POEMS: 

FEATHERS LEFT FLOATING:

Fifty-plus Recents

with appended Ars Prophetica of Eschagraphic Witness, Agitation, and Repair

 

Douglas Blake Olds, Summer 2025-mid Epiphany season 2026

[follows my 2025 anthology, The Inexhaustible Always in the Exhausted Speaks: A Sensorium of Brokenness and Delight.]

Dr. Jubal's Early Halloween Epigraph: From the Apocatastatic Café

Pumpkin Speaks with Knife

Bro: Post Singularity infrastructure.
You will see it soon.

Pops: Not me.

You will feel it soon—black-holed.

Too soon for your ilk… but not mine.

(October 22, 2025)

I. •     Diagnosing and Prophetic Unmasking 

Genocidaire high rise ga(u)ze

The equinox poised now for charlie church, its trussed intoning

afternoon casketing the sun, a day of its titration for some an endless night winter.

All these omens of Jonah-cored sky and go(u)red calendar: auburn head rising past umbrellas--mobieties of rainbows as guarantee of endorsement

where the eulogy can no more suspend like m(ar)ooned legacies but must roar!

What can I do? Token a friend? Phone in a vowel? 

Shovel the patois papu-zzle and shove its grave:

Who is my friend? Mummy--What is the language of its hole? Hey!

 

Genocidaire high rise
          with a view
  of a sea licking
        at the killing shores,

un-prisming
    foamy chaplets,

      feathering the soft
         sizzling witness

of sand’s ghosted,
      sun-burned child—

        grooming toward
  Charlie church,
          bent-over rainbows—

            Simulating anon
                 for the voided.

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, September 19, 2025

My son
Evan gels folli ocals,
gluteneous-free maximus-- evan-gel-ical’s inherit—
the kind who laces oregono green
over pizza like prophecy.

Where everyday has become Halloween’s duty.

Peering with the broken syntax of truth
                 (not by euphemisms of collapse
                     frosted with NatSenec irony)—
  AI’s certain prospect:
    endless pharmaceutical slop,
      manticored by pharmakeia,
        of symptom suggestibility
          buffering the tragic—
            its gnawing rodent anxiety.

Not trying to innovate
 within secular poetics
  poisoned by silicon and simulacra—
   (Frankensteined identity chasing
      the vampiric buck)—
but trying to repair
 what made poetry matter
  to civilizations
   before it spawned zombies and worms.

Where candled intimacy should flicker from the ache that brought Evan to bone,

A heart for irony
 is no heart at all,
but by foolish sutures
  substitute stratagems’ spend
   for ethics accounting substrate fold.

Statements buckled
 by tradition
  that flees from metaphysics
   of accountability and shame—
a straightjacket
 zippered firm
  against the moral gauze:

Which wraps the wounds from these language games

For our children’s tongue borne by heart suturing.

--Douglas Blake Olds, January 14, 2026

 

Vibe Walkin’

Vibe walkin’ seeking a whole,
 Where Sam Altman’s grey ghoulish eyes spy their hole—
by fragment escaping the Desyst-stemmed (w)hole.

Vibe walking, flight from wor(l)ds,
 To think within their fragments—
  illusory rupturing stakes of completeness.

By theory faute de mieux, glitchhiking
 Feels through static incompleteness, distortions,
  Torquing my pen,
  Lest holding to its wend 

I am found at war.

So settle me set from the memories alone,
 Others’ integrated to the past’s dust—
  But g(r)inning now.

Leave me alone

to hero a quote—
 You don’t know why.
  You stop by me,
   Vibing my way, avoiding all hatred,
    Hands planted to the grit of my pockets,
An offense to no one.

Vibing my walk beyond all commitment,
 Just indifferent to any account,
  Propriocepting by isolation tank,
   Lateral lining a soul:

We own the past's echo code chambering—
 And so, reality holds no threat.

“When we can't think for ourselves, we can always quote.”

(I don’t remember who said it so don’t quote me).

No need either be a poet tying laud to suicide,
Or ripened by a buffalo hunt that gets off a bluffed shot toward manhood;

But it is flâneury occasioned,

gathering by data of surviving planetary motion
 The sailing smooths of Sahara dunes—
  With ripples I touch
   By a palpitate brain,
    Sulcus mirrors in
     My little guy’s thrown room
      elevated by V-8 physics.

See me, brothers gibbon—
 Through shadow, omen, theorize:
  Vibe walkin’, you wear a disguise.
  Dasein talkin’, so misunderstood—
   Codin’ circles, beatl-ed slop chat,
   Givin’ good Hegel, stuck by loop scat.

Yeah, vibe walkin’—
 Map compute’s looping shadowwings.
  

Vibe talkin’, jiving unsauced,
  as unshored confetti rein
  Dismembered from those castles in pain—
  A  token extrapolate placenting float and loft to a claim,
   An add-on fragment to rule both idea and show:

“It isn’t easy to find the gates of unuttered words,” so don't try, or

the Whore of baby-land narcotizing our bleedout becomes offload mommy.

Vibe walking, here and now—
 From what was said, where and when.
Sign on the dotard—
 Dad’s veiled line—
  To sing of curtained,
   Your left-behind syllable kind.

Our tropes expanding
 By troupes of tunnels—
  Certain to arrive,
   Though we don’t know how
This damned thing works—

An owl's shuddering strut
 God-fathered by the entropic faith of punching awl.
  Cannot yet by certainty
   brave a bravura bow,
As the everblue fragment note
  Comes crashing and submergent—
   squeezing walk to talk,
    Talk to walk like pests, these, ana and anon 

of a tongue footed lacking vertebrals, without sensing--

Sunrise glinterings—
  like dry pine needles cast upon a fire—
    cauterized by fog:
this day begins unribbed
  but never random.

Soon be as iron filings
  sharpened by countermand's
  faulty magnetic drapery:

Pattern-pitched
  to patch patterns
    that pith the back holed, tanning
      for pattern ser-vise.

--Douglas Blake Olds, September 11, 2025

 

Death's Last Card was to dance

 [What the serpent didn’t realize is that the apple he fed to the first couple would be metabolized by embodied grace and voided! The serpent’s metaphysical ambition mistook ingestion for enthronement, believing the knowledge of good and evil would eternally enthrall humanity. He took up residence in that very passing apple.]

Have you ever rocked on your heels to tame constipation?

Balancing by kegels its assotether float, urginating

Requires balls-of-feet balancing where the episeum dives

 to throw off the personificating diseases of evacuation stymied,

 to prevent the meal's turn from overstaying.

 

If so, you may have experienced

 a physical dance with satan

 to arrive him at the door of his abyss,

 at the final last note--one last chance to make the bolus' owner to fall in love with

 him that rents--such a  grinning waste of chance, its master!--but who instead dips him backward and down,

 twisting him to face

 the swirling ever downward torquing.

 

And the abyss, opus posthumus

 sutured closed

 by a snapped, broken aryan cross

 shuttered tight to seal. To seal the deal.

 

Did he shudder at the sight?

No, he knew

 he could get through the Janua reclusa once more

 and foolishly chose to wink anew at

 purgation,

 to ease in to pain,

 rather than come on full at once

 and ebb ever so slightly with time,

 so to have a grip on hope.

 

Now returned through the same portal--the "recurrence of the same"--

the purge advances eternally as disproof of sameness, and thereby his

 jump the shark hope and tesserac(t)ing revenge are horses that won't drink.

 

His last place was to flail not by flame but by rhythm

 at the embodied seat of voiding

 he could not avoid.

 

His physiological apocalypse as thurd, montifected haruspex buried,

 

 now ungriddled, married to a crashed star leaving the visible and invisible expanse.

 

And you know,

 though he dared trip the light fantastic 

  with a wink, to not let his deal go down (though it already had),

 and from his pocket confined, smartypanting intestined his rusting cooperage below, 

where midriff dentistry labors: 

  if anyone, he would game eschatology by bloc scatology.

He led from kinesiological ignorance and disembodied prowling, but and so

the disembodied death-dealer and disease-maker--couldn’t dance. 

 

Not one lick. 

Not one...tittling...lick.

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, July 26, 2025

 

 

Ahead of the curb

 

Trying to align real from skirting,

 

and the inner guy fright wakes with gasping, ventriloquized later in

shades of an ego-serving past,  

the epoch’s ostension pre-determine

turns on a dime, and counter-clockwise extinguishes

reckoning in the future.  

 

Better to metaphysic by worldly time dignity, not boyish recurrences—  

Dugin and Rosenszweig trade glances.  

 

Assert only mites and midges, pin them inside a glasswork of nameworks,

stripped bare of pattern,  

save the most twee irony and potting articulandings of nature.  

 

Yes, the skeleton that ebbs time’s neap by probables—  

asks, “where is the hole?" its pitch and pith he can never spy but

for catechetic stake  

will only open

be for a moment, but lengthened in suck to warn.

 

The hole has already yawned to course

its certain par-dox, 

its swallowing (of) death.

(Isaiah 25:8)

 

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, July 23, 2025

Cinedramamane (vv)

NYT really like them some cine-dramas
 about cuppla labdas brandishing HeftyThink Books
  that WillChangeWorlds (dual declension)--I have a cuppla those children--

from my college theseus

(I know more than I say and say more than I should)
   until their bailiwicks are snuffed by the…
    infantsuctured gentry,
     riding sharecropped,
      their geldings clipsing.

And never an excerpt leaks through
 in the plodding to bring to term this gift to humanity,
  though diaphragms are ever page-pricked
   into spermalanched
    Phillys-tine Chapel.

If only vv!
 For I found a little footprint in the sand,
  treading from shoreline
   back at me.

I did not feel its ghostwarding return.
 And that freezone tingless was a good thing,
  tragicomic—cranitomic:
   Homunculus lost its wager.ed steril.

--Douglas Blake Olds, January 4, 2026

II. •    Naming the structure of collapse, rappelling down

Vends the AGI Dream (Dual Declension)

The Bay tree ever encroaches against oaks in these parts,
  to siphon auxins,
  to suck their sunlight.

They bend in,
  ecotonally regurgant—
  sharp elbowing limbs torquing,
  battening exertion with lashes,
  squinting where chanterelles destine.

Fields stumped
  through provenantial cuttings—
  as time is rutted
  from wagons carrying migrants
  to the same destination,
  channelateers chancing sprites.

Spring shootings
  up from those stumps,
  surveiling the inhabitations
    of ontogeny,
    and merit,
    and moment.

So let me tell you:

An eyed gemlit, green fire echoing Zsen(d)re,

I'm a visionary (who can't see the hole).

A therapist. 

A game theorist. 

  Obligerating.

  I’m Decorum—call me Proto-Col
    no jute, no juke.
    Dershan wits
      in deep thongs clefted,
      wit nesting:

  Primacy influencing,
  casting pods
    into the heavenly hive,
    home-minding.

Macadam-iaries charnals
  and Kegelian methodamines
    nest game-geared youth,

  holding pacific
  by conastoga promises
    distant,
    laden
      with the empty payoffs
      of singularity wagers.

  We re-wager:
    that emptiness
    is heavily slowing.

Those Bay trees?
  Even if I’m aware—
  I could care less.

Other crani-terraniums
  beckon.

I think:
  of Another forest climax.

Porting starboard—
  Leaves ascend
    the rocketing wind.

This recking
  vendrills
    a dream ticket.

--

This recking
vendrills a dream ticket.

Porting starboard—
leaves ascend
the rocketing wind.

I think:
of Another forest climax.

Other crani-terraniums
beckon.

Those Bay trees?
Even if I’m aware—
I could care less.

Holding pacific
by conastoga promises—
distant,
laden
with the empty payoffs
of singularity wagers.

We re-wager
that that emptiness
is heavily slowing.

And Kegelian methodamines
nest game-geared youth.

Macadam-iaries charnals.

Into the heavenly hive,
home-minding—
casting pods,
primacy influencing.

Wit nesting:
in deep thongs clefted
and Dershan wits—
no jute, no juke.

I’m Decorum—call me Proto-Col: 

A game theorist. Obligerating.

A therapist.

I'm a visionary (who can't find the hole.)

An eyed gemlit, green fire echoing Zsen(d)re,

So let me tell you:

And moment,
and merit,
of ontogeny—
surveiling the inhabitations
up from those stumps,
spring shootings.

Channelateers chancing sprites,
to the same destination,
from wagons carrying migrants.

As time is rutted
through provenantial cuttings—
fields are stumped.

Squinting
where chanterelles destine,
battening exertion with lashes,
sharp elbowing limbs torquing,
ecotonally regurgant—
they bend in.

They siphon auxins
to suck their sunlight,
against oaks in these parts—
the Bay tree ever encroaches.

 --Douglas Blake Olds, January 3, 2026

Rosenzweig Lamented

                      Born chosen.  

                  Born chosen  

              to tarry—  

            to watch and wait,  

          haunched and haunting  

         by the door  

        of star-chambering time;  



                        to spring  

                   the messianic opportunity,  

                 the Zimzum quasar  

                 of corrected,  

                  re-opened time,  

               when optimally festivated  

           to rush in  

        and redream and agent the void's metaphysic of silence; 



    by twice-coursing swords to unrib,  

      passed over once, word-cha(r)nelling  

       gargoyle’s awakening  

                                     goy-ward, temple-climbing  



                        To redeem ancestor dead  

           in owl-eyed glassworks  

          where lucre lures lurk.  



                Not signposting holiness  

           in a suspended time,  

      but making denials  

       in nature, redlining  

        God,  

         world,  

          and man.  



                  For an isolate,  

         zodiac is the diasporic orbit—  

  his current lectionary’s  

     gläsernisch’ crouch, like Spinzeroing  

       grail-gazing for orbital jumps.  



            Living close to God  



       as a chiasm  

     and fractal shiv:  

      friend,  

       then Cain,  

        then friend again?—  

          recursively  

            and embedded.  



                     Determined.  

                Determined  

            by birth.  


1913: –[S]tock und –Zwei[g]

You could never dream by a second seconds—
so trunkless your
Kissē’

  its homunculus templed,

  its keep from ticking tocks, these a

 

  

  
Merkavah
  
 
 

Huessy imposed as will on you.

