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Poetry Reading Tonight June 11, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Capital Region Notions, doom sonnets, Poem-A-Day.
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Where: Upstate Artists Guild

Lark Street, Albany, New York

7:30 p.m.

I’m one of two featured poets for the 2010 Pride festivities going on around the region. 

Hope people can make it.  I’ll be reading some of my Doom Sonnets!


Introduction to my Doom Sonnets Volume September 30, 2009

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Civilization Anonymous, doom sonnets, Personal Journey.
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I’ve been instructed to make it so, to make my volume Doom Sonnets for After the vEmpire a published reality. In any case, here’s my Introduction. 

Bring it on, I say, The End of the World As We Know It (aka “TEOTWAWKI”)!  Let’s have a par-tay.

I realize some people will spraaaaawk at me (in other words, spout some drivel to which I would say “May I repeat back to you what I hear you saying?  You’re saying ‘Spraaaaaaaaaawk Sprawk Sprawk Sprawk Sprawk’ (with appropriate finger-pointing, of course), “Sprawk Spraaaaaaaawk Spraaaaaaaawwwwwk!’  Does that sum it up?  Oh, I forgot the other part—‘You see these three fingers pointing back at me?  Because I’m not doing my work?  Well, you just ignore those asswipe, and focus on my beautiful distracting index finger.  I’m going to make you pay 3-card belief monte whether you like it or not, bub!  My beautiful index finger points at YOU because you’re only 1/3 of the jerk that I am.  So I’m pulling lazy rank on you, and you’re gonna get it!’  Yes, I think that about sums it up.  Don’t you?”

And yes, the anger does course through me.  There is outrage in these words.  A transformative outrage that is as much about the spraaaawker in me as it is in you and the Sarah (Lee?) Palins and Billy Kristols of this world.  They are another me, as are you.  Not in an arrogant sense, mind you, but in the Dean Radin sense that we are all entangled.

The word “Doom” in these pages is in part ironical in its usage.  Believe it or not, I’m really rather an optimist and quite hopeful about this odd moment in time.  My journey toward this place of bemused psychological embrace of this current era has been a convoluted one. 

Like many people, I have wrestled with various addictions.  One might say that in addition to some of the other terms bandied about for the American Empire™ such as “kyriarchy,” “pathocracy,” “thugocracy,” “kakistocracy” (government by the worst elements) and my own terms vEmpire and necronomy, that we live in an addictocracy.  The inmates have long run the asylum, and who better to stand as its emblem than Dick Cheney?  I mean, really!

On all sorts of websites I log into, there’s a lot of talk about how all these dark forces are scattering to the winds.  The Empire of Vampires (hence “vEmpire”) is suffering from an onslaught of sunlight, and cunts[1] in mid-cunting of some unsuspecting victims’ life energy, combust in the sun’s warm and golden rays.  I too am hopeful of this process of light hitting vampires full front continuing unabated.

But that means the vampire inside is also feeling it.  I have come to see my etheric self as a semi-permeable membrane, and when things are all right and running smoothly, very little gets attached.  I can let irritants go through me with ease.  Now, that doesn’t happen often, at least not without assistance.  I must tend to a spiritual practice that helps me to identify and release the toxins that hold me back, pin me on the mat with paralyzing rage or despair or the desire to not exist.  And I need to talk things through sometimes.  Yes, I do have a therapist.  And I do have a religion that pushes me onward, and deeper into surrender.  I wish to fully surrender into ecstasy and sexual potency.  But I still get stuck in powerless anger and suffering.  And some of that is supposed to happen, I realize.

Aren’t you feeling that way these days, at least off-and-on?  No?  Then for God Herself’s sake, put this book back!  These words will be LOST on your sorry ass!

But for those of you who empathize, who dream of a life where you can really be your true and naked self—even literally to the point of walking down to the corner shop in your birthday suit and not batting an eye—and who wish to affirm the authentic Self in each person, each animal, each object you encounter, you may still not want to look through the poems on these pages.  There is humor in them—check out Doom Sonnet #11 for starters.  And there are other poems in here that offer a strange celebration of this life. 

