Dads and Sturdy Paper Plates
an allegory for meatheads and ingrates

In youth,
we're so easily distracted
by the price tag—
the pretty little flowers.
We don't realize.

The mirror.
It really can be.

Dads.
Sturdy paper plates.

We can't help but look at that plate and think,
Is it really time to throw it away already?
Can we get a few more uses out of it?

The whole thing just feels like a shame.

We see it for what it is.
And it reminds us
of what WE are.

Getting used.
Soiled.
Broken.
Unwanted.

And we can't help but think—
F#@k. We're next.

As we age,
watching ourselves break down,
we stare
at that plate—
thick, rimmed,
meant to last
a little longer
than its cheaper cousins.



Wait—
Is it really time already?
Can’t we rinse it?
Is their a rack to let it dry on ?  
Just once more?
Maybe twice?

It feels like a waste.
We know what it is.
Who or what is the  vessel ?
Used.
Soiled.
Still holding shape.
Still trying.

And suddenly—
we know ourselves,
in it.

Dads.
Sturdy paper plates.
Some are reliable.
Quietly bending under the weight.
not so much, to impress
as a hope
to endure.

Just used,
you know ?
For a guy who doesn't work a desk job
and never has
another tie
for your  Fng birthday.

So yes. we may sag.
We crease at the edges.
Grow soft in the middle.

And they look at us
like they do that plate...

Is it still good?
Still worth keeping?
Or has it had its time?

How much time  passes?
When or if they ever realize...

God.
We're next.

As the years pull us apart,
we feel it,
the breakdown.
The slow,
uninvited fade
into the background noise
of ineffectual Sunday afternoons.

Unneeded.
Uncelebrated.
Unloved.

some thing has served its purpose
and is now just
....in the way ?

A rare hug
the true currency of a life
he never chose
but never walked out on, either.

(You're welcome.)

I don’t have to steal gods or dress up elves in shiny robes and pretend it’s original. I didn’t rip off Celtic scraps and call it a “found” saga. I didn’t grab wizards and goblins off the mythological clearance rack and slap a “chosen one” sticker on top.
All words are me . No A.I. None were ever filtered through Tolkien’s disconnected, antiquated, broken English. Not everything is needlessly magical. No pipe smoke eagles appearing out of nowhere that could skip the whole journey.
I didn’t trace someone else’s map or recycle brainwashed, hackneyed crap you’ve all been spoon-fed. My worldbuilding makes everything else look like grade-school wannabe fanfiction. While they recycle tired tropes, exploiting children and ripping off the ripoffs, I pull from every corner of history. I’ve done the research. Joseph Campbell. Jules Verne. ( I can recite the known myths of every culture, ancient to modern.) I’ve been in real combat,the military, and full-contact ring sports. No other fantasy author ever lived that level of human experience.
Tolkien couldn’t do it. Rowling is a plagiarist. Look it up. From wands to Hogwarts, stolen.R.R.R. Martin choked on his own almost-fame before book four. Then he went full Tolkien. Phonebook lists of who-cares bad fantasy names, titles with no plot or purpose.
Me ? I’ve held real forged steel. I’ve bled. I’ve fought. I’ve served. And it shows in every line I wrote. Every page of this has earned gravitas. There are cryptographic codes embedded in this work. Genius-level architecture meant to reward and endure.
So ask yourself. Do you want another lame children’s story? Another dumb “chosen one” predictable Diary of a Wimpy Kid knockoff?
Or do you want the next Fight Club? Mad Max? Or are you still enthralled by Barney with a sword?
I didn’t come to play !
I came to do it RIGHT.

Words
Weapons and lullabies.
Sailors and rich girls on the tide.
Currency and curse. Salt and purse.
Tiny spells we throw at the dark,
with tongue and practice,
hoping maybe something will answer back
a mirror of what we proclaim to know. and what we know we lack,

Words make lovers weep,
make tyrants rise,
make strangers  leap  or kneel in dull surprise.
In upright pews
as children name the stars  anew
imaginary friends, what we kept and some
we grew
all of them.
fodder for the hymn
We pull them from the air
like fireflies, without a care
trap them in lines so bold  
we dare
for posterity we claim  and call it a life.
Whispered pillow-talk luxuries.
lovers
burdened into wives.