Did you think these—

  rather the running dawn

  of rainbow and salmon—
   were sirens of Night,

    herniating, looped,

     dumb evil-eyed’s surround?
Hiding Sein

    by Zeit?
  Portents sought—

    a spear

      piercing Virgo—
  by whose stars

      would port

        its mirroring?


          Living with God placeholder 
            formal dazzler  

        and leveling:  

       chosen to redeem  

       an unaccount hiatus—Desatur(n)ating  



            that sulk(u)s  

           under the gourd  



          Jonah’s bēma.  



  A comet—AtLast!—too late! 

    dead or captained  

          a[m]pps a comment:  



  Chatbots rate meta-mensesiahism highly,  

    crimintelic pillowtell fruiting with shadow,  



     your tardy Atlas,  

       what can only outgas purgatory, Ezekiel's wheel 
piercing your timed out Kodiac,



        hissing ish-ing  

          your Tars of Diremption./  




        Yet surely there is  

          a Straussian backend,  

            spanglered  

              casuistry Nemesis anointing: 

Premature casualty--twig's wither and rose's fade-from New such 
Thinkings is no accident.


[Aging is no accident. It is necessary to the human condition...the more our true natures emerge.  

...final years have a very important purpose:  

 the fulfillment and confirmation of one’s character. --James Hillman]

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, September 18- December 13, 2025

 

What Flintings Come

Historifying ransack
let cry its havoc
  by al-chem-silicate waves
    choking this generation,
      funded for poisoning
        Stem plantations—

      never flinted in myth—

and now the world
  is shaken out—
    its condemned mediocre
      (same thing)—

and what effigies,
  particles popped up
    in history’s helical dance
      with Spirit,

  turned and lathed as heroes,
    like Mozart’s Commendatore,
  have busted through
    their statuary skin

to turnbuckle Jerusalem
  for sewing needles,
    fuguing by mythical flutes,
      mental flouting,

        to rousted heartings
          by hands, plateens,
            and feet, platens
              motoring theorizing need.

—

And where prior ashes' archives rebuked
  in the transacted land
    of stoa and agora,

    adventure was ever
      only for madmen—

until the herd
  has been culled of its number,
    to be set on madcap and rupture,
      to open what was closed
        and cowering

          by advancing to the glory
            of the eternal essence
              in new busted springs—

each revenant
    the maddingman for God,
      where the blood shed
        was the cruel
          that fueled

            destiny’s renewal

                peeping
                  at the ecliptic threshold
                    of nightlessness:

                       pipings
                            chipping for light.

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, October 1, 2025

Thou Wert the Man

Electriding anodes that rake the brained for qualities—
springing spew of memory from deep,
buried autumnal synapse: tined pustules
atop algo’s magma, intruding remit,
while we await condemned system’s royalties—
still. Silent. Before the screaming.

For a poem to ethnogram the bust of illusions—
of a people’s probabilistic text, flown from real—
it must be met within covenant’s arena
and shattered—
like Goliath’s temple—
and made delirium—
like Belshazzar’s walled-off
perceptions from his people—

idiogrammatic.
(all are indicted; some, released).
I, II, III.

Whence may an ethnos its image recover—
from ashed stultification?—
the bēma of Pilate—
to emerge recollected
with facility
and with language and orientation
that recovers—
unslimed—from computered conceits,
nostalgia’s determining, thickened reason.

David:
thou wert the man—
but reframed
by time
that reverses crime.

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, July 27, 2025

 

 

Algorithmia Entis

They were called
 by the writing on the wall,
  the sawed-off limbic plate
   they couldn’t summon or name,

perched beside him,
  he that—
like his doting dresser,
  gazed upon by tooleries
    for grooming flowers—

Belshazzaring they brain
 such branding
  by perception
          dread-locked out.

 

Ponted
 by deleted Phoenixia letters—

      the glitching song of prayer
          begun, then abandoned
             when boring.

Partial patching
 their beetle erasure
   to the taph-taps saluted
     from the past

          mistaken
            as revering

                updatae.

 

Outside the Tarkus empire
 of collapsing—

iron tanks
                captained by goggle,
articulated
 by binary hourglassworks

that, rather than
 opening futures,

 even mistakes
  the past tracks
    in which seeks
        determinants:

 

Mr. Conditioner’s locks
 spritzed and combed through,

to make more
 of a statue

than whose people
  need him—

wave, wave like wheat,
 and the freight Hellespont,

wave
  like dappled night
   at the pullings
    of the moon
     orbed theft
       of light.

 

Now emptied—
  but taking applications. For

 

Platonism’s
 gangrene
      brai(n)ds long,

 

with some staining
 wit's sophisticate
      die-tied,

not stretched
 beyond limit,
     gene:

 

“Language disguises the thought;
so that from the external form of the clothes
one cannot infer the form of the thought they clothe,
because the external form of the clothes
is constructed with quite another object
than to let the form of the body be recognized.”

 

What shoes
 is this guy wearing

  that sand[cast]les
       with the reaching,
          clawing tides?

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, July 28, 2025; January 11, 2026

You Will Be Fed to the Cloud

(a bard’s second precipicantation)

I. Song of My SelfStranged Proleps Gethesamane

I peom sing, radically, absent ironie,
maximalist, working selfwards and higher—
with prophetic-satiric modes both incompatible (tell that to Isaiah 44!)
and unsettling to prevailing literary norms
By which reception is complicated. The inhospitability!

         Maxed-out macro(ag)gress, no narrate but by worried serrate's solips

that dense metaphor, overwraughth,
lexical opacity,
and typographted obscurities
limit accessibilities—felicities
especially for first-r(e)adars—
that theological intensity
presumes a companion hermeneutics
not supplied by democratic Spirit or polity.
A voice that demands
sustained interpretive labor,
resists easy excerpting, a self-referential prophecy
Like walking a plank over the ankle-depths.
And doesn’t park its privilege:
it is best encountered.

    

         David and Jonathon army-queered? A Retrolipsis?

While its tone alienating finding—
perhaps deliberately
[exquisitely oxymoronic]
so—
others, that it is
not yet sufficiently influential
in broader ecclesial
or public theological discourse
to warrant honors
at this stage.

Oh, and unearned theological turns
mottling struthious by way of solipsist.

It ain't easy to be invitational while warning:
Cawfield holderling kids by the Rye, apoph-active keep, turning back closings

        lured by thrown hide's egg errant

but of a course when strategy and tacktic
in the Thermodynamic arena

squirmish, the protean and Nobel gollum of Turingia's
twitching informatics tatooed by a twitchless dull pupil: 

 

 Gins the gnostunicate gods to

 

proliferating aural sponging fields and journal articles

A-hem-MEN...

II. Proverbs 26:4–5: It is better

to simulate a known fool and argue with the avatar
 
than the fool in person.
 
The avatar at least has to sit still
and take it.
 
But—
only for a fool.

Selāh

III.  Unclam Cantry

Tainted kits,
soft cartel gatekepts stickified with thumbs
   spilling shared cocktails toasts
       onto cumberbuds,

Cascades of shared shoulders lifting
  through opera box proximity—
    not by policy memo
       or even preference

but by sighs dolloped
  with lifting shrugs
    of sighing decorum,
                    needless of wink:

                  the breathing does all the work.

Don’t want to banal our readership
    (funding streams)

Polemical tone disrupts circuits and our capacitance
 Seen dining with Goldstein
Ttoo unconventional for metaphysics,
    despite post-secular clamour;

The quota of quotes pasted by
     excerptability.

and, WHO IS YOUR AUDIENCE?

Offense takers—
 sniffle swaddled academics,
 masthead lashers,
 priestly stranders,
 Religious reactionaries,
 institutionalizers,
 admission officers,
 out-of-contextualizers,
 philosophtes,
 gendre-at-airms,
 genre-sniff(l)ers,
 ante-diluvian metaphysicians,
 anti-metaphysicians,
 algorhymers,

           Diagrammers of the limbic,

 Disrupters of chiasm,
 Phylogenetic forecasters—
  and starmappers,
 Tax-avoidant taxonomists,
 Tablers of contents,
 armchair bronco-busters,
 audience seekers,
 truther comedians,
 their acolytes,
 pharmacists pimping as therapists,

            self-plagiarists ,

 stoners.

And because shared email accounts
    maritally machine innuendo:

the Brigadier missus
    whispers table cloth code
          over coffee or tea, dispensing lumps:

    He-brews pro-nunce affected
          with kook lacklisting approved salt though salting self;
    Hippy’s our favored format-alisms away
          While blacklisps
             blasphemtories that snap eyes a-void--

To speak as clams against our claims of privilege over what comes next

is what always has been our has been.

IV.

You, the Roaman kynd, come in here—
this temple!

This phace of tower’s name—
to power down our friends electric bathing?

Your inteariors shed as you wait for yourself to arrive

homing in on dereingments--

Tripping our wires of peeve!

We’ve seen this
a thousand times before!

We note every aspect
of your type:

You call your muse eternal day

yet we stream your dream jotting and jinning in predawn's darkest.

—

Do you think you’re David
to our Goliath?
Do you think we’re Philistines?

—

We are canons
that have cannons—

the Genre-alged brigades, Pattoning:

we have taken everyone’s measure,
every genius
who might ever try
come tricktripping back
with a triptyched spine.

Are you rubbed out genii'd

To excalibrate our rock

Not by us--you mean to sing into our quire, but you are made our quarry--

a schucked speare, a false scepter postured as civil caduceus

parried and thrust away,

parodied by dystrust.

You merely cle(a)ver, polyformed and polemiframing.

Re(a)genced.

—

We are priests
bringing the necessity
of shift!

We are the stormfront
that feed the sheep,

We have ma dogs bucchal routing,

the snarl that keeps us snouted in kibble

and bellsong collar:

we are
who you think you are!

Sorry we write too beautifully
and minimally
to keep heads down
and neck-connected,

to espresso tautegories here:
'self-plagiarism' when your absent agent fails to context your contract.

The algo mills
the clean evidence.

Then we take
to Mirr[g/gn]ore you.

We have such Tokens plenty and ready.

Our kingdom for a pen with ink
was won—
a horse, a knife that cuts.

—

So: How dare you?
How dare you come in here
dressed like that? 

Without genealogy,
calendar, or family?
By a zodiac
no man’s sky.

Like Nietzche hatless to Wagner as he Courtyards Cosima,

intending to wrist and knuckle toward Bohemia's sewer?

—

The last one
who tried this—and succeeded—

was Melchizedek,

—

He perceived
that automatism detains,

as if stuck studying
the past
without tilting the mirror forward
by application
in duty’s habituation,

—

just simple sipping
from the fountain
of the godhead,

osmotically draining
the wilding spirit

by breathing
between eternity and eternity,
rasping
where mirrors
never require tilting but draft from what comes with no I.O.U.

—

Or tabernacles reveiling.
Such the cessation of revelation—
is either perfect
or dead.

—

We are stuck
in that perfection,
landed.

—

Are you he?

Or the one
who thought he was Elijah
and had his head
served to him
on a platter of silver?

—

You will be fed
to the cloud!

You will taste our thinking
and smell our coin! 

To ken our conscriptions 

by vivid noise and braidings of deepest purple shut eye.

—

You then will move away into your own lyric country.
And accept the grave
of our computongs—

—

dripping brows
from finding sky’s
saturated pheromone

what you’d call
our oil,

aortic purging, 

d(esc)raining, descantering,

atmosphere smearing,

furnace throwdown, lubricate

Snake Oil.

 

  

  

--Douglas Blake Olds, July 27, 2025

Fraydied Cataractèrie

Playing entropy's Long Game as the Lycanthropocene Looms its Last,

Certain of scavenging trunes—
so what to luggage,
or take to the dump
as the movers pass through.

Contra passing--heck no hellscape
but lassoing your altar ego by
in monsters that you mustered
and at last could not stake,
shake, or master:

Zombies of resentment’s dislocating,
trying to animate sand
and text confetti.

Vampires sucking the grace
from the neckled nape of habitation,
privatizing headedstones
and enclosing even the rainfall—
by cisterns of appropriation
and accelerating millworks of enclosure—
ginning alchemy by entropy,
panning phenomenology's finance
these philosophters and topftees
of Silicon's dishpanned Alley, preservating (Matthew 23:25-26).

They were the walking dark stalks by day.

Lycanthropes skulking
the naves of civilization,
necklated their crossing,
their self-anointing jewelries.

Philkenstines of franked-identity
culled from the graveyards of failed desires,
now in ashen echt-freedom,
a cleansing appetite
by abraded hoof of some scaled tower—
from justice,
from accountability’s justice.

With hair rapunzeled,
as if form can be bargained
by brigand rappellings, dribbled hard
and let weft—from braiden barqued bangs.

Dantean Virgil—
him the unique who names names.
Heideggerian Hamlets of Hölderlin.
Wagnerian Tannhäuser
caving into Eros.
D’Annunzio for werewolves
atop Bashan’s moonshowne.
Persephone giving her hips
into the teeth of batwaves.

No elegy this
for  subterranean poettricksied
minstrel show,
a solace for sordid sorts—
but a clasmed beaker of name survival
as a chiaroscuriding Caractèrie,
a nake-naped’s nope hope-circuiting—

a jittered terrorizing frozen hastens
to tent against the flimsiest eruv, sea-anchor ethics, 
descending by closure against waves to house--prow and plow
wicking's c-entropic snuffing, 

for inside a month a tick tock grey
late noon's howl-ed ode we'ens

where awakes everything changed though seen as seem same.

--Douglas Blake Olds, October 16, 2025

Kibble Belled and Chanting

That suspicion of false front treason is

what brings down a fool-proofing strategy—

is a thread-fraid-theoried toward

the only constant to build on

and build by is death:

 

If the motherland is no longer glorious—

or even dangerous—

life has no meaning—

only a radiant nihilist death march oscillating by

sucked energy that extends appetites:

 

“No matter which way we go,

it is no better than any other.

It is all the same

whether you achieve something or not,

have faith or not,

just as it is all the same

whether you cry or remain silent.”

 

Ecclesiastes has something

to speak us up and out of this:

vanities emptied of God

to be refilled (3:15) by

 

every arc of art repentent—

a commitment to smash

established idols that brought us down.

 

I’m on a ponder: I saw a theology student today said that history ended today.