But there is a wistful recognition, my friends, that the world we grew up is no longer.  Whether you’re like me, a Generation X “post-Kennedy’ (by 3 months) birthday fellow who grew up listening to The Police, Styx, and Soft Cell, for example; or someone in their 30s today, who was more into EMF and Alanis Morisette in their high school days, or someone now into Snow Patrol, etc., you might be feeling a similar sort of nostalgia for 2008 already.  In my opinion, the road to hell in these now United In Name Only States o’Merica (UINOSM) was fully embraced with the election of Ronald Reagan in 1980.  Jimmy Carter’s tepid presidency seems to have been the end of something or other, alas something that is not much missed.  The rumblings for the Reagan “Party and After-Party of the UNIOSM” began long ago, probably way back during the corporatalitarian tantrums of the Gilded Age some 150 years ago.  But the composite Enlightenment-Iroquois Nation inspired experiment loosely labeled “America” was a model easily compromised.

Robert Pirsig in Lila, his follow-up to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance observed that it was actually the Haudenosaunee vision of a working governance structure that attracted thousands of immigrants here, whether they knew it or not.  The natives of these shores were still in touch with aspects of human nature that have been only partially buried in our psyches by the coarse and papered-over attempts at socializing and breaking us into smaller and fractured pictures of our true Selves, to make us “fit” to live in urban/suburban infernos.  Deep in the way-back machine of our DNA, we all have memories of living close to the land.  While that wasn’t always easy, we had some deeper satisfactions of feeling held in divine hands as evidenced by nature’s gifts.  The natives here stirred those remembrances, but as always with vEmpire, these ideas and longings must be squelched so that …. Well, “we must make steady progress, progress, progressprogressspraaaaaaaawk-ress” and you get the picture.

The thugs of our kakistocracy wear a lot of different plumages.  You will see some evidenced in the Shakespearean and Petrarchan sonnets herein, as well as in some of the remaining poems that fill the rest of this little volume.  We all probably know someone who is a local version of Glenn Beck.  Heck, here in Troy, New York[2], we have an administration filled with whackos!  And just like with those “magnificent men in their flying machines,” we enjoy watching the clowns in their cars galumphing about “so serious” as they careen about with their chins jutting out leading man style, and telling the rest of us where to get off.

Some would sit up alarmed that people such as this hold public office.  Has it not always been thus, however?  There have always been the obstreperous and the pathocratic.  The Algonquins had a words for this sort of person:  “windigo” which loosely translates to either “vampire” or “cannibal.”  It gets to be difficult sometimes to pick out those who are pushing evil policies from those who serve as the useful idiots, the minions who whore themselves out so cheaply and completely.  And yes, there clearly is danger afoot, though … it feels quite a bit Disney if you ask me.  The malevolence has a decided “Captain Hook” feel.  And having been cast in a production of Peter Pan myself, I can say that it’s a fun part to play!

I do get a kick out of their insanity, much in the same way my mother and her brothers would enjoy telling stories about their drunk dad, and my grandfather Cliff Maxson.  He was an abusive, belligerent drunk, filled with all sorts of hate and biliousness, and yet also a wounded fellow who had seen quite a load of disappointment.  And Grandpa Cliff was a terror to his children and to his wife.  Near the end of his life, he got so violent with my Grandmother, that my uncles had to get involved.  The man got so apoplectic with rage, he gave himself a stroke. 

Devils Lake, North Dakota did not rearrange itself to suit the town drunk.  Likewise, as Franklin Schaeffer observed on the Rachel Maddow show, we don’t rearrange ourselves to suit the village idiots.  Having said that, even though I try not to coddle weakness, I do see that it’s not up to me to cast the Spraaaawkers to the side.  Just as I went through and continue to undergo transformations, people can and do slowly wake up to their addictive insanities, and start to ask the really important question: 

What sort of life do I want for myself and my relatives and loved ones to lead, anyway?

So, these doom sonnets are as much about an end as they are a beginning.  In these 14 line ABAB-CDCD-EFEF-GG and ABBA-ABBA-CDE-CDE poems, you will find a number of difficult observations as well as some bemusement and some genuine dreaming for a better life for us all. 

Hopefully some of you will be inspired to take action or to write your own post-Doom sonnets or plays or filmscripts or youtube videos or what have you. 

I feel a glorious new world is near.  There will be labor pangs however.  It won’t be an easy birth, not that this sort of thing is ever easy.  Let us pray that nature brings us through it all with as little difficulty as possible.


[1] I know some people will find this language offensive.  But rest assured in “Frostwolf-ese” the c-word has a different meaning than the more common parlance.  Those who know me get sick of this, but I use the “c-word” in a way that is more like the British usage, though it’s also a mite different.  Through the processes of onomatopoeia and synecdoche, (q.v.), I like to use this analogy:  cunt is to vampire as grunt is to peon.  I’m sure educated people will understand the syllogism, even if they find it a mite disconcerting.

