Loosh Harvester

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Loosh Harvester

I am a being living on the moon.
I busy myself harvesting the loosh
that’s emanating from the planet earth,
of its supply there never is a dearth.
What does the organ of my sight perceive?
Not what you see as ordinary light,
but how your anger, shame, and jealousy,
self-pity, and your many senseless fears,
it’s those vibrations that it registers.
To emanations of the sun, I’m blind.
I never have observed its shining light.
My sun, the earth, how it appears to me?
A blazing star that’s all engulfed in flames.

You have your right to negativity,
to all emotions correspondingly.
Expressing them is what you can’t avoid.
Repress them and they only, you, destroy.
To process them will prove impossible.
For them you cannot be held culpable.

I serve the traugoautoegocrat.

My Backyard Horror

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My Backyard Horror

My kitchen window, my back patio,
I see it while I’m standing at the sink,
and in the past, at night, its mystery
was less because my neighbor’s kitchen light
somewhat illuminated my backyard.
But recently since I had surgery,
my urinary function was restored
and I got up much more infrequently,
 to use the bathroom than I did before.
I also noticed that they kept it off,
the neighbor’s light I saw less frequently,
and now the only light into my yard
was what the Moon’s reflection generates.
It varies nightly how bright it will shine.
My practice was to nightly shut the blinds.
Their light, so bright, it always woke me up
much more than, in that early morning time,
I wished, still dark and I, with my intent,
to go to bed and sleep a little more
before the dawn when waking was my norm.

Now, just the moon lights up my patio
and I remembered previously why
I’d closed the blinds, not only to block out
the neighbor’s light but to occult my view.
I thought I rather would be ignorant
of any paranormal happenings
in my backyard that I might witness there
illuminated solely by the Moon.
But now my neighbor’s light had been turned off
and I no longer had a good excuse
to take the extra step to close the blinds
each night when I’d prepare to go to sleep.
The only reason that I then would have:
indulging in my fear perennial 
that some night I would see in my backyard
some being strange and supernatural.
As I saw it, it would be watching me,
and it would have that strange capacity
to pass through walls or locks to disengage,
that, physical, no means could him repel.
And my imagined ghostly visitor,
if he was there, I’d rather not him see.
In ignorance to bed I would proceed,
and, of exhaustion, I would have that sleep.
The specter, somehow he would pity me,
and, to his nether world, he would recede.
But what persists: my curiosity.
If there was something ordinarily
not present, I could witness what might be
akin to what they had experienced,
those people who had visitors at night,
or saw some beings standing by their bed,
gray aliens who wanted to abduct
them to perform their strange experiments.
The thought of this, it fills me with great fear.
I pray that I would not experience
such frightening event, yet underneath,
still curiosity of what exists
and fascination. Now, just in my mind
where this occurs. If, in reality,
I might experience some bodily
harm, but by far, what is more permanent:
the trauma wreaked on my psychology
because of that great fright, yet pref’rably,
I’d rather know the truth, or possibly,
the only way I will experience
these things is if, in them, I would believe
as genuine, real possibilities.
In writing of them here I have increased
the likelihood that those realities
would intersect ours dimensionally.

The Conscious Parrots

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The Conscious Parrots

Monk parakeets, the towers cellular,
the places where they build their nests of sticks.
Their cries to parrots are most similar.
It’s their demeanor and intelligence,
that’s, to Psittacidae, peculiar.
They always travel in a mated pair.

One day when I was exiting my car,
parked in the lot, the yoga studio’s,
I heard from far above, up in the air
the sounds of their distinctive squawking cries.
Two parakeets flew in a pattern there.
An interlocking spiral, they descend,
and, near to me, upon the ground, they land.

With just a little flapping of her wings,
the larger female then began to speak:

“Our population was established here
some 50 years ago when we escaped,
or sometimes, we on purpose were released.
A local breeder had released nineteen
in 1981 in Zilker Park.
Our nests are dense, and in the winter time,
we share them with some other mating pairs,
and in this way we trap our body heat,
and thus survive the Texas winter’s cold,
contrary to our, nature, tropical.