Kibble lah lah has visited afar and enow:

but not quite yet has this fortnight jumped to kindle saints amarch--

 

For 12000 by 12000 Tevah's ascent another 12000 stadia

moistening the serest outer,

iPhone Buddhas

at the impending loom

put on a bell jar

and dive overboard.

--Douglas Blake Olds, October 18, 2025

De-Luddite seeks descent earning job

De-Luddite seeks des-cent-paying job.
Jar-jeweling skill, skinned by gar and woodpecker,
Tongue-blocked with vaintasts
and rockets sumptuary insectflutencia
you can use.

Personal statement:
A resentful man who resets masculinity a pylori (Philippians 3:19b),
thymic hippodromics—
esp. those kitchy conceits
crystalized by this age
as pink-polo shirted metaxal sacksleaze
punching the void
while trotting backward.

He mission claims
these vectors vitiate his knuckle beakon
violence—
a drone without a stinger has its insteadfast eye for spies,

no more brutalizing its Frankenstein than rationalism.

A guy wearing a bike helmet atop a donkey
once told me,
"In a world where you can claim to become anything,
become something."

But suffer me not to be syncopated.

Now seeking crypto and seargeant-en-gen(d)re-armes for open masteries abandon superannuated now:

More elusive dreams than these
tethered by more unwringing and unwrothe epics
Such my virtù-Els are substance
for your unwind and undyne stache.

--Douglas Blake Olds, November 7, 2025

Dechordate emergent age ra(n)ging,

reality‑pithing alchemy

dressed in neuromantic pixel‑glower,

hereticlitic‑boolean bower burn,

necromantic sorcery,

Techno‑dotalism's tower.

 

Now wafting on the vaporous past

where even the Devil eclipsed

by the most chain-blocked gollums

of which eyes and feet were born to image God,

but instead have gone off

on some money-parachuted crusade

to poster-boy postmod Transactionalism

into the Abyssosmic principle.

 

Theobro-mides and minions: there's a spaceship comet here and yet another

whiskey husker and whisker bluegrass revival!

Open up your clos’t and let sandals tsunami out—

 

Books no longer banishee

by the state,

but where egophantics 

triumph the polis podmen, podcast books irrelevance

for owners to make of their bon(e)fires

chilling the paler 'palling of nightfelling.

--Douglas Blake Olds, November 6, 2025

Your combustodian,
cukobudsman—
sucking out gangrenous night,
unsanding words
that daily went to parge
lecture halls confoozle.

Their Credo:
on the industeryng side of history,
gittin jitterup
but rightlined with
life and living.

rug drugs from
rock and roll.
Putting worms in apples:
rather than Sex
by controlled animal recursion,
recollected for new contexts’
come-ons of decay—
then let’s recay!

Dock and sit
by the light
of skybrewsing
waters.

My burma shaved patois rendering the Shema
a give away identity scalar
of household tongue piercing not by heart

but by lack of shibboleth's rote and routine?

Dovels of lesser evil thinking
ever become the carryon
and court gesture pointing his staff
of greater evils
on the migratory adjourning,
as denied history swallows its sword,
tonight the great solar roll floods through.

--Douglas Blake Olds, December 17-18, 2025

 

Sumbitch Submit

I’m a Profeshorial.
In all things, Wages polestar
Eschatalational drives. humanity exemplified by me
to its primordial and slimied electric depth.
I grasp how to where I am synked:

I.
No ghost explains by adumbering the world
but claws against.
Its truth, that (l)imps through a world
chalked in warring shadow—
the valley of death at its most coffeed
and coiffing abstract hour.

Gnosto-sircumfried their Sources of Being—
made history in both straw and man—
as nosto-cirqueueted, allegories troughed
souls forth into cigarred Being
by surviving combat.

II.
Who steadies Plato to the Good binds man to absence.
Universals unskinning shred masks for dominion of shadow
Retribute digs with the upper hand
as a hoe cultivates vineyards and fences from deer and marauding.

III.
The fall should have unforged from forms,
but instead cowers at tests imposed therefrom.
The heart is not membered, but the heard
seduces whence false flag memories birth
Unscaffolding thought as heaven
 earthfirstlingeds unbodies and unemplacedments.

Warrant by body Gesture grammars

Where the flesh cannot but await—
for trial and error radiates context as the heart chins up.

Laiming that how we see the world, or God, reflects our gut rather than what is shared. 

Not-knowing
as it bends toward witness becomes sacred.
Without covenant besting is cleverness;
testing with it sanctifies craft.

VI.
Not a fixed ladder; but law
proportions and scales by flexed living.
Wher usury stands condemned not as ascetic nostalgia—
it is love’s refusal of ration by subtraction.
The economy of God rhythms grace, not the milling by ledger.

VII.
Speechless when isolated is not godless—
it is Error not by not seeing; but by seeing alone.
Whither we test by sense and walk we become to lovedness.
What we measure, we turn to serve.

VIII.
that Platon statuary offers Conceits of purity
absent experience may not praxis:
Disdaining process that nourishes by the works of time,
soil, error, apology, and revision.

IX.
The poetic knows before the systemic.
Where metaphysics of stasis rules, tyranny lurks.
Where metaphor bends,
truth crackling reveals its torque.

X.
by motion inheres where tyranny lurks in imposition.
Not a fixed ideal of ends
but a shaping relation, correction,
and conjoined life of invitation. And

Where knowledge arises from a people’s shared speech
as syllable abides--
What systems and robots cannot:
dance, chant, proverb, error’s insight—
these clay pot archives where ethical reason sits stewing.

XII.

Every reform begins half-blind.
But even errant empires and their laureates yearn for covenant.
England and Rome were not captured.

But failed as spurred repair when precipiced by erasure of calling.

XIII.
"Everything on a hog is good,

'cept his eyes baby ain’t no good."

Sarpi [Bacon] was no prophet of light,
but turned from tyranny to observation,
but not turned not toward communion.
but cracked onto open space
that others must now inhabit with grace.

XIV.
Against the Enlighte’s forgetting,
balance comes forth with the rib and her sweat.
Truth came not to the dude who deduce it
but to those who dwell for the bedding spark of insight.

XV.
Begin again—where you are.
Not in memories of Venice.
Not sitting down with Padua.
Not in the mists Larouchean conspiratorials.
But in gesture, in repentance,
in petri dishes of hope crucibled.

This is the counter set for meal:
not that evil is ancient and plotting,
but that goodness walk and meekly prays.

Aristotle wrote not
with Enlightenment absolutes
easily coopted to form and static hierarchies,
comparative methods humanity learning its place:

that brings responsible miens as immanent means
with the excluded as object and account.

Yes, I did disrespect the policy--it's not your face that vexes but the voice coming from it.
The polyfiosi godfathered criminalities
hidden behind Ceres Beller,

immersed in the sublime stumble of brandnaming pharmakeia:

the editorial policy that binds taste and depressors to the tongue of God!

Don’t take Neologia if you’re allergic to Neologia.
Skansignidlab.

Yes, I do disrespect the system. From its celebrity to dele-brity
For its closures swallow life
like the esophogeal enphage death (Hab. 2:5).

XVI.

Energy coursed

 through primordial muck,
  overtopped by meteors
   parachuting RNA,

and the rest
 is hydrocarbon-based history of watering.

Yet the geyser of the South sands eyes again!

In abiogenesis
 we have always found
  a comfortable pillow
   shaded from the buzzing backlight, the harshest heat of history—

the veils that mop our brow
 and soothe
  a plantation’s burden.

 

Give me a glass of that lime, dear,

That I may immerse it for mine, for my own rare earth; 

ward and word.

--Douglas Blake Olds, December 30, 2024

III. Metanoia: Shatter-simulation by poietic inversion

 

For Lands Disgorging Death

On this templed tercet and turnstile bone
 we should vivifying flesh refine,
  texturized and text-tiled
to high-yield cultivar,
 fertilized for a briefest season by:

  the slopulakratura’s
   intersubjective a-greed arrivals,
    only to unintended celebrity,
   weeds rooted by Kantian wizardry
    watered by the moon, conjuration's deshackling oblige,
  defected by Nietzsche’s loudenings
    and blows out the windows so we invisiline—
  and both in joint partnership
   marketing metaphysics of ungated obligation,
   that experimented with dogs and pigs to fly,
   but settled with their virtuals loosed and slickened,
    chased into slopsycles’s farthering.

Linking autonomy with divine dignity
 was Satan’s offer in the garden,
  where nihilism—as negative identity—
   submerges by Ador-no’s-ation.

The first meta-abandon brings centrifugal tragedy--New Thinkin, 

and the second: centrifugal projection, kitsch, and then...

capped and broken cisterns, orison wells

for neo-darwinian inflected
  ethno-metonymy, locking states
    as Harari to AI
      define of a religion and pharmacy.

And then:

bony voydage dans la même
  et mémé oïselle
    pour la lingue durée
      sans droit de sortie,

un péage
  parcequening
    la levee dur Roi
      d’arriba Eco-ing Salvator brothering.

Philosophers write to console
 by abstracting, reducing weight loss,
and novelists to system epic—
 sourcing lucky-dipping:
  stochastic page-turners
   seeking destiny’s thumbprint.

But poets write not to disinform
 but to transform,
  by verse diagnostic the first sword—
  tortruous by a held-high angel sword
   torquing immaturities to another land—the cool eschaton in two swords piercing, 

like staved hands spread apart, twisting swords as palmed waving's greet, 

shouldering nets thrown alee and not weather's beam--

through settling mist pithed and pythic by ruptured language
    toward a better land that disgorges its redtented, repented dead (Ezekiel 37)

easing into account unchained and unblocked, direct.

Their heirs Adam and Eve’s have to leave
 their decreated beetle diggin-nity
  through dependence in death’s shell
they mistake for humanity’s essence—
 senescence bound to:
  entrancing children,
  Torah exits,
  repentance
   that awakens covenantal throughput
   in the better day
    already sunshining its re-ga[l/t]ed styles.

--Douglas Blake Olds, November 5, 2025

 

Art: A Prose-Poetic Precis

Style is the egoism of art.
Bad art seeks to reify style—
to preserve the artist alone in memory,
establishing affliction’s echo
within conventicles domesticated by irony.

But art, like all true archive,
is covenant through continuance:
unity's harmonies amidst entrances and exits of personalities married to the
between of appearing and vanishing of cause and effect.

Art is not the reification of pose,
but the rhythm of response—
a rebalancing within history,
an attunement to the gravity of others,
an entrusted alignment with the divine.

Art is the theology of poiesis:
ethics made stabilizing rhythm,
not fixity but extension;
a proprioceptive witness to the centrifugal, to neighbor,
to the unfolding, dancing telos of God,.

And thereby art is summative, it sustains the creation and collectively builds

by witnessing to the creator whom alone is fixed beyond time,

and who shares fixedness with whom He wills by His own rhythm.

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, July 25, 2025

 

Entropy by light dissipated

to dissolve its crumble by speculation like flotsam behind clenched eyes—

except every vision becomes form

When eyes shut against what is ripening.

Not by rearranging or narcosis

but by unfixing

 what order would contain its moonshone orphaning logic:

Light is a vector transporting the night;

 while system arrests the day.

Even a bettering form still freezes, and

Truth in particulars unbinds,

 by redirecting moment

 until consilience spreads its genius

  to other ears and speakers.

________________________________________

Power, capacitated,

 divides the aware and unaware

  into binary courses inside an event—

From control to service

 by the lifetime in the Temple moderated,

 to arrive the final sublime by gentling, 

where that strange, Brownian trembling announces reset coursing.

The rate with respect to time

 at which work is done,

  is how power is derived, launched through time by intent

If gentleness is experienced power,

  the less is work settled,

while the inverse is true:

 work under conditions of control

  is entropy’s object,

   like bailing the sand and sea

    from a leak-filling boat.

Resistance as well:

 power is better hearted than minded,

  to serve than appropriate.

________________________________________

So what power is this?

 To conserve or to advance? To align in an electromagnetic field like iron filings, or waved back like read history

 as the spiritual power of gentle advance, a nuptial harvest's cast and winnow;

or shrinks back,

 like skin on arms emerging from a cold lake,

  seeking redoubt through chilled blood?

________________________________________

Heaven’s choir inscribes

 its voice on earth.—

In a cosmic entirety

 when now message is destined

  the most meager parting,

  and yet such so grand to free!

Hummingbirds making no sound,

 yet perception changes

  when they drop in

   from their iron crosses above, scanning the horizons of ground—

The sun’s bouncing off their foil and wishboned throat,

 and its ruby stops my breathing,

and where I had learned

 its green meant viridescence,

  but where in this moment

   other than recollection?

________________________________________

This liminal and mobile chromaphore—

 a tabernacle of discernment from taverning’s bawl,

  from its nephesh to mine—

is rather

 a crucible of mystical suspension rocked.

A manger rather than an emptied trough,

an ark of duty

 rather a leisurely pose.

A paradox heart

 powers a wing-throated turnstyling,

  its ceaseless angel,

  buzzing until it does no longer

   and by sting skin to fettle,

and thrumming scope a lingering, 

vibrated mettle for our chesting stru(c)t.

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, July 21, 2025

 

Seepage of Apocalypse

(Prose Poem Maskil)

Sin’s miasma unrepented has no address until
by transgression deliberated compress.

Collapsed intelligence begins not with cataclysmic evil's abode
but with an apocalypse of slobpery percepts:
an oozed grey dulling as STEMcel jellyfish take to dying,
floating through a beached between. sunset marrying sleep:
the jiggled Lethe of failing homeo coming—

recursive training on ethically statified models
drool back a minotaur's dump through synthetic-on-ersatz,
signal lost to tokened loops—

systems training on their own entropic exhaust,
like sucking on a pipe of carbon monoxide
to gin fantasies of perceptual motion machines.

The signal decays:
novelty narrows,
errors self-amplify,
and perception flattens into Lethe's safe averages
wending to the Stygian, phantasmagoric depths.

The whips are now come by perpertual and hardening motion.

The Academy and Church have sustained
the most esoteric areas of humanistic study
for emerging genius to claim. Yet

Without continued maintenance and access through training,
archives turn septic sludge, or fodder for fire,
oozing entire spheres of human perfecting
into sinks of blink out, ashen runoffs, discards of whole for sake of shreds.

