Video: “On the Day of Patrick Swayze’s Death” by Michael Aaron Casares (poetry)

 

“On the Day of Patrick Swayze’s Death” is a poem written by Michael Aaron Casares. It was published in his collection of poetry, This Reality of Man (2011, Lizard’s Tale Press).  The text to the poem can be read on this website at this link: “On the Day of Patrick Swayze’s Death.”

Excerpt: Foreword from ‘The Vanishing Poet’

We are conscious energy. We are energy having a ‘human’ experience. Everything is energy, condensed wavelengths or particles determining how heavy or how light the energy. Energy that pulses with vibration, low or high, negative or positive, does not die, it changes. And the first, and possibly the most important, task on our to-do list:

 

To remember.

 

Once we’ve remembered, everything else begins to fall into place in fulfillment with the divine contracts, the promises, we made to ourselves before setting out on this journey. And everyone, every bit of aware energy, has a purpose; and the purpose is different for everybody. Whether the gatekeeper to an invaluable innovation, whether to learn from the lessons of transgression, or to be a cog in the wheel, we all have individual purpose. We all have choice. We have autonomy. It is up to us to choose if the sun will set in heavy energies of fear and negativity, or love and gratitude.

 


 

The previous is an excerpt from the upcoming collection of poetry titled, The Vanishing Poet. The book will be published by indie publishers, Virgogray Press. A soft release is coming soon, with an official release and book tour to follow. More information coming soon. Pick up Michael’s other collection: This Reality of Man online or ask for it at your favorite, local bookstore. 

Max

It became more than I conceived. It took a life of its own. If left unchecked the time consumed tic-tac-toeing across a symmetrical grid of personalities became immeasurable. Seconds to hours, hours to weeks. Where did it stop. I was somewhere in the middle of the journey. Couldn’t remember the beginning. Couldn’t remember if there was a point. Had there been, it was dulled to the softest curb, the smoothest dip, the easiest turn tacit erosion raw and chaffing. It wasn’t numb. It was calloused. Second nature breathed this reality on me, it beat warm blood life into existence. It was spliced memories and intentions, sewn together casually so as not to overstate the gravity of choice and impulse. It became its own legacy, and my lusting appetite the voyeur and exhibitionist of the vacuous mores we sank to in our eternal climb for relevance, recognition, understanding, and purpose. The gravity sank to the pit of my groin, tightened scrotum seizing the last life before its release satiated my nerves to crystalline halos, familiar and relieved.

 

“Max” is a vignette written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

Look for more Max Caulfield coming soon.

 

 

Grim’s Wall

He continued to gaze passed his son, his amorphous spirit calm and sullen. He saw in the distance the point where a pin light met the blackness of night, and twilight seeped into blue hues strong and matte. There were no stars to speak of. There were not even remnants, ghosts of the outer graveyard to utter reminiscence  into their mind. There, at the point the sun began to rise and cast fiery pinks and golds into the sky, he saw the promise of this land; he saw opportunity. He’d been taught well, young, his education meticulously curated for optimal discernment and perspective. He couldn’t explain how he received it, after all, he’d never met any of his teachers.

“Build the grim’s wall.” he whispered, half speaking to his son, half to the air.

“That’s what he wants.” he whispered again. His heart held tight, his eyes rolled silent up, his eyelids fluttering. There was something coming in. Something that resonated. He closed his eyes. A dark space suddenly bore corners as he walked forward. His footsteps echoed. He saw before him a black apron. It reminded him of a butcher’s apron, a hard plastic with a shiny veneer. It was unused. He reached to touch, but the wall fell away and he was hovering in the sky watching the world beneath him. He felt he should be frightened, but an instinctual certainty calmed him. Sights came to him; images burst into view and vanished fast. He saw a great upheaval, benign or not irrelevant; the energy spiked. A sun rose. A heart of gold born. The galactic light enveloping him in its warmth. Then the butcher and night. He cleaned. He took out the trash. He erased every fecal smudge and rancid piddle. He painted the roses red.

“Fire.” he whispered as he walked through the daydream, “He’ll bring fire; orange is his favorite color.”

 

Grim’s Wall is a vignette written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

End the Fed

We’re not joking
anymore.
The words,
the worshippers,
the serpents
and the snakes,
the dividers
among us.
The stakes
have been held
captive, a pretense
of a threat.
The dreams
have materialized:
Fact was made
fiction
in the history
books of our
children,
but the fiction
of the past
haunts like
a government
template we
call the Orwellian
classic. Big Brother
Syndrome. A drone.
Big Brother Drones
knocking on my door,
they’re eating up my
data, they’re asking
me for more. They
want this, as much
as they can take
to fuel the paranoia
that they instigate.

They stopped joking
a long time ago,
these sinister fiends
of perpetual debt.
They’ve been
working, and
we’ve found
them out.
I will route
you out, serpents!
I will root you
out! I will root
you from your
dens, thieves,
cowards,
Satanists!
The subtlety
is scary,
the shadow
of their total
control.
Is this how
he did it? Adolf?
We know he
listened to the
dictates of the
bankers, the
money changers,
he just let them be.

From Adolf to Wilson,
from Hoover to Roosevelt,
they just let them be.
From LBJ to Carter,
from Bush to W.,
they just let them be.

Adolf and George
sitting in a tree
signing away
our rights
to make
history.

They’re telling
their lies and
with false flags
terrorize. False
flags terrorize.

