The Vanishing Poet

All that was left was the will of intent.
The moist, hard congealed seal unbound,
the coil loosened and released, the whisper
of a breath dispersing back into the cosmos.
The shade and shadow of duality, the black
and white of these words. The black and
white of the nation wrapped in a web of
consternation that has no limit and has no
recess. The beliefs tied to the heart with booby
traps vanquish all that’s left. In fits of tolerance,
in a rampage of love, it beats acceptance into the
ground, no longer a bid for choosing among the buyers,
but a command to follow to keep above the waters
and not succumb to the silent arm that stalks
the gathered conspiracy circles and listens through
electric lines the lies of treasonous wavelengths.
The truth, the enlightened moment, the meaning
hidden from our eyes, possesses a power
indisputable, and rakes the hearts of every poet.
Perpetual sin, the gravity of our folly, a constant
mirror on our wall, hijacks celestial knowledge
and turns the truth into a tall tale the leads
the hearts away from center, and takes them
into the barren fields where light struggles to
live, in the ashen grays, the dirty soot indirectly.
But the wraiths know what they do when
they manifest as a lie on the tongue. They
shut the speech of poets down, they remove
the magic from the writing, they cause their
spirits to disappear, replaced by entities
tha bear false witness if only to stumble
the weakest child. Stripped away, a
fading image of skin unravels to the bone
and skull, and blood and muscle dissolve
like light subdued, and then the bone begins
to drop, and teeth whirl away in a succinct
row one by one. See the poet disappear
as life pursues another course. Existence
in a plane, a reality, a dimension where
time is worth more than wisdom, and
words are mere flashcards to the captive
drama, they speak them unrehearsed,
with a pretentious vigor, just so the
audience can understand the magic
the performance conjures and the
energy it needs to use, as slowly,
surreptitiously, that altruistic intent,
that indominable will, fizzles like
ghost of a seraphim cast into light,
like the spells of the wicked
disperse into air.

 

 

“The Vanishing Poet” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.  

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“A Quiet Day at School” by Michael Aaron Casares, Austin, TX

I found this on the internet. It was written about 2010, and published in 2011. If I had to go back and re-write it, I would. I feels a bit sophomoric (pun intended) in retrospect. But, it manages to convey my message. Enjoy.

itacacontest

topic: 9/11 medium: TEXT

as submitted for the “9/11” Open Call

I was a sophomore.
It was after first period,
my second period class
was also homeroom
and lunch was next
so the T.V. was playing
in every classroom
from that point on.
As we all watched CNN,
FOX or MSNBC or local news
for updates and live minute-to-minute
coverage of the twin towers under attack
we wondered, Was it a bomb?
Did they shoot a missile into the building?
The reporter said it was a—
I saw on live television the second tower struck
by a winged entity shadowy and fast.
A brilliant plume of black dust and fire,
a chorus of gasps and murmurs.
People were afraid, because America
didn’t get attacked, and blood never spilled
on its soils. The fear ran deep.
Nobody had much to say that day,
we children more confused,
our teachers composed,
some…

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Resurrection Apollo

He glared sharply into the sky. Without a star or moon in sight, he was certain the sky glared back at him. He disapproved of it. At long last he’d become tired of it. It’s been dark for too long, he thought. He didn’t know where it came from, or why. He was perplexed at how deep the sky became. He seemed to remember a time like this before, and marveled how the shrouded moon seemed to veil the entire sky opaque. Still, there was a time when the single moon cast a silver sheen so luminous, it seemed the land and his surroundings glowed in that hazy white. There were times the moon was accompanied by a legion of stars, the multitude a shimmering carpet to the naked eye, ghostly yet familiar. Still, there was another. It changed the land all together. It brought a light so bright it made shadows hide in the crooks of their masters, and brought clarity and definition. This is what he wanted as the blackness surrounded his head. Daybreak was coming, he sensed as denser grew the shroud. The forces at work always worked their hardest before the sun’s return.

 

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

 

 

Deadshot

Electric pulse percolates,
wriggles like tape worms
across dehydrated flesh.
Tiny pulses emanate from
a central source all around,
the shroud a smoldering cloud
of hazy mysticism, radiates
the core. Vibrations wave through
body’s hearth electricity ascending
in microwaves impure. An afterglow
incomplete, replete with vague
definition, sole cause to question
the integrity of another, and alone
face the mirror they see before you,
so that you don’t turn away, and walk
away in defense repasts, stumble, fall
shaken quicker than the earthquake
tremors fossilize and petrify.