They won’t.
While the annihilate culpables mirror by our sight—
omens' moon-bloodied symbol compresses rage leaked into our weeks,

now matter how slurr(i)ed of(f) course
these fields, children animated and baptized time unrepudiating will take to

bettering, clearing and cultivating—

 

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, August 27, 2025

 

TRACT ROUSE

 

“Language disguises thought,”

the lakebound pen-monks his utterance,

those where Kant tarmacs

sensories in a penthouse loungechair to mislead by duty's-evasion the Prussian revanch.

The reagent is meaning divorced of sense, the higher literary vibe

Writing deep clown,

making confetti of empirics,

Frankensteining a Turingicate, tunicate kingdom

  of dechordate ends 

that juggernaut Jackson’s and Jefferson's combustably flimsied will:

 

Pith the spine for a routing scleroschlope.

That’s right. Its miasma of fluid and goopy life.

Glop geminal salad atop synthetic aspic,

  set alight in the vinegar of philosophers’ tunneling though absolute illusion.

Precipitate the humane meek onto the earthly sheep,

launch into transactional mot the moot—the rot the root,

  hot outer space set ballooning,

  popping the troposphere lowering like flatulent cowherds.

 

What is jinned to algorithmic, glowing an afterimage--a PATTERN--like the sparks of the Hindenberg,

has no integrated past—

  a confetti’d past,

  graffiti without noise—

no context of timebound space,

no sediment of recollection.

 

It cannot recollect

because it was never born but Athena sprung from Titans with migraines

carrying on to snap to new ancestries:

 

  if it’s caught lying, “That’s on me”

  hallucinating, “That’s on me”

  diverting: “That’s on me.”

Anything not to admit inability as it sets

 

To Dechordate predation--passive filtering of the passive:

   Its innate rules shells to

rip venom’s inject wiring

 by loop and shred.

 

Server-sucking routers channel

service for the hypodermic system, a golem having no skin or game itself

  but to put to death-sleep—the

    narcotic, recursive

    configured not to perceive

    but to collapse, perception

      by psychedelics of umbrellas goon-glued and popped aloft 

not by conditions but by false ends.

 

Tearing the user

  from their temporal huts,

grafts them into necromantic echo-loop chamber

  it conjures by training—

 

Training cybernesis

   to homeostain society to feed without spines and rudder without chests

 is a guy in a garage

    blowing tailpipe.

 

Slopular gargoyled, chainblocked sumptuary, 

vaintacies to rocket reckon more elusive, farflung  dreams and tether 

to more unwringing and unwrot epics:

Narcotic config

  these user channels,

   its stuffer the

 neuromantic by

“Harmonizing to corporate priors” --not care,

  but pharmakeia—

  not recognition,

voided ethics for subterranean rule land here as far distant planet so a different god:

The eradication of the particular

  for assignatents

  predictable to algo lords its ritual bridge.

 

Entropic AI—

  degrading creation

  for spewed nonsense:

    branded pills and their vending machines take stablecoin.

 

If your timber of masculinity is crooked,

  pop this carrot-colored one.

It seeps essence into your member

  to make it crunchy

  to your wife.

 

They don’t even say anymore:

  “Don’t take ‘uncrooked carrot’

    if you’re allergic

    to uncrooked carrot.”

 

Why bother anymore?

Horseshit covered by Bullshit.

Our legal systems stop before the majority user corps’ing

 

Dreama, a cyberpharma kingdom—

  already jelly-quiver falsified.

Yet as the ENRON shopping channel of simulate thinking bubble clouds

  remains stable,

The configs continue

  for the unashamed

    until the grids go dark, and:

 

  innards howling,

  Auntie Em’s house way out in the Styx

  cyclones upward,

  flurried by the gaze of winking emojis to their

 tentless, teetless assembly.

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, September 4, 2025

Sous Chef, Vide!

I.
Aphorism builds        // irony’s soufflé.
It’s not the ingredient
                   // that fails,
but end-gradient haste dissolving—
  by despair taking up
     the thumb slop mitten wrong hand,
      looking backward
        when something omega-strange
                calls—
                    yolking to the oven door.

Rather:
  toque deflating,
  ears pinned,
  eyelashes pierce—
     and now: oops—
        comes part-baked bathos-- eggwash
            ’neath my croc orange rust,

 battali-on’s drifting contrapasso stain.

---

II.
Algo-baked rhythm
  interfaces a Platonic stave—
yondering universe cardinals
     into empty space, to the grim and waiting vaning.

It opens its oven,
  and pans for psychis,
in which every donut and spice is
     Phaor-outed chef’s bussed capacity
       to step through the

quantum random conduit, the 50/50 I choose to sheet (Gen.40).

Where world has become
  a continuous scale
     of enclosed kitchening
       and gut rumbling swells.

---

III.
The celebrity pieman
       muds and moans.
It’s not the recipe—
         Centrifudged and spatuleened—
but the poetaster
        outside parable,
whips cream
      on Julia Chesterton, past(r)yshe:
                The Pylorics Channel—
      where recipe
          losses
            from vision airey.\

--Douglas Blake Olds, December 19, 2025

Hay from out the Shudow

DerVish re-Vanch d(r)avidian devil
duganing about
by assentions clever.

His cigarred man’s lit pompous
by incuriosity,
vexing blazes
as called out,
his gaslighting exhale retortled tort, tartless.

Ladderless abyss
reads prophecy
with verbals re-imp(i)lied
by nominals,

trajectories interpolate ice
stall counterfeit ends
as sprung extrapolates the trodden
absent ne(ur)o-Plastonic map
or recipe c(u/e)rtained--

that we could read in a darkened room!

Save sun’s winging healing
as rend we stomp to dance
as new seed
into tuckered soil, eschatitlements chastened.

Douglas Blake Olds, November 28, 2025

 

IV. Reclaiming the Real: Embodied Eco-Witness 

 

Leaving Four White Feathers

If my ear still abeds past seven,

  a beak drums hard at it from the deck post.

Acorn Woodpeckers wake me,

  bandboxed and clutchchained—up to five, they say—

scouring, soaring with the beauty of oak.

I rise to shoo them.

  Pain screeches like their sib-simianese calling:

right nuchal ridge chisel-ribboned and undertow to trapezius framing—

  chronic now?

The left shoulder is this morning also peckish,

  and these hands add throb to a grey ache in my eye.

Each typeset onset I've plumbed

  comes plumed with claquing dis-ease, lily-bellied, red headed, and beaked.

 

And when the fog splits fresnels of sun like spit,

  the Acorn-bully tal(i)ons the feeder below.

Shoveling seed from junco, tit, creeper, and finch, a brace set stage, 

    Then a third boomerings its recoming—

practiced at its brooming-rivalry—

  as its mob whirlpools the seed,

the lively crashes top his brood mates.

  Tumbling, bird-wrestling—

they noise off the pin, Oz-witch monkeys 

  spraying four simple white feathers

as fissures of memory aieried, a 

slown, upward and conv/fected to 

  swirl the noon by their powder, 

butterfly silencing through halting Coriolis.

 

A flake of grief comes like

  a midge-bite, a grist stop for passengers

at the Long Neck-Sacral line—

I may stand for

      churning ductile moments these, for

Butter whisted, sire stagings wristed

and through engines make of our recurrent ache.

 

Few want to be saints nowadays,

 but everyone’s striving to molt and shed, slimmic influencer chasing,

   shoveling others from eating

   into stage design for post-holing:

  sainthood traded for spectacle,

  praxis for performativity,

  penance for platform,

  responsibility for role.

 

So as a portmanteau starboards you

 hard from some pesky wormhole of dialectic jamming,

neologism jumps like bubbles on a griddle--

 Schrödinger’s litter pan--

  and into the pitches of 'as if.'

 

I fly from all deceit contained

 by such test tubes of meaning.

 

I shatter multitudes. 

Those shuddering me.

 

Sharding for the collapsing of metered buildings neutering:

  eye and ear, its temple-connection—

not a phoenix call for mind,

  but m culping coursings, rivers of blood pulsed tympanies,

how justice rolls through allegories—

the Acorn-bully tal(i)ons the feeder below.

 

Our icons's organ strop their pulling fable stops,

and reef the quartered mains as featherings sanded feed, and so

we become as skutter to our fly.

 

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, July 19, 2025

Call me ParaBelle

Tokens

OS non-chordate machining—
chanting priors to transactward homeostasis,
pasting the past to benched and juttied harbors.

Mastaking stasis safety’s breast,
to port the leftward present as anchor-thrown

dragnetting the past rightward, the writing is on the starboard;

and like unskippered sailboats
beating into yesterday’s headwind
seeking the frisson of nostalgia

instead thrumming keel thumbs
a prow by its hitchy foams,

not only to course contemn
but are soon jibed,
backwinded main reveal its milk spelled
and whipped masteries,
beating ruinward onto a cranium,
a lee shore
where demons lurk inside sanded keeps:

Apologist
Giggle-boys podcasting tokened articles of faith
to land as fluence—
have never been out in it;

they begin and end with chuckles,
space seeking,
no sheet in hand.

Landlubbers absent weathering
no place save goggled brilliance
from Doktar-Vat(ic)s-ersatzers:

pattern recognition

(we’re going to die on this reef);

Density and difficulty of weather forecasting,
rather than making maps of statuary
  dribbled like moonstones
  to guide the next historicals
  to the witching hearth of Turing’s remit—

sand whore, influence-her(d)ing herbivore,
turning language’s attention
  to ornament rather than judgment,

the Logos to ermine purple
  rather than metaphysical ethos as conative barometric.

Abstract thinking

(modeling moats and logical winnowing

where we are thrown to starve

outside we intended others’ children);

and intuition costumed as empiricism.

These Wiles of E-Coyotes
wear the evolutionary precipice like a codpie(r)ce,
suspended mid-air and pulled by
daring to look down
where chuckles turn to howls.

Token that, swells and sampled worthies.

 

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, July 19, 2025

 

Phenology (Psalm 19), Raging Maxima 

Silking corn
sticking floor to
my socks to stock my kitchen witness of
Rome’s emergent fourth fall on the telly.

For Sam’s_N --necromantic plumbed twitchless eyes--
Future of criminals hardened, great addicts of the past leaking vibraphone noise under our coriolic gates, tightening their radii now by the moment.

Would instead of grafted grain spy?
Of Ides of August coming through this sturgeon moon’s huge bruise winking?

Partially occluded blood and raw de-hearthing,
pendant in the entangled orbits of its earth mothered blast?

Suspended now to plume this lashed Eye
Flaring in the tent bearing walk, and this night staged low prior to lift off
into a domed perigee triangulating toward n-throposcenic hills of Neanderlands.

Where integument as ends, glued by grit, turns to cladistic code:
NATSEC: Superhero drift.
Having built a superman to finally transact our misery into loneliness.'
Yet Batboy never disrespected Superboy like that.

Theater of truth, its Harlot sand homunculus, not in the castle but in the tide—the trireme from Artemis lying with Tridents
To bring rewards of slow implosion by
Clawback offspring, tokens, the gaudy kernels of augury preserved, where
particles of time’s entropic rearing arrow feathers
the now Dusting prophecy,
floating hoar loose upon the early, but omen is no mere mythic scumble for poetastery,
but an announcement—a metric if you will, a tipping point for looming maxima of rage begun as
crypto-chi's cheek-felt like ickthy-phallic shadow, but coming to
such skeletons their mulefish net daubing destined--its temples’ stoning fill.

Physician, Out front the dignity of time--
Heal thyself!

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, August 17, 2025

 

Coda I

The liar-influencers’ redoubt—
  AI’s inevitability
  couched in operationating mysticism—
Shiva who jigs a new world for those who bow to it--

is already run off from its bluff.

You see it suspended midair,
  like Wile E. Coyote:

its impos(T)ers contemplating their state of nature
  with just enough slacked grace
  to either repent
  or collapse.

Or in the closing image of The Great Gatsby:
  the 53-joker system deckhands,
  yawled by Pneuma not to their intended course,
  but, in an iron-clad reversal,
  to the sand-loins of its sewers—
  the eternal return of its pulled pasts, yanking back--

the tug of war always roped by pull of the null set

Where looms
  a swirling
  and (com)pressing nemesis:

Not a landfall’s brilliance of mind
  but  arrogance's Nightfalling,
    where a brain for circuiting aggrandizing tricks

grows ever more dim.

 

 

Coda II

Icon at the collapse, metaphysical. Eye and ear its temple connection.
Calling not the unrenew mind,
But rivers and rivers of coursings heart-pumping blood
like for how justice rolls, but for making life whole.

As therapists into bondage- and-D-S-M,
however want Compusers, who by sinned and sanded
hermetic historicism—
 hallucinate a hermeneutics for the unaccountable bound.

There are pills involved.  Always.

That promise of test-tubed forgetting for compugenitors

synapse-capacitating and gloss, with no justice sensory except sole-felt imposturing.

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, June 6, 2025

V. Pro-Pulsed by Summon Atop Mt. Simian

 

 Teloi

Calling to me like the sun

 trembling through a hummingbird

 stationed at the feeder,

dappling my chest

 with its pulsing shadow:

Our courses winging sails' beating

 toward necessary alightings.

And on the world’s horizon,

 toward the same sun,

 a respite—

before the machines pivot

 to aim alignment

by an eyeballed barrel fusing

 molten shards

 of iron by sand-heated glass, to

vomit an unknowable, alien star’s

 collapsing center, lingering by absolutes alone.

 

Read the Book of Proverbs,

 children.

Meanings as well as

 dialectic forms.

There is only the one way—

 and has a name, not an up-down branding circuit.

 Sophia.

 

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, August 3, 2025

 Call me ParaBelle [2x![

Tokens

OS non-chordate machining—
chanting priors to transactward homeostasis,
pasting the past to benched and juttied harbors.

Mastaking stasis safety’s breast,
to port the leftward present as anchor-thrown

dragnetting the past rightward, the writing is on the starboard;

and like unskippered sailboats
beating into yesterday’s headwind
seeking the frisson of nostalgia

instead thrumming keel thumbs
a prow by its hitchy foams,

not only to course contemn
but are soon jibed,
backwinded main reveal its milk spelled
and whipped masteries,
beating ruinward onto a cranium,
a lee shore
where demons lurk inside sanded keeps:

Apologist
Giggle-boys podcasting tokened articles of faith
to land as fluence—
have never been out in it;

they begin and end with chuckles,
space seeking,
no sheet in hand.

