Midnight Clouds

Mercy Street forlorn in the morning clouds.
The eyes heavy in retreat, eclipse its own vision,
iris shaking, pupil fat. The fog clings low to the
ground, the feigned winter breeze of an ill-fit
New Year and Holiday Season, all but elements
and figments of a present now passed.

Random auditory notes, celestial to organic
ooze softly through the dim blue, the prism
cast even through the multicolor Christmas
tree that stands proudly, defiant of the cycle
consumerism has set. Another buzz on the
silenced phone reminds of the artificial means
of contact: perpetuated, advanced, and liberating,
but also enslaving.

Days have passed with but a blink in time
to rest. The blackness usurps fastidiously,
a deep vacuum one hears as life vanishes
down the funnel. Falling apart. Piecing
into bits, a shred in time, a shred of time,
elapsed into a memory, the spectrum
disintegrates as static, a multicolor fuzz
established in the night. A waft of fog
streamlined like a feather, but hazy like
cotton, fills the empty space of ground,
and we the people have receded. We have
shriveled into our shells and tents. We
have succumbed to the very nature of the
beast. That is to say, our spirits are filled
with goodwill, and the actors’ pernicious
glare, stares only at the jugular.

Flesh on flesh rubs raw, hours into  love making.
The unnatural cause of a ludicrous effect, the winds
of Jupiter could not stop it. It would seal it in a glass
bowl of constant paranoia and awareness of every
move. The silent creep around the corner has eyes
one only seen at night, and the steps so carefully placed
are chosen to strike cords of discontentment as clash
decision and discernment. Faith within the huddled
space, the flames and torches light the way. The incense
waft precarious, sanctifies the base. Allows those lost
in light, the lovers late and lazy, the lonesome and the
loathsome, the legion watching many, to emote a ranc
sulpheric steam. The garbage, manure, rotten and
deceased to plague the pristine strands of fair incense,
storm clouds on the horizon. A quiet flash, a sexual pulse,
discretion is out the door. A hum electric in the veins a fizz
and pop, a clearing of the sitting soul, a buzz that rides the
very bone, opens eyes into the inner core, rewrites the brain
the mind now wired to the world. 

 

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

 

COMING SOON: The Vanishing Poet, a collection by Michael Aaron Casares. 

 

 

 

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Job Fair

I stood around, pacing,
watching a multitude of kids,
my age or younger, herd through
stalls of opportunity.
They are all here to find a job,
a career deserving of their certificates
and claim to knowledge.
They’ll all go off
to big corporations,
making higher figures
than I ever did at my first,
second and third jobs.
But that’s what they’re
trained for, that’s why they
live, to exist as part of
a system necessary for a life
they’ve been taught to desire.
Sure, people who pay more
for education should get
paid more to work—that’s
the rationale they are born
with. Never mind the love
affair or the need to live
as you please. There’s
money to be made.

 

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

 

 

Take the Ride

I’ve one last chance to bear witness
to the oddity and uniqueness: a first time
original, a tchochke of absurdity, abstract.
The walls are building up around him.
Admiration one last time; appreciation, a
resolution before the chains and shackles
desecrate his name.

Voice of an underground generation,
inspiration engaged in the risks of life, necessity
of truth. Experience the drive to conclusive
judgments; the taint upon his name.

Ranks of autonomy, vicarious alive we learn,
the forging of a memory, a blasted wind twisted
in the lights. The trails of inspiration, a singular
distillation perceived by the artist above.

Fist to the sky, a cannon ablaze for the final
ride to reach the heavens; every attempt to make
it there on one’s own, to stave off rejection, the
ultimate fear that seizes the soul at the final
door of reality.

The whispers of loathing run deep.
They burrow in the skin, a sickness plagued
by the curators of history. The poisoned rabbit
hole attractive as deep, gives direction to the madness.

An effigy is burning as the world returns to light.
The scarcities of imagination that drive the actions of
another, the vacuum of besieged souls will leave room
for new growth. The legends of old, the texts that built
this world in generations forsaken by the sins of the
shadows, prostrate in agony, guilt bleeding from their
brows, their visions deteriorating, rotting, decaying
the interior of the soul expressed outwardly, a
trap for the lost, or the questioning conscience.

 

“Take The Ride” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

 

Black Orpheus: Hearts of Glass

Distant sigh of the wind and highway
cold through cracks on winter morn.
The dark of absent light and sun,
the stars that hug the horizon tight.
Ashes and cotton balls cling to lazy eyes;
flurries and dust thick on dry lashes.
The truth is laid before our heavy hearts.
The body is tired, it is rebelling against
the gluttonous need. It is fighting
the winter spirit. It is hoping for truth,
but instead plagues the host with
sickening disease. It is thick on
the glass. It is blackened and
burned, a stain forgiven by the
washing of hands and scraping
of shards. The rushing cadence
the heart resolves to, the hollow
electricity coursing through nerves,
the eyes awake and lucid. The perceptions
of the guilty shadow the innocent, the light
of truth futile to the cover of the past.
The future brings slick streets,
constipated morals, late nights and
early mornings. Chilled daylight masks
itself in a crystalline kaleidoscope of
glitter and mirrors. The pupils dilate.
Flies run through the blood. Fatigued
as aging tree bark, the spirit is
cracked and rigid. The lines
deepen, a black sleep that consumes
the eyes and flesh, and ignorance
blesses each chilled hush that creeps
inside our hearts of glass.

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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The Neighborhood Is Silent

The neighborhood is silent
against the raucous jeers
of abounding crowds.
Traffic rushes statically
on highways not far from here.
The wind rhapsodizes dreamily,
lulling the silent, sleeping street.
But the neighbors are watching,
I’m sure, as I carve an apple,
(its red skin sweating in the
pungent humidity).
I never speak to my neighbors.
We never barbecue, either.
We remain indoors, in our
closed circuit environments,
in our creature comfort habitats,
in our dens of solidarity.
The land has changed:
preference of security leaves
these remains, these dormant
people, silent and secluded
from extemporaneous movement.
Wheels on upturned bikes spin
like reels of family-time past
and the basketball, the children’s
games are completely forgotten.
The children are gone, locked behind
barred doors, or perhaps in their
basements, slaves to their senses:
eyes and tongue.
The neighbors are watching though.
I am sure as I smoke a cigarette
and scream a verse or two that they
huddle quietly, waiting to break free.

 

“The Neighborhood is Silent” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

Crystalline Delirium

Day after thanks runs together like one.
Five days, four nights of questionable lust
clouded by the threat of retreat, or worse,
a social disease. Truth. I held him like a
lover. I loved him like forever, aware I’d not
see him for another few weeks. First time
in my bed, beneath the heavy liquids of rash
decision, the consequences and rewards are
days away. Uncompleted. Unity in souls is
never met. An exercise of tongues and
marvels, the deep breathing exploits
sensation with euphoric death.
Chemical nausea. Becoming in the end
the shrill of nerves that joyful sing.
Sunrises in a blink of an eye. The queens
gab on as the cold and the hot tug war.
The dead arise to work as consumption
has peaked for the year, and the fall reset
takes its leave; as gratitude gives way to reality
and the innocent are stricken as darkened love
plants sleep and doubt, and old ghosts begin
to dance without a care between the moon
and the sun.

 

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