[2] My partner Joseph Dalton & I have a little joke about our three Hudson-Mohawk Valley cities thus:  “Albany is ugly, Troy is half-assed, and Schenectady is corrupt.”  Those of you who live here, might smile wryly with this pithy sentiment.

Doom Sonnet #49 and … whatnot September 17, 2009

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Let’s hear it for the Sun God:  Ra! Ra! Ra!!!
Yea, do sunlight’s warm rays light up vEmpire’s
Disensouled, lodged firm in this realm of blah.
Sol sets entities ablaze—grandest pyres!
A wave of self-inflicted Gunshot wounds
overtakes the likely suspects.  Should pity
come forth from me?  Sadness rests as balloons
of egos pop left, deflate right.  What shitty
legacies they leave, no?  A festering guilt
doth eat at their conscience.  Not psychopath
enough these, though to be fair some were built
up to take a public fall.  A sick math
that.  But this windigo kingdom can’t last
much longer.  Watch Sowilu burn them fast.


Lots of activity in my life today.  Ah, Mercury Retrograde at a law firm.  Things always get crazy, donchaknow!

I will make an attempt to write a book review of Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol in the next few days.  I must say, he certainly knows how to keep a story moving.

Also, it seems that a prayer of mine is finding answers in myriad ways, and I will have to blog about it at length.  But let me just say this:  It seems my idea of “Civilization Anonymous” might be coming to fruition.  Yea!  I will be eager to blog about this and probably will start in the next week or two. 

Also, I will return to my Tradition work.  If anyone’s interested…

Doom Sonnets #39-42 September 9, 2009

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As all this excess emptiness turns waste
(so sad, this potential swirls down fast drain),
as constricted menta make undue haste
to Gaza-fy all outside their brain
visions, hallucinated in right wing
miasma, oxycontin, crystal meth
induced, and the postmodern goose-stepping
whip out A K four-sevens, bang out death
her, then genocide there, many heart folks
green chakra radiant sp9illing love’s rays
profligate, fecund warming flames to stoke
ecstatic ovens baking hotter grace
will their effortless calm and cool-headedness
arrive in time to dance forth readiness?



With today’s vaporous news tailor-spun
tapping symphonic on buttons installed
Via culture-addiction’s injection
methods so elegantly set for bald
Pronouncements “Go to Town Hall Springfield
and raise holy Christian hell for Jesus
over socialist healthcare screaming ‘Child
killers, rapists, Nazis, foreign Caesars!’”
I’m tempted to just turn my back on them.
These half-wit troglodyte orcs run rampant
to terrorize, intimate as grim
reminder of that shadowy infant
we all have inside.  I can O’Reilly
too, and pollute the air just as highly.



One more secret fantasy I have?  Life
On this earth spontaneously changes.
Humanity cleans up its act.  All strife
dissipates to manageable ranges
of conflicts and tiffs easy to settle,
and the economy extractive ceases
to plunder its rapacity.  Little
tasks like saving seeds, canning, eases
forward and claims a handsome place up front
and neighbors emerge from isolation
tendered so assiduously, confront
their awkward trips from alienation
to meet and greet the cute stranger next door
and start up a friendship long yearned for.



Stranger things have happened.  I suffered long
years dreaming suicide in Denver town
my high school past. Near drunk parents who wronged
me once from willful fears bestoked by frown
faced, Grundy-gross white geezers diddling
their altar boys no doubt, pointing fingers
away from their grievous sins, belittling
we gay men with some insane wrought zingers
to magnify our otherness to out-sized
proportions.  Ugh!  I prayed this plight
be removed.  Somehow God Herself heard, surprised
me and answered my prayer, almost o’ernight!
Seattle saw me hence, new resident!
So sudden changes do have precedent!

(Indeed, Mom Himself Hasten strange things now
and cause your children to shout amazed WOW.)

Two More Doom Sonnets September 1, 2009

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Must give credit where credit is due.  Mr. Sirius Fenris has inspired me to write some more doom sonnets.  As yet another “dog poet.”  (I truly wonder where this is going.  I have some thoughts on this, which I will share at some point.)