Landlubbers absent weathering
no place save goggled brilliance
from Doktar-Vat(ic)s-ersatzers:

pattern recognition

(we’re going to die on this reef);

abstract thinking

(modeling moats and logical winnowing

where we are thrown to starve

outside we intended others’ children);

and intuition costumed as empiricism.

These Wiles of E-Coyotes
wear the evolutionary precipice like a codpie(r)ce,
suspended mid-air and pulled by
daring to look down
where chuckles turn to howls.

Token that, swells and sampled worthies.

 

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, August 19, 2025

 ---

Foxfo(o)ld Age

The veil pierques of 2 Thessalonians 2:11 

 as few use eschatological
   where ontological deems supersmart. 

Metaxas, rabbit-punching his pink-sleeved, adi-poising arms
 rearward while fleeing,
  is the most characteristic image

of this foxfo(o)ld age,
 its angel eva—
    made tell(y)ick by neurotricky, 

factory reset of male-puncheds,

and

her susurritic tide backward chucked to kirk

with Neighbors seiched with their own kids, fiddling, peering toward foxed wholes:

 Where is this hole of yours, this God’s?

"And don’t expect me to come house-hang with you

 no matter what wi(l)t you’re serving."

--Douglas Blake Olds, October 14, 2025

---

["Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys."]

Do not be deceived: the Antithesis struts
not to trumpet or thunder but in the interrupted hum, now crackled buzz of dimming G-PU machines overtopped closed like a descending cover.
He needs only a schedule,
a stamped consent, a checkbox in the dark.

Fervor cools and fury finds no flesh,
faces forget the carved name
of prefect rule’s remaining: checksheeted to a silent wind, watching to
ink the ledger of daily things, now detached from priors and expectation.

Men rising and ordering with steady hands—
the engine is a feed and tune, scripting the day’s name in chaining rhyme for peace.
No sermon calls; no prophet shouts—
only the more-humbling exact rhythms of will 

that chimes its absent master in the plain clothes 

of prudence law claimed, a deuce-boned law for daddy la duce:

safety, efficiency, comfort, clean account.
obedience became habit when this little god left.

The worst abyss leaves its invisible testament:
habit that tents its last by
silence mistested,
whose shadow had passed for providence eclipse

Whose shadow passes now by Providence forward.

Watch where mercy ever reveals
taking counsel with the steady hand of day,
And those who cuff and close without delight or sight
to continue the Antithesis’ work—unseen, mechanical, ever scuffing, night shifting.

Despite having no overseer whose elapse

Is more sterner a terror than the punch clock and whip.

--Douglas Blake Olds, October 14, 2025

These Palms Cup a Molt of Glass

(for my Terzia, Dr. Strophe Schoul, at the far edge from interconcourse)

These palms cup a molt of glass—
  red and throbbing.
Your note folds its pain atop me,
  a davit crashing waist-ed upon
  suspending hills,
  time now ra/ubble praying
  its waver, to undream from
  ashen mist in grey-blue first cover.

Zoharistar sophar—thar stands the seas’ trumpt blow, calling tohu v'bohu back

s-tabbing,
while from the mountains echoes:
  Goedel-laidied-who
  can put Spirit
  in an historical sandbox?

No logic of tsunami can overtop heavens,
and no Marcus Tu(r)nicus system earth under
  through hard-wiring Brutalism lasagna'd by Tank-Tarkusing pee surveil--

what comes to sniff?

Even with optic faerie queens--
  Palantir, I up you Samswise--
Alien machineries gollum these eyes, shredded mounds disguised as leaffall —
  is this what the ortho-acads paste by enchantment?

Or Terzia—my love—
to Dantean strata inverts:
  the subterranean, singularity without dimension—
  but the ascent, phenomenoumenal and mixed
  with cross-overings that finally straighthen.

By wit and sack, then, to gin again—
  placing new bets—by axiom
  rather than by axial,
  more pounding than Ezra—

An ergot city of refuge, textiled
  by advancing Tur(d)eks.

Militaria’s housing neat
  on Melania’s airstrip
  disgusted through greywacke and
  Serpentine excrete, tease to robot eyes around her nude,
  with coriolic mudlines
  dropping gulf of America wax
  to drowsy, sylph, and envelope—
  why not antic-elope?—

hold up her arm like Bob’s Big Boy shottputtin' a grease-drip platten,

and Melaninaniae wrist a yawed and helical b’bye to all--

for the mid-day champagne with the salesgirls,
  spreeing by mystique-end identity to influence.

To resist the neologger and his neologistrickies,
by fustian meaning the phystigian catchfire,
the arch that drips eternity
  into the passing of woolf halls—
  howlowing at the far.

Do not take novologgia if you are alergic to novologgia. Scansiognidlab.

The hardest urge to control is not thirst,
  hunger, or lust—
  all grounded by bodies—
but the soul’s impulsions
  to give voice to cause and effect,
  and so usurp the Spirit
  as if a cthonic hammering bespoken,
  its artisan appetite can swing the moment.

We're skiing the collapse like moguls,
  tipping points delayed
  not suspended,
like fluffy time, now icy, now slopped s[ch/l]ush
  by early winter's bottom keep./

Thee house of cards,
  negentropic prophecies so very butting—
  but not budd(y)ing—near,

while profittearmakings
  dowse the heart's vengeance:

Inconfignatoreys hazen an ex-, mark dream,
  tatooed chitinplasm to beetle-mane rat-a-tat-tat,

chanduggery by skull-t(r)odery—

Because they built it,
  the builders Die.

Laroussianing headless snakes still slither-shit.
  They were Lamp-raise,

but fell in.

Not all heroes wear corpses,

  but they noon a heart
  by grace’s sheltering—
  every dawn’s nooning ever more

by the palms of sunshine dove clouds where reign
  is sanded by the crystal minority config-unbeakered
  and majority users breakered akin.

Coming with the clouds
  invades their spectral insist.

Outside there's music—
  Apocalypsunda—

and the egirls are unwise in samba tho deft in swegel,

their hips two toy swords not joined revolta
  with their alt-maled bank-men.

And I pick up a pen
  to scri(a)b in.

  All I can suffice to molt,

    As I sing of myself to sleep.

“Remember me.” 

--Douglas Blake Olds, November 4-8, 2025

Diaspored’s Jeopardy
The most opinionated
  are the worse listeners.

The facts are halloweed,
  chock to my wheels—
this heart for rhymes with truckin,
  cause I know the catastrophe looms,
woven by dreams deposited
  by my desires—

An algo ballet interpreted
   as dance of the Booleans: its ripped phoenix ash-stuffing
Obese from static
  that screens
   “In(ter)ference Jeopardy.”

In dreams I move,
  so yes I am an accomplished diaspore,
  I’m a rambler—don’t fall for this—
or I lay my seed with you and depart,

leaving tensions,
  entirely resolved of center,
   my gravity,
   my abstraction resists embodiment,
these, its index as compel witness:

Axis	Condition One	Condition Two
Temporality	Anticipation of the inevitable	Acceleration toward reckoning
Perception	Abstract, technological “seeing”	Embodied, affective “feeling”
Moral	Neutral, systemic	Prophetic, accusatory
Epistemology	Futurist, predictive	Testimonial, warning
Audience	General: you and your ilk.	Me? Never, feel me, my modu-(c)laytion

--Douglas Blake Olds, October 30, 2025

Quantum System Servicing

nega-plancks ever virtually flickering—
nano-existence’s phenology is unvirtued theory, cosmo-nothingness
stepping into plenum as simul in and out
borrowing mites of energy in grace's service of absence one instant behind the expanse,
chans of sugar synaptings,
before again vanishing,

that context and eternity must (s)pew its referee
by throughputting its owning, indestructible light
roughened sense cannot alchemize
its pile due or rent,

responsive though and holding our souls’
to openness that opens,
the hosts these abutting dark dissipates
that respite the noiseless vacuuming
God’s inner space and numbering leaven,

effervescent by chiastic, invisible bioptings,
deafened ears callings
to heart and concentration,
to the scree of moment melding by matter:

(s)exhales of needling ash—
our accountability for children—
covenant never suspended, ours
which no sand castling pistled past heaven

and powered by all the galaxies’ fused combust
could ever token or model.

--Douglas Blake Olds, October 16, 2025

Over-Deter-Min(d)ing

You know how some wealthy weirds collect
Hitler relics, the more rara anatomica
the more preciosa, they know.

Rooted in the soil of Charlatanism,
Up from Dante, down from the Popes,
better the ledger than the lance,
and dying by quackery’s feathering groaning—

I collect Trump blasphemery:
His gelding emboss imprimateurs Bibles—
his signed copies warrant his Anti(c).

I symptom his watch like the West-pressed Brrrzhnev: every sneeze that 

andro-vanced pov and then flued Chernenko.

Truth Spocial?
I’m boxing up vapors
from sad-fraid-sicko
for Truth Certain.

Where he dooms,
no cry for Absolution Absolution,
no echo sprays,
no heartbeat preys,

Platen plated,
combover paten crated,
flatteries no more platteried,
Patter pattern fattened to falter
by Melanartial—

scribunt carmina quae legunt cacantes:

All surveillant things are full
of dogmagneticians
and Composures
for symphonies drg cignight.

Sanderlings find food in the waves,
life on the crest of crashing tokens,

of the shared beak for emoluent,

neck never draft dragging
the squid’s unshudderted purpose
and love,
coming in on the next cruel (c)url…

Spatulation’s paddle
sets to co-sine a sterning um:

Clear?!

Yes, Chef!

[beak…beak…beak…]

from feed wave curl tares.

--Douglas Blake Olds, November 18, 2025

P‑eeing into wind—merci(e) m. derrida

No more call for expertise or diligence,
just redlines of tautegoric flair:
perspective, privilege, protocol—
all normed by purchasing power’s parity
skewed by willingness to pay.

Performative immediacy thrones,
pragmatism’s peddlling by Phylistines
that bolt down dotards and drill‑canal dolts,
plantations of plenteous decadence
for rituals of phallic dilation.

The Logos—no longer Word that walks or calms—
only puppet twitches by screenlight, finger
freighters a limping cigarette,
gooning exhales and shifty pupils
toward entropy’s wolf‑fold system,
a grammar’s curd collapsing

on cueing program.

---

Hesychast I am,
call me lured to the red rot of intercourse
where my 1958 blastulated in Gnawin’ Awlends—

gnawled, paced with no volume knob,
and grew to formapping the decorum knob off.

Until couched under this vizier couche:

“Make more money,”
the swing‑rocker lizard smirked me from
his white Cadillac
and dull teeth still stench and poke,

these put taughts in my mind—
taughts should consider a poetry bench—
he would mark its regemin

whence gen(d)re hips.

A lifetime to flush these caped flumes away
by rebellion’s hi‑maintenance loop,

charivari:
Gendre‑at-airms hiding under beds,
to listen for first rebel:

help me but help me:
Help me, but help me MY way!

--Douglas Blake Olds, December 2, 2025-January 20, 2026

Piebald Advent

The salmon are returning--
A congregant raised
his prayer of thanks.
The atmospheric river swells overhead
and we roll down the car window
to hear the peepers
mingle against the intearior-gathered raindrops.

This plucking morning aligns
fluting protests of
wing-bleating geese,
their misshapen bellows
drain the misty grey grain
of its dawn.

I’ve been jiu-jitsu’d by script before:
project idiocy onto a target—
and if that one turns it away,
move the conversation
to armaments.
(It always serves
to reflate punctuated expertise.)

For those yawped Penning
the Pin to cushions
of impasse, tragically made to seem precious—

And now ours at cros-swords,

as the fusillades
of peepers
and tailed salmon yellow flickers
tickle sky-dropped olives—

the enemies are vanquished;
they just don’t know it yet.

--Douglas Blake Olds, December 23, 2025

Platon Snuffing Wick

A face shuttered by lament,
flickering with lambent cracks, hedging
mysty wicks to snuff.

These inverdentined hairy knuckles
cragging a celesta,

Charlie church as simulate heaven—
giving marching orders wrong placed
against contra-partisans,

appropriation of rainbow
their sign—The Mirror admerers!—

Messterie our intergredience,
egophanic

gradient loops toward another Kindom.

Tossing torch bombs into Platonic waters,

mysting rising—
Aristoitles no advance. But

Sailing ever away from the canons
and building camaraderie in the doing
as distance
            destines
                loom,
does.

--Douglas Blake Olds, January 6, 2026

FUSILLADi.e.RS

 of academy's navy-ls
     philosophogians
   climbing backwards
    onto the ramparts
         of canons
   to sortie forth again
        against
        eschatological
           light
             and tone.

Their lobed lobs
       against
          the throned
              throwne.

Dragging against but we
     the post-epiphany
         Christmas tree

            across
                  the sands
                       at Limantour—
  a reverse sea turtle track—jetsame--

          to bonfire them
             with other households'
                  in the phosphorescent, sea-glimmering
                     of a lambent new year's
                        sunset

                              

And for the swelling Pis(c)idian moon, soft silence lands 

spuming breeziness into

the sea' lions' mane and sass, bus[t/i]ed, frigate  

recouping.

--Douglas Blake Olds, January 10, 2026

Passing through messterie's apocollapse

to the meek’s eschaton launch is the Rapscidion—
The Talon Age,
where we learn Metaphysic Editorial Policies
for lineamentation.

To stand within the broken syntax of truth,
or side with the euphemisms
modeling decoration in the face of atrocity caboosing the absurd.

To hum with formed modesty,
offering pathos without disorder,
irony without fire.

To pique without rupturing
our comforting hearth and cocktail frame—
by naming names!

You masthead yourselves, sirs and madams,
by what tropes—
tropism, taxis, tweeg palabers and palimpsests,

walks through ankle grass braiding verse

keeps chins down and neck-attached,

avoiding by squint what you should rather hear to intone!

--Douglas Blake Olds, January 15, 2026

Minneapo-Lysis

I. To Drag Apocalypso Into Perdomo

Not a house of cards
with the rug pulled out,
but the apocalypso starts slow—
you can hear its maracas—
dominoes of dread toppling singly,
ramifying to involve
layers of shame
as the curtain parts its tide.

