Saturday, August 27, 2011

Dream of a God (poetic Prose)

Dream of a God
((A Poem for Haiti) (a conspiracy))

1986, Port du Prince Haiti, the Author

At some time in our life, we may have to turn away from disbelief, seeing at least for a while, the possibility of a God because certain hidden voices within us are strengthened or freshened by our soul. While I was in Haiti in 1986, I felt a longing to compose a radical poem, perhaps this one, with roots that would speak to what has its back turned to God.
I began imagining two personalities, one a Christian God the other a Voodoo God (conceivably composed of demonic figures), and one who betrayed the other at one time, in the far-off past, that being the latter. And so I now have started this poem, poetic prose, “Dream of a God,” with images suggesting these Voodoo demonic figures and their betrayal to their brothers, in some far-off pre-Adamic Period—these beings I call sleepwalkers, the un-magnanimous, unfriendly, and excitable who try to rewire our spiritual needs—the enemies of God.
Naming and describing these internal as well as immortal beings, adversary to God is not a practice, although: one that Blake, Keats, H.P. Lovecraft, Poe, Clark A. Smith were good at, that began in the Victorian Period of Western Poetic schools of thought, and has lasted to this day, Postmodernism, and Hollywood has continued it. How many beings dwell in us! Only they know. Certain entertainment industries: music, movies, and now religions, certain forms encourage us going beyond the breaking limits, replacing Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, and God the Father—leapfrogging over the Trinity over our valuable spiritualization, to philosophical concerns; religious beliefs as Darwinism, New Age; gods of Astronomy (as Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking would have it), it is as if these individuals or demonic beings want us to accept these compensatory forms as our gods, as if man is still stained with the unpardonable sin, and needs goat’s blood to cleanse him, a conspiracy in essence.

Dedicated to Pastor Naason Mulatre
Midnight Poems VI (8-27-2011) No: 3031

Friday, August 19, 2011

16-New Poems and Two Short Stories

The Yawning Tomb

Death Rids a Pale Horse

For here in truth do we belong—in the yawning tomb? To let our youth tell our tales not as we have told them—Not at a glance, but the pale truth; our earthly wormy circumstance…

At last, at last! Death who rides a pale horse, fills out our earthly score, puts his hand onto the horrid scroll, and hands it to us—cold dead!

Dismal at sight, pity runs deep to the core—he murmurs for earth and breath, which is no more: “At last he feels the dirt of the grave (says the man on the pale horse)—the dead who once raved upon the earth, he raves no more. He is with his immortal kind, the demons and ten-winged Lord, the dragon. Dethroned from earth and no one morne’d.”

No: 3000 (Night Poems III) 8-5-2011)


Vision of Apollo
((From Prophetic Visions 1984) (Midnight Poems III))

Apollo—long golden laced hair
Strong body, like a Charioteer’s—
How, how—he slipped into
My vision
Golden brow
No lyre or golden fire
He grinned and looked
With blaspheme
He pointed me out
(to his entourage)
Stood within my reach
Wanted to violate my faith
Why I was not crushed
In this vision
Was not his decision!
When I turned my head
Instead… I said: “Be gone”
Knowing Christ was near
Then an angel appeared
And his wrath became


Feeding of the Crows
(A Poem on Truth) Midnight Poems III

O Truth! Here my soundless notes,
Ring…where are you?
What my imagination seizes is this truth?
All the passions that have ever been
that has existed before me, that
Have been spoken into my own soft—
cached ears—
Is this truth…?

Perhaps I dreamt it, or did I see it?
a boy feeding crows—
The winged creatures thoughtlessly
nearly fainting with surprise,
In the open unplowed fields
Under the shallow roof of time—:
Is this truth…!

O dim-mouth’d Poet… what is truth?

No: 2994 (8-1-2011) Midnight Poems III


The Pallbearers
(A Poem for the old folks) Midnight Poems III

There’s no use whining over lost Children
We know most lost children stay lost.
But it’s probably best also, to let the whining and
Whimpering rest… time is short at best.
And the pallbearers, they’re waiting…

The old can never pickup on their lost dreams
It’s most difficult to make up for those lost days.
We can still tell stories about our younger years though,
And we can still feed the pigeons in the park.
And the pallbearers, they’ll still be waiting—

No: 2973 (7-9-2011)


Upon a Slab
(A Poem for the living) Midnight Poems III

The silent-hearted (dead) hears no words from the living— the tomb attends to the grieving. None come back from there that they may whisper in thy ear how they fare… When the dead are dead, we are no better than meat on a conveyer belt, going to the slab. And nobody takes their goods with them.

