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.

 

 

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. 

The Fall of September

Distillation of the history
in perceptions collided, scoped
for legion, collective and hive,
integrated inherently,
regardless of opinion,
deception sets sail beyond the rising sun.
Vast orchids blossom, blood red and orange,
daffodils fuchsia, peach blossom fire,
fiercely pinken darkening sky,
the lunar dream solidifying in the minds,
the abundant illumination crowning insights
to selected witnesses set to testify,
to bare the judgment of the enemy,
to call its shadows to attention,
to see the recognition in its eyes.
It wants to share something,
it wants to slyly strike a deal,
but it needs permission,
and the ability to be seen by eyes
once restricted to the access of
the other side.  Some must look
deep inside. Some don’t have to
because they just know. Some
bow heads in shame. Those
who know restrict the spirit,
those indulgent regard
its will, those unknowing
and those apathetic
are lost and found
to chance’s fate
regarding dominion
with this worldly spirit.
To fall into the infinite eye
of insights, to collapse into
opening doors, the depths
far deeper than comprehension.
The blackness of limbo
darker than space,
far colder than the coldest
memory, the adjourning meeting
would take place. In a land of silhouette
and disorder, the judgment set by the
black mirror before them, peer
into the chasm: now

you are nothing.

 

“The Fall of September” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

 

 

Severance Rebirth

The shadows of summers
passed fall like leaves
turn to dust, indifferent
to nature’s flow, caring not
for synchronicities or coincidences,
a demarcation of written history
and history being written.

The waning bagpipes stutter
to a halt and rattle away like
the pipedreams cooked up
nightly by sleepwalkers,
a daylight reverie, a trance
induced by the advancement
of processes and technicalities.

A sex born poison fumigates
the landscape wretchedly. Putrid
stench of filth and sewage, a
hemorrhage of the bowels
places red scars, scarlet marks
on the faces of the many batteries
that power this co-opted reality.

Gridlocked, swaying toward
a sun bright future, the chains
of empathy and desire wear
off.  The weight eases off
with the flesh, delicate,
timed precisely to flake
away with the snow
and sleigh bells, the
wan harps and
laughter of
old ghosts.

The crown descends,
the sacred breath of life
is given and taken,
and the first
acknowledgment
is given,
a wail to the world,
a burst of recognition
and remembrance,
gratitude as
the memories
fade away
and we
begin
our
journey,

reborn.

 

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

 

 

All Parties End

Sepsis of the heart,
the antiquated death in digits
once forgotten, brought to
mind by the searing black
that agitates the blood
and quivers in the heart,
it bargains for influence
in the stream of consciousness
deemed material by man
and ephemeral by god.

The waves came then.
The ones passionate about the cause
the first to go and the first to die. Those
whom could not remember, lost in a desert
pronounced of shards and glass. Those
crashed along the beaches of suicide.
They entered into a world they did not
bargain for, many unable to handle
the strength of riptide gravity
and the coerced magic wielded
by the programmers; those whom
designed the energetic matrix,
like a vortex, an aperture in
the air before you, mock their
own achievements by sharing
with the world a hoax bigger
than racism. It is an energy
ring meant to disrupt the first
wave.

The second wave brought the intelligible
and the tempered. Those trained in deep
magic and linked in twelve dimensions
fabricated by the will of man. Those whom
would remember, and would cross the
brazen sea, ride deep the current of its
sustenance, and curve its gravities,
change the shape and the temperature
internalized by its creator, a joker
that skewed the illusion of evil
into validation of good. It presented
itself as a creature of dual nature,
declared its life absolute, declared
its influence through deception,
it is a spirit conscience that
traverses through the frequencies
to hunt the inequities and use them
as tools to destroy the children
of the sun. And when remembered,
the spirit cannot overcome the
second; it can only speak its
intentions, and tell its truths
like lies; confuse, confound,
depress, distract. It has many
names and many personalities,
but is a legion negative and
purposed, transmuted and
transposed to the light
by the vigilant workers
whom sacrifice experience
to complete the mission,
rejoicing as she raises,
lifts, ensconced in the ether
of the galactic core, and the
heart of man, verdant in
the tones of love, gratitude
and forgiveness.

The unthinking prowess
of the third wave; those existing
simply to be, a generation of angels
writing and creating without inspiration,
the energy shifting in their presence.
Their presence an assistance to strike
at the unseen pockets hidden in our
world. Succeeded in shredding the
existence of duality. There can be light
without dark. There can be good without
evil. There can be a god without a devil.
The trick of words and reasoning,
the wardens of the heart, strip away
discernment no more. The veins
buzz frenetic, light receptors of the
galactic core. The DNA dances,
thankful. The third eye opens
and suddenly we see what
things are made of, and
see the spirit of the people.
And we discern those
touched, and discern their
hunger for rage, and the
accolades given when
power tricks the people
into blind animals,
and the symbolism was
enough to divide; and the
skin tone was enough to divide;
and opposing philosophies were
easy enough to divide.

Galactic warriors bring this party
to an end. An orgy of forgotten and
neglected love calloused into the
most sour resentment, depression
and wanton revenge. The word of
man intoned by magic, influenced
when spoken, believed when
received hindered by words of
four letter, is the archetype
of the devil’s motivation,
tethered to the emotion
lost in the vast cold and
empty sepulcher he
broadcasts from
resentment
neglect
loneliness
depression
bitterness
scorn
anger
fear.

The former things have passed away,
brother.  A new system has risen with
the planet, has graduated a class
energetic and weightless; has centered
and revitalized; has centered itself
into the new world where the discerning
eyes of the masses, the billions around
the globe deep shining their intentions
of love, though met by resistence, merges
with the spirit of the world, and expels
the final demons, expunges the history
those demons made, and rectifies the
truth unknown, to the newly opened
hearts of the once undignified, and
reconciles with the detached violence
of the spirit when in possession,
when owning, when attacking
the waves that came, and tasked
to alter their experience so
their transmission be lost in
space, and the magnetic
waves that will carry
them deep into our
enlightened past.

 

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

Memory Found

Digested horizon, verklempt.
Sunrise inferno, rose fuchsia,
periwinkle, cadet and into
midnight. The last stars hide
on the horizon. The last
dreams warm and alive,
active conscience, escaped.
Dignity rises with the eyes
of the eagle, the eyes of the
smiles broadened by martyrs
whom recognize their time.
Gold medallions, and statues
of recognition rise inside
deep wells once pursued
by the integrity of the
selfless and mighty;
objectified by the greedy
and proud. The iris is
fractured, the pupil
defunct. The inside view
is obsolete and closed.
It yearns to open.
It yearns to dance
across a screen of
electricity, excited,
gregarious and gay.
It discerns the passageways
that pulsate and pendulate,
it absorbs the vibrations
and watches the reactions.
It learns. Then,

it remembers.

The waves roll around it,
and eventually open up
to it and snuggle along
the vision, moving it
forward like a muscle
pushing out, to crown
and birth the glorious
sun that illuminates
in wan strokes that
blanket over the sky
and refractions a
kaleidoscope of
warm and teeming
energy that venerates
the coin now firmly
lodged in view,
and radiates
soft lightning
that strikes rapidly
and reanimates
the vision inside
the wells and inside
the mind. It chases
shadow with a slow
stalk. Ensconced,
the world and its
brutal magnetism
rise, ignite the
human conscience.

You remember.

 

 

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