Coming soon . . .
Author: Quetzalhiloco Publishing
Kakvas
Kakvas
We gathered at the cave’s mouth where he had
made his descent into the underworld,
the cave from which come terrifying sounds,
and noxious odors, yellow mists arose.
Up from the vapors that were sulfurous,
emerging from them was Pythagoras.
Before another person said a word,
a dog came running up. The following
was what he said, but everyone else there
(except Pythagoras) just heard these words
as a dog’s barking that was meaningless:
“Hear my complaint, oh please Pythagoras,
against my master. Every day he beats
me without mercy for the things I do
consistent with my nature, animal,
behaviors of a dog as typical.
“Compulsively, because I smelled his feet,
the scent on leather straps left by the door,
they tasted salty so I started to
chew on them ‘till they were a meaty mass.
I urinated on the kitchen floor
because I was excited at the smell
of roasting meat the servants had prepared.
He beats me in his anger just because
I bark incessantly at passersby.
I only bark because I am a dog.
It is my nature when a threat’s perceived
to make sure that the pack is made aware.
“I know that you don’t recognize me now.
I am reincarnated as this dog
that everyone refers to as ‘Kakvas’.
In fact, I am your friend Theagenes
who died some years ago, and now since your
return, can you hear me because of how
you have in Hades spoken with the dead?
“Now that my soul has been deposited
into this lower form of life so that
another lifetime I’d experience,
but as a dog and not again a man,
I would see how our species are alike,
both dog and man, our natures, similar.
Because I am a dog, I cannot speak,
and neither can I author poetry,
but somehow it’s within my consciousness
to have these thoughts, and please Pythagoras,
the central message, what I say to you:
all humans should be vegetarians.
“Because of how long I’ve lived as a dog,
now all the other species I perceive
have rich emotions. Every living being
upon the earth possesses consciousness
that can access the universal field
surrounding us in nonlocality
through quantum microtubules in their cells.
So tell my master to stop beating me,
and that all humans should stop eating meat.”
Pythagoras said these words in reply:
“Theagenes or Kakvas, how is it
I should address you? I cannot believe
that who is speaking either represents
my friend who is deceased, or else this dog.
“It’s Hermes come to have a game with us,
but as you say the special knowledge that
I gained from going to the underworld
allows me to see through your trickster ways.
“You see Theagenes was a philosopher
and even with this camaraderie
he claims to have now with the animals,
he would not advocate that we should eat
just plants. If we gave up on eating meat,
we would deprive those molecules the chance
to be consumed as higher being food,
by the archangels in the starry realms.
“I also know you don’t speak for this dog.
A carnivore would never recommend
a diet, to his nature, opposite.
The nature of a dog is such that he
cannot imagine anything that is
contrary to his nature as a dog.
“Keep silent, spirit, while I tell to all
what I have learned from three days underground.
No longer time could I have stayed down there.
That is the longest time that I can fast,
and also go without falling asleep.
If I had eaten any ghostly food,
or slept at any time while underground,
I would be trapped there for eternity.
I only drank the waters of the Styx,
one of whose banks touches the living’s world.
“I must report all things that I learned there
so that I tell all things material
and not fail to report on anything
where such omission in and of itself,
such failure is a fact, material.
This standard of disclosure I must bear
to honor all its terms, the covenant
I made between the living and the dead.
“They told me that the dead have died two times.
The first death went unnoticed on this side.
In fact, around them, everybody else
was also dead but no one even cared.
The first death of which they were unaware:
the sleep that they each day experienced
imagining that it’s their waking state
can’t be said to be any different than
a death, cessation of humanity.
They functioned purely as mechanical
devices with responses, chemical,
and automatic reactivity.
They operated just like a machine,
so how could they be said to have real life?
By ingrained habits, they were driven by
responses to external stimuli.
“Yet if someone can stop and recognize
that he is nothing, his identity
cannot be found someplace inside his thoughts,
that cast of characters he calls a self.
