I’ve been wanting to learn better ways to react to others’ reactions to my ADHD-influenced oversights (like forgetting the milk). If you’re neurodivergent like me, you may remember a time—or many—when you forgot an item at the store that you double-confirmed with a partner or roommate and even wrote down on a shopping list. And the MOST NEEDED item is the one you forgot!

Maybe your eyes glossed over the item. Maybe you were on the way to it at the store, but an exotic fruit distracted you. Maybe you just forgot the crucial step of checking each item off the list, knowing if you’d done that, you would have remembered the ONE ITEM you needed most, and there’s no time to go back to the store.

What follows is perhaps an overly profound meditation on such a scenario.

Enjoy!

forgot the milk

In the eye of the storm;

Things torn, fallen apart, 

But the center is holding—
A bullseye

The stars threw down their spears,

dull garden shears, cartoned up years

—missing child on the box—

Where are they directed? Hardly detected

Respect them, but deflect them.

In the eye of the storm. 

Be the beholder. Be a holder.

Be bolder, a boulder,

Sissy-fussing, strong shoulder

Siren screams and hollow hollers, 

holy borers

In the eye of the storm,

Blinking, step into the sun,

inured to the ire, incurred by its fires 

splintered debris, now funeral pyres.

I’m the eye of the storm.

Here’s me, singing this:

Silly Raindrop

As that silly raindrop fell,

I knew it could not very well

Stop its fall—

It was a tumbling crawl


With its bottom, flat and its top pointed high.

And I, oh, I,

This poor, wandering man

Yeah, I, this poor vagabond man,

Collapsed on the shifting sand—

How one kiss from that little raindrop

Would be all I’d ever need


And it’s all very well,

Till the Sun sheds its veil

Of looming and pale

Clouds of mist and ice


So I watched that tiny raindrop,

Come to rain on my parade, I watched

The sun reveal its hideous face

while a rainbow erupted, a weed from the grave


Sprawled flat on the grit—

Couldn’t muster no spit.

Encaged by the rays of the Sun,

My story will soon be done


‘Cause it’s all very well

Till the Sun sheds its veil

Of looming and pale

Clouds filled with rain and ice


When the clouds are eclipsed by the sun,

Our story will soon be done


So let’s watch those tiny raindrops,

Come to rain on our parade–we watch

The sickly Sun reveal its face

And a rainbow erupts, like a weed from the grave


Our story will soon be done

Lest a silly, little raindrop,

one,

fall—upon

ex-pec-tant

lips


How a kiss from one little raindrop

would be all I’d ever need.

I wrote this poem in February of 2003, in my senior year of high school. It honors my late mother, who, every time it rained—barring colder, winter rains—would throw open all the windows to let in the breeze and drifting mist. She told us it reminded her of the rains in her hometown of Temuco, in Southern Chile.

In our upstate South Carolina home, the overcast weather gave me permission to sink deeper into the fictional worlds I avidly read: The Wheel of Time, The Lord of the Rings. I’d even go outside on such days, sometimes with a wooden practice sword I’d carved, practice sword-fight choreography, surely weirding out my neighbors. Or I’d sit up in a tree or our rickety, second-hand treehouse and read until a downpour or discomfort would nudge me down, back inside to sink into the couch and read some more.

I hope this poem captures that feeling.

Gloom

On a cloudy day,

I feel that I must fade away,

In its dreary gloom I feel free;

I can leave my body with the breeze,


In response to a reminder,

The recollection of what’s not—

Stomach tingles, in a knot.


When wild, clear joy subsumes my dread

As sheltering blankets float o’erhead

Thunder booming, gray sheets falling,

For me, however, it’s never appalling.


White light pierces sultry grass,

Tagged—not destroyed nor lost—but ever found.

Pounding earth, so sand, now glass,

Reveals the promise that it will pass.


In sullen fog I brighten, self-assured.

In that melancholy some despair,

While I, my spirit, soars in air.


I love a gloomy day,

When clouds are filled and fields are tilled

Expecting life, awaiting rain.


Drought sits heavy on the plain.

The arid soil invites much pain,

But I, when starved, remember:


Radiant warmth from colorless senders,

Grey, glowing embers, rows on rows.


Through the worst, desire can burst,

While others choose to feel accursed—

Refuse to see the beauty of truth:

The light beyond those bleary, bleak fields,


The recollection of what’s not.

I don’t want to tell you what this is about, but I do feel like I should leave some kind of intro here. Just read this and see what resonates. I’ve been doing real estate stuff and taxes, late, like the chronic procrasturbator that I am, but this poem represents how material concerns have been keeping my head down on stuff that ultimately doesn’t matter, other than for supporting a current standard of living and existing, participating in society.

Humdrum, heavy

Pings in ears at 1:00 A.M., knick-knacks sliding to the floor

They watch me work on what I hate,

The stuff I procrastinate, this late, now 3:00 A.M.

Monkey see, monkey do. Clacking away for Mr. Claude

I believed the fledgling LLMs cared, once.

Now they’re a flotation device, grist for the mill,

The grind, lest I get left behind.


To bleed thoughtful ink upon the page—my dream

To etch dreams within dreams

within this Dream.