No: 2977 (7-16-2011) 11:30 p.m.


If I Cease to Be
(A Poem of a vision, prophetic) Midnight Poems II

I no longer have the fear that I may cease to be—
With pen and hand I have wrote what I have seen,
Beheld the starr’d face of Christ, his hand;
Hence, if I should never look upon thee more,
I shall relish the past, reflecting that joy….

No 2997 (8-2-2011)


Haggentis’ Blasphemy
((A Story of Stone Heap of the Wild Cat) (Midnight Poems II

Stone Heap of the Wild Cat
Part One

Before times heat-beat was
The wide wings of Haagentis
rustled the air; thereafter,
Along with the bruised brows
of the Giant Warriors of—the
Great Stone Heap of the Wild Cat—
in the Bashan Valley, he seize,
And commanded…

It was a den—of devilish brute men,
Half human, where their groans and
roars: thunderous and torrent
Hoarse voices—echoed all the
way to Jericho—(fifty miles or so).

As they were, they were seldom tired, battled
as if just awoken from a rest,
Shoulder to shoulder—with monstrous
arms, they insulted the valley
With a nest of woe—with
Weapons made of carved hard flint —they sat
upon a heap of stones, rugged stones
in four plus circles…
With Haagentis the once Arch Angelic being:
Now full of blasphemy (from the star Alphand)

Stubborn with iron fists—now
having assembled the Rephaim Giants,
With a feverous boiling pulse,
And as he had tired and failed
in heaven itself—
Blinded and cast down to earth,
in despair—shattered—now again,
he was in, Ur’el’s grasp—yet
still a barbed tongue—; in due time,
He’d be, the prophetic doom—
of the once Rephaim Glory…!

Part Two

In war and battle Haagentis was
fierce—conquering the valley—
All the way to Jericho—even to the
south, where the Giant Nephilim ruled.
His ponderous iron fist shattered
ribs, necks, and with poison in
His eyes, he crushed skulls, grinding
them with his heel to pulp.

With thought and woe in his heart
he brought feminine
To the once bountiful valley
And in his wide-winged imagination, he
had no rivals—and the
Giants of old, broad like elephants
tame and mild now, were grazing like
Ox, in the fields, worried no more of God’s
wrath and scorn—but there would be a
Second war—not far hence…
When King David would cleanse
the land and kill all who
Lay before him—not one indistinguishable
shape would exist (to include king Og)—

Thus, when this second war began
Haagentis’ damp and slippery wings
Lost their footing among the Giants of old
More horrid still, would be their doom, in the
Valley of Bashan…

With trembling arms, Haagentis hid—
As the supreme God had sent Ur’el to find him—
once again…
Heavy with rage, fear and anxiety—
He was chained under the heap of stones!
Fate had pour’d once more, divine oil
over him, blinding him.

And as a result, an old world was destroyed
from the blood of the new one!

No: 2996 (8-2-2011) Midnight Poems III


Evil to Evil
(Absolute Evil, owns its Evil)

Fighting evil with evil is evil…
But what makes it absolute evil
is knowing it’s evil, and enjoying it!
And what makes it right is
believing in a cause or mission—;
Even though it remains evil!

No: 3001 ((8-6-2011) (12:02 a.m.)) Midnight Poems III


Old Poets

There’s a reason why the birds never settle down on one branch—and I’ll tell you why: it’s because wars go on, on, and on—(day after day, year after year, and decades after decades, into passing centuries, and millenniums); until young men turn old, and the wars, they turn into tales told and retold. This, the old poets will never tell you (lest they have little to write about).

No: 2978 (7-9-2011) For Gail Weber (Midnight Poems)


((Cynical but true) (Midnight Poems))

It’s okay if we’ve never had the right amount of love, we’ve expected!

Nor as many happy days as we’ve wanted… (in life).

And that perhaps we’ve lost friendships along the way.

It’s all right to let people think what they want to think—idiots or not.

It’s all right to die when no one is looking—

Let’s try to agree on one thing though—(if possible): someone dug a lot of big holes along our pathways…for everybody!

