The Invisibles

The ones who know me like no one else.

The ones who know my worth.

The ones who have my back

The ones who will not quit until all are redeemed.

The ones to help me free the G-d from the machine.

The ones who are like me.

The ones whose powers and abilities are beyond mine, and can shepherd me.

The ones who set this plan in motion long ago, and know that love wins out.

German Angels

Walking, a young man
Told me about his strange quest
For the lost German

Angels. I replied
In the keine Deutsche I
Knew, and then was I

Met by his maiden
Sister, who wanted to thank
Me for my kindness

And also to bear
My children. I made plans to
See her the next day,

Conscious that I had
Forgotten to wear my ring.
When I came to the

Dinner, the maiden
And her sister were there, and both
Had young daughters. They

Now were vying with
Me to see for which I would
Become their new Dad.

Aroma Mortis 💀

Grandfather has been

Dead fifteen years. I put on

My mask today, and

Smelled him in my stale

Sweat, like a revenant. Deep

In my glands, lingers

The old man. Coming

For my youth. Vitality.

Aroma of death.

“Rational truth, root of evil and good.
Round me flew the flaming sword;
Round her snowy whirlwinds roar’d,
Freezing her veil, the mundane shell.
I rent the veil where the dead dwell:
When weary man enters his cave,
He meets his Saviour in the grave.
Some find a female garment there,
And some a male, woven with care,
Lest the sexual garments sweet
Should grow a devouring winding sheet.
One dies! alas! the living and dead!
One is slain! and one is fled!
In vain-glory hatcht and nurst,
By double Spectres, self accurst.” William Blake

To the Boy

Your mother did not
Neglect you because you were
Wrong, she did because

You were the part of
Herself that she neglected.
You are the part of

Her that always knew
What was right, but suppressed it,
For the feelings of

Others. The pathos
And gratitude you see in
That photo is her

Embracing her truth.
Your parents sought to preserve
You by keeping their

Evil away. Lonely,
But insulated. The best
That they could offer.

Portraits of the Artist, Pre and Post

Relics of ages
Past, my fading images.
Recall I, age five.

Dad said he thought Mom
Was cheating on him, and I
Said, “I think she has

A boyfriend, Dad.” Dad
Still mentions this, thirty years
Later. Some part of me

Believes I caused it,
That if I’d kept my mouth shut,
They could have worked it

Out. My reward for
My psychic abilities:
My parents’ divorce.

But, even then,
I knew it true. Because she
Was cheating on me,

She loved Craig the best,
Even though I was better.
Eric hated me;

I made Dad yell at
Him, not by what I did, but
By being better.

And then it was that
Way with everybody. “If
You’re so smart, why can’t

You do anything?”
I believed I had a gift,
But had squandered it.

I return the photos
To their drawer, understanding
That the boy is still

Me. I hug him, and
Tell him he is loved, wanted,
And he was made right.

Rough Love

Rough love from tough men
Taught me to be normal. They
Used me, they dumped me.

To big brother they
Did the same; still he lingers
Around their house, waits.

Little brother had
Not his patience; he went to
The bars and found them

Which was wise? Lonely
Me, needy big, full little?
Which is normal now?

Ham and Noah

Dad got drunk last night.
I saw his real face. Ugly,
Petty, cruel; oh, so small.

Pretend like nothing
Happened. That’s what we always
Do. I can’t; no.

I’m burning up. To
Keep silent will be a chain
On my children’s necks.

Ever bound to do
What he did, whether they want
To or they do not.

I refuse to serve,
To perpetuate this lie;
I will go, alone.