But really
they’re just noise.
  sounds of girls and
little boys
Sailors as ******  saviours  of the tide
we taught to mean everything,
all in .
Along for the ride
And we believe our own will
has merit
or need to hide.
Does it deserves acknowledgment our desire and pain ?
because we  sometimes trick each other to want it again
into thinking
we know a few more  
than the day before.
Words.
Weapons and lullabies.

a letter
a sound
syllables
words
sentences
paragraphs

feelings
ideas
thoughts
beliefs
actions

cells
neurons
chemicals
hormones
­
actions
and reactions

The Temple of Blood: A Political Autopsy of King Solomon’s Divine Comedy

Let’s talk about the most sacred site in Abrahamic tradition — the so-called Holy Temple of Solomon. You know, the one they rebuilt and weep over, the one they fight endless wars to reclaim brick by metaphorical brick. The one they bomb buses and flatten neighborhoods for. That temple.

It all started with a pile of corpses. Literally.

According to their own scriptures, Solomon — the “wisest man who ever lived,” hand-picked by God Himself — figured out the secret to divine attention: mass animal slaughter. Not justice. Not wisdom. Not peace. No. What got God's attention wasn’t righteousness, or humility, or moral clarity. It was a mountain of carcasses. Tens of thousands of animals butchered in a display of bloodletting so excessive, it would have painted the ground with gore. The air would’ve been thick with the stench of burning fat and rotting meat. Rivers of blood. Congealing oil. Maggots in the gutters. And God finally shows up. That’s the callback cue. Not Hiroshima. Not plague. Not genocide. No — it’s meat smoke and fat puddles.

That’s the god they worship. A storm deity with the priorities of a warlord and the nose of a butcher.

And Solomon? He accepts the gift of divine wisdom, then proceeds to ignore every law that same god laid out. Marries foreign queens, bows to other deities, summons demons. Within a few years he’s deep into idol worship, blasphemy, and occultism — and what does the Almighty do? Shrugs. “I’ll still bless your children. You’re good.”

This is the man whose temple is still venerated. Still fought over. Still the epicenter of some of the world’s most violent, self-destructive ideological crusades. A man whose spiritual résumé is built on ritual slaughter and hypocrisy — and they call that sacred? They rebuild that temple? They wrap bombs around their waists for that?

And what kind of god is this, anyway?

An eternal, all-knowing, all-powerful entity that pops into being from nothing — no parents, no mentors, no origin, no context — instantly fluent in every thought, particle, and heartbeat across billions of lives. A being capable of weaving galaxies like strands of silk. Yet somehow this cosmic intelligence, this mind beyond all minds, doesn’t show up for genocide, doesn’t flinch at starvation, doesn't even blink at plague. But a meat bonfire? Oh, that gets his attention.

That’s the guy.

That’s the one they built a temple for. That’s the one they still die for.

It was never about truth. Never about peace. Never about wisdom.

It was about the pile.
And the god who smelled it.

Hate is under  rated.
Especially the way i do it.
So much effort and energy and research  that goes into it.  Hate  takes  time  , to build, to feel  to let simmer.
  It's all too often confused for rage.
Rage can have a center in or from hate
but they are two distinct terms  for a reason.