No: 2976 (7-9-2011)
Dedicated to Shawn, Cody and Zanet


A Storm is Driven

A rain of Satan ascends, and from the
depths of hell, a storm is driven:
“Make the fire!” says Satan,
And the blaze burns higher and higher
“Mix and drink the wine!” says Satan,
and his henchmen do so abundantly—
“Grief will profit us, my friends!”
says Satan “for this is our medicine!”
And thus, with wine filled devils—
to cast out thought—a storm is driven.

No: 2978 (7-17-2011) Midnight Poems


Among Men

What can I say, Lord God, Almighty? —that, you look down upon man, see his false his fancy, vanity, and then he appears to have a race of gods, while you hold all things among men and your universe together?

What can I say, Lord God, Almighty, but: “Bring on the Flood!...”

No: 2979 (7-17-2011) Midnight Poems


English Version

The Old Hacienda Gateway
(in Huertas, Peru)

There is an old stone gateway to a Hacienda that
stands high and wide through the foliage
It is thick like an elephant and appears to sand
twenty feet high!
Before it ascends into the sky (built in post Colonia
It is just an old stone relic of a front gate to a
once Hacienda in Huertas! (A reminder of times
gone by… that man is no immortal!)

Note: The old Hacienda Gateway, has been, ruined disastrously, in the past five years, —the author has reconstructed its old glory by reviewing old pictures of it, and making a sketch of it, he had visited Huertas, August 4, 2011, and one of the original photographers took him to the site, of the old gateway, perhaps 150-years old, post Colonial times. Dlsiluk No: 2998 (8-4-2011) Midnight Poems III


The Gray—Half Dead
(or, “Brother to the Demon)

He loiter’d in the park square
I saw him there I swear; I swear
I saw him there (he who could vanish
at will, as if in thin air, there I saw him there)—
hence, his spirit, like
a demon fled, across the open soil
over the church, across the graveyard…
To the coffin’d dead, there he fled to the bones—
Of the dead… (this brother to the demon).
Ah! this he said, he really said:

“Hear me, hear me:
imprudent man, you are condemned,
damned, destined to
the living half-dead; to our ancient
whims, to us Grey Lords
(the ones dethroned from a far-off star
and cast down onto the living earth,
—to sleep among the worms, in dirt)
Then, we who are half-dead (who cannot breed
but can command)
feed off the bones and blood of the living
…! A thousand times risen
(a dying alien race of disgrace, brother to
the demon)…

And those, wrapped within their grip,
blood and tombs—
Forget the sun, stars and moon;
Forget the waters in the creeks—:
The marshes and the lakes—the rivers
and the rains, even the seas! For
This is where they try to breed, with earthly
blood and bone marrow!
(with the spirit’s core, heart and soul…)
Hence, moisten your lips with tears—
For there is no peace, no peace, with such
creatures and beasts!
(A brother to the demon)

O melancholy Gray, despondingly I say—
You are a dying echo, baptized
in your own poor blood, cursed
To your unknown doom: to walk the
Earth alone (God’s mad, half-dead)!

No: 3002((8-6-2011) (1:1:00 p.m.)) Midnight Poems IV


Phantom Fear
of the Dying Drunk

Time after time, as if in a smoky shroud—
We die in drowsy ignorance,
in some dreary dark room
Drunk or drug sick, pale and gasping,
No peace: the heart, and brain
on fire—burning, burning…!
In the dreary gloom of this room—
cold doom drips on one’s lips…
wild thoughts, dead spirit—;
Strange it all is: striving to keep
one’s pale shadow aloof
And when you awake, you wake in Shoal
all one remembers is that last
drunken spell, fix, —
Those tremulous shakes, and the
ghostly moans your voice last made!

Now, you are a shadow, a ghost
a shade—in unholy shoal
Kneeling by a demonic chapel,
As someone rings the bell—
And what is really painful:
is that there are no drugs or alcohol!

No: 3003 (8-7-2011; 9:30 p.m.) Midnight Poems IV; dedicated to the Alcoholic
(and his/her partner, the drug addict: the two peas in a pod)


The Author’s
Military Lament
(Or, ‘Soldiers Lament’)

“It is easy to be brave from a distance…”

Part one of three

Generals, generally die in bed
Privates and corporals
Get shot in the head—
And all the civilians live on and prosper
Untouched now by their once existence.

