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.

Red, White, and Bruised

The sum of jokes and hypocrisy
is our land of peace and prosperity.
Eyes like red iron vent hate
and instigate the fights
we pine for. Tempers
like jet white streaks
scream across
third world skies.
Hearts drown blue,
the skin a sickened hue
as the waters of war
engulf our once free
youth.

The birds of vengeance ride again!
They melt the pride of red, white and blue
into angry shades like a subdued bruise
that relentlessly wails at the world:

“Where is freedom?”
“Where is peace?”
“Where is the iron-clad
security your profound
vision promised us?”

The acts of patriots
lock away the heart,
remove the rights
to privacy.
Foist chaos
into the
peace.
Harbor
a new
world
order,
wretched,
an abomination
of false democracy.

Peace and security
ushered from his
lips, and the prophecy
of this time continues
to unravel, a bullet train
of old thought and unified
conscience married to create
their reality with our strength,
to wish into existence a
self-fulfilling dream,
the final slaughterhouse
designed to trap its victims
once the docile nature of the flesh
weakens and begins to wilt,
the goodness supped up
like milk, bloodied by the
carnivorous child, the
energies lowered,
crashing down
like towering
giants, weakened
by the spider’s bite,
and poisoned by
their children,
and the shadows
that influence.
Deep inside
the state,
the actors
ignominious
cast their
stories of
deception,
pacify our
every need,
blind us
from a sacred
truth where we
see that we are
the stars, and we
are the stripes burning
in united conflagration.
We, the citizens
whose voice
a resolute
trumpet
amid the
tempest.
We, the last
rose of hope
for sovereign
independence,
and free will
thought and
action.
We are
the people
chosen to cycle
this fleeting
enlightenment.
We stand united
to form a more
perfect union
empowered
by divine
inspiration,
and the celestial
grace gifted
by the cosmos.

“Red, White, and Bruised” was originally written in 2003 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.

State of the Mind

It is in this hour we unite.
Though we are separate,
we peer deep into the
chasm: humanity, a full
and vacant space, voids of mind,
we acknowledge nothing,
see nothing, and
feel nothing.

It is in this hour,
the false power approaches.
It dwells inside the land,
an alien lost and dirty
with gun in hand
and truth in heart.
He grins his final grin
as he crosses the border
of the mind.

Transcend the
transgression;
do not hurt him.
Vast fortunes burn
in our nations’ towers!
Do not hurt him!

He is an alien from a foreign land,
and we, our unified conscience
geared towards war,
have destroyed
the antiquity of life,
pummeled the gift of choice,
and prostituted what we call
freedom!

It is in this hour we unite,
different people with differing stories,
separate though together, conscious
paradoxes, separatists, and we
peer into the yawning void
and erase the seeds sown
long ago by an ageless,
greedy hand.

We step together, our cadence
solemn, resolute. We shed
green energies to heal with love;
we shower light replete with
shining sun to cast the duality
away. We find the honor
to repel the lies, and
the courage to remove
the sties, the legion
infecting every eye,
and return vision
to the navigation of
one’s life, and return
providence to free will
and security to all.

 


“State of the Mind” 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. 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 occurrying 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.

 

 