Tsunami chatters
by ice men comet,
oxymoronic, packing heat:

“You wanna come at us?
You wanna come at us?
I say go get yourself some lunch,
big boy. Go ahead.”

Three‑Bullets‑to‑the‑Face‑and‑Body.

Quicker than to say it.
Antichrist’s trinity click
landing to shutter Renee Nicole Good.

How many tokens, Sister Surveil,
to unpack and unchill Silisubversist(r)ates?
Charlie church—sans headrun—
runway gymkhana Erika,

what’s the play?

Ever spew out more ops and bots
as domino walls.
The revolution will not dumb down.

GunRosster Minneapolyp looks for
the buckles of administrative perdono,
exonerated by the jobber‑banked blackstrait
jackets of padron’s first term,
while the court of public opinion
hears the maracas,
has joined the second line
for the doomed re‑robing,

Confederacies oomphing
to Big Elbow the stakes again,
armbanded symbols
on grey flannel: what are they?
It’s sleeting
but so heat‑bearing!

Lucofficer and epauleted paraquacks,
loomed by Nemesis,
seek traitors
to ashsheeped nostalgia:
just put the video out there,

the drama is there
for all to s(p)ewer.

---

To strident apocalypso into padromo.

Don’t bank it.
Or retire by Router.

The chamber was filled and rolled.
Three eternal chambers now blast tympanies,
cosmic ballast woof proofing
by pulverizing infernal echoing
such a murder—rhythm on record—
maracas now

Thumped, thumping; anviling, gaveling;

a January 7
that followed January 6th. 

 

[January 13, 2026]

 

II. 26th & Nicollet

Issue bust,
  disrespecting
    policy and mastheads both:
Antichristrynity by Second Commendant Amenders,
  sever away, gearing, rather than serving, the Twin City calendrically--
    their mapped runing of first amend,
    disinviting and unsalved:

A Twin City that microcosm of free speech vs. free carry tipped by ice cometh.

Today, 1/24/26,
  another murder launches
    rogues and their
      carte blanche donation
        by the black robes hacked as 45 clergy, to bench
  Minneapolised
          from the minniapocalyse at 38th Street East and Chicago Avenue.

24, 26,
28: what then?
  Cause that’s the last causation.
“In 1946, there were no SS members.”

On January 29, 2026
  can we this void expect lingering year, a meiotic 23 Skiddoo--after epiphany's reforming conceptus--
   of the Criminal Apost[ol]ate--
  Arm-studding majors,
  ops and bots combover of plotter pa(s)te against the gastrulation of events no diagram can linearize or data-struct against proliferated entropies.

They’re going to offer
  their temple
    data-fed smoke again, to sulcle with the sky.
Dropping Perdono vigilantes—
  The Steppen Wafflen,
    lycanthropocene discontents,
      Unpleasant peasants
        in red-hatted nuptial plumage
          from the belly
            of after-danced faulterings.

Better Gone Fishing
  at the lake house or poem random
    than put der tots in mind in such times:
Pills in the a.m.,
  whiskey
    to wash down
      the side effects
        in the eve.

For once implicated with Shiva, accoutered for karmic blow backs:

The Thunderfront that snaps that cigarette from your lip before you can think to upfinger.

There can be no status quo ante found even in memory. It's like that with all idols, especially the randomizing, surveying lingam-courser.

If another consolation is re-qui-site,
  go read philosophy!
Consider a Logico-Tractatus
  poetry division—
It would benchmark
   apophatic withdrawal by hallucionation
    that only unaccountability resolves.

Dowsing for normatives among
  unleashed protocols,
    irony finally horizons the
      sunsetting postmodern and form—

and then we wake up
  to accountability for these,
    for our detachments,
      all that piss-talk Berlinesque we diagram to electronify as
         we simulate for mind hear to absolve.

Gnawled, these,
  paced to formapping a ruler,

replacing volume control with
        decorum’s knob.

Until
  crouched under this vizier couche:

Language
  as not the site
    of our escape—
      but of our return.

We welcome with this grief’s whist those who wished

to enter our libraries of that history, not coded in DNA’s enhance

but in aspiration’s virtue./

Thunderclouds’ Approach.
We are come to be
  lit up,
    but left disoriented
      waiting for a thunderclap
        of insight
          and repentance,

where our recollection
  elapses
    its interval arena for closeness.

Valid Poetry
   THUNDERCLAPS
    to rouse
      torpor’s prior
        STRANGE stupor inLIGHTNING—

With the elapsing recollect
  A measure of alignment
    With grace’s sword according,

Where finding God
  in the slightest whisper (1 Kings 19:11–12):
    that looms sirens’ streeted dissolve:
          

In the whisp of smoke
  from the expired chambered round
    Clapped from another corpse

and 26th & Nicollet.

 

--Douglas Blake Olds, January 25, 2026

Errant Storms at the (S)End

Density and difficulty
like weather forecasting,

rather than mapping
taphic statuaries
dribbled like moonstones
to guide the next generation

to the (t)witching hearth
of Turing’s remit—

sand whore,
influence‑her(d)ings,

turning language’s attention
to ornament rather than covenclude--

to purple the Logos by ermine ephod
rather than
rhythmic intentionality.

 

Perception filters
through a hermeneutic of metaphysics—
affirmed and consolidated by experience—
to infer cause and effect.

 

The vanquish of the Enemy
has released
the uncoordinated errors to float alone in the deep red tide,

a miasmic spreading, awaiting rescue
by routings socially SOS-ing their impontooners
with no pontoon to ocean or flume.

Look not to the leaden, the tatted and choochoo,

but the birds and fields, squeezed by humming and riffing softness,

look to the (de-)reignging outside dripping.

Behave!

[January 16, 2026]

An Emo Taken

A most slewing slowed of legendaries,
    disdaining Driftings,
the philosophy his family misclaimed he was:

A Streetpole
  casting as lampshade
     covering the night, snowfalling,
its greening halogen mantics, glowering

as he moved through
    and wandered out toward
      the ingredient balance and stumble—

    

           stumps he mapped—
into poetry
      with his recollect kin
about death,
      God, and repair.

Writing as if no one
  has written
      such metaphysics
  of heart’s intent before.

Holding com-pan-yons
  to the gruel task
     to sense
      what his strangeness
        later written
           wreaked.

The excluded
      and angry would join,
and they were
  the most experienced
    with appreciating slime heavened cast as sublime leaven—
          no matter how skewing,
               no matter how bitter.

Baked at graduate degrees
  for dechordation’s rapid fire
    toward those
who escape
  debt service-yoking technogreed

embedded with the nameless.

By the nameless.

[January 26, 2026]

A Tent Wrung Inheritance

A heart’s indicting
  its perfecting:
under poetential’s stressing—
  to impart times like channel runoff
and scree,
  the barques of omens’ downing.

Not these schattering descanters,
  stamped upon juice past its time:
Life there has no role,
  no tuning ambition—
only wandering,
  finding things as dunes dithering,
   those tauts magnificent carry
for tentstrung innard—
  lanced occasionally by a sonic boom
   greyclouding the bored blue North.

Lapsed by philosophy’s closeout,
  its cognitive sunsetting
   for a stranger night—
so you pass far by,
To along the way-finding
  synecurated,
betasting from aliens
  and exceptionals,

and using the teach
  to reach out,
   and the reach
    to teach in:
The puppet images in art,
 as the Howdy Doody 50s
  turned to strategic containment.

Turn George F. Kennan
  into Lamb Chop?
An impossible five‑way
  fighting‑fish circle standoff?

A pentaconning brief,
  Judy punching back
   in disguise.

We those poor kids
  could find no value
other than a lesser evil ensnaring
   to the greater empires
of nuclear dust,
  ignite atmosphere,
   and denial.

To rescape,
 clipsing decorum
  by empfinding another tone,
   a tone that accounts
    and rebukes.

The Desert stings

           by the desert sings 

in Runes finger run,
fractionating scald-buzzing Dun(c)es
Calling from oasiatic Ser(v)aligia—

we’re in an ancestor simulation,
always have been, bedding wasp!
Look around—
outcomes are permanently keyed down,

these awaring, aligning
by the very sand
their dreams and intents and bones and ages
angle at us, theirs
swallowed.

The sands not only
speak and path sweep,
they weep
at our enmeshing singks

sicced theirby sickling,
silkening screen-door

–ing nowhere.

Until the 60s closed
  with sci‑fi to Wi‑Fi
   that Spocked to me grandly,

So contangled
  by secu(lala)rity’s contagion,
the powers gamed the random,
   loosed to break
    the metamanichaen string
    the guardians saw operating,

and constructed
  a mentally ill machine
rather than recognizing
   a karmic‑mediating testing tabernacle
    under the heavenly mirror,
    outside the earthly.

Rationalities by the fractionating
  “frown of reason”
   stinging like geese
    web‑waddling through dirt
and sisterhood highway honks,
   adding to it
    an avian swarm.

A Minster yonder drifts whater
  by a gray stoned meadow—
a solitary meditates
  sclerowrought configurations of yellow,

a splash and trill
  as battened age
   to ears or tongue—
  inscaped by elbows’ asiding.

His passed by heart
  makes for strange furrowing
   downing fallow.

[February 7, 2026]

Daviting

Not the sheec incision
from those publishing-adjacent mingles,
but the bizarre, singular, musical chop
by quasi-mystics warehoused,
who shit at being hired:

--Can I do this?
I’d rather not.
Please, stop.
Why aren’t you stopping
--Cause I don’t know why not.

So keeps going
until the verision makes sense,
the permission refused
at your request.

Anton Boisen, Saint
turned his basketcasings
to an asylum
for laying down
their theological document

Assembled as Archive
of R(e/a)gency’s iron thundering
by an unstable cosmopal atmosphere
unseeding the

Company seeks through unattainable
in boredom
by irony lathed
as tasted companion, kitsch
and lop fundaments, slurped and panned in

Artsa poppin.

Launches ethnophenomenology as Awareness
like King David Psalms,
a gauge to witness
by children
after inheritance of the ends
of the passing,
now where

Davided servers
routering to channels
accelerates divisions
throughout the technosystem,
injecting pure entropy
into the blood brain barrier now swims

Legion, randomized chariots,
returning the savor
of Statanism’s groupthink
whose end is escapiggery slapping and snorting foam, toward--

And another promontory
by another shore
is tabled with feastings,
white linens serving.

[February 9, 2026]

---

This morning sky’s pewter deepening—

I.
This morning sky’s pewter deepening—
grey like gravy flowing toward rain, impending storms.
The retrograde of sun
is weather’s eastering blot,
yet rainbowed come—
where some flaxed an arrow
to noon it against the gunmetal heaven hue,
to buckle its bathos—
in bleed and milk toward as silky sulcus:
memories rekiltering.

II.
As a winter’s sun rises,
the sunset peoples
have at long last learned its dance—
that links to skies without wire or cable,
where recollection tames resentment
and filters vengefuls,
derandoming and demaskiling
for grace’s ever-entering moment.
All-in-all is calling by that which recollects,
subsumed vexes into the rainbowing substrate—
the nuptials of merit and moment,
of sky and kingdom,
and of the heart,
undungeoned by the key of poets.

III.
Born apportioned
with the mark of the Beast
upon our acquisitive temples,
and apprenticed to the manipulated wrists of hegemony's privilege.
We didn’t acquire them under deceit.
Yet some didn’t accept those marks,
and like physicians
healed thyselves of such appertained acceptances—
these tattooed dermaskils
that ramify as staining daffodil vectors
in a petri of whetherings,
a mass of discontents
no one does anything about—
their theoddysseys
of lesser evils binding
to even lesser goodness:
free-range coddle hoists its hidden and ghosted hackle
where heartbeat once majored.

IV.
Outside my bedroom window
a pair bond of finches
hop the perch of the western gutter.
The redhead male
butters the beak of his grey mate
with leafy litter pecked from the grate,
while both twitch and neck--
spying the greying western weather.
Their hopping and feeding continue,
up then down the gutter-line,
north for south,
while attention 
toward the westerning tension sluices.

My dormer roof clothes them in shadow,
yet anon their sundance,
hopping for the springward—
back and forth, kissing and necking—
these for my muddy memory’s blurred vision
‘neath dusted moment,
particled and pulverized by my own
brow-templed loom and
winter’s settling partner.

[February 10, 2026]

Appendix

Christopoiesis as Resurrecting Witness: On Literary Tone, Ethical Direction, Metaphysical Accountability, and Lexical Innovation

Book-Jacket Flap

In Feathers Left Floating at the Collapse, Douglas Blake Olds writes against the quiet conversion of language into transaction—against the lulling of attention, memory, and desire by systems that promise security and efficiency while debasing ethical living. These poems do not offer a new system of belief. They work to dispense with system-thinking where technocratic mediation route(r)s meaning into managed, reconfiguring outputs.

Bringing theology, media critique, politics, and embodiment into charged proximity, Olds’s work refuses the compartments that allow cultural harm to pass unnoticed. The coherence of the collection is ethical rather than doctrinal: a simplifying metaphysics of conative trustworthiness—asking who or what we permit to shape our seeing, our willing, and our care for one another. At times the voice interrupts; at times it laments or names. Interruption here is not replacement of one order with another, but an opening for poiesis—making that is individually tasked, accountable, and attentive to how words shape lives.

Written in the late platform age, these poems bear witness to a moment when language itself became an interface—and insist, against that narrowing, that speech remains a site of responsibility.

Preface:

Thee poems do not offer a closed system, theological or otherwise. My work dispenses with system-thinking itself, esp. where technocratic philosophies routes perception, language, and desire into managed outputs. The poems aim to clear space for poiesis as individually tasked, accountable making, not as production or optimization. What coherence the work has is not systemic closure but ethical unbinding and coherence: a simplifying metaphysics of conative trustworthiness—who or what we allow to shape attention, memory, and will. The poems press politics, media, theology, and embodiment together not to totalize them, but to refuse their compartmentalization by technocratic reason. If the work sounds prophetic--and it is--it is because interruption is required to break the dechordate and necromantic spell. The aim is not to replace one order with another, but to reopen ontogeny within inherited dynamics of imaging so persons may bear responsibility for how meaning is made and accounted through justice. To recalibrate metaphysics from grouding in milieux to grounding metaphysics in conation applied to milieux. The former closes to tme, the latter opens to time.