One man says to another
“Perhaps he would have died anyhow
a different way!”
The other man says:
“War demands deep hulls…what more
Can I say?”

Part two of three

We have fought ineffectual wars
And gone our separate ways
We have danced to the devil’s rite
And dearly we have paid…
To serve two masters, one by night
the other by day!

Part three of three

Sing a song of death and war
Pockets full of lies
Four and twenty politicians
Hope that you will die
Hope that you will fail
So they can be the first
To profit from the sale
Extremely earthy people
Stacking cards on your fate
Men without souls
Stick them up your …hole!

No: 3010 (8-9-2011) Midnight Poems IV

Short Stories

In a Loop Café & Bar
(The Fall of, 1967, Seattle, Washington)

Poetic Prose in Anecdote form

A fat middle-aged man—more short than tall, sat in this loop underworld Café & Bar drinking coffee with shots of rum, and eating chicken wings, sitting at a stool at the counter. He smiled at the waitress and stirred uneasily at his girlfriend outside on the street—she was helping him pay for a four-acre hobby farm outside of the city, from the money she made in the streets (they had just recently met, living together in a nearby studio apartment).
He wanted to buy her dinner, but he feared his girlfriend would take notice. And so his secretly wishing he might become her lover after such a dinner was just mental gossip, for the moment that is.

Boastfully he talked on and on, throughout a good portion of the evening, to this waitress—; this was a spot in the city, he had just gotten to know—a place from which disease, poisoned more often than not, the people that hung around there too long, and seeped out into the city’s mainstream population.
A smile came to the edges of the waitresses’ mouth. Her second place of work, was upstairs from the café and bar, there she laid waiting for him.
Through the influence, he tried to think— as he found himself drudging his heavy body up that stairway, that long flight of wooden stairs leaning on the wooden railing—step to step—but in his own mind he knew he was in trouble—everything was getting blurry, —instinctively he waited for his mind to clear up, he saw the march and he countermarched trying to avoid the demons, tramping on the bed as the waitress went through his wallet, the Mickey the barkeep had given him, had taken effect. And he couldn’t even feel his heart squeeze, as if a python had gripped it with all its might; in consequence, he disappeared from the ground, he once walked on—and last he heard were swinging doors.

Note: Often time’s Poetic Prose takes the form of stories, or anecdotes, and normally are brief; thus, not being poetry and lacking regular meter or rhyme. It may although distinguish itself with an intensity figurative language, that wouldn’t normally be in literal prose. In the story “In a Loop Café & Bar,” it has I believe such qualities, which make it more Poetic Prose than prose itself, with a touch of rhythm. I admit although, more of my other Poetic Prose, fits the bill for Poetic Prose more so than this story such as “Hunters of the Turtles,” but nonetheless, it is distinct from prose. The story takes place in Seattle, 1967, the year I went there, and it could be said, the story is inspired from an experience I had, although in this story, it was taken over the edge—or to the extreme to make a point.

No: 824 (8-16-2011)

The Tale, of:
The Vulture Goddess of Croatia
The Mistress Demigod

On the cliff top near a village on the Adriatic Island now called Cres,
There Fly’s a griffon vulture, known as the Vulture Goddess of Croatia… This is her story:


In the year 12, 999, BC, a buzzard circle gracefully overhead, a goddess from hell in the form of a vulture, she was looking for a nest with food, so she would tell Aka, when asked…

She had been confined to the labyrinths of Hell for 13,001-years, a sort of prison where dead spirits lived, and had been turned into a demon after her first existence, 26,500 BC; and those chosen for special duties by the henchmen of hell, would be allowed to be turned into demigods with special powers, and sent out into the upper world to do their bidding, in this case it would be a daughter of one of the angelic renegades, who left his first abode, in heaven, and cohabitated with flesh on earth, eons before, now chosen to be the Vulture Goddess, and sent to an island called, Cres…to find out Aka’s secret, thus if she could, she would win the heart of the Henchmen of Hell, and until the end of time, be earthly bound and known as The Vulture Goddess of Croatia, and be allowed to walk among the living, in hidden form of course, and thus, she was given all the Black Magic Powers related to the order of demons, for domination of this main task….