Resonance: Pretty Hate Machine by Nine Inch Nails

Of the songs that stand out, “Head Like a Hole” and “Terrible Lie” are probably the two songs I was familiar with before I knew the name Nine Inch Nails. My musical coming of age not until I was in my adolescence, there are vague memories of a muffled rendition of “Head Like a Hole” playing on my sister’s stereo behind closed doors. I didn’t know what it was, I would have been about six, but what I did know is it was different from other things, the things I usually heard my sister play on the radio. Flash forward to my burgeoning hormonal teenage years. Bored homeschooling dNine-Inch-Nails-Pretty-Hate-Machine-Album-Coverays of music catalogue perusals led me to the discovery of band called Nine Inch Nails. I didn’t know who they were, there was no internet back then, at least not one readily accessible to a middle class citizen in the mid 1990s. The album I acquired then, some of you will remember was called Broken, an E.P that forever changed the way I saw music, and realized its intense power over emotion and influence. It was at this time that I connected “Head Like a Hole” to Nine Inch Nails. The problem was, for a boy of 13, in the era of the compact disc and accessibility to music only available through purchase or radio and cable music television, the album Pretty Hate Machine was scarce (available in cassette tape at the time, but who bought cassette tapes then?! They were as passe as compact discs are today, however, back then, CD was the way of the future). When I finally got my hands on Pretty Hate Machine we were somewhere in limbo between Downward Spiral and The Fragile. It was much needed to fill the void of material. Retrospective to 1989, here we see another musical act before its time, creating a mix of rock and metal elements with electronic and dance. But wait! you say, what about industrial rock? A look back to such acts as Front 242, Ministry,  Throbbing Gristle, Nitzer Ebb, Laibach, and Skinny Puppy, to name very few. Still, Trent Reznor and his Nine Inch Nails assisted in jarring open the door of this unique mix of electronic and metal to a larger public in an era that was geared towards darkness and Armageddon. This aural plea from the soul of this madman pleased the environment as it trudged toward the new millinium, and it began with “Head Like a Hole,” a song all at once rebellious and angry as musical and catchy. I always tend to look at they lyrics of things and could only imagine what or who he sang about. Was it just the concept of money and those either ensnared in its greed or its influence of power? Either way, the song was a protest by its own right. “Terrible Lie” is another song noteworthy for its timelessness, and the song I admired for its depth and texture, its tangible angst, an element not easy to wield. The song aims of betrayal and self-doubt, lack of control and lack of forgiveness. Its mechanical open a wretched alarm to the listener, brandished throughout. The gothic gray and gossamer white synths that wine in the back, the chatter of electronic buzz and banter, Trent’s distinct vocal pate shredding and moaning against they raucous but acute music. Another hit to come off the album, a single also hip and recognizable, “Down It.” This song began to show how versatile the band could be, not secluding its anger to the dark of night, but also in the light of day, chipper to a point, still with no recourse but to trick the listener. A classic industrial track, it became one of their most popular songs early on. The album carries on this way presenting something I find somewhat more ‘marketable,’ or user friendly for what it was. The language of the album, minimal inferences socio-analytic commentary as one bears in “Head Like a Hole,” as much the expression aggressive diatribe offers and sex. Many songs are riddled with innuendo and requiem, explorative to orgasmic ends, some laden with shame and others curiosity. It was enough to keep this gay boy wondering and smitten by the thought of Trent Reznor.  Another personal fave, on the album is “Sin,” a track tucked sonically away at the back end of the album, and a song I feel laid a path to where their next musical exploits would go. A nice hallmark of some tracks on this album, also I think laudable, are the many tracks accessible to a dancefloor: “That’s What I Get,” “Down In It,” “Kinda I Want To,” “The Only Time,” a caviatte seen scarcely as the bands catalogue expands. The conclusion, the post-industrial, retro electronic jam, “Ringfinger” completes Pretty Hate Machine on a high note, listeners eager for what’s to come, and for those just learning of Nine Inch Nails, an oasis of sustenance and dynamic origin. Twenty years on this classic still timeless as I put it on repeat.

Nine Inch Nails – Pretty Hate Machine
1989, Interscope Records

Tracklist:

  1. Head Like A Hole
  2. Terrible Lie
  3. Down In It
  4. Sanctified
  5. Something I Can Never Have
  6. Kinda I Want To
  7. Sin
  8. That’s What I Get
  9. The Only Time
  10. Ringfinger

 

This review of Pretty Hate Machine by Nine Inch Nails is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

Remittance (Reprise)

It was in observation
of manipulation.
She used
her mental prowess
naturally throwing screens
at conflict,
hiding the truths
needed,
protecting the secrets
accumulated.
Her vast trail grew
like the shadows long
tails tethered to the
horizon sun.
Twilight grew
in her eyes.
She was tired.
The attempts
at manipulation.
The unlauded successes
of its unintentional existence.
A great book for the
counter culture.
She’d stood on one side
of the line by necessity
for so long she was unsure
at first how to feel
when good fortune
brought her to
the other side.
And how at that time
the magnetic draw
she fed on increased
and strengthened.
She had no choice
but to stand
where she stood.
The prewritten law,
the contract signed upon
(re)initiation, feigned at
as a victim’s house,
acknowledged
the many paths
to take,
agreed the poisons
of the world
would overtake
the soul
if the sun
was going
to shine
on peace
and goodwill,
to overcome
the counter balance
incumbent from
this game’s inception.
The trade off
for those who
will or will not exist
in the heightened world
of the future, the point
being to assist another
dying world, or to learn
again.
For now her resolve
asked for piety, for
forgiveness |
amongst the shadows.
Her resolve to adapt
to the onslaught
of challenge
and awkwardness,
to grin through
once regulated emotions
of pain and suffering,
to continue transmuting
the darkness of the soul,
to carry on as a beacon
of higher awareness.
She had once learned,
deep inside a dream,
the memory existed.
Beyond the sun and galaxy,
in a space accessible to opened souls,
the maps of many paths reside.
If she guided to it with her heart,
she’d remember the choices she made;
if open she’d easy navigate
the river of the soul
to starlight
and the inner healing
of its energetic core.

 

“Remittance” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.