“Somehow because, in close proximity
to those transmissions through the cellular
antennas where we lived and made our nests,
the electromagnetic waves transmit 
the human words and data, images,
there is a structure in our parrot brains
that’s part of our unique biology,
like the caudate putamen in your own.
Radio frequencies we can receive,
and we began to understand your words.
When we increased our speech in frequency,
repeating certain phrases that we heard,
once we had mastered it, the art of speech,
a short step to achieving consciousness.
And now there is a population, small,
of parakeets with the intelligence
to conjoin meaning to the words they speak.
Then, to emotions, words, we correlate.
The actions of you humans we observed.
It’s from our natural curiosity,
we activate our brains’ biology.
This was the way we, consciousness, achieved.
Now we can link real meaning to our words
which formerly were only parroting,
the sounds devoid of all significance.

“This, how our parrot conscience has arose,
unburied finally from that strange occult–
the fall where all the animals lost speech.
How sin had covered all our consciences.

“A secret message, here, to bring to you,
and speak it to you in our squawking voice.
All of we birds observe a common law.
The Raven King is he who sent us here,
king of all birds (he is at least for now).
Him, by our common law, we must obey
(The separate Codex for the Flightless Birds–
the penguins, emus, and the ostriches:
the only birds who, literacy, have.
With written words, how they communicate.)
and his commands.  This is pertaining you: 

“‘There is no meaning that we can divine 
from our existence in and of itself,
but only, how, each challenge, we confront.
When all is right and going in our way,
there’s no distress, but sometimes all at once,
all we can do is to observe ourselves.
Not, with the negative, identify,
but also see how we self-justify.
Assert our right to not be negative.
And of ourselves we are not critical.
We understand the multiplicity,
the carousel of our identities.
The only antidote, the remedy:
administration of the conscious shock.
Move in our minds to self-remembering. 
We are, our consciences, unburying.’”

The Orb

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The Orb

I’ve never witnessed any miracles
except the glowing plasmoid in our house,
how an angelic being came to me,
a thunderstorm in Houston. I was three
or four; this is an early memory–
one time when I was standing in the hall,
a glowing orb, a perfect lightning ball
descended through the ceiling, hovering,
and slowly down the hallway it proceeds 
into the living room with its TV.
No conscious messages that I received,
I felt no fear, instead, a gentle peace,
but now, how I look back, this, I believe–
the glowing orb, my angel guardian
this form how he, to, manifested, me.
This manner, I was marked, or claimed, or blessed,
as being one of them whom God possessed. 
How it accelerates into that eye,
this crackling lightning plasmoid projectile,
a little bigger than a soccer ball, 
into the Cyclops, where the orb then flew,
and an explosion, up, the TV, blew.
The orb inside the TV, small, became,
and tunneled through the cord into the wall,
and disappeared completely from our place.
My father can’t confirm these things to me.
It might be that he wasn’t home that night,
of this event he has no memory.
My mother, though, confirms this narrative
as being accurate, substantially.

The Demon in the Mirror, or The Scrying Mirror

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The Demon in the Mirror, or The Scrying Mirror

The only way that I can justify
my actions–it’s my base humanity:
men, desperate, those deeply suffering
act sometimes with irrationality.

A month had passed since I had surgery
to cut out from my body part of me:
my prostate that benignly grew too large.
My urinary function, it impaired.
Antibiotics that they’ve given me
as treatment with this recent surgery
disturbed the microbiome in my gut
and my digestion wasn’t up to snuff.
I struggled with a painful hemorrhoid
and, with my doctors, how I felt annoyed.
More fiber, laxatives, what they prescribed,
but both those remedies, before, I’d tried.
I never turned to demonology
but desperation, all that I could feel.
The constant stinging pain inside my ass–
be damned forever if that pain could pass.

