A Message from Big Brother


The truth is not the truth,
Facts, a convenient lie.
History is what we tell you,
And 4+4=5.

Nobody is honest with you,
Nobody, but me.
I’ll tell you what is real
And I guarantee you’ll be free.

An ally today
Is an enemy tomorrow,
And every day before that,
And every day to follow,

My enemies have always been our enemies,
History is immutably true.
Anybody who says otherwise
Is just peddling fake news.


Image found at 1984: Big Brother is Watching You1984: Big Brother is Watching You.




For Aretha Franklin (1942-2018)

Aretha, Queen of Soul
Every note a prayer,
Smooth as silk,
Strong as steel.
Singing the blues
With the rhythm
Of her soul.
Standing tall with
Conviction and confidence,
The content of her character
Demanding respect.


Under the Sun

Sun glowing,
Dim and red,
Through sooty smoke
Stinging eyes with
Ashes of sacred forests
Burned black.

Heat bearing down
Like the breath of a Balrog
Blowing through
The caves of Khazad-dûm.

Despair and dehydration
Drains the strength
Of even the flowers
In the field.

Through overexposure
To life-giving forces.

Only in the darkness of night
Is there hope.


Under the Sídhe


Outside the cities
Under the cairn covered
Hollow hills of Eire,
The Aes Sídhe sit
In mansions bigger
Than the hills
They’re built under.

Driven underground
By the sons of Mil,
As they took the island
From distant cousins.
Naming their new home
In honor of the enemy
They worshiped
Among the oak groves.

Driven underground,
But not the dark damp
Underground of worms, bugs,
And corpses.
Nor the dark black
Caverns of Twerg miners.
Not even the cozy comfort
Of a well furnished
Hobbit hole.
Rather, underground:
Otherside of everywhere,
Inside of the outside,
Parallel to our perception,
Adjacent to reality,
An island covered
In apple trees.

Driven underground
By the followers of
A jealous foreign god,
Who’d brook no rivals.
An enemy more
Cunning and subtle
Than any Formorian,
An incursion not recorded
In the Book of Invasions,
Which was redacted
By the victors.

Driven underground
And diminished
In substance and size,
From Gods
To kings,
From physical
Forces of nature
To ephemeral,
Fairies and sprites,
Fallen angels
Cast out of the light.
Lucky little leprechauns
Hording pots of gold
At the rainbow’s end,
Or a rainbow of marshmallows
And sugar filled
Cereal bowls
For your breakfast table.

Under the hollow hills of Eire.
The Aes Sídhe sit
And wait.


Sídhe is pronounced “shee”