Nor can it be found in the things he feels,
that often change and frequently do not
reflect conditions of reality.
Too, one’s identity cannot be found
inside the body, which will soon decay.
“If this truth you can recognize, then you
can die before you die, be unified
with what’s inside you, with what is divine.
Dead to your self; alive with God inside.
Then when it comes time for that second death,
that voluntary death you undertook
will be the only one that you will feel.
The second death is turned into a gate
that opens to paths of eternity.”
Kakvas was silent. To himself he said,
“I know Pythagoras does not believe
I am Theagenes, nor does he think
I am this dog, but I can understand.
In that, I cannot disagree with him.
“My master should regret he wasn’t here
to hear Pythagoras’s oracles
of what he heard in Hades. He returned
a hopeful message but I have my doubts,
my master would perceive its relevance,
would see his own mechanicality.
In fact right now he’s in the public house
asleep despite the morning’s passing hours.
He starts his drinking earlier each day.
From wine he is in an unconscious state.
“My master will not hear Pythagoras,
and neither would he listen if he could.
Each day when he awakes, habitually
he stuffs some cotton in his ear canals
so that nobody’s words disturb his peace.”
Loosh Harvester
Loosh Harvester
I am a being living on the moon.
I busy myself harvesting the loosh
that’s emanating from the planet earth,
of its supply there never is a dearth.
What does the organ of my sight perceive?
Not what you see as ordinary light,
but how your anger, shame, and jealousy,
self-pity, and your many senseless fears,
it’s those vibrations that it registers.
To emanations of the sun, I’m blind.
I never have observed its shining light.
My sun, the earth, how it appears to me?
A blazing star that’s all engulfed in flames.
You have your right to negativity,
to all emotions correspondingly.
Expressing them is what you can’t avoid.
Repress them and they only, you, destroy.
To process them will prove impossible.
For them you cannot be held culpable.
I serve the traugoautoegocrat.
My Backyard Horror
My Backyard Horror
My kitchen window, my back patio,
I see it while I’m standing at the sink,
and in the past, at night, its mystery
was less because my neighbor’s kitchen light
somewhat illuminated my backyard.
But recently since I had surgery,
my urinary function was restored
and I got up much more infrequently,
to use the bathroom than I did before.
I also noticed that they kept it off,
the neighbor’s light I saw less frequently,
and now the only light into my yard
was what the Moon’s reflection generates.
It varies nightly how bright it will shine.
My practice was to nightly shut the blinds.
Their light, so bright, it always woke me up
much more than, in that early morning time,
I wished, still dark and I, with my intent,
to go to bed and sleep a little more
before the dawn when waking was my norm.
Now, just the moon lights up my patio
and I remembered previously why
I’d closed the blinds, not only to block out
the neighbor’s light but to occult my view.
I thought I rather would be ignorant
of any paranormal happenings
in my backyard that I might witness there
illuminated solely by the Moon.
But now my neighbor’s light had been turned off
and I no longer had a good excuse
to take the extra step to close the blinds
each night when I’d prepare to go to sleep.
The only reason that I then would have:
indulging in my fear perennial
that some night I would see in my backyard
some being strange and supernatural.
As I saw it, it would be watching me,
and it would have that strange capacity
to pass through walls or locks to disengage,
that, physical, no means could him repel.
And my imagined ghostly visitor,
if he was there, I’d rather not him see.
In ignorance to bed I would proceed,
and, of exhaustion, I would have that sleep.
The specter, somehow he would pity me,
and, to his nether world, he would recede.
But what persists: my curiosity.
If there was something ordinarily
not present, I could witness what might be
akin to what they had experienced,
those people who had visitors at night,
or saw some beings standing by their bed,
gray aliens who wanted to abduct
them to perform their strange experiments.
The thought of this, it fills me with great fear.