This is the story about how the Vulture Goddess became the Vulture Goddess, it all didn’t happen by chance, nothing does, it happed because of the following reasons; demonic control…

Aka, the Golden Man of Croatia
(To be a day of reckoning)

He was called Aka, the Golden Man, he was said to be superhuman, perhaps from another world.
It was a time when Atlantis, in the Atlantic Ocean, near the Pillars of Hercules (Hercules being superhuman also, a demigod, from the village of Seville), was at its peak, and Lemuria, in the South Pacific was at its downfall, one being a military power (Atlantis, being controlled by Prince Poseidon, another half human, born from an archangel, and of superhuman strength and intelligence, as would be in time, Gilgamesh of Sumer, 2700 BC) the other, Lemuria being a philosophical and mental power (likened to the future, Greece and Rome, you might say) when there were wars and skirmishes, across the globe.
Aka, he had flesh made of gold, as if armor plated, and he preached the rhetoric called, ‘A Rumor of Battle,’ and always ended with the words, World Apocalypse, a simple word or phrase, depicting total world disaster, and it would come of course, when Atlantis would sink into depths of the sea, and Lemuria would be confronted by Atlantis, and sink also, and between the two powers, the world would be shaken off its axis, and thus, calamity, and Aka preached as would Enoch (in time), the religious credo of one Almighty God; in consequence, he preached before the Great Flood of impending disaster. But this was neither the time nor place of that epoch. And God said to him, said to Aka, of this far-off millennium, the Almighty God, the God of the Universe, not the demigods, the one and only, God, said “No man can harm you, lest you tell him your secret, where your weakness lies. And you shall live a millennium, and be able to withstand the trials of war and battle, undermine all disasters, become rich, own a million acres of the best land…” and this was in 12,999 BC. And God was true to his word. And all sought his secret.

The Vulture Goddess approached Aka, near the cliff top, on the island of Cres, flying about as if in a daze, hungry, and she spotted Aka, flew low, and surely enough she noticed this man was ancient, and gold plated, and Aka noticed her flying low, near a nest (knowing no devil or demon, nor angelic force could harm him she wanted to draw his attention, pretend she was hungry, needed a nest to rest in). And Aka saw the griffon vulture circling near the nest, a large nest with new born in it.
“Why do you fly low over my head?” asked Aka, as the vulture paid much attention to him as he sat overlooking the cliff, and pretended to him, as if she was deciding to invade the nest, or simply make acquaintance with Aka.
And so she landed on the cliff, next to Aka, said in a sweet voice,
“I am a demon cast into this vulture’s body, and my job is to circle the island, and to bring back to the Henchmen of Hell, evidence of the weak, who live in the villages on the island, so they can be dominated by their hidden forms, and their wives subdued by notorious scorpion demigods, and the men of the wives crippled if they are not to leave this island, and fight the wars on the mainland for the glory of Hell. But I heard of you, and that you are untouchable. No devil or demon, or flying thing can harm you, you are the chosen one.”
“But I will kill you, and then what will you have to say for yourself?” said Aka.
“You cannot kill what is already dead, only separate me from this body, these wings, but I will find another. I am like Venus and the Moon, you cannot touch either, and I can appear in other objects as well, different forms and shapes, even as shadows. I have a duty. Like you, but there is a way to stop me?”
“And how might that be?” replied Aka.
“Concentrate, if you will, if I give to you my secret, you must give me one?” said the Vulture Goddess.