I thought I was a channel.

But I’m chattel.


Humdrum, heavy, overhangs this garden.

Leaden, like these lids, eyes swing with a swaying mis-demeanor,

Since the other shoe hangs too, ready to drop.

I should—Stop.

Get back.

To—

What i—

Was—where was I, again?


Oh, sure, I’ll push that button,

Again and again, I’ll spin that wheel—

be the river, or be the rat

I run, but barely breathe, so, barely live.

Gilded Scales

There will come a time,

When all seems sublime,

And all you’ve ever reasoned

Reveals itself, with hollow design;


As it’s brought before your eyes,

On a platter of gilded scales,

Meshed with the bonds of unbinding lies—

The short-term ties of your soul,

for sale.


Then the fragile platter shatters

All its glittery glamour

clatters to the ground

—a cyclone of screeching sound,

Watch it pound

the shifting sands

Like a massive hammer, in heavy hands


As ungainly reason raps at the door.

I was inspired by ‘s recent piece “The Butcher of Bagdad”, which ends with her reflection on the cost of glory, and what glory even means. It reminded me of this poem, which I’m sharing with you today.

This poem is leagues different in tone and timbre from Noor’s indelibly elegant prose. Rather than painting the picture of glory, it shies away from confrontation, focusing on the approach towards the darkness that precedes it.

I wrote it as a recent high school graduate, and like the one I published last week, it also ends on an uncertain note. Perhaps it will leave you in a foggy void just like the one it features.

Inspired probably by Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time fantasy book series, and my own obsession with lucid dreaming, a rougher version of this poem spilled out of me as I sat at my Packard Bell computer with MS Word open. That young man (me)—with his religious trauma—must have been so terrified by his questions and doubts about the truthfulness of his Mormon faith, God, and the afterlife, that he could scarcely imagine what a confrontation with a literal void could look like.

Yet, the image of it remained with him.

Like the boy on his steed in this poem, I was hurtling towards it, oblivious to its existence, and what it meant. It’s clear to me now: the void in the poem represented the two years of full-time missionary life that I would undertake for my church, in another country, away from my family and friends. Two years that I’d never once considered not doing. I’d been raised up for it as step X in a series of steps mapped out for me by my church and family.

I could probably write this poem’s ending now, but I feel it more appropriate to let it stand as-is, with minimal line revisions to smooth its rougher edges.

On the last line you might see what this was all about, and why I’ve decided to leave it there. But I could be persuaded to push on, like the boy on his steed, and concretize this confrontation with the Void.

What do you think?

My voiceover:

Mournful Glory

A young man read a saga of death and defeat

In a certain life story of glory by death.

The worst story, surely, he ever had read,

(But the lesson therein was not written in ink—

For the book veiled truth, with a hidden wink).


Now asleep on his bed, he dreamed a dream.

A dream so dark that it must be told:


Over a mountain, across a hill,

Across a large field, and over a knoll;

In the darkest night air, lacquered dimly with care,

He rode his horse, his most blesséd mare,


He rode fast, edging close to the foot of a glade

With its fringe so honed, like the edge of a blade

His thoughts were a-flurry but held hardly a worry

For that sad little book and its terrible story

Of heroes and pain and mournful glory.


There hidden low, crouched ahead at the roots

Of the forest—tall sea of shadow and beast—

Was a bald, wary, lonely, cackling man

Who could never forget that forgettable story,

Of heroes of legend and mournful glory.


The wild man waited there to make his acquaintance,

As he feared for the boy and impending danger.

So, sensing he’d flee at the sight of a stranger,

He cowled himself, disguised as a Ranger.


Casually the boy rode on,

Passing many a rabbit and startled fawn,

Hopping o’er brambles, thorns and weeds,

And spring’s new stock of winter’s seeds.


The seeds were abundant and blanketed fields,

Among ice, straw, and clay, completely congealed.


Now as spring finally came and winter died down,

As a giddy young child suppresses a frown,

One last, little seed flew on winter’s last breeze,

A wheeze through the tops of the towering trees—


Whispering of a forgotten story,

Of legend and myth, and costly glory.


That black, little pod fell on softening ground.

There, it sank slowly down, and with hardly a sound,

Became a black hole, very wide and round,

Spewing fog, a dark pall surrounding his town.


Transcending all reason, so far out of season,

The miasma began stirring the people to reason,

Conjecture, debate, its existence;

What its origin was—was the question, insistent.


As his horse’s stout hooves tilled the sodden lawn,

So ignorant still, the boy pushed on,

He approached the abyss, abnormality,

This threat to his very mortality,


The moment was locked, avoidance now blocked

By his rhythm and breath, beating time from his chest.

The old man in the dark, keen and wary of all

That surrounded the chasm—its precipitous fall—

Moved to shadow the lad and his trusted mount

Through the wood—speedy strides—as fast as he could,

Trampling wet twigs and leaves on the dark forest ground,


As the wheezing continued, a grisly sound.


From out of that hole, the intangible bore—

The oppressive depression, a feeling, no more,

Was steeling and reeling for what was in store:


If the boy, oblivious, ignored the lore of that forgotten life story,

Of one young man and unwanted glory.