My hate is genuine.
It is sharp and smart and appropriate.
I don't hate out of fear, lack of information or stupidity.
I hate for all the best of  and right reasons.
Hate is a beautiful, powerful  contagion.
It feels the way it does  because at its  core it IS  the truth we all try an hide.
It is us
our reality. The rest is the lie.
We aren't happy for you,
no one is. Not in this--- belief system world ,a world that worships money their true god . We cover it in competition, envy, and the  violence they always have and do foment , everywhere and always. My truth  is real  your lie though is a label you had no choice but to wear .  You are crushed  by a system you had  no say in  a remnant of a lame weak storm god  that got  put in the wrong place at the wrong time  but they always do that  Yahweh ,  Jesus, scape goat, martyr, easy fix replacement ,  no brainer  choice.. Baal wants  child sacrifice  lazy  **** shirtless carpenter just says talk to him like an imaginary friend you never grew out of. Who is weak and stupid  ? Those that  dare to wear a fake smile over it ?
This  isn't ****** PBS , kindergarten  learn to get along fake *** *******,  its life. It's starving your neighbor to make a profit. It's forcing China to make their kids create your iPhone. It's reality. You didn't do it. I didn't do it. But at least I have the courage to say the truth about it. I didn't come up with the strategy, I didn't perpetuate the lie, and I won't be part of it.  
Hate is what we respect. What we admire.
What we fight and **** for.
Love is easy and stupid  and literally natural.
It should take almost no effort and feel right the whole time.
That too is life. Love asks very little of us, most of the time. It’s cooperative, almost entirely  chemical, hormone addled and soothing. Hate though . Hate is forged. It has mass. It’s fueled by a kind of deep SEEING and remembering. It can only be the result of  choosing. The other is rage.
Hate though takes knowing and preaching and striving  and convincing and effort.
It IS  not stupidity or fear of the unknown.
It IS  seeing exactly  what you don't like and knowing why you feel like you have to rise up against it.
Its more interesting  to love and know hate  than to shove it aside  or inside. We pretend life has no place for it, but it truly is us.

If all you want to do is hear yourself
Are you so unattractive that you can't stand to  look in a mirror
It seems that is all you really want.
No empathy no desire to hear what anyone else has to say.
Did you think you had something to share with the world anyway?

Do you even try to put meaning or depth into the stupid words that you write and post on here?
If you do, then why are you so incapable of making things any more clear?
If all of your posting is not even a complete sentence, it's less than 10 words.?
That's not even poetry for poetry nerds.!
And you're trying to say it's some deep esoteric lesson about your half wit brain and your half baked life.
While your kids hate you and why you have no wife.
Strife, strife and more strife.
Or God better yet tell me about Israel, like I'd give a **** !
Tell me about how in love you are with your mostly naked. carpenter, ***. idle God.
Please ohh please compare someone else to a rose. Ohh god, please do it. Just tell me about how wonderful their complexion is..
Better yet, don't even speak English and take your half baked kooky ideas and try to make some kind of sense out of them when we can all clearly see that it's not your first language. Yes, please do more of that..
Take some bizarre headline. headline from a tabloid magazine and twist. ing and twist it through some pharmacology that you're prescribed that you're either undertaking or overtaking.
Insist on your own brilliance and your credentials as some lofty vantage point to **** all over the rest of us from..
I have nothing of import or importance to say, but just post a bunch of crap on here anyway..
Never take an art class. Don't read a book. Have no friends at all. Don't even run your **** past anyone, or even ask
"   hey, do you remotely think that I even have a semblance of the talent required to be a poet? "
You've never been a poet before. and you just woke up one day and told yourself that you are one.
You've never written anything before
. You've never been published before.
No one's ever asked you. Hey, boy, I sure do like those random words you string together.
This is what you get when the only requirement is an Internet connection..
For all the people that don't think I know what they're doing you're opening up my account, looking at all the things that I've already written about, trying to find something that you can quasi latch onto, because you don't have anything real or anything of import or substance to say. And I've already. covered all these topics.
Others are just parroting back my ideas without putting anything of their own into it, almost like they’re riding on the coattails of creativity without truly understanding or engaging with it. It’s like they’ve found something that sounded deep but didn’t bother to dig into the heart of it. They’re missing the nuance and the depth you’ve already explored, and instead, just regurgitating surface-level stuff that doesn’t add anything new to the conversation.

It seems like you're not just upset about the lack of originality but also the fact that there’s a disingenuousness about it. They don’t think for themselves or invest any real effort into their own voice. They’re just recycling, which probably feels like an insult to the work you’ve spent so much time developing.

It almost feels like they’ve taken the themes that were once fresh and important and stripped them down to empty imitations. How do you feel about confronting that ,calling them out for it, or are you more about just pushing forward with your own voice, leaving them behind?