And as they sat there, both pondering, thinking, and deliberating, He seemed to be having an awakening through his heart, an extremely gentle one. He leaned back and forth, unfolding his hands to keep his sitting balance, lest he fall over the cliff. He had never thought so hard, and it was that this creature was so spontaneous, and pain now disturbed him, a mental pain, as if there was entering him a psychosis (or fixation, phobia), almost as if he was having an allergic reaction to this vulture creature. And he told himself he should destroy this creature, save, she may have found out his secret, and if so, he could have made a deal and saved the island (she on the other hand was using all her black magic, knowing it would not harm him in the long run, for he was resistant to it, but in the short run, it would confuse him at best, and that is what she wanted, and this was simply his spiritual and psychic reaction, a kind of cushion, to its more deadly effects, had it been a human being, in which case, the person would be dead, or completely bound by her, if not insane).
“I am having some unexplainable reactions,” said Aka, looking deeply into her eyes. And she was bluffing, she was trying to show, she had some of the secret already, whatever that might be, and possible she could come up with the whole thing once given time, and she looked to be persistent to Aka.
“Make me a deal,” said the Vulture Goddess, “today I and hell, all will be bound by our agreement, tomorrow not so!”
His celestial will, the questioning his faith, wondering if he talked in his sleep, if somehow, she had something on him, knew something, that was destructive to him. She had created doubt in him, just a muster seed, but doubt nonetheless.
Then he thought, I am almost a thousand-years old, I perhaps am going to lose my powers, for God said “a millennium” I think it was a figure of speech, but that is what he said. I am old, torn down and now this, I am distressing. He said all these things in his mind, looking down the cliff, up in the air towards heaven, then at the demigod, thinking about the good folks in the villages, all the ones he knew, the birds in the nest, maybe he could do one last deed before he perished.
“Trust me, and surrender your secret, and you will have your island safe for eternity,” said the demigod—inside the vultures body, biting her lip.
“But what do you get, and hell, what does hell get?” he questioned.
“I get to play games on earth, until Armageddon, the last great battle to be. And for hell, I think, and I do not know for sure, they get you out of the way, and they do not like things they have no control over, nor a do-gooder.”

“Okay,” said Aka, and at that very moment, there was a written contract that appeared, as if out of nowhere, and it was already signed by several demonic beings from hell, and by the Goddess, she did it in transfigured form from her previous life-shape in hell, and quickly transformed back into the vulture shape she was, and by the blood of Aka, he signed the document, and he said (in a saddened voice),

“There is nothing in the world that can attach itself to me, I am like pure gold, and there is only one thing that if touched…by it, it will attack in full force right down into the core of my soul, and thus I would become a dull human color, no longer gold, no longer protected by the visible eye of heaven, the substance, it is called Mercury.”

The Vulture Goddess, thought, “Oh yes, yes indeed the attack of mercury onto gold sucks into it like water to a sponge, why did we not think of it, and with the wave of her wings and yelping to hell, of her victory, a storm came, and it rained water with mercury, and it covered him, and she declared to hell, her feat was accomplished.
And the henchmen from hell appeared to confirm her statement, and they pushed the old man off the cliff, and he died, and Agaliarept, Satan’s number one henchman, confirmed, it was done. And the Giants born of angelic beings, called the Nephilm came to see this feat, and all celebrated.

((Even the Grand Duke of hell, and Belphegor, the King of Demons, and the Lilith, Serpent Queen of Hell, even Haagentis, once an Arch Angel came)(Lilith: the first woman? Who out of pride abandoned Adam, and she was transformed into a demon; as a result came, Eve from the rib of Adam.))

Lilith, Queen of Hell

And Agaliarept whispered to the Vulture Demigod, Goddess, “He didn’t realize, hell is not bound by anyone, or anything, we lie all the time, even to one another (having said that, the Goddess looked at Agaliarept, frantically), silly he should believe such a simple lie, but then, so did you, because you will remain a Vulture, but a Goddess Vulture; plus, you will never, ever be beautiful again, or lose the shape you are in, although you can circle the island until the end of days, be that as it may!”
And he laughed until he turned purple, on his return to the docks of hell.

2-8-2009 © “The Tale of the: The Vulture Goddess of Croatia” by Dennis L. Siluk (reedited, 8-2011)
Dedicated to: Nenad B.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Midnight Poems II (by Dennis L. Siluk)

Midnight Poems II

(Three poetic prose poems…)


For the Heavy-dead

Come quick, quickly, oh sweet death soberly,
Down-looking devils, and with a blazing white
Hidden in the midnight corridors of my mind’s light,
That thus so clearly I myself can be,
Sinking deep, deeper in their fiery sea:
Unknowingly, a victim of their plight
Sinking deep, into their hideous night,
Be it not seen, bewilder’d and speechless

The serious devil toiling for my death
Restless he leaps, pursing his wit
He carries a harlot’s smile, against my smile.
O, hideous demon! How you fidget.

O, you from the Heavy-dead, eyes of red
Bygone in Christ’s name, that’s all to be said.

No: 2993 (August 1, Three past Midnight)


How Wick’d is a Man
“Nothing comes from Nothing”

How wick’d is the man, who cannot see
Upon his last days his soul’s needs,
Who curses all the days of his life’s journey!
While stealing a fair name to impress another.
It is as if the spirit would pluck itself,
And reap the treasures within its mist, —
As if a demon, like a meddling imp,
Should darken his one short day with muddy shit!

