Welcome, Dear Reader

Even In Death

 

Welcome to The Root of Many Returns, the legacy website of author Michael Aaron Casares.  Here, readers are invited to review dozens of works including poetry, fiction, and more. Gain insights into writing and other issues in Michael’s blog. Be sure to like and share your favorite pieces. Offer feedback in the comments. And come back often because we’ll have new stuff to read, and the website will continue updating.

Join the mailing list to be the first in the know about events and public readings, and to get poetry and short fiction delivered right to your inbox. You’ll also be entered into random drawings with prizes to include signed editions of the author’s books, artwork, and more.

Support Michael by joining his Patreon account or get a copy of his books This Reality of Man, The Distance to the End, or A Trick of the Eyes. Ask for them at your favorite bookstore, tell your friends and family, order them online.

 

 

Patreon Website
http://www.patreon.com/macasares

 

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Transmute the Soul

Diligence based opulence,
discreet name seen in sky,
a flashing jig of light
will paralyze the day.
A shadow smolders
to non-existence,
misunderstanding
the difference between
belief and conviction.
It calls to its kind,
it seeks like energies,
it vibrates the vapid space,
it assumes that you will never
understand and for that is haughty.
Self understanding,
self analyzation,
self deprecation,
self emulation,
self that senses
verse sense of self,
all decisions are
weighed at death,
and justice sleeps not
for one day, as karmic rules
apply to all, in this ocean vast
and small, of the single drops
fill fast its basin, and realize
the liquid of life, the vibration
of love, must remain light
and positive.

“Transmute the Soul” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

Black Orpheus: Midnight Stream

The storms of Jupiter ascend,
burning clouds of Neptune and Saturn.
Their perfect orbs, spherical in spite of
hexagonal surges, whirlpools, and vortices,
dervish silent frenzies. Clouded in the eye,
everlasting fog chokes the pupil sight.
It is a repetitive like scratched vinyl clichés, and
lost lacquer messages, hidden and secret, locked,
undismayed by the greed of light that eats away
the shadows. Rejoice in it, a reverie of rainbow
cast darkness inversed up the smoldering bowl
to a dank reality of wispy Nosferatu and elusive
shadow men. The ghosts poke their curl-cued
heads around the corner until the heart
radiates them away, losers of imperfect love
that only manage to remain lost floating
among the silent spheres, the music lost
to the overwhelming space once subdued.
In streams, the conscience flows, it looks, eyes wide,
mouth agape, tongue crossed, an absurdist pretzel
in old wood, chipped and dry. The crab burns,
the feverish blisters, the filthy hands that heal
the wounds lay testament to fever-pitch nightmares
and lazy-Susan personalities, a revolving door of fodder,
all smiles and bright eyes. The immaculate love
barred from the former dimensions,
the heightened aura of forgiveness,
seeps slowly into the empty reservoirs
constructed by our ancestors,
by the beings so weighted
stones set in mud and seal
like concrete, the vast
gemstones of error.

“Black Orpheus: Midnight Stream” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

Ode to the Federal Reserve

T’was 1913, on cold and cumbersome Christmas eve
that the bankers and politicians in shadow held keep.
Monetary laws they passed on that holiday season,
were passed at a time when people were busy holiday pleasing,

and assured notes created by a private source
were to be used as the country’s monetary resource.
These bankers, though, used nothing of value to support their notes,
and debt was created with every printed note.

And debt was owed with every promised note.
There was one other piece, though, this plan would float.
The US owed the bankers, as they charged interest, too,
creating the Income Tax, a practice of usury through and through.

Debt slaves, we pay off the interest to the Fed our country owes
like credit cards paying off credit cards on a debt that eternally flows.

 

“Ode to the Federal Reserve” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

 

 

Mare of Late Night Inconsequence

Final musings of the languished
death cult. Visceral. Death rattle.
Wigs upside down. Make-up makes the man.
Stiletto me this, my good, sir, and don’t forget
to strap it on. Help us support your pink habits,
hats, and manes. Ironic, thin lensed, bun-topped,
bike-rimmed, march through mullet and soft rounded,
gaping smiles teaching love and tolerance.
Beat it into their opposition with open hands
and open hearts, hoping their truths pummel souls
with the light divine. Reformation, the final reiteration
of false regulation. The bowels release their final bloat.
The fumes a familiar smell across borders. Erase.
Unnecessary platform streaming through the stars.
The night an eclipse on the nightmares of the day.
All things sutured to heal and reconcile.
The incisions scab dry as the differences
heal over. Purpose has found a place.

“Mare of Late Night Inconsequence” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.