‘Midst the busy hubbub—folks, just being
folks, preoccupied with the trivial—
so tempting to get caught up seeing
just the shell, not the individual.
Sitting in a diner hungry, T.V.
blaring post-work “nooze,” I feel urgency
rising, for a meeting I need to be
at.  So leave the food shack, my agency
commands, and go pick up something en route.
Yet even so, my judgments bilious
of others rise.  Restrain myself!  Would suit
to remember the doughboy previous
to this abstinence keeper of today,
and in these trauma times, can I really
predict who will fall by my side freely?





I dream of future time where I can spread
out and take the space I sense demanded,
to go with ease from spinning storied thread
to teaching how to cook without candied
or sugared food products to eager kids
desirous of making foods delicious
with nature’s bounteous gifts—no lids
necessary.  I’d lead most lubricious
rituals sometimes grave, many a hoot.
At presents, I’m not master of my time.
A dreadful symptom of this illness, fruit
of tech acceleration, sci-fi crime
’gainst humanity’s stewardship of self
while our home towns get put up on a shelf.

Doom Sonnets #35 & 36 August 31, 2009

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Two more for my singular genre for the singularity.



Well, Christmas is coming! Huzzah, Huzzahs!
Are you going to get to shopping soon?
Patriotic duty calls to bazaars
for to purchase useless totems! O Swoon!
Yes, Retailers all! Pull out the couches
dusting up from under usage.  Tremens
Deliria shoppa-genic should banish grouches
of all stripes, and once again lines of women’s
apparel direct from Shanghai, children’s
playthings bespritzed with melamine yummies,
golf clubs and lawncare bullcrap for de men’s
capped with Hostess Twinkies for the tummies,
should appease some grinning Christian Molochs
hiding midst piety-spilling bollocks





Hm. The Dow’s up again, you say? Fancy.
What good it will do at necronomy’s
end is hard to say.  Fiat currency
nears its winding-up.  Will lobotomies
become the rage again?  To medicate
these hardest feelings, as life as we’ve known
it—Tox results of fragile syndicate—
vanishes in plumes of black smoke, blown
hither and yon since Hermit-Justice day.
(o that hidden 23! Salvation
rising phoenix out this orb of clay some day?)
We deny plutocrats’ termination
Pathetic, we, clutching Brooks-Brothers hems
of pant legs, those who’ve yoked us through bank scams.

Willow tree energy and 2 More Doom Sonnets! May 29, 2009

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Capital Region Notions, Civilization Anonymous, doom sonnets, Uncategorized.
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On my lunch hour today, I went across the bridge over 787 and skittered over to my willow-tree teacher.  Again, the lessons are very subtle, but I am so glad I ventured out to Riverfront Park.  I really needed what she had to offer.

The energy of summer unfolded as I traversed the bridge.  Verano’s verdant sentinels, the trees of Rensselaer presented themselves across the river as I strode above the freeway, and I really started to get excited.

(This reminds me, that my Iron Pentacle work today was especially crisp.  I’m only realizing it now–I loved derferred understanding!)

Well, I stood under her branches and breathed up to my Godself there.  I would normally sit on the ground–a tad too moist for that right now.  Then I put my third eye to the bark of Ms. Willow, and I could only take in a little bit of her fecund energy.  Gosh!  I got a little bit dizzy.

Anyway, two more doom sonnets.  Thanks Psychegram for the encouragement!


All right. vEmpre’s coffin lid caves in
about our heads.  All around us apocalypse
signals wreaking havoc as mute braves end
cuntic occupations, most grand eclipse!
Necronomy’s fall breathes new life for us
my future friends, we newly volunteer poor.
We come together and form structures more porous,
welcoming, flexible—an open door
for those with big hears and free-ranging thought.
No one  is stronger or smarter than all
of us fearlessly speaking honest truths wrought
from fiery Experience’ cauldron. Call
me a doomer if you must.  But my soul
Sings joyous, dances toward selves more whole.


 “United In Name Only States?”  Truer
without those three added words does our nation’s
name ring as Fortune’s quick fall to sewer
slaps ’Merkkkan know-how to perturbations
resounding.  The system of vEmpirous
energy-drain crashes hard its limits.
Before long, nation-state notions cirrus
will evaporate.  They’ll try their gimmicks
to keep the cracked platters a jugglin’
but whose heart remains once leaves house empty?
Will my neighbors be shocked as these bunglin’
politicos pile on, try to tempt, plea
for mercy, for yet another fleecing?
Or come to our senses, this scheme ceasing?