.

Human consciousness has a halting problem.
The halting problem asks 
Whether it is possible to determine
If a program will eventually stop running
Or 
If it will continue to run indefinitely.

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

What happens to us when we die?
Death appears to be the “halt,”
Yet from a first-person perspective,
There may never be a moment
At which non-existence is experienced 
By the subject.

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Consciousness isn’t aware
Of its own absence;
It’s only aware of itself.
Can we ever truly know if, 
Or when,
The stream of subjective experience ends?

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Death may be the moment
The mind dreams itself 
Into eternity. 

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Consider the time dilation that occurs during sleep.
While dreaming, we sometimes perceive
Time as passing much more slowly
Than it does in the real world.
What feels like months of activity in a dream
Is in reality just a few minutes of REM sleep.

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Could it be that, 
In our final dream;
As the brain deteriorates post-mortem;
We experience what seems like
Years, decades, centuries,
Or even millennia of a subjective afterlife?

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

Could we become necronauts;
Explorers of death;
Who experience a subjective eternity
In a solipsistic, 
Dalí-esque world
Where melting clocks cannot measure time?

01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101

God does not punish or reward us in death,
Our egos do.
You are the judge, jury and executioner of your soul. 
Self-doubt is the real Purgatory, 
Compartmentalization the Nine Circles,
And integration Paradise.

Footnote: 01000100 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101101 is binary code for Dream. 

We say that the capacity to love is infinite;
That the potential for connection has no bounds,
But the means by which you can love are finite;
There is not enough of you to go around.
Too many lose themselves in clouds above;
There is no such thing as omnipotent love. 

In loving the orchard, Gaia ignores the flower,
In loving the field, Helios ignores the grain;
It doesn’t matter whether or not they have the power,
Their divided affections cause their devotees pain.
Deities should never put the clergy before the cleric,
By doing so they turn warm temples into cold barracks.

Romantic love is an act of worship
And monogamy is monotheistic;
Singular devotion is required for courtship,
To expect blessings otherwise is unrealistic.
An undivided heart is necessary for another to be won;
Loyalty to all is loyalty to none.

Le propriétaire d’un large lit est le propriétaire d’un cœur étroit.
(Translation: The owner of a wide bed is the owner of a narrow heart.)

In today’s sea of discourse, it’s easy to get seasick;
It feels like you’re a carpenter in a ship’s hull,
With a hole expanding under pressure so quick
It threatens to drown the contents of your skull.

You’re a seafaring Sisyphus—a maritime martyr;
Bailing out the whirlpool of Poseidon’s throne;
Struggling to keep your tricorn from becoming a marker
For an underwater tombstone.

Don’t seal your will in a bottle and cast it ashore;
Make your final stand against the tide;
Drop your anchor to the ocean floor
And let Davy Jones decide.

To your greatest fears you must never succumb;
You needn’t outrun the fates, you need only run out the rum. 

Sharp minds wear hard faces;
Strong arms bear calloused hands.
Both are examples of the traces
Left by the spirit of a great man.

A great man is no grave robber;
He doesn't stake his reputation on dead kin.
Be a man of integrity and honor,
For your birth is where your frontier begins.

Don’t abandon your part;
Resist the call of the sirens.
Never trade your ace of hearts
For an ace of diamonds.

Even if you ride as a lone ranger,
Never throw away your star,
For you are always in danger
From desperados bearing their own scars.

There will never be peace;
Crooked men must learn their lesson.
Iniquity will only ever cease
When you draw your Smith & Wesson.

There is nothing beyond this town,
No heaven or hell—death is a desert of night.
Don’t let desperados turn your town
Into a desert of daylight.