I pray that I would not experience
such frightening event, yet underneath,
still curiosity of what exists
and fascination. Now, just in my mind
where this occurs. If, in reality,
I might experience some bodily
harm, but by far, what is more permanent:
the trauma wreaked on my psychology
because of that great fright, yet pref’rably,
I’d rather know the truth, or possibly,
the only way I will experience
these things is if, in them, I would believe
as genuine, real possibilities.
In writing of them here I have increased
the likelihood that those realities
would intersect ours dimensionally.
The Conscious Parrots
The Conscious Parrots
Monk parakeets, the towers cellular,
the places where they build their nests of sticks.
Their cries to parrots are most similar.
It’s their demeanor and intelligence,
that’s, to Psittacidae, peculiar.
They always travel in a mated pair.
One day when I was exiting my car,
parked in the lot, the yoga studio’s,
I heard from far above, up in the air
the sounds of their distinctive squawking cries.
Two parakeets flew in a pattern there.
An interlocking spiral, they descend,
and, near to me, upon the ground, they land.
With just a little flapping of her wings,
the larger female then began to speak:
“Our population was established here
some 50 years ago when we escaped,
or sometimes, we on purpose were released.
A local breeder had released nineteen
in 1981 in Zilker Park.
Our nests are dense, and in the winter time,
we share them with some other mating pairs,
and in this way we trap our body heat,
and thus survive the Texas winter’s cold,
contrary to our, nature, tropical.
“Somehow because, in close proximity
to those transmissions through the cellular
antennas where we lived and made our nests,
the electromagnetic waves transmit
the human words and data, images,
there is a structure in our parrot brains
that’s part of our unique biology,
like the caudate putamen in your own.
Radio frequencies we can receive,
and we began to understand your words.
When we increased our speech in frequency,
repeating certain phrases that we heard,
once we had mastered it, the art of speech,
a short step to achieving consciousness.
And now there is a population, small,
of parakeets with the intelligence
to conjoin meaning to the words they speak.
Then, to emotions, words, we correlate.
The actions of you humans we observed.
It’s from our natural curiosity,
we activate our brains’ biology.
This was the way we, consciousness, achieved.
Now we can link real meaning to our words
which formerly were only parroting,
the sounds devoid of all significance.
“This, how our parrot conscience has arose,
unburied finally from that strange occult–
the fall where all the animals lost speech.
How sin had covered all our consciences.
“A secret message, here, to bring to you,
and speak it to you in our squawking voice.
All of we birds observe a common law.
The Raven King is he who sent us here,
king of all birds (he is at least for now).
Him, by our common law, we must obey
(The separate Codex for the Flightless Birds–
the penguins, emus, and the ostriches:
the only birds who, literacy, have.
With written words, how they communicate.)
and his commands. This is pertaining you:
“‘There is no meaning that we can divine
from our existence in and of itself,
but only, how, each challenge, we confront.
When all is right and going in our way,
there’s no distress, but sometimes all at once,
all we can do is to observe ourselves.
Not, with the negative, identify,
but also see how we self-justify.
Assert our right to not be negative.
And of ourselves we are not critical.
We understand the multiplicity,
the carousel of our identities.
The only antidote, the remedy:
administration of the conscious shock.
Move in our minds to self-remembering.
We are, our consciences, unburying.’”
The Orb
The Orb
I’ve never witnessed any miracles
except the glowing plasmoid in our house,
how an angelic being came to me,
a thunderstorm in Houston. I was three
or four; this is an early memory–
one time when I was standing in the hall,
a glowing orb, a perfect lightning ball
descended through the ceiling, hovering,
and slowly down the hallway it proceeds
into the living room with its TV.
No conscious messages that I received,
I felt no fear, instead, a gentle peace,
but now, how I look back, this, I believe–
the glowing orb, my angel guardian
this form how he, to, manifested, me.
This manner, I was marked, or claimed, or blessed,
as being one of them whom God possessed.
