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.

 

 

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. 

 

 

 

Perennial Revolution

 

Paris is burning.
Four weeks, the fire spreads.
Violence erupts, gas billows red,
horns and lights, cacophony rings.
Buildings burn, cars smolder, ablaze,
the shoppes, vandalized and looted.

The police have removed their helmets
as the people attempt to remove their leaders;
they’d remove their heads as a testament
against treason.

The students are stepping out.
The protests spread wide.
Across several cities,
blood stains the streets.
Rebellion and aggression,
opposite energy on the same
spectrum of hate, fear inspires
some to act without question.

Waves of individuals
destroy property, attack
symbolic establishments;
tens and tens of thousands
wage war on modern imperialism,
a cloak of socialism and fascism:
globalism. 

The flags of nationalism wave.
They are a marking in time,
a memory in the body politic.
Black vests versus yellow jackets.
Bombs become explosions.
Violence among people,
properties destroyed,
difference from the media,
the events left unknown
to the ignorant world.

A living relic of their history,
the French will not just eat cake.
They will hurl it at their master.
They will remove the political cancer,
the head of the wart that sprouts on their body.
The fire will spread, no centralized location.
The fuel, a sparking fire for the love of culture,
country, and people, will trump the selfish
players’ immorality.

Freedom will ring
as the root is weeded out,
the debt slaves’ shackles removed,
the secrets of history shattered.
A depth of knowledge remembered,
a spirit of unity rekindled,
respect to fires of the soul,
the flame of truth, the world spreads over.

 

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

“Perennial Revolution” is an Ekphrastic poem modeled after world events: coverage and analysis of the France, Yellow Jacket Riots. Interesting enough, the original title of this poem was “Paris is Burning,” and was written during week four of the riots, but I wasn’t pleased with the draft. To that end, I fell back on the sonnet to relay the  idea I sought to portray, as all the sonnets do so far in The Root of Many Returns. But “Paris is Burning” the sonnet was written in week fifteen of the riots (that’s right! Fifteen weeks, and I still haven’t heard anything from local or national news that covers what’s going on! Insane!). So the title, “Perennial Revolution” came from inside the poem itself, in an earlier draft. The one shared with you today, is rough, but it’s much better than it was. I don’t dabble too much in the body politic in my works of poetry and writing, but in poetry, it definitely has a place. I hope you enjoyed. 

 

 

Paris Is Burning

Fourteen weeks long this tale has become,
fourteen weeks and at five weeks undone.
The violence shared upon them all,
a demand their governors heed their call.

A fire ignited in a break for gas,
a dystopic peace on the weekend clash
the yellow coats multitude against armored law.
To true peace and justice, an anchored pall.

In reverence marches chaos in history’s wake,
an example kept steadfast for independence sake;
to ensure the name and values of a nation’s import
are no longer a commodity for globalist export.

The French have kept Paris a burning light,
dozens of cities inspire the entire world to fight.

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

 

Justice Delayed

Green flash at the break of dawn,
the hope of the world released in song,
that radiance upon the darkness shine,
and truth amid deception find.

To strike a balance among the conscious minds,
the severance of rigor-mortise once strongly entwined
in coil of mortal perception, a vice of fear,
a sullen casque enforced both far and near.

Await the swift hand of justice as pass the rebellious pyre.
The hollow heroes’ dressed funerals, honor’s procession expired.
Only malice and cancer may merit the fire,
for it was faith and love that kept the consciousness higher.

A day shall arrive where memory provides the model,
and the children of treason shall no longer be coddled.

 

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

 

 

 

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Light Presence

A prophetic voice inside the crowd
has promised victory with pride aloud,
has brandished hatred in black and blue
and left vessels corrupted with this sickly hue.

The victims of warfare against the mind,
become soldiers of hatred marching haughtily blind.
They succumb to the songs of the deceiving dead,
an echoing repetition in circles said.

Steadfast, the virtue of light adorn the head,
and cast all lost in a sea of red,
and shatter the grip of the singing dead,
and shatter the hold of the lies they spread.

A heightened right, a sovereign call,
disperse the wave against the wall.

 

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

 

Respite Americana

Reaching climes not ever thought,
the cleansing process, time has bought.
Mobility serves in striding miles
the marching feet those right beguiled.

No service comes from those left unjust
who’ve taken speech in a deafening hush.
The light that shines on all the dark,
shines bright at root and blackened heart.

It awakens the sleeping civil leaders.
It awakens the once lost oath keepers.
The vowed, silenced, arise masses and majorities;
the shunned, broken their omnipotent security.

The trumpets of a heartbeat begin to ring.
Music in victory the silenced chorus sings.

 

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