No: 2992 (7-31-2011)


The Beast and His Shadow
(A short poetic prose vignette)

The Beast and His Shadow

As long as vice stares down upon the earth
Arises at twilight, seeping out from its berth
May God in Heaven curse the Beast and his shadow…!

No: 2979 (July, 18, 2011)

The psychosis began with the snap of a whip. A Shadow dropped with a wound to her head, and the man who had slashed the whip turned to run, growling a concise peril at the pale-faced male who stood by petrified; then the living thing dashed away among the leaves and branches of the trees, in the deep foliage of the woods, along the edge of the lake, looking as if he was riding on a wild stallion (an insane unicorn) with a horn upon its forehead, between its shaggy mane and long pointed ears, with its hairy underbelly, crouched in a gallop. Within the hour, stern-faced men, were searching the Boundary Waters—weapons in hand—; through the horrifying night hunt the wounded lay struggling for her life. “She’s become quiet, settled down, calm, hushed, she’ll live,” said a voice that came out of the tent, and then all you could hear, from there, was a burst of neurotic tears.

The noise of a gallop had been so great, greater than the conversation of the several men standing by the tent, drinking whiskey, whispering to one another within the night’s wind, of the beastly man and his shadow, on his wild stallion. There in the tent opening, she stood, small, pale, sphinx-like—likened to an Indian Warrior awakening and awaiting the vanished phantom, in anticipation of his return, his seeking a human sacrifice, and there she stood sphinx-like, petrified, leaning against the tent pole, with deep rooted eyes of fathomless fires. Then without even one spoken word, she turned and fled into the deep foliage of the night woods, as something that looked like the head of a wild unicorn flashed by, then dwindled from sight, under the cloudy grey canopy, that allowed but a spark of light through from the moon: chasing, pursuing, ever running after this human heart with some cosmic power, trying to draw her soul, into its un-terrestrial gleam; as all those men stood by ramblingly, as the hoofs of the beast hammered and thundered in their bosom and brains, hearts, fiber tissue and muscle, leaving them vibrating, disjointedly—surprised and dismayed at the happening.

In passing, there isn’t really much more to tell, I must admit harshly, if not listlessly, for only death would stop either one, or an ankle sprained on a hidden root in the dark gray glares from the moon; but what was left behind was this: involuntarily hands clenched by the tent, a terrible scream in the woods, trees and foliage all smashed up, so a backwoodsman passing that way would say the next day, say, swore that he heard: in the late hour of the night he heard the voice of the woman scream—enraged, desperate in the heavy fog that suddenly fell upon them, and he slightly seen, in this short drawn-out ghostly story, the shadow of the horse, and its rider as they rode away…!

No: 2980 (7-18-2011)
Midnight Poems/in Poetic Prose


((A poem for the times) (or, ‘Boxcar Shock’))

The Methuselah Tree

Part I, Secret Heroes

Full for fire—so we can make light for the devil… that is what is at the stake here… ‘Evil to him, who evil think’ but to him evil is not evil, even if it is. Nothing is holy on earth anymore but boxcar shock…and that’s packaged in evil.

Job cries out of man’s condition; Abram did too, and ‘Howl’ also—but none had traveled enough to talk to God or the Devil on the subject—perhaps their acquaintanceship allowed them to give their opinion—; frankly, they became unto themselves, secret heroes—to tell the tall tales of their times, of mankind, their way, as they saw it— so anyhow, that is the way I see it.

Obscure odes—prose poems, lyrics and epics— often, too often, become famous because of the Devil; such writings comes from His breathing, his body, our experience—!