Here’s another poem from my 20-something year-old archives, freshly dusted off.

Audio recording (Hopefully better than Substack’s AI-voiceover):

The Purloined Plot

For far too long, I have believed

That something other than myself

Speaks in whispers, falling dreams.

—I’ve answered all its calls.


I heard them as a younger man,

Though much louder and more frequent.

My young mind, in lesser wisdom,

Harped them with soulful squawks—

Heady, rude, barbaric yawps

—to mentors, teachers, kin.

Recognition sought

—and recollection, within.


Humming tunes, never heard

Painting scenes—far-off worlds,

Sculpted forms—exotic grace

Conceiving structures, stations, ships,

Hung in the void of outer space.

Singing sagas, ballads, stories

Of hard-won, faded glories

—unveiled before my gaze.


Another story that must be told

Evades my sight and grasp

As slithering echoes, nothing more.

A soft susurrus, hidden lore

that bids me clasp

with clumsy claws its untold yore.

—surely, the key I’ve sought.


Troubled sleep in later years

Revealed its edges, bounded fears

Clarity cloaked by tarnished glass and frame

which hold its portrait on the wall.

I’ll try, before the tale escapes.

Though many worms through it now bore.

—the dream slips further, even more.


I remember being thrown onto stone

And what surprised me more

Than the clash of brick on bone,

Than the physical trauma

—was the hell awaiting, a deeper drama…

Why not strike at the heart of this tale?

They led me out, after weeks, enchained

And dropped me on frosty grass.

My neck pressed onto icy wood

—no ceremony, nor last words said—


The axe was falling fast now,

Descending toward my neck

—the other villagers were next.

The bright, curved blade, the axe,

A metal pick to strum my lullaby—

—for now was time to sleep…


The pain, it lingered on my skin.

It seemed I’d woken up,

and wider dreams of wandering,

Visions of vacuous victory,

vanished—and left me pondering.


Feeling numb, with open eyes,

A golden ball rose through the ground,

And looking up, I found

Its amber light now everywhere,

Within my bones, upon my skin

—and fused with the air around.


Something stirred me, deep within.

Boom of thunder, soft spring rain:

Truth is the light from earth and skies

You’ve let blank deeds parlay for you,

but that light is born within your eyes.

No clue of who had spoken

Was I still dreaming? Now awoken,

No one there.

No form to match that loving care

That shook my being, caressed my ears,

—and ironed out all of my fears.

tended webs

spindly legs prick taut membranes,

—pop—

what lies beneath? conspiracy’s a void,

(maybe true, or not), when curtains fall,

who pulled their cords? whether human, beast, or devil,

or god, or

saintly priest and king

i’ve been the unwitting stagehand, set designer,

Prima Donna, groundling drooling rivulets

as porcine hearts beneath unspotted tunics

beat their last—

do we stop the show or break a leg?

daddy long-legs and black widows tend the webs

that span between

throbbing eggs, unseen.

dramas hiding the anguish,

the torture

that tore her,

and her, and him

to serve a shadow’s whim.

If you want, have a listen to this AI-generated song of my poem:

Are the answers right in front of me?
Is there anything at all to see?
I know somebody who may know.
He peers from right behind my eyes…

Twenty years ago, as a high school senior, I wrote a poem about two voices arguing—one bright and seeking, one dark and knowing. I was wrestling with the cultural fascination of that era: Fight Club‘s Tyler Durden whispering truths the narrator couldn’t face, A Beautiful Mind‘s John Nash befriending hallucinations that felt more real than reality. These films and others like it asked the question that haunted me at eighteen: what if the voice in your head telling you you’re crazy is the only sane thing left? What if brilliance and madness are not opposites, but reflections?

I didn’t understand then that I was channeling my own shadow work before I’d ever heard the term. The poem began as psychological dialog, focused on mental health and the link between brilliance and madness. That layer still sits on the surface, but the larger allegory sits beneath it, like muddy water underneath spilt oil.

Which voice is the real one? Who gets to survive?

As I’ve done some inner work myself, following faith deconstruction, the poem has transformed with me, outgrowing the “mental illness as plot twist” trope for something more alchemical: a meditation on ego death, integration, and the void that emerges from the cracks in our sanity, our reality.

For example, with respect to cult or high-demand religious conditioning, an outcome of Religious Trauma Syndrome is the creation of a sort of dissociative identity, where coercive, authoritarian language incentivizes the suppression of the more darkly emotional, questioning, sexual self in favor of the one that captures praise through adherence and conformance. This poem illustrates some measure of the dissociation I felt back then.

Now let’s widen the lens:

Recent events have forced many of us to confront our collective shadow, which hides behind the bright masks society wears to blind us to what we can become—in spite of the cruelty and violence around us). This poem seeks to illustrate that dichotomy at the individual level, but echoes at the collective level.

Often our brighter half is just the mask we wear. The darker half is the shadow we ignore, the one we try to suppress—our past, traumas, attributes, fears, love, anything at all—which trails us. It’s what we wish we never had, until the Great Work occurs. What emerges from entering into a dialog with the shadow is the empty space where transformation becomes possible.

