it is addressed thusly:
The first imprecation.
it reads:
O America - God's hand is upraised
Though your judgment fell
Your own wisdom you have praised
"I have done everything well,"
You spoke in the depths of your cups
Judging what was not, what was
In a blister-bright high of a buzz
On a rainbow from which still drops
Blood full of pestilent, detestable things
You wonder with joy what it brings
Until that heart up and stops
The blood - from earth it still sings.

Nothing is hid from the blood
No, every error and misdeed
Every stain of soot and of mud
Positivity is what you need
Or so you say, but what does it say
"Oh, curse that you were born
Curse the sounding battle-horn
Curse the sun and flee the day
Blessed is he who takes the iron rod
And herds you as cattle in the grimy sod
His countenance will be merry and gay
Blessed be the terror in the judgment of God."
a postscript is here written:


Storm and Dusk

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Late in time, the frenzied rain
Coming at us under pall of night
Fall, fall in saturnine might
Though the sun has yet to set again
Where have the people gone
Have they too, read the sky's face
In good sense quickly moved on
I do not see them in any place
We are shaken by a lightning-crack
Under threat of flood by rain's attack
To be washed away without a trace
Going, going and not looking back.

That strange and vanilla sky
Brilliant above the sun's decline
Shine, shine, with heaven shine
At last now the clouds are dry
Fading to orange and burning out
As grief like anger must too pass
That evil day, for thunder-shout
Rain-rush and lightning-crash
Beyond is the resolve of twi-light
Clouds come, a regiment of white
An army the change of day cannot rout
Sink, sink sun, and behold the night.


Political Correctness


it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Those who remain silent because
They do not know they cannot speak
The gulag came from Lenin's laws
But what had Gramsci for the meek
Who would, regardless of labor cost
Cold steel kept but bright gold tossed
Not rise up, but like water leak
So all his great fortunes are lost;

Silence them, he might have said
But let them think that they are heard
And though their voices are ringing dead
They will not hear o'er their own word
You, of this sort, are actually the weak
Only your seeming strength they seek
So to others your privilege transferred-
You do not know you cannot speak.


A Spy in The House of God

it is addressed thusly:

A vision.
it reads:
I stood gimlet-eyed in the hall to paradise
Walking slow, making note of every light
That comes forth, and though the air is nice
Suggesting a bright midsummer's night
It is dark, and by manifold pinprick lamp
Mysterious things on the mind must stamp
Patterns begun spinning, birds in midflight
Whose denouement fades in the evening damp

Did we see there just what we wanted to see
A tourist of the worlds both unseen and vast
The hall is endless, which crosses that sea
A sea of deep heaven in which a net is cast
I write furtively; my hand as though clawed
Time is ever short, apparatus ever flawed
Casting my line to the future from the past
For I am a spy in the house of God.


A Heart of Darkness


it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
The dark continent -- is it strange to find
That those who come out want not to return
What then is its image, time out of mind
What do even those who love it discern?
If there were in truth a god of blood
It would be here that the tide became a flood
Men to sell and men to slay and burn
A flower born to be nipped at the bud;

Those who come must join its ritual
Its populace through theft and murder trained
Trained by its own and on its own will fall
Save by a wall, and it will be blood-stained
None will contain them save almighty God --
Make more children, destined for the sod
Until at last the world itself be drained
Weep then and sing: "Komm, süßer Tod."
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
The Fortunes of Africa


The Two Before The Storm

it is addressed thusly:

A vision.
it reads:
"Do not try to make men good"
He said, lifting his drooping head
"Those who thought that they could
Have found that they made men dead."

"What then of men who do ill
Must they be cast out, slave or free
Must they be removed physically
Is that the end of a wicked will?"

"Some," he replied, deep in thought
"Can be taught by carrot or by stick
Some may in this way be bought
Though they be stubborn and thick."

"But is not this a goodness made
Of man's doing, which you forbade?"
The other sat a moment in reverie
Wondering what his answer would be;

"Man's worth is in rightness of will
Then with all excellence to fulfill;
Guide him, for how else could he see
And thus do good instead of ill?

Moreover, how can a man know at all
A boundary is crossed, without a fence
Such folly would not be our recompense
Save we did not tear down every wall."

"So you suggest then but to restore
In some form, what was raised before?"
And as rain began to gently fall
"Yes" he said, "and nothing more."


A Reply to a Feminist

it is addressed thusly: 
The Poet Last Resort replies to a feminist
it reads:
Ah, the ancient Greeks, their love of beauty was astounding,
I said to her in reflection on narratives from Bulfinchs Mythology.
For them beauty was a power to which even gods would yield
and shaped the very fabric of our beings.
But modern women, she replied, have more pressing concerns
like power and accomplishments that supersede such male imposed and
simplistic urges, for beauty is but a figment of the ages.
Then this is what I said:
For you we have died for a thousand centuries
how can you say such a thing to me?
When we were threatened for millions of years by carnivore and
apekind, we died for you and our children, but then slowly one by one
we killed then all and made the village safe.
When the Neanderthal sought to leave us corpses in the dust,
 we fought them and died for you and our children and
when the dust was settled they all were dead.
All through time our strong arms and wills have met the test
and seen you through,
so tell me, tell me true,
how can you say such a thing to me? 
a postscript is here written:
WTO, the Poet of Last Resort

a pass-word:  mythology


it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Today we hear the clarion call
Did we respond - did we notice at all
The sea of noise became a roar
It crept - it flowed around the door
We didn't notice when it first came
(We hardly noticed it knew our name)
Now we forget as to when
The noise pollution first began
The adjustment of our lexicon
We keep calm and carry on
We worry our water may be impure
(But our mind will not long endure)
Pollute the man and pollute the world
Dust from the face of which is hurled
And we have concern for eagle's eggs
And if some man or woman begs
Our core that must coordinate
Cannot any longer discriminate
Between black and white, up and down
Soon dirty and clean, flat and round
"It is healthy" but what is health
"It yet prospers" but what is wealth
"It is inhuman" but what is man
Antoinette may wave her fan
"Let them eat cake," she dully said
But it was in a fiction - the Queen is dead.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Hypatia was their Virgin Mary
High Debate their eucharist
Shown buxom, fair and chary
All her charms they would enlist
Woo them with a strange cartoon
Of a woman who was such and such
Whom she was we know not much
But trying to raise her from the tomb
And make witnesses of partial truth
Which becomes a partial lie so soon
Sacrifice comes after ruth --
Laugh and weep, for it is sooth.


Schwarzschild and Cassandra


it is addressed thusly:

A vision.
it reads:
Cassandra, Cassandra did you tell
Did you compose the soliloquy well
The power of a star turned back, turned back
Schwarzschild solved the shadow script
Though the cave might be a crypt
And gravity knows no rest, no slack:

“The solar engine can scale no more
This size we saw – we saw before
Though light it may yet still produce
It cannot escape; the star turns black”

“The power,” she calls, “it must turn back
A man’s own weight does make the noose
Tighten – did Houdini claim
That he could win this swinging game?”

But dialectic’s magic failed here
For the words could only move a mind
Among the stars they did not find
Guess a letter – be chary, my dear;

G-non is dressed as Vanna White
The crowd misspeaks – the noose goes tight.

And beyond the spectacle's bright noise
The event's horizon: a shadow wall
Without light, a veil, a pall
Two converse in muted voice:
"Top-heavy, old Ozymandias fell
Cassandra, Cassandra, did you tell?"
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
Outside In Doom Horizon