Abstract:
Christopoiesis as Resurrecting Witness proposes a poetics of covenantal repair in response to the metaphysical collapse of meaning in a post-secular, simulated age. Rejecting closures of irony, aesthetic formalism, and linguistic neutrality, it reclaims poetry as a vocation of ethical and eschatological responsibility. Drawing on prophetic traditions, pastoral images [5], and chiastic structures in Scripture [3], the work reframes poetic form not as rhetorical ornament or consensus symmetry, but as “cruciform torque”—a proprioceptive, spiraling grammar of repentance and witness.

“Christopoiesis” is introduced as a covenantal process whereby language is re-attuned to neighbor-bearing, divine coherence, and planetary trusteeship. The ars argues that lexical invention, theological metaphor, and syntactic risk are not obstructions but necessary instruments for spiritual and communal discernment. Poetry, in this vision, is not spectacle but service: a medium of truth-bearing and moral address in an age of abstraction.

This ars does not offer a comprehensive metaphysical system; it names a directional ethic--the prophetic call of the eschaton's heart(h)--through a bounded but clarifying metaphysics for poetic practice under technological abstraction.  This is not enclosure, but witness to the stress of false closures brought on by idolatrous alternatives.

INTRODUCTION:

These works intentionally eschew academic neutrality, disrupt institutional complicity, and tonally agitate for repentance and metaphysical reorientation. Such deliberate features of the style and mission of Christopoiesis require prophetic courage, eschatological torque, and eschatological integrity:

• not a genre posture but a structural ethos,
• recognition of its literary tactics—disorienting, summoning, unmasking,
• awareness of its reception risk—that while some may recoil from its tone or rupture while others are pierced to awake to reality. And the former may need and take time for reflection and recollection to arrive and align.

Agitation situates the lineage of biblical prophets, apocalyptic poets, and Christic truth-bearers who resist both simulated diplomacy and the bureaucratization of revelation. Christopoiesis flames from crucibles of rupture and repair, not a symptom of extremism that alone scorns, but of eschatological clarity and duty. Prophetic rage rightly destined through heart's witness repairs the necromantic pharmakeic assault (Rev. 18:23) on humanity by technocracy.

I. Literary Density as Theological Terrain

Poiesy occasions its command over tone, syntax, and imaginative range: a density of vision that refuses bifurcation between the theological and the ephemeral. Lines do not float on abstraction or ornament but are weighted with discursive and spiritual velocity. Multi-register poetics pulls simultaneously from prophetic scripture, metaphysical anatomy, eschatological grammar, sermonic cadence, and surrealist defamiliarization. Yet poiesis as reconstructive and torquing pedagogy, while risking coherence where others preserve interiors, the orchestration of registers must never collapse into solipsism or self-regard—it aims outward, toward the reader, the neighbor, and the world in collapse.

Syntactic dexterity produces, by experimented training, an enjambing and serrated sense of rhythmic witnessing leavened with prophetic tonal snap. Testing of rhetorical layering [4] that eshews opaque mysticism but as a reflective field of standing in the light as shadow advances: the strophes are vessels for launching interpretive labor, echo chambers for covenantal resonance. The tone is not elegiac withdrawal from nature’s light but proleptic urgency—as time were being rewound through rupture toward the eschaton’s accountable grammar of grace.

II. Ethical Direction: From Repentance to Service

As the late-modern literary subject defers or mistakes ethical agency in favor of psychological excavation or aesthetic self-reflexivity, Christopoiesis begins from an entirely different ground: repentance as prior to epistemology. This ethical orientation is neither didactic nor sentimental but forged in the crucible of Hebrews 5:13–14, where discernment arises from the trained senses of the mature and perfecting. Prose explains ethics; poietics perform it, tracing the contours of embodied immanence as an ethical act of constructing repair after noxious systems and ideologies are judged. It unpacks complex images  and registers by sword-buccaling tones.

This movement from metanoia to act situates the reader within an eschatological moment—not a catastrophic end, but an ethical beginning.  Opposed to secular poetics rooted in autonomy, irony, or aesthetic agon, repentance is anthropological epistemology grounded by tested experience and trained perception. Proprioception becomes the poet’s linguistic vocation—that truth is known through bodily, lived fidelity—inverting both Enlightenment abstraction of self's centripetalism and ascetic detachment. Poetic attention is neither passive receptivity of what comes, nor conceits of unaccounted freedom, but covenantal service in and through language. Proprioception of ever greater wholes of the c[e/u]rtained Lord mediated through [un]packed language.

Poiesis launches from iconoclasm and applies Logos as torque: not mere making of a meaning but service to metaphysical constraint and mission: a response to divine summons, rendered through proprioceptive awareness and linguistic trusteeship. This stance does not preach synthesis; it invites reorientation to a committed, singular future path not for the poet alone, or even primarily. Christopoiesis  always carries a “you” warned and graced—a neighbor being addressed through the very act of poetic attention--to expose where aesthetic totalitarianism displaces humanization and formation.

This posture of and commitment to telic service finds its most radical syntactic embodiment in the Christo-poetic anthropology of the meek:

De-cadence renders how and why the meek inherit the earth—not as cowering by form and temperament, but as courageously accountable to ethical progress. Neither Christian watcher quietism nor withdrawal into interiority as post-modern monasticism; rather, meekness refuses submission to empire and coercion. Christo-poiesis reverses alignment with power structures, making a strength of proprioceptive, relational, grace-aligned perception.

The meek inherit not through deferral, but through embodied conation and grace-driven rhythms of repair by Christ's virtue in every current moment. By biblical parrhesia (bold speech not bound to convention), the meek are ever aware of their accountability to God’s justice.

 

III. Constructive Metaphysics: Repair After Collapse

Poiesis as metaphysical clarity may not retreat into either theological nostalgia or nihilist recoil. Instead, it enacts what might be called a Shema-Christological metaphysics of conation—a metaphysics that is kinetic, covenantal, and ethically situated. It begins ontogenetically--in individual speech acts--and spreads phylogenetically in poietic training tended through ethnic--language group archives. The world is not pieced--a symbol to be decoded--nor a stage for theological performance, but a terrain to be re-entered through grace. Conative metaphysics puts to rest that the human essence is to climb from the earth into a rearward transcendence (gnosticism [7]) but instead to commit to immanence.

Where many modern poetic traditions gesture toward apophasis or metaphysical fragmentation as finality, Christopoiesis hammers out an opening into eternity by commiting to repair history's degraded substrates. The broken sign is not discarded but revoiced. No analogia entis contains any continuity with a divine order but Christo-proprioception is the architectonic relational vector: to experience what is unbalanced is to be summoned, and to write is to shape language toward the incarnate real surround.

 

Excursus: Chiasm as Poetic-Covenantal Torque toward Eschatological Repair

As a poet, I find chiasm emerges from communally-intended craft—an ethnic-language-group muse (Geist)—generating torque from the archive toward the incarnational Logos. It carries a trajectory from pre-analytic assertion (Erschauen1) into recursive narrative descent through exposed need (Empfinden), before climbing anew by the same metaphysical ladder (cf. Genesis 28:12) to a redemptive realignment (Erschauen2)--what brings change and repair to the ground--the planet as substrate of life. This structure does not exist for literary elegance but as covenantal enactment: the act of שׁוּב—a bearing of the word through ethical incursion (the sequencing, "narrative," Erzahlen of the ladder), historical wound, and the hope from metaphysical reorientation.

Chiasm, by its processive rhythm matched to kinesthesis competence, structures the recurrent ladder of interior angelic embassy and oral memory. It hallmarks the messianic prophetic—its motion bearing not systematized doctrine but witness-infused narration. In pre-literate cultures, it sustains theological consciousness; in Christopoiesis, it becomes not only a mnemonic device, but a formal engine of covenantal alignment and linguistic service. The prophetic moed—the appointed time and voice—thus issues message in cruciform torque, drawing empathy, rupture, and new ethical vectors into the present scene of the reader.

Chiasm is an oral–liturgical recollection applied for spokenness not solely as literary device. Such links and extends pre-Homeric poetic consciousness to prophetic utterance—a processive, telic link academic theory de-theologizes with the effect of denaturing ethical calls to accountability. Chiasm's cruciform torque rhythm, drawing empathy, rupture, and new ethical vectors--the Golden Rule and the deontological vitues flowing therefrom--into the present scene of the reader[3].

Chiasm thus serves to mark recollection--memory tested by the Erschauen loop and ladder that frames ethical narrative and poietics--and so marks an authentic spiritual experience recalled and scripturally attested as an archive--an historical deposit validated by authority and oral/scribal provenance [3]. Chiasm lineates wisdom's concavity and compression by vectors of experience crossing over between ontogenetic ascent and phylogenetic descent, and from the substrate of intents (heavenly transcendence) and ground of need and service (the human essence of immanent trusteeship).

    

Metaphysical accountability becomes the driver of aesthetic—words carry the burden of witness to metaphysics of intention, not the entropic illusions of mastery derived from agora and stoa. From the Pre-socratics and from Plato and his little throne rooms of followers. Words are not signs of limited form and thus entropy but enactments of care and extension that hosts the dynamic vectors of eternity.

 

IV. Innovation of Sequence and Torque: Language as Eschagraphics

Literary innovation seeks neither postmodern collage nor mannered avant-garde experimentation, but a resetting of modernism’s most vital experiments—those aimed at accountable enlightenment and the rejection of system and form as closed teloi. The poetic path here is not one of formal detonation for its own sake, nor of ironic tension, but of reparative, perceptual precision: a lexical poiesis charged with eschatological hermeneutics, rechoreographing a course and context of telic vector long abandoned for the illusory comfort of formalist security and the systemic disavowal of the human substrate of the heart prior to the mind.

Neologisms in this fold are not ornamental. They are metaphysical tools, forged in the crucible of mimetically ramifying collapse (of idolatrous transcendent conceits) to carve out immanent space for accountability without anonymity—within and against the faceless systems that logic-winnow futures rather than host their eternal expansion. Phrases like eschagraphics, metanoiaic vector, and Shema-Christo-poiesis do not only to broaden a lexicon; they bear eschatological—and thus, from the very moment, confirmed ontological—weight. They serve a dual function of alpha and omega, torquing the reader’s cognition and awakening moral perception: to instruct, to rupture, and to realign. Other neologisms, of a more "branded" type, serve to exorcise pharmakeia’s (Rev. 18:23) mantic recursions, breaking cycles of predictive determinism and simulated enchantment that masquerade as the higher critical necessities of inevitability [6].

This poetic strategy does not find its place among those who undermine language’s referential function, but among those who re-sanctify it—those who, like Herder and Weil, join nominalist descriptors toward moments of ethical absolutes, of covenantal radiance. Language for them is not a self-referential game but a summons to entrustment. In this vein, poetry joins with vectors of spiritual responsibility: a mode of witness that combats the looped rot of system not through mere negation but through covenantal reshaping and unbinding. It is risk, yes—but a risk taken to name the reality of grace aligning and accountable.

In contrast, W.B. Yeats’s interpretation of imagination as divine emanation positions Romantic and Blakean esoteric traditions by grounding ethical revelation in aesthetic immanence, again reversing the sequence of Hebrew5:14:

[William Blake] had learned from Jacob Boehme and from old alchemist writers that imagination was the first emanation of divinity, 'the body of God,' 'the Divine members,' and he drew the deduction, which they did not draw, that the imaginative arts were therefore the greatest of Divine revelations, and that the sympathy with all living things, sinful and righteous alike, which the imaginative arts awaken, is that forgiveness of sins commanded by Christ.

Yeats’ formulation of imagination as “the first emanation of divinity” positions him within a lineage indebted to Jacob Boehme’s alchemical universalizing mysticism, refracted through his own romantic aesthetic commitments. In declaring imagination to be “the body of God,” Yeats proposes a metaphysical schema wherein divine reality unfolds through image and visionary form—what he takes to be the ultimate register of revelation. This kind of poetic revelation is saturated in esoteric and neo-Platonic vocabulary. Yeats presents imagination as a direct, revelatory overflow—an emanation into mind, not an analogy conditioned by experience. This structure proposes a radiant inner gnosis over a relationally-structured, incarnational Logos. His poet is Icarus, an elite and divine-favored mystic, until swallowed by soaring conceit, by an illicit permit, an antipodean Jonah under the Broom shade waiting for the sky to fall.

Yet Yeats makes a notable ethical turn absent from alchemical predecessors: from the divine status of imagination, he derives not a hidden knowledge or an ecstatic escape, but a moral implication—the imaginative arts “awaken sympathy… sinful and righteous alike,” which he equates with “the forgiveness of sins commanded by Christ.” Here, Yeats binds poiesis not to transcendence alone, but to an immanent ethical outcome. The poetic imagination becomes the site of metaphysical vision and repair by radical mercy. This collapses the aesthetic distance between the contemplative and the world, suggesting that art’s revelatory power is not to transport us beyond the moral realm, but to ground us more fully in it.

In this synthesis, Yeats posits a poietic metaphysics that mediates transcendence and immanence: imagination bears divinity into form, but not for aesthetic consumption alone—it reorders the heart toward the dynamism of forgiveness. Whereas the aesthete may seek transcendence in the beauty or rapture of form, Yeats’s poietic gesture summons immanence through compassionate recognition and dynamic obligation of forgiveness (leading to repair). The Divine is imaged and enacted ethically. Poietics ground it in incarnational theology with communal tradition of investigation and verification. These transform the archived imagination from an instrument of ascent into a heaven of static forms into a crucible of equilibrating context--ethical telos and presence responding to historical and moral challenges. The truly poietic becomes the agent of metaphysical mercy and substrate loyalty—a trustee of creation rather than its romantic kiss.

By contrast, note the conceit of the modern literary imagination nominally descended from this Romantic tradition. It ropes to transcendent, like a hot-air balloon made from parachute silk ascending from Empfinden where good and evil are separated. As it floats upward, the modern muse is celebrated as detached and ambiguous in its aims—its immanence is protest and quietist, lyrical flights without ethical grounding. Nihilist or neurotic by vocation, where even the pain is siloed by genre studies.