 

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

 

Black Orpheus: Peddling the Father of Lies

Specter in the house
flies through glass windows,
globes round and crystal
mystified by the light
and shroud.
It throws rocks in
ignominious desolation,
it trades the soul for desire,
it profits pleasure and lust,
it drives the question of our
sin, strips away the barriers
of consciousness, relies on
the powers of self-doubt
to scar a path to its
ultimate destination.

The peddles first lose color,
pale then blacken. Its skin
begins to sag, wrinkle and
decay. The lifespan is locked
in a fortress of ice, clouded
vision and clear deception.
It comes to roost at the
eleventh hour, when its
appetite cannot be stopped,
and dead, black peddles are
left it its wake to mock
the heart of the lover
inside. Putrid kiss,
the toxic life, unkempt,
cast voyeurs into desperation,
cast masters into slaves,
turn the priests into pansies
and the preachers into demons.

The thinning veil of energetic
deception, the chaos supposedly
causing design, disintegrates
behind a wall of smoke,
and there are no scenes of
our ancestors, and there is no
gate to cross. The perceptions
of humanity ring like a bell
and reverberate in a jar
that locks them down,
a lamp for Pandora,
a cell for the soul.

It returns
and it never
goes away.

“Black Orpheus: Peddling the Father of Lies” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

 

 

2019, Half Way On

Hello, dear readers. I hope you are well. I’m dropping in a personal letter, to say hello, thank you for your sup20190424_125310port, and share a bit of news about my work and upcoming releases. The readership of The Root of Many Returns keeps growing, and trust me, when I say I can’t wait to get to one hundred subscribers, its said with humility and sincerity; there is no room for sarcasm here. It’s been quite some trip we’ve been on it seems. Much poetry, to my surprise, has been published. I’m surprised my engines began running again. I have a few short fiction pieces I’m developing,  and I’m grateful to share.

I am happy to create something that one wants to stick around and see what happens. The biggest developments will most likely be in fiction. With the second book in the Nicholas Duke in the works, and the kick off of the fantasy series I’ve harbored for years, I think you’ll be interested if not somewhat shocked at some of the things I have planned for the site. Some may have noted the tag “Max Caufield” on the post of short fiction. This marks the beginning of a brand new series of stories for me to write. While I am gearing these tales to be short fiction ala the vignette, or something five hundred words or less, the story will be about an openly homosexual individual and some of the exploits he faces in dating and sex life. Ultimately, the Max Caufield line of short fiction will address many topics of the LGBTQ and, specifically gay, community. I recommend discretion as these stories will be descriptive in content both sexual and mature.

There is also a planned release of my newest collection of poetry. The last one I published was in 2011, so this is by all means long over due. The collection will be called “The Vanishing Poet” and will contain  several dozen poems that wvanishingpoetpromoartere originally published in the Virgogray Press chapbook line of poetry. These chapbooks published more than a decade ago are long gone and rare to the public as print quantity was severely limited. So, for the years these writings were read of the chapbook, these writings were lost, until now. The poems, of course, are not without repair. To cast a glance over the shoulder is to see the errors of the past. As these poems will be relatively new, there may be no note of revision or modification, but for the poems published in literary journal both online and in print, there should be a slight explanation. Some of the poems sucked as was, and are much better now. The choke in the developing voice unhindered by the lack of resources or fear to seize their passions, left creations slightly unpolished, and less than perfect. I am pleased with the new text. And I assure not all were revised. Some only had small editorial misses, and not complete overhauls. I wouldn’t say any poem changed its original meaning from when I first wrote, but definitely clarified them.

As current subscribers to the blog, I’m offering a free advanced copy of my book in exchange for a review, a sketch, or a blurb on what you thought of the work. Just send me a message via the contact page, or comment below and I will get in touch. I may also publish any feedback given in the final edition of the book. In fact, any reader that subscribes to my Patreon account will most likely be included in the acknowledgments page should they remain at least through book’s publication. And lastly, get ready, especially if you’re in Texas, because I will most likely hit the road with this book and see if I can’t do some book readings for support and exposure. It will be fun times. I haven’t toured a book in a long time. I know I could tackle Texas immediately. But perhaps soon I will be able to expand my footprint and tour a book throughout the U.S. All things looking forward, barring some crazy, world altering event, I’d say the only way to look is forward.

I challenge a lot of view points in life, offer some interesting angles, black mirrors to peer into, whether in my writing or my day to day. Sometimes the work is too abstract, and sometimes pretentiously blunt. I’ve been working on the balance of these in a concise and calculated form. To make my words count. It makes me happy to know I will not be alone as I discover the path we make. But know as long as I may dream up a universe, I may dream up the entire existence of what we are now, a piece of cosmic space dust glittering, the distant glow of a central star; and as long as the creativity flows I will form this dust into fully evolved worlds, whether by story or verse. Happy reading.