I read about that divination means
of scrying, mirror gazing, what to see?
The first step that I took, my path of doom,
into a mirror in a darkened room.
By gazing at reflective surfaces,
emerge from them, some ghostly images.
My soul, the price this wisdom purchases.
How from the mirror, spirits might appear.
A genie from a bottle, summoning;
for answers in the ether, rummaging.

For hours and hours, how long that I would wait,
my body lying on the floor, prostrate,
and by my arm a mirror on the ground,
the ceiling of the room, to, upward faced.
The room is dark with no electric light.
Pervades the room, the darkness of the night.
There, by my forearm, into it, I gaze.
I think of nothing in that special way
the years of meditation, in me, trained.
I thought that scrying could be innocent.
Of divination, I was curious,
but, too, the church forbade such practices.

Not too long after I began to scry,
the ghostly faces, how they would appear.
It was a happening, unusual.

The mirror shimmered. I relaxed my gaze.
I use some cream to, pain, alleviate.
I feared that my surrender was too late.
I cried out, “Cure me of my hemorrhoid!”

The demon shook his head from side to side,
most sadly like he truly sympathized
with me and this, my painful malady.
These words he spoke, his raspy, spirit voice:

“The bad bacteria, you must destroy
to change the microbiome in your gut.
It’s bleach you need, the special kind they use
to purify that water in the pool
you swim in when you go to exercise.
An extra mouthful, swallow it right down
and those bacteria won’t stay around.
You’ll cleanse your gut and that relieves the strain
upon your rectum when you defecate.”

Enraged at once, when I had heard his words,
I cast the scrying tool away from me.
The spirit disappeared, then, instantly.
I had full knowledge that I’d been deceived.

I Miss You

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I Miss You

Expression, will you bring me some relief?
My hope is measured by a depth of ink,
it’s like a well, encased inside a pen.
The well that fills with blood inside my heart,
embedded in my chest, o’erflowing font. 
Combine now, blood and ink scrawled on this page!
I would command you as I do the wind!
It does my bidding for I know a secret spell.
The wind, the blood, the ink, my spirit, too,
I would command it, but if, like a well,
my heart’s, then how my spirit is a bird,
and how, just like a killdeer, it will flit.
A drain into my heart that overflows,
my first words spoken only unto me.
My blood, no more contained but mixed with ink,
and how it’s written large upon this page.
Spoke to the ether, carried by the wind.
The blood and water, wells and birds and wind.
I’d write of all these things to find relief,
to remedy the pain of missing you.

Rhyming Psalms, Psalm 20 (Newstyle)

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Rhyming Psalms, Psalm 20 (Newstyle)

May, in the day of trouble, you, the Lord,
give, answer, may the Name of Jacob’s God
defend you; send you from his holy place,
help, and you, out of Zion, give you strength;
remember all your many offerings
and, your burnt sacrifice, take everything;
grant you your heart’s desire, and your plans,
all of them, prosper, what the Lord commands.
For joy, we will shout out, your victory,
at it, and triumph in the Name of God
who’s ours, and, your requests, may they all be
that which the Lord shall grant immediat’ly.
Is victory, I know what the Lord gives
to his anointed, how he’ll answer him
out of his holy heaven: his right hand,
with all its strength that is victorious.
How some will put their trust in chariots
and some in horses, but we will, upon,
call, the Name of the Lord our God. Fall down,
how they collapse, and, but we will arise,
and once again, together, stand upright
O Lord, give victory unto the king,
and when we call, give us your answering.

T. H. Chalm’s Theory on Salamanders

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“Chalm was a salamander biologist pursuing his obscure and highly dubious theory that, millions of years ago, the Barton Springs blind salamander lived (geographically amidst Gondwanaland/Pangea) in a symbiotic relationship with the endangered deaf fire salamanders now found only in remote subterranean caves of Languedoc-Roussillon, France: the blind warned the deaf of predators that only could be heard, and the deaf warned the blind of those that only could be seen.”

Millions of years of continental drift sadly dissolved this partnership.

From The Life and Times of T.H. Chalm by Roland Wiederaenders