The government
lost control, and
the people were
sold as another’s
property, under
a literal master
who’s illusion
of debt controls
the perception
of this life.

And now the rain
begins to drizzle,
its warm dissent
hits the head, splats
the foreheads, lands
on eyelids, tickles
the cheek as it
streaks deep
red.

And all eyes
have begun
to open, a slit
of recognition,
a sliver
of memory
searching for
the power to
burst wide open,
to fully see
the pit
this policy
has dragged
us to; in this
dirty mire, in
these filthy
chains, stiff,
naked,
unknowing,
unaware,
half asleep,
desiring just
to dream,
desiring just
to believe
in the good
of man.

I wanted
to believe.

 

 

“End the Fed” was originally written in 2005  and is a piece regarding the poet’s political/social views of the time. The piece is still relevant in today’s socio-political climate, if not moreso. Though limited, this type of poem does make appearances throughout the poet’s career, as he feels artists and poets cannot ignore any part of the human landscape. Whether overt or symbolic, the patriotic poem, or that which utilizes social commentary tempered to political thought, is a constant theme occurring throughout the expanding library of this writer’s work. “End the Fed” is perhaps the most overt of Michael’s patriotic poems, to the point it may be considered an activist poem; it is also one of the few poems to date that have a musical soundtrack accompaniment. It is forthcoming in the new collection of poetry, The Vanishing Poet (soon from Virgogray Press). All rights reserved.

The Fourth Estate

Headlines of the nation
sway in the wind. They
wave through gracious
space and hang on our
neighbors’ flagpole.
We adorn them, those
black print reams
of words and thoughts
that prideful, mount
the helm of the
basking sun.

Headlines read into
many things. They
spell the nation
with urgency,
curving words,
donning false
pretense,
scrambling the
truth and turning
upside down and
inside out; backwards.

Educators and
reporters, actors
cast with severe
clout renounce
their roles as
truthsayers,
become
seekers
of the lie
and peddlers
of deception,
manufacturers
of history.

The elusive, sacred
artist, visionary
and scribe, the
vibrant mirthful
minstrel, creators
of a kind, locked
away their talents,
shunned their
vision and their
voice, released
their lovers
and their love,
sullied beds
with the filth
of promise,
hubris,
vanity,
and wealth—
precious vices
for perspective
force their legs
to part and their
wombs to open
to receive
the jealous
spirits of
the dark.

Through whispers
many, silent chatter
communicate
across the world,
consolidate
the messengers,
centralize
the message heard.
Plant the stewards
of false truth
to shepherd
lies into the
flock. Sign in
perjury and
propaganda,
fiction forced
into reality,
omission’s
sin deceptive
silence. Here’s
a story yet
untold:

Taxed to live is what they do
as debt-slaves use credit
to pay for debt accrued
and cycling with the
days and months,
steadfast as the sun,
the bones of
generations
will have
decayed
before the
promise can
be kept,
and the people
and the nation
sold; our
grandchildren
and their children
awaken to a
land with no
country and
no home.

Life designed
to disengage,
dwindling values
keep passions caged,
nothing left to give
to them, attention’s
deficit our final
wealth. Belief is
not suspended.
Trust is never
questioned.
Malignant
opportunists
bleed deception
in the wake,
reporters run
the gambit,
producers
pull the
strings.

Headlines
smell like coffee,
but age like
obituaries. They
sound the sirens
of the world, and
erase history from
the dead. Headlines
of attention,
headlines of
deception,
headlines
the eyes
the people
see with
as the eyes
of omniscience
probe them,
intimidate
and pry.
The eyes of
the brother
awaiting his
war, the eyes
of destruction,
the eyes of
malfeasance,
the eyes of doubt,
the eyes that
control;
the eyes
of Big Brother
return, an Orwellian
veil shrouded,
ensconced,
and opaque.
The blood of
his family
bleeding through
the pores of every
truthseeker that
knows coincidence
cannot exist in
duality, and
his story revered
served a template
to every pupil
so understanding
would incite
new action
against the
aged and
obsolete
conscience,
and create
resistance
to integrity.

He’s
watching
the world
through
the screen
on his wall.
Wearing
the mask
of the bald
eagle,
spreading
plagues
of hate on
sovereign
wings, he
defiles
the heart
of man.
Behind a
curtain of
red, white
and blue
he uses this
country
as a ruse
to seize the
world, erase
their nations.
America,
the Trojan
Horse!

He’s
watching his
monitors, he’s
studying his
screens,
deciding
what images
to carefully
ween, like
Hitler, he’s
culling
images,
he’s staging
scenes,
deciding
what truth
will literally
be. He will
declare
the gods to
worship,
and the
enemies
to decry.
He will
slander
truthful,
honest men
if his vision
becomes
impaired.
He will create
kingdoms and
dynasties, destroy
freedom and thought;
and impregnate facts
with his selfish
seed. His youth
will know
only what
they
read.

 

 

“The Fourth Estate” was originally written in 2004 and is a piece regarding the poet’s political/social views of the time. The piece is still relevant in today’s socio-political climate. Though limited, this type of poem does make appearances throughout the poet’s career, as he feels artists and poets cannot ignore any part of the human landscape. Whether overt or symbolic, the patriotic poem, or that which utilizes social commentary tempered to political thought, is a constant theme occurring throughout the expanding library of this writer’s work. It is forthcoming in the new collection of poetry, The Vanishing Poet (soon from Virgogray Press). All rights reserved.