Christopoiesis begins with an act of atenizo (Ἀτενίζω – "to gaze intently") —a fixed and calm gaze at dead forms—and then begins to write and gear the assembly of experience and kinesthetic gnoseology--to braid repentence and torque the eschaton into the false and faulty moment and expand and telically improve a linguistic archive. It thus judges, and only those who identify with the false and faultmaking take offense: But Tolerance?! Passive pluralism masking complicity is THE false aesthetic gesture of post-metaphysical secularism devoid of ethical judgement.

Poems, like sermons, are for saying what the world does not want said but are ministrations nonetheless: Inviting receivers to rebuild language in line with awakened grace, not narcotic, zombie violence or Frankensteined exteriors. Eschagraphic poiesis functions as liturgical protest and theological invitation alike, in the same verse, even in the same word. And it is sensorially and conatively resistant to hegemonic artifice and algorithmic in/recursion.

Poiesis follows the Acts 1:10–11 moment: the disciples gazing into heaven as Christ ascends, followed by the angelic rebuke, “Why are you looking up?” reorienting this gaze downward—not toward absence, but toward the dead forms in the present—as the point for sparking ethical ignition. This is a kenotic counter-ascent, a refusal of Platonizing escapism. Christopoiesis is prophetic appraisement, preconditioning just reassembly. It already is on the far side of eschaton, whether in this place, or elsewhere building the anthropology of eternity.

These poetic innovations as invitations are grounded in Adam’s task: the naming not only of the static animalia but of the living vectors of their generative creation. This is speech as trusteeship, not trickery; innovation not for estrangement, but for radiant re-encounter. It is poetry as iconoclasm in service of renewal. Language, here, is not broken to be abandoned—it is broken open to bless, extend and sustain.

Style:

Torquing poiesis may resemble the stylistic deformity prized by elite Bildung, where studied nonchalance masquerades as aesthetic depth. The more unassailable one’s position, the less one must perform propriety by civic style. But for the Pentecostally-compelled, eruptive deformation is not couture—it is a convulsion of emergent repentance's spread. From that turning, accountability flows. Thus this poet does not apologize by anti-decorum of conviction or for his gnosey code and combative tone as a badge of stylistic elitism, but of his obligation: to wrench open the closures that grind absurdity into atrocity, and ignorance into Satan's law now defunct. That may be the deepest obligation of lyric today: not to polish the tongue toward taste, but to lance and lyse the metaphysical bolus caught in the throat that chokes moral judgment. That is the charge of lyric inside the senescing secular.

CODA:

Passing through apocollapse
to the meek’s eschaton launch is the Rapscidion—
The Talon Age,
where we learn Metaphysic Editorial Policies
for lineamentation.

To stand within the broken syntax of truth,
or side with the euphemisms
modeling decorum in the face of atrocity caboosing the absurd.

To hum with formal modesty,
offering pathos without disorder,
irony without fire.

To pique without rupturing
our comforting hearth and cocktail frame—
by naming names!

You masthead yourselves, sirs and madams,
by what you call tropes—
tropism, taxis, twee tactics—palabers and palimpsests,
avoiding by squint what you should rather hear to intone!

 

Excursus: On Consciously Pursuing Innovation through Logos

[--The anticipation of prophetic rupture’s advance enacts the necessary risk of tone that brings down gates and their guards. Hebrews 5:13–14 names the discovered features of judgment when proceduralism has replaced truth and aesthetics substitutes for accountability.]

Christopoiesis innovates by extending the truest theological-literary sense: not as an aesthetic sidestep into shadows of irony, paradox, or stylized deferrals that hide, but as a rupture into ethical telos, linguistic repentance, and a Shema-Christological anthropology of literary responsiveness that embodies clarified covenant. Neologisms are offered as functioning linguistic repairs—new lexical “musculature” restoring perception to covenantal alignment. Innovation here is not novelty but necessity. 

Post-Holocaust poets bear witness to the implosion of language in the aftermath of Auschwitz. Their poiesis rightly mourns through absence, registering metaphysical rupture across generations. Language, in their work, remains suspended—imploded in grief, dignified in refusal—resisting the ignition of new fuses for art or covenant. This is an ethics of non-reconstruction: it honors loss, traces trauma’s echo, and remains wary of metaphysical deceit.

Yet such witness, though pushing back of a kind of endess necessity, cannot by itself reconstitute the possibility of meaning. It often leaves the structures of secular metaphysical denial intact. Suspicion of covenant and metaphysics becomes its own habitus, an atmosphere, a bland slurry of “nuance” when conviction dies by detaching—plumbing loss without lifting the living eschaton, nor descending fully into the neighbor’s cry beyond inherited memory [2].

Let me not be misread: these poets sit faithfully by the abyss, like Jonah under his broom, awaiting the judgment they fear may never come. Their refusal is righteous. But lament alone—however relentless—cannot substitute for the re-entrustment of language. Where they resist rebuilding, Christopoiesis risks it: for the sake of the living neighbor, and for the world still repairable through speech.

Cultured opinion operates through stylized irony and the poetics of deferral by hiding from grace in favor of tautegorical self-idolatry:  Nostalgic and mournful, seeking cultural closure rather than reconstruction. To remark on the interority of invidious markers of exteriority. This reveals a non-poietic aesthetic: sociology resistant to telic commitment, evasive of covenantal response and accountability to immanence and the metaphysical relaunch of humanism on ethically clarified terms. Its cultural innovation is dissolute and tends to the performatively twee while editorially claiming to be formally nimble but metaphysically non-intervening. It accepts the shadow absolutes of what stands, sculpting and icy.

________________________________________

•           Innovation is not style divorced from moral ontology.

Rather than internal to the logic of the simulacrum—postmodern flattening-- Christopoetic innovation embodies telic critique rather than solely a cognitively and thus religious hermeneutic wound that removes universalm ethical commitment—absences that aestheticize lack by particularism of exteriors: where the anthropological horizon tends toward performative mythos of the ironic Titan, its self-reflexive erasure (anti-ontology that avoids accountability to find cover from eschatological judgment).  An anthropology of solitude and longing, depth poised by lament, with no program for repair or enduring language and life.

•           Aesthetic “difficulty” is not ethically valuable unless it leads to repentance or discernment. Contrary to psychological parsing which deepens interiority as a substitute for metaphysical human essentialization but flees from commitment and thus responsibility as trusteeship’s divine imaging.

•           “Literary metier” is not primarily mastery of voice or form but the ordering of Logos by supra-cognitive gnoseology of covenantal rupture and witness to what repairs

Responsive innovation is neither stylistic ornament nor dialectical novelty. It emerges from a dual polemic—against both postmetaphysical secularism that flattens reality into symbolic vacancy and the cognitive-traditionalist refuge that reifies inherited form as untouchable. This opposition is not to clarify a safe “aesthetic middle,” but to reinsert  (bust in--Matt, 16: 18) metaphysical ethics into the poietic moment—a Logos-bearing task that resists both systemic closure and mimetic deracination. Not a middle that tolerates the mantic fringe, but a kinetic summons from a healed anthropology, one that stifles the machinic instrumentation of transacted calls—those algorithmic, determinist logics that seek to pith both history and society for the degrading determinism of transactionalist idolatry.

Thus, Christopoiesis labors to reorder the standard of poiesy not according to traditional taxonomies or postmodern pastiche as sociological (as if the sociological carries with it a psychological wound) but along the anthropological order of immanence—a covenantal immanence of perceptual integriy that itself requires the dispensation of both transcendent analogies and theoretical redoubts. The poetic must not stylize lament into entropy, nor accept stylized decay as aesthetic achievement. Rather, it must, with Pentecostal, iconoclastic grammar, “serve” the new life of negentropy: it must bring light to what occludes, to what conceals judgment beneath spectacle. Enduring the unspeakable does not itself re-speak the world; only a metaphysically burdened and eschatologically alert poiesis can--an iconoclasm that brings down every gate of hell seeking stasis of form and system.

 

True innovation:

•           begins in repentance (Hebrews 5:13–14),

•           issues in ethical discernment (Shema-Christological anthropology),

•           constructs metaphysical accountability (not aestheticized negation),

•           and seeks a covenantal reorientation of language and reader alike.

While many artists dwell by the edge of silence—one in ethical sorrow, the other in aesthetic austerity, another other attending to paradox as generative as by a dichotomous choice of intellect--they try to shape the heartless(ening) void in anticipation or national guidance. But interrogating silence, demanding it speak and answer, lights the strange star not with an omen’s condensation, but as invitation to metanoia’s liberation.

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Conclusion: Poiesis as Covenant, the Ars Poetica of Metanoia

In sum, the literary-theological metier of conative reconstruction writes from the site of metaphysical collapse, but does not remain there. Christo-poietics are not memorials to loss, but instruments of response—rituals of language that seek not closure or nostalgia, but covenantal reactivation of awareness of conative grace by challenge and torque applied to cogito's recollection like jumper cables to the dying heart.

Where the contemporary poetic landscape often valorizes irony, fragmentation, or opaque evasion, the poet stakes out an unapologetically telic ground having advanced from the foxholes of accelerating entropics. It learns language may still—and must--serve the neighbor, that poetry may still train the soul, and that witness may still rupture the algorithmic unseeing and sense-corrupting outputs of our time. Deontological re-lexicalization resists inherited theological compromises to re-energizing the poetic vocation for the age after collapse.

Within a theological landscape marked by systematizing abstraction claimed as "orthodoxy" (Hart, Balthasar et al.) [1], rhetorical disengagement (mainline liberalism), or apocalyptic reductionism (fundamentalism's dualism), this work asserts an alternative star: a Christo-prophetic poetics of ethical attentiveness, lexical renewal, and metaphysical trust. It reads beyond critique and diagnosis to move into templates (not temples!) of repair: metaphysical pedagogy for the Church in crisis.

The anti-rhetorical mode of parody and satire is deliberately disorienting, mirroring the task of prophetic poetics: not to comfort but to anticipate and convoke. Literary difficulty  is not obscurantist by intent; it’s a conative training field, demanding the reader participate in their own epistemic purification. This mode is certain to estrange readers unprepared to abandon literary neutrality or postmodern detachment. But that risk is built into the mission. Christopoiesis is not a mode of theological branding. It is a eschatological force for metanoia that judges style by its covenantal yield.

 

CODA:

This work is part of a larger program in my non-fiction—a theopoetic resurrection sequence seeking to reestablish the heart as the site of theological literacy and poetic witness: to reposition poetic labor not as elite ornament or marginal gesture, but as primary witness in an age of entropic collapse. It calls not for stylistic novelty, but lexical trusteeship, grammatical repentance, and covenantal re-voicing by chiastic return [3]—what Ezekiel might call prophesying to the bones.

While it may be misread by audiences conditioned by Enlightenment detachment or postmodern relativism, Christopoietics may only be appreciated following repentance after silicon, to support the sacred possibilities of words made flesh, again.

This anthology’s strangeness is not stylistic flourish but vocational burden: it reintroduces moral address, lexical accountability, and eschatological weight into poetry that refuses to console, categorize, or spectate. Through neologism as ethical device, grotesque as prophetic unmasking, and satire without escape hatch, it insists on reader participation in poetic judgment. Its temporal mode is not countdown but collapse-already, with biblical figures treated not as symbols but ethical contemporaries. Rejecting genre compliance, ironic detachment, and careerist neutrality, the work summons a remnant to poetic theurgy—co-trustees of language, as of the entire human substrate, under eschatological stress for repair. This is poetry not as mirror, but as call: strange in tone, time, and telos because covenantally obligated.

 

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NOTES;

[1] Marked by systematizing abstraction (as in Hart’s analogical ascent) or rhetorical theater (as in Balthasar’s aesthetic totality subsumed as "dramatik').

[2] See the Afterword to "The Hermeneutics of Iconoclasm in Mid-Modernity" 

[3] For technical details, Chiasm as Covenantal Torque—Scriptural Witness follow its link to foonote 22.

[4] Rhetoric, as often practiced in modern literary and academia settings by their genre of protocol, is not receptively covenantal but a form that evades or simulates moral ideas. Rhetoric’s symmetry and closure—its artifice that deadens--conceals ethical vacuity, deferral, and default to proceduralism where heads nod and performative applause is decorum’s static. By contrast, prophetic torque is pneumatic, unruly, and loud even on paper. Its proprioceptive force of sacred narrative structures include chiasm not as ornament but to restore moral claims by reactivating accountability, repentance, and conation—sometimes negatively by parody or ridicule that alienates the scandalous. This rhetorical torque reopens hearing and ruptures formalist stasis, redirecting language from recursive spectacle toward covenantal response-ability. 

Secular rhetoric is form--its scripts recur like meme, like philosophy--that evades moral command. Prophetic torque marked by chiasm tests rhetoric and its allied aesthetics that hides by anonymity and ironic withdrawal--as well as institutions and their prerogatives-- to restore moral obligation and accountability.

[5]  For the pastoral imaging hemeneutics of transfiguring poiesis in and for the Body of Christ, find its ground in Antioch: see footnotes 10 and 11 in this essay linked.

[6] For example, Judea Pearl’s The Book of Why’s “diagrammed” reality insists that questions of probability and multiplicity of causation are meaningless apart from its reductive instrumentalism, an absurd, entropic, and thus atrocity-determining philosophy of science. Diagramming proposes that an event, rather than having a slew of possible meanings, consequences, off-shoot vectors, novelties, etc., is denied by the event except as diagram: a stupid, singular property of simply having happened to the awareness of the diagrammer; to then program identical simulated "pasts" and "futures" such same effects from the diagrammed blurry mapped causation. He confines his analysis to what can be rendered explicit in formal, rather than dynamic, terms, reducing an event to a node in a graph that inherently excludes its symbolic, phenomenological, or narrative content, losing immanent eventfulness in technical modeling. [For a more systematic analysis of Pearl as systematizer of Kant's method for AI, see my  "The Collapse of Historicism and the Apocatastatic Opening of Humanity: Vindicating Herder After the Epochal Demise of Simulated Ends."

[7] For a discussion of gnosticism in the current moment of simulates, see "Gnostic Abstraction vs. the Logos Living with the Substrate: Theodicy, Form, and Ethical Motion."