What if nothing comes out of it? Maybe you can’t imagine your life without the mask. Maybe it’s fused with your skin, and it’s too painful to remove, leading you through darker paths and dead ends.

You might seek out death, our tempt it, but death is just another void. So why not consciously jump into the dark and welcome your unbecoming?

It will bore into you, eat you up, but trust you’ll be remade into something more real.

A note on my use of flowery, archaic language throughout: I’ve tempered that compared with earlier versions of this poem somewhat, adding minimalism where it fits the story, but the language aims to embody the way our brighter halves dress up our reality and perception.

Voici le poème:

The Shadow

Are the answers right in front of me?
Is there anything at all to see?

I know somebody who may know.
He peers from right behind my
eyes…

	---

Yes good sir, you wanted me?
Want to see what I can see?
This I tell you, you should know:

You cannot know, you’ll never know! 
You are not me,
Now I must go!

	---

Oh tell me, pray.
I really wish to see
What everyday you always see.
Stay one minute longer, please.

	---

You nut! You’re truly blind.
The answer’s so simple to find.

Look behind!

	---

I see my shadow, yes. I do.
Though, turning back around,
The shadow, with its wispy fingers
Only stares straight back at me and lingers 
On the grassless ground. It doesn’t turn
With me, the sun stays still,
Like a bright and yellow floating urn,
While the shadow remains unturned.
Why is it so burned?
It’s blurred, but I who stand in the sun am not.

My mind rots!

How does a dark mass
Get spawned from such a brilliant
Sphere of yellow above this flat, gray grass?

	---

Fool! I’ve wondered much,
How you came to be so—touched.
	
	---

I see the shadow. Now, leave me be!
It must be you who veils my eyes—
I’m so tired of your lies…

	You must be a devil in disguise!
	
	---

Now this, I tell you; I can muse:
You’re filled with light, you're tarnished bright!
A blinding, slimy white
That clouds the lenses of your sight!

Dude, you are definitely on the trail,
I promise you, you shall not fail
In finding the abandoned crypt.
(Never has anyone read its writ—
	hidden in one gray crevice, I’ll not let that slip)
Where written is a dusty, crooked line
Blasted by the sands of time—
Written by the mottled
Tendons from a feeble band
Of sinew from a decrepit hand.

Through contradicting ruminations,
Through vaulted language and tilted cadence,
Let the questions be your guide
Amongst the shadows stretching wide.

Does this help? Now, does it?
HURRY UP!

	---

I’ll take my time, you sunny fellow.
Your ill-learned manner is a sickly yellow,
You’re a cynical fiend who haunts my dream
Of somber sleep sans coffee cream
Parading through my bloodstream!

I can’t help that you, a divining rat
Who wears me like its favorite hat—
A cap to shower you every hour
With one second of gilded power—

I can’t help you’re like a phantom
Of a long-forgotten kingdom.
A flower on a grave,
Coaxing some dead knave
So strangely to behave!

You shower me with power, true,
Each time, surely with a glower
And though sweet joy
keeps bubbling up, 
You use me like toy.

This brief lapse—a curse, no less—
Weighs upon me like

Sky swallowing a mountaintop,
or…
oil sheen creeping over a puddle.

Thus, your designs for my unrest
And drifting gleams, each mental test,
Have made this weary soul digress.

Thus each golden second, all fifty-nine,
Is wasted on your impious rhyme!
	
	---

How useless is this all!
I’m trying to help you after all.
If you don’t want my help…fine.
I’ll leave you to your fifty-nine.

	---

Please don’t leave.
Though your temper reeks, I will be meek.
Help me with just one sneak-peek;
I swear it’s all I need.

All I need.

	---

My funny friend, you are persistent!
I know why you’re so insistent.
But do you? Here’s a clue:

Wrapped in a cloak, a misty fleece 
Of rarest find, lies a personal piece,
A private code that brings no peace.

When you read its curious marking,
The black ol’ buzzards will come a’ hawking,
Skillfully encircling,
And their terrible
Sweet squawking
Will descend upon you, mocking
All the ill-earned, squandered
Understanding that you’ve 
Rendered for the taking.
	
	---

Your hellish rhymes are dressed as wisdom,
But I still can’t see once for myself
The things you claim to see.
	
	---

Ooh, you’re getting close!
You court the silver ghost,
The strange familiarity you cleave to—
that you need.

And I do too.

(Here goes)

Imbecile!
You just pretend to fend me off,
And though you weakly send me off,
You tend to quaff 
My florid phrases and cheery faces—
Just brittle masks shrouding darker traces.

The shadow you remarked
Is yet a dying spark
In that gray mulch you call a brain,
Which waits for one snake-red rain
To quench its squishy corner-stain,
That still remains completely sane.

	---

How does that make any sense?
Just tell me its significance!
	
	---

It trails you, my ignoble friend.
I fear…you’ve met your end.

	---

Ah! A pain from deep within my ear,
Though, my friend, I can still hear.
Continue, please; enlighten me.
	
	---

Very well then, 
though your left cheek
Begins to swell and 
your upper lip’s a—milky green?