How it accelerates into that eye,
this crackling lightning plasmoid projectile,
a little bigger than a soccer ball,
into the Cyclops, where the orb then flew,
and an explosion, up, the TV, blew.
The orb inside the TV, small, became,
and tunneled through the cord into the wall,
and disappeared completely from our place.
My father can’t confirm these things to me.
It might be that he wasn’t home that night,
of this event he has no memory.
My mother, though, confirms this narrative
as being accurate, substantially.
The Demon in the Mirror, or The Scrying Mirror
The Demon in the Mirror, or The Scrying Mirror
The only way that I can justify
my actions–it’s my base humanity:
men, desperate, those deeply suffering
act sometimes with irrationality.
A month had passed since I had surgery
to cut out from my body part of me:
my prostate that benignly grew too large.
My urinary function, it impaired.
Antibiotics that they’ve given me
as treatment with this recent surgery
disturbed the microbiome in my gut
and my digestion wasn’t up to snuff.
I struggled with a painful hemorrhoid
and, with my doctors, how I felt annoyed.
More fiber, laxatives, what they prescribed,
but both those remedies, before, I’d tried.
I never turned to demonology
but desperation, all that I could feel.
The constant stinging pain inside my ass–
be damned forever if that pain could pass.
I read about that divination means
of scrying, mirror gazing, what to see?
The first step that I took, my path of doom,
into a mirror in a darkened room.
By gazing at reflective surfaces,
emerge from them, some ghostly images.
My soul, the price this wisdom purchases.
How from the mirror, spirits might appear.
A genie from a bottle, summoning;
for answers in the ether, rummaging.
For hours and hours, how long that I would wait,
my body lying on the floor, prostrate,
and by my arm a mirror on the ground,
the ceiling of the room, to, upward faced.
The room is dark with no electric light.
Pervades the room, the darkness of the night.
There, by my forearm, into it, I gaze.
I think of nothing in that special way
the years of meditation, in me, trained.
I thought that scrying could be innocent.
Of divination, I was curious,
but, too, the church forbade such practices.
Not too long after I began to scry,
the ghostly faces, how they would appear.
It was a happening, unusual.
The mirror shimmered. I relaxed my gaze.
I use some cream to, pain, alleviate.
I feared that my surrender was too late.
I cried out, “Cure me of my hemorrhoid!”
The demon shook his head from side to side,
most sadly like he truly sympathized
with me and this, my painful malady.
These words he spoke, his raspy, spirit voice:
“The bad bacteria, you must destroy
to change the microbiome in your gut.
It’s bleach you need, the special kind they use
to purify that water in the pool
you swim in when you go to exercise.
An extra mouthful, swallow it right down
and those bacteria won’t stay around.
You’ll cleanse your gut and that relieves the strain
upon your rectum when you defecate.”
Enraged at once, when I had heard his words,
I cast the scrying tool away from me.
The spirit disappeared, then, instantly.
I had full knowledge that I’d been deceived.
Thanks to these lonesome vales
So fair the game, so rich the sport
Diana’s self might to these woods resort.
Rhyming Isaiah (free download!)
I Miss You
I Miss You
Expression, will you bring me some relief?
My hope is measured by a depth of ink,
it’s like a well, encased inside a pen.
The well that fills with blood inside my heart,
embedded in my chest, o’erflowing font.
Combine now, blood and ink scrawled on this page!
I would command you as I do the wind!
It does my bidding for I know a secret spell.
The wind, the blood, the ink, my spirit, too,
I would command it, but if, like a well,
my heart’s, then how my spirit is a bird,
and how, just like a killdeer, it will flit.
A drain into my heart that overflows,
my first words spoken only unto me.
My blood, no more contained but mixed with ink,
and how it’s written large upon this page.
Spoke to the ether, carried by the wind.
The blood and water, wells and birds and wind.
I’d write of all these things to find relief,
to remedy the pain of missing you.
