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“Believe that the world is an ethereal flower, and ye live.”
― Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
hi/wy/!

07/06/2026

The Philanthropists of the End

Bless the billionaires,
those tender gardeners of ash,
who watered the world with oil
and were shocked
when nothing bloomed
but smoke.

Bless their soft hands
never dirtied by hunger,
only by signatures,
contracts, quiet votes,
the elegant murder
of a forest by committee.

They loved humanity, of course—
from a tasteful distance,
behind glass,
above the floodline,
inside rooms where compassion
was served in crystal
and cleared before dessert.

They built rockets
to escape the planet
they had mistaken
for a pantry,
a mine,
a woman,
a wound
that would never speak back.

How touching,
their dream of transcendence:
to rise above us all
without ever once
entering themselves.

For consciousness
was the one country
they could not buy,
the one ocean
that would not part
for their names.

They collected paintings
but never vision,
temples
but never reverence,
children’s futures
but never shame.

And when the bones began
to shine through the soil,
when the towers grew teeth,
when the earth remembered
every debt in calcium,
they called it
market correction.

Poor kings
of the last banquet,
chewing the table legs
as the house burned down,
still certain
the fire was a servant,
still waiting
for applause
from the dead.

May they inherit
exactly what they made:
a palace of mirrors,
a throne of invoices,
a heaven with no door,
and all eternity
to almost understand
why no one came
to save them.

R&R26

02/06/2026

The Midwife at the End of the World

She climbed from the low machinery of ruin,
one foot planted on the old engine of progress,
the other still searching for ground
that had not been promised, paved, poisoned,
or sold.

Behind her, the sky had forgotten its duty.
It no longer opened cleanly into morning.
It bruised, it smoked, it carried the color
of treaties broken in private rooms,
of oceans warming in their sleep,
of forests named only after they were gone.

She did not look back
because the past had become too loud—
all those factories praying through smokestacks,
all those flags snapping like teeth,
all those men in polished rooms
mistaking ownership for vision.

Before her hung the strange soft vessel
of what might still be born,
suspended from a thin branch,
fragile as mercy,
heavy as consequence.

It was not quite child,
not quite seed,
not quite future.

It swung in the contaminated wind
like a question no one in power
wanted translated.

Around her, the land had become a museum
of failed appetites:
a helmet half-buried in dust,
a wheel without destination,
bones of tools, bones of laws,
bones of promises
made to the hungry by the well-fed.

Somewhere, rivers carried mercury
through the silver mouths of fish.
Somewhere, cities rehearsed their own drowning.
Somewhere, children learned
that the weather now had a temper,
that rain could arrive like accusation,
that fire could choose a neighborhood
and remember every roof.

Still, she stood there—
not saint, not savior,
but witness.

Her covered head gleamed
like an unfinished mask,
as if identity itself
had become too dangerous
to wear openly.

Her body was not offering beauty
to the ruined world;
it was indicting it.

Flesh still lived here.
Breath still lived here.
The old animal warmth
still argued against extinction.

And the hanging vessel trembled.

Inside it, perhaps,
was the next species of tenderness.
Perhaps a last idea.
Perhaps only another hunger
waiting to be named civilization.

She reached no hand toward it.
She knew birth was not innocence.
She knew creation without conscience
was only another form of conquest.

So she waited
in the brown weather,
among the abandoned machines,
among the shadows of animals
we had turned into myth
because we could not bear
their disappearance.

She waited for us
to become worthy
of what we kept demanding
from the future.

And above the wasteland,
the unborn thing swayed—
a lantern,
a warning,
a lung of pale skin
breathing for a world
that had nearly forgotten how.

R&R26

30/04/2026

The judge who feeds on punishment
mistakes the whip for a crown,
calling cruelty order,
calling another’s pain
the proof of his height.

But every hand that strikes
bruises the body it belongs to.
Every sentence cast downward
returns through the same blood.

We are not islands of bone,
not separate fires in separate rooms.
We are one breath
wearing many faces.

So act like it:
lift ,
share , and
stand near the fallen
until the authority learns
it was never power—
only the fear of love.
R&R

12/04/2026

What emerges is a meditation on totalitarian desire as a structure sustained by invented peril. Its force does not arise from any legitimate external threat, but from a self-generating paranoia that requires enemies, sacrifice, and spectacle in order to preserve its authority. Violence, in this framework, becomes less a reaction than a ritual expression of power’s inner emptiness.
The language of protection and survival is thus exposed as a mask. Beneath it lies a cultic logic in which domination seeks perpetual renewal through fear, and where birth, continuity, and collective life are stripped of their sacred or human dimensions and made subordinate to ideological obsession. What should signify renewal is instead captured, reorganized, and bent toward the maintenance of control.
Such a condition reveals that the deepest danger is rarely the declared adversary. It is the closed, self-worshipping system that produces adversaries as a necessity of its own continuation. In this sense, annihilation is never merely outward in direction; it corrodes inward, hollowing ethical life, deforming social reality, and replacing shared humanity with the ecstatic machinery of obedience.
At its core, this is the aesthetic and psychological drama of authoritarian power: a fevered will that confuses destruction with order, persecution with destiny, and domination with transcendence.

R&R26

03/04/2026

Thought for a couple of seconds

Between the hush of leaf and light,
a small flower opens its white-edged mouth
and speaks in violet fire.

Rain gathers there
like unfallen thoughts,
clear enough to hold the sky,
brief enough to teach mercy.

All around it, green deepens into shadow,
soft chambers of concealment,
where darkness does not threaten
but gives the blossom its radiance.
The world is made this way—
peace revealed not by the banishment of night,
but by the tender balance
of what recedes
and what is allowed to shine.

Here, contrast is not conflict.
It is the quiet treaty
between bruise-colored bloom
and the calm body of living earth.
A white fringe trembles at the edge of color,
as if each petal remembers
that every age of sorrow
still carries one thin border of grace.

So may all periods of time
enter this same still arena:
the violent century,
the grieving hour,
the unnamed tomorrow.
May each lay down its iron language
before the dew.
May each learn from this small and luminous thing
that peace is not emptiness,
but a delicate coexistence—
shadow beside brightness,
silence beside breath,
wound beside healing,
all held for one suspended moment
in the hand of morning.

And in that hand,
the flower does not choose
between darkness and light.
It becomes their meeting place.

R&R26

02/04/2026

Two men in cold tide
twenty minutes held their names
silence took them both

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