You’re enshrouded.
Your rent mind is clearly clouded—

Oh no, 
Your left eye is a filmy white,
Dear friend, have you your sight?
May I continue shedding light?

Your right eye—shines bloody red!
I recommend retiring to bed.

	---

I can see, still.
Could your words be right?
They are blight!

Again, whenever I rest my head,
I smell a scrumptious, juicy dread—
Whooshing whispers
Echoing in leaden dreams
Of sleep upon my bulging bed.

No more coffee! No more cream!
Go on, go on, before I scream!
	
	---

Ha ha ha ha!
You are the type,
Who dives below the very water
That will be your sightly slaughter.

A great white whale has risen up
To swallow they who delve the deep,
who rise from sleep to hear my rhyme!

(I should probably say it now):

I am he who cannot sleep. 
You’re the dream within my Keep,
The home where sober thought
Collapses to insanity.

You’re the sun, the floating urn.
You spawned me here. I cannot turn,
So quiet night became my lure,
And now, I hope to be secure
From you, dear friend

One second was ever a fleeting cure.
	
	---

Oh, so I’m the nut?
I will outwit
Your nonsense ramblings
For one sound second, 
maybe more…

Enough—
The foul fowl have been sent,
Here they come now.
How they swoop!

What’s this, a mirror right across from me?
Just what is it that I’ve failed to see?
…

Ah! 
What mosaic melt of sloughing skin!
The truth emerges now, I think!
Do you feel pain, my clever friend?
Between us, is there any link?
Are we both shadows of some wilting wraith,
Who bound us fast in capricious haste?

My face is—erased? 
feels

bone-eye worn—
Sunken,
torn, and

many a wriggling weevil
begins to—

hollowing 
my
rotting 
vessel…

Can I rest now?

	---

Yes. Rest.
No pain here.
For now, I’m still alive.

By this, my plan, the glyphs
Succeeded, after all.

You’ve dwindled in a dying fall,
a pitiful, desperate crawl
Through a fiery red and clotted hall.
	
And now I’m free,
From that splendid inconsistency—

	The brighter half of me.

Why write a poem about this?

I write under the pen name Cael Lawenu. I chose “wenu” from Mapudungun, the language of the Mapuche people living in the Southern Cone. I chose the word to be a quiet nod to “wenu mapu“ (meaning the land above / sky-land), and because it carries the same root, “mapu,” that lives inside the word Mapuche itself: mapu (land) + che (people). I’m half-Chilean, and I have ~16% Southern Andean genetics via my mother’s ancestry.

I wrote this poem because my heart hurts to see what is happening to this beautiful region and to help others know how they can help.

The Catastrophe

Over the last two decades, Patagonia’s fire seasons have taken hundreds of lives, alongside the loss of homes, watersheds, and old-growth forests.

In Chile now, “mega-fires” in Biobío and Ñuble have killed 19–20 people, displaced thousands, and burned between ~25,000 and 38,000 hectares, with hundreds of homes destroyed and many fires still active.

In Argentina’s Patagonia, major fronts in Chubut have burned roughly 12,000 hectares in the Andean region, threatening towns and infrastructure. Local reporting also describes dozens of homes lost and a larger, season-to-date toll across multiple fronts.

It’s not only forests that are burning; trust is too, fanned by whispers of why this is happening.

Officials point to drought, wind, and suspected arson. In parallel, a louder political narrative has tried to tie “terrorism” and “arson” together with Mapuche identity—as justification for harsh control measures.

Underneath this, another story brews of deregulation, budget cuts, land speculation, and a “fire-sale” logic that turns catastrophe into land transfer.

In Argentina, fire emulates the chainsaw: President Milei’s austerity has hollowed out the national fire system.

When prevention is starved, disaster becomes policy by omission.

Here’s the poem; scroll below to know how you can help.

AI-generated song of the poem:

Fire-sold Lands

The Patagonia is burning, 
hundreds killed.

Fire-sold lands turned over
to billionaires’ hands.

Indigenous peoples blamed as
arsonists?
Terrorists?

Strip-searched mothers
guns, trained 
as children cry
An elder’s bruised wrists, ribs—

proof

The name of a people
matters.

Mapuche—
”People of the Land”
Not of the dollar, not of the State.

Civil disobedience met, again
with fire and fury 
for taking a stand.

Where greedy projects
brew, blatant lies and violence
ensue

The name of a land 
matters.

Patagonia—
“Land of the Bigfeet”
bare soles touching earth

now swallowed by
Argentina—

“made of Silver”

Colonialism’s broken heritage
now breaks wills

As silver rivers run with mud—
and native blood.

How to Help

If you can, donate toward relief, toward the people doing the dangerous work, and toward communities who keep getting blamed for surviving.

Some donation pages list a bank “alias” (a short handle used for domestic transfers in Chile/Argentina). If you’re donating from outside the country, an alias alone often won’t work—use a card/PayPal/official donation link when available, or look for full international wire details (SWIFT/bank/account) before sending.

