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
is given,
a wail to the world,
a burst of recognition
and remembrance,
gratitude as
the memories
fade away
and we



“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

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

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. 

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.  


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.