January 2013 or thereabouts

Talking Drum

It began with a word uttered 

It began with a note sung 

Began with the speech of the first repository of words

That of the gnarled, wizened, drum


The word itself was irrelevant

What mattered was the Spirit it bore

'Twas the herald of an epoch

And it spake of a season

Never witnessed before



January 2015 


Night is when the spirit roams

From dusty streets of ochre loam

To silvered, starlit, salty foam

Drawn by an unseen knell


While resting vessels lie in homes

Of concrete, brick and quarried stone

There, intercessors will atone 

For fragile, wounded shells


Night is when the spirits roam

Escaping matter, blood and bone

Converged above celestial domes

What stories they can tell



August 19 2017

Sunset on America

Later, they will ask you

whether you knew

that you were gazing upon the final three years, 

the culmination of an Empire’s fears,

at last brought up for resolution.


And whether you knew

that following 

that briefest of mass migrations 

when hordes travelled to pour drunken libations

as they witnessed a phenomena 

peaking hardly more than a few minutes; 

that the restraint barring the armies of chaos 

and legions of locusts,

would be removed 

by Abaddon 

at the behest of the One

who created them all,

for this allotted season.


They will ask

whether you knew that

four angels

holding back tide of Euphrates

would be unleashed upon the path of totality.


They will ask


as you spent your hard earned cash, 

on a flight 

to witness a moment 

when day became night;

if you knew

that as the sun was blotted, 



by Holy New Moon 

in the sign of the King, 

that you were in fact 

gazing upon the sunset

of the place they once referred to

as America.


Fallen! Fallen!

Is Babylon the great! 

Fallen, the Empire State! 

Burned the fourth beast,

the oppressive trampler with iron teeth!

Fallen, the breaker of the peace!


Fallen! Fallen! Fallen!


Fallen is dictatorship and democracy!

Now comes the age of Theocracy!


Now comes the everlasting day

ruled by


like a son of man

clothed in the clouds of heaven.



from freshly plucked 

iron teeth, 


out a rod 

which summons nations

to lie prostrate

before burnished feet

rested on a flaming stool

fashioned of


burning enemies.


How all wail as one

before the bowls of wrath 


from the great

judgement seat, 

as the choirs cry out and sing

Miserere mei, Deus.


And mingled tears flow

as a red river


billowing incense

of High Priest 

whose burnt offering

is now continually unbroken.


Fallen, fallen! 

That demonic habitation! 


that lair

of the foulest of spirits, 

of the hateful birds! 


is the great abomination!


Now no more will nation rise against nation.


Later, they will ask you

whether you knew 

that you were gazing upon the final death throes, 

the culmination of an Empire’s woes,

at last brought up for resolution.