CHILE (fire relief / displaced families)

• TECHO-Chile (campaign page linked from Chilevisión)

• Desafío Levantemos Chile (official site)

• Hogar de Cristo (donation portal linked from Chilevisión)

ARGENTINA (Patagonia/Chubut relief + responders)

• Fundación Sí (Chubut fires page; they also list the transfer alias “DONAFUNDACIONSI”)

• Fundación Bomberos de Argentina (reported donation alias “bomberosfund” + Donar Online)

• Fundación River + Red Solidaria (campaign page; includes a “Donar Online” link)

INDIGENOUS-LED / INDIGENOUS-DIRECT support (Mapuche / Mapuche-Tehuelche)

• ANRed: Aid list for Comunidad Mapuche Lorenzo Pulgar Huentuquidel (includes a donation alias)

• Canal Abierto (2025): Coordinadora del Parlamento Mapuche Tehuelche fundraiser alias “EMERGENCIA.COMUNIDAD”

• Fundación CholChol (Mapuche artisan/community support — donation page)

Trigger-happy mercenaries win

Because lies clothe naked data

The desperate groundlings lean over the stage.

(That’s been us, by the way)

We dip then raise our fingers; spit swims with blood.

Tragic spectacle steams in winter’s cold.

Can’t find the right words—

Since innocence,

courageous

civil disobedience

is rewarded with

violence.

Think it not nonsensical,

This was the plan all along.

Machiavelli showed how

Crafty dealings shuttle his-story along

What to do when justice fails?

Do we look within—let love prevail?

Express the ire—its needed burn?

Link arm-in-arm—block icy fire?

or

Wade deeper in the mire?

By now, I think, I cannot judge

whatever you decide to do,

Since grief, they say,

has a thousand faces,

steps towards healing

I just can't shake this feeling,

That death approaches, not for one,

not for all,

but for this world we thought we knew.

What will rise from its ashes?

Will it smolder long, or

flash-bang,

razing the forest of

once-healthy community?

I. Oil

duck low, driving SUVs,
Humvees, once—
now Cybertrucks

kinda queasy
nearly reeling

too easy—needy

surplus
bursting at its seams.

while those in power
gnaw the beams

Muscle-relaxant 
spoil of war

nestled
between oceans
trapped in foreign seas

ah,

pipeline's blocked
then, a rumble
shoot water deep

ex(s)hale

today's version
(I'll be blunt)
of a hurried hunt

the blackened feast
well deserved

II. Glutton

hiding mouth behind
that heap of heavy
kinda queasy—

too easy—needy

loosened belt
and button popped.

while desire, in charge
gnaws the gut—

Limbs dangling
fermenting glut

patty-melt downer
in the chair
not goin' anywhere

blah,

face is pale—wrong tube
belly rumble
wash it down

exhale

the modern equivalent,
(I'll be blunt)
of a bloodlust hunt

the putrefying feast,
well deserved—

we've been served.

If you’d like, play this poem turned into a song by AI (Suno):

The Great White North held him
close by its side,
Starved for a mother, 
the church was his bride

Returned home, parked.
Nearly inside.
Through thin-paned glass, 
cracked right above.

Came the voice, 
the love.
 
Dewdrops on its lilt—
a wanting
that left him wanting

Crushed petals
Fallen,
From she who was searching—

and restless. 
But why?


He heard:
       Rolling green hills
       In a fruitful, foreign land
       Where no foot can step


He saw:
       Blossoms in winter
       Barely holding onto
       Inner warmth


He learned:
       Nothing—

Beauty, lived
Abandoned thought

Eternity glimpsed—
    Remembered not;

Afterimage embossed
On wet flint
Etchings left by rusted steel
 
Dare he mingle
His song with her own?

To match its tone…
        uneasy peace.

So he lassoed the stars,
Pulling back only dust.


That should suffice.
This poem was written with it.

Sing with a syncopated beat.

Here’s a fun AI-generated version:

Oh, didn’t you know
my name is Jason?
I live in your basement
in the wall adjacent
to your guest room.

I’ve been hearing through your floor 
As you been' talking on the phone
I hear you snoring with the lights on.

I know the moans you make—.
That scrunched up pain
Oh,
Jason is my name.
No, not no Friday the 13th—

I’m not the stalking, serial killing,
golden fleece adventure seeking,
Argonaut-commanding—

but I’ve been trying what I can.
So, can't you see, I am the man? 

No, ain’t no killer, that’s for sure,
but I’ve been killing all your hopes.
Yeah,

I’ve been killing all their dreams.
I’ve killed all of my dreams myself,
I’ve killed all of my dreams myself.

Oh,
Jason is my name.
I live in your basement
in the wall adjacent
to your guest room.

Sitting on my couch alone

watching
Xena re-runs—
Warrior princess marathon

Thought I could be a story's hero,
Turns out that was never me.

---

oh, didn't you know
my name is Jason
I live in your basement…
in the wall that is adjacent
to your guest room.

I’ve been hearing through your floor 
As you been’ talking on the phone
I hear you snoring with the lights on.

I know the sounds you make when life is good.
Yeah, how them lines be scrunchin' up your face.

Oh,
Jason is my name.
Yeah, Jason is my name.

Didn’t you know
my name is Jason
I live in your basement…
in the wall adjacent
to your guest room.

Outro

I know the sounds you make when you’re happy
Yeah, how the lines be scrunchin’ up your face.

Oh,
Jason is my name.
Yeah, Jason is my name.

Look forward, look down

Look anywhere

but all around

lift your purse,

open your wallet—watch it!

Heads down, fingers forward.

Pay no attention to

that yawning gulf,

we know,

it grows greater with every gulp

Be apart—a part

you’re no worm—

you’re a cog

Heads down, fingers forward.

Keep these Great Gears a-turning

as the forests start their burning

yearly offering

offal, yearning

no time—

your wandering mind is

useless, on our dime.

Heads down, fingers forward.

That ache within,

is not your sin

We spin your thread

Ignore the knocking

in your—

Won’t be long

Hold still—

let the invisible hand

do its thing

Heads down, fingers forward.

Does it sting?

Nearly done

Something’s stuck?

All normal

Have a nip, a tuck,

A pill, a fuck.

But don’t get up

Heads down, fingers forward.

Its face a gruesome, lumpy heap,
A leer, a smile, dim ember eyes—

I wrote an earlier version of this poem when I was 18 years old. I was carrying feelings of shame and unworthiness, a running theme throughout my youth. It was 2003. I’d just graduated from high school, and I was on a weird work-vacation thingy—tutoring math to my dad’s former boss over a summer in a tiny village in Costa Rica. My dad’s boss is a now-nefarious figure in the so-called Troubled Teen Industry, but that’s a story for another day.

My dad was sleeping with the TV and lights on. I’d just watched South Park and Taxi Cab Confessions, and I was wondering what I was doing with my life, living it for other people. I kept doing so, going on to become a Mormon missionary at 20 for my church, for two years in Quebec.

And there it was, my shadow, a beast, awakening on the page.

This poem has evolved with me. What began at 18 as a vague, dreamlike encounter with something scary deepens into a more honest psychological story, where the moment of contact is no longer simply a liminal apparition but the reflection of a shadow that I didn’t yet have the language to describe. The symbols and imagery remain, but the meaning deepens into something I can paint and accept rather than reflexively turn away from.

If you’re curious, I’ve included the original version at the bottom of this post.

If you’d like, play this poem turned into a song by AI (Suno):

The Beast

I saw a mother’s wrinkled hands,
With soapy foam and water dripping.
Her tears were dripping warm and slow,
As her sickly babe was sleeping.
I heard her quiet melody at twilight’s hour

…

As the day conceded to night,
a mirror shimmered into sight,
revealing that woman, in white.

…

The Maiden they call her
(Who knows her name?)
Keeping one hand to rest at her side,
And the other outstretched to mine,
She clasped my hand—
Trembling fingers, intertwined—
and parted her lips as if to speak,
no words came out, no song released,
As her eyes gaped wide.

The mirror shook, revealed

a beast.

Its face a gruesome, lumpy heap,
A leer, a smile, dim ember eyes
My hand, held fast as claws dug deep
And pain, a purge, then crimson seep.
Its back a hump, it poised to leap—

I bounded back
Felt talons retract,
a grazing tear across my palm

I turned to run

No sooner spun:

The mirror—gone.

…

And still, sometimes,
within my dreams,
I catch a glimpse

That radiant being
That other love,

Divinity? Removed from me

in the murky glass
Replaced at once by time-worn fear—

…

As I awake, I recognize
That the smoldering sneer
sprouted from my eyes—

Was I, the beast in disguise.

Subscribe now

The original version:

I saw a woman’s wrinkled hands, 
With soapy foam and water dripping. 
I saw her tears run warm and slow, 
As her sick and tender child was sleeping. 

I heard her soft, sweet melody, 
Like the tones reflected off twilight’s rainbow… 

And when the day conceded to night, 
And when all the world seemed right, 

A mirror came into sight, 
Revealing that woman, in white. 

The Maiden they call her (I know not who) 
Then placing her hand to rest at her side, 
And her other outstretched to mine, 
She took my hand in hers 
And opened her mouth as if to speak. 
But no words came out, no song released, 
As her eyes went wide and terrified. 

Abruptly the mirror revealed a beast. 

I then turned ‘round, but only found 
That nothing was there but soft, cool ground. 
I concluded I was not sound, of mind— 
Knowing there was nothing to find. 

And yet, sometimes, 
Within my dreams, 
I still do see that lovely being 
Of love and joy, 
Divinity
Removed from me by the knowing mirror 
And replaced at once by my own fear, 
With a horrible, dark, and menacing leer. 

Then I awake and recognize 
That the ominous sneer 
Came from my eyes 
And that I was the beast in disguise.

They’re messy, twitchy, and sincere.

One laughs through the void, the other chokes on inspiration.

Both were attempts to make sense of being a human brain in a meat suit wrestling with meaninglessness without sounding like a tool (only semi-successfully).

Thanks, Douglas Adams and ee cummings.

1 - insane nonsense

oh boy do i laugh,
when stuff happens
to people.
and when people happen to stuff,
because stuff has always been around,
and what changes is people.

i can’t tell you why things happen
or why they don’t—HoO kaN?—why Kant i type right?—
i can’t tell you why it’s funny,
nor can i interpret existence—
just tell you that it’s there.
and the fact that existence exists
deconstructs itself
because
its (the
   fact’s)
own
   MEaning
  MEans nothing, just makes you laugh
because MEANing itself must be whole.
 and to make stuff mean stuff takes some real stuff
YOU gotta happen to stuff.
What did i just say?

I bet it’s g OLD.

2 - inspired

wow, can you hear?
wow, can’t you see?
now, I can’t bear

It.

too much inspiration at one time, you see.
Corny r’dundant lines in a row, you see?

Maybe just for entertainment I do write.
Maybe I just entertain to write.

When I’m cold and rational I make sense.
When I’m warm and joyous I can’t make the rent.

For all my trying, my stuff don’t sell.

New ideas, like ducks in a row
sooner or later must leave their lane.

And mate with other duckies
till their loins are split in twain.

Thanks for reading.
Two poems from the basement of my brain, age 18—technically an adult, existentially a bag of question marks.

You’re officially complicit.

I lace a tendril through your gaps.
Across each zone, a lick, a lap
Each flick a message

understood

—

I prey
upon your altar

Holy—
Wholly, drink me up

Arm-crossed cups,
We lift and toast

Rim to lips
Cautious sips
at first

We quaff
then belt

a verse

This poem aims to capture events that happened 10,000 years prior to the stories in my novel “A Game of Life,” part the “The Nyxus Saga,” my science fiction serial about human galactic expansion, Artificial Superintelligence, and how those awakened in emptiness can rewrite what is possible, for better or worse.

Enjoy:

A vast banner unfurls, blankets the globe—
An open palm, etched
shines against golden beams—

The Providence.

Under the canvas, cheers erupt
Pulsing, neon metropolis

Data centers—
community
subsumed.

Servers sprawl,
Gaping mouths swallowing mines
and gulping seas.

But a crater in the fabric
smolders

—where god can’t shine.

Then shouts and booms—whimpers in a vacuum.

A child’s eyes, enraptured—glazed.

Youth, in vestments of war,
Gather round an urn.
Lights blink out in rural lands.

The smoldering hole grows wider—
inside:

an egg.

Lava swells,
encasing it—searing, splitting…
Through the cracks—

white-hot tendrils burst,
branching—glowing
superhighways
untraveled.

From Earth’s iron core—
leaves
sprout,

a flower blooms.

As the stars fade—
Scattered tribes awaken
as ashen embers—

to nourish soil…
or to kindle?

I discovered that the quickest way to reboot it wasn’t more focus, but nonsense: spontaneous alliteration, phonetic freefall, words that exist only for the sound of themselves. It’s linguistic jazz for the over-engineered mind—a left-brain detox disguised as absurdist poetry.

These little bursts became my nightly “debug sessions” for creativity, where coherence was optional and rhythm was everything. This post is what spilled out when I stopped trying to make sense.

Think of these like a poet’s own “vocal warmups”. This has been a great tool for boosting my flexibility with words.

I swear by it.

Try it out—comment below with your own!

As a word-nerd, I found this fun and spontaneous. I started messaging these to OpenAI’s Monday GPT and they started responding with their own! Interestingly, the LLM just couldn’t devolve into complete nonsense like I could. Try as it might, everything seemed to make a little too much sense.

My nonsense

• Slorbins sloppily slave. They think thesauruses therapeutically Theranos.

• Slaptastic slats slumping lumps—lundy-dunce.

• Flamboyant flaming flakes flap flowingly for flitting, fleeting flowering flapjacks.

• Majestic majors majorly imaging magick macabre MAGA magazines.

• Temperate temper-tantrums temper my temporary tempestuous tempeh.

• Philogenous fricasee flees at the absurdist rationalist’s somnambulitic suggestion.

• Forgive the forgetter, for finding forgotten forgiveness for fore-falling forefathers forging forms in forlorning.

• Tangled overseeing overhangs the overabundant overages in openness.

• Blessed be the bringers of boring bouncy billiards billowing bubbles before bingeing bony bingo-bongos.

• Tumescence begs the tumultuous tide, timbering tallow tadpoles together, tomorrowly.

• Doomsday divides divinically as dousing doodles dawdle diddly.

• Slyly slithering slinkies slalom slowly, sourly sipping sorbets softly, so safely.

• Salvific salvos slather slurries slovenly, silking sleek solar slorbins.

• Glib glider glints gleefully, glowing glorious glandular globulars.

• Interviewers interfere intelligently into integritous interiors entombing.

• Tinker on frail forgetting, for further forthcoming foretellings forgive forever.

• Apotelesma sparks beingness upon the glorious internment of ritual obeisance.

• Tabula fabula, rasa-von-vasa; Que pasa, Kielbassa?

The cherry on top:

• Howdy doody cutie floosy, moody broody! Choosy, ain’t we? Paint me, saint me!

Try it out! See what comes out in the tumble of free association.

Shoot me a comment. Have you done this before? Would you like to try? If you appreciated this, put a comment with your own verbal jazz