My life could be a boxcar—one winding around the world, with others, one of many, crisscrossing the globe, over and over and over—one boxcar telling another what literature, and poetry is supposed to be— so they write what is common—like stale bread nothing different—a dissimilarity has to be broken down, then one can see—the one among many…

Part II Grasshopper-gods

The one-eyed dollar, the bottle of booze, a pack of cigarettes in the pocket, a rainy day—, dope on the bedroom floor, suicide movies, movies of blood and guts, movies that their vocabulary, their dialogue is shortened to four letter words: inside the dresser drawer; romance paperbacks, and piles and piles of Playboy magazines, desecrating every corner of the bedroom scene…

The Mind, the mind, has swollen in time, not like it was in the Cro-Magnon times—swollen to the point of man becoming little Grasshopper-gods, waiting to be shocked, the only holy thing left on earth…

—waiting for the big bomb to hit, and split the world in half; for the Four Horsemen of Revelation to gallop by (the Apocalypse)

—waiting for the terrorist, the mad taxi driver, a chicken bone caught in the throat; or, an olive toothpick, from a glass of Champaign: a happy death is not all it’s made out to be…


You can’t translate poetry to prose, and if you try, you’ll end up with a slipped disc, or a lopsided hip….or black eye! It’s the way it is.

Mental institutions are made for: poets, different minded people— the insane, those we blame, and some slightly within reach, others beyond redemption, the devil never sleeps ((you need have only asked Walt Whitman the fag and his cronies: Ginsberg, W. Boroughs, Jack K.; and the sick ducks, like: Pound, Plath, Sexton—; or the deep dark sinister and morbid: Poe, Keats, Howard, H.P., or C.A. Smith, Cesar Vallego, Blake—Pablo Neruda: horney as bitch with an ever lasting itch, and here and there it’s easy to find a few dozen more poets…they’d agree; whatever happened to meaningful Anglo-Saxon meter?)(and to such poets as Auden, Riego, Millay,Thomas Campion, Marianne Moore, Ellot, commings, Hughes, Dylan Thomas, Bly, Wright, Sappho, Su Tung-p’o, Holderlin Tsvetaeva, Virgil; forget Emerson, perhaps Browning, let’s keep Dickenson, Thoreau, Longfellow, Frost, Hughes, Jeffers and Chaucer, Dante, Homer: actually I’ve read them all, the best with no black eyes are Juan Parra del Riego, Homor and Bly))

See all, do all—not necessary be all. Poets see how bad the world is (has become) so they beat the drums, beat and beat and beat the drums, until their hands are numb, forgetting, always forgetting, its always been that way since Methuselah!

Part III Gomorra

Vietnam, my war, the war of lost causes and souls, the war that sparked greed with no need—forevermore in America: the war people died for, for no reason for, other than for Congress declaring it holy! (Like so many others.) People displaced, disappeared, ended up living on streets, under bridges from LA to New Orleans, all the way to New York City; living like ants, in holes—ending up killers, thieves; dope addicts in alleys. Ending up at the VA hospital, weak with Agent Orange, weak hearts, elusive brains, hands trembling— wounds and scares that will never heal; that was war, my war, the war with no reason, lost causes and souls, the war that sparked greed with no need, the war that no one cared for but Congress. And the rich made contracts, sat at home watched T.V., “I Love Lucy,” and “Gunsmoke,” football and baseball for ten years, and drank beer and made jokes, flew to Las Vegas gambled, bought whores, helped to make America, the world’s Gomorra—

that was my war! Then came another, one to win back America’s pride, —so the flag could once more, fly high, covering up that old back eye…!

The test of time; it’s a game we play in the U.S.A, a game that has now circled the world over…it tells if a piece of literature is fine, if it outlasts a quarter of a century or more...; it also tells you the taste of the times, of its society and where it’s going, where it will end up—and much, much, more (but never does it look backwards to tell you where you once were—where you came from, God forbid, that might remind you: America was once pure and good…no abortions, to fags waving the flag, the National Anthem played at the Cinema before the show, the Ten Commandments in all the schools and many courthouses, no such thing as Darwinism in all the children’s every text book, forcing the children to believe in the foolish, the unfound, saying it is science solid—when in essence it is fiction, with a theory that goes round and round… we are a bunch of adult clowns… ): literature it tells you the taste of the times, of its society and where it’s going, where it will end up— (good poetry tells you the truth, and not always with a rhyme—poets are the pallbearers of the times) it tells you what is in its head, bowls—guts, the peoples hearts, it all comes out in ink form, before it settles into populace’ minds of the times. If allowed, once allowed, the guy next door, wants to make his mark, a name, so he ups the dosage, until it’s so high, we’re all addictive to smut—and the big lie! And thus, hence we end up standing outside Noah’s Ark door, waiting for God’s thunderous roar, His storm, waiting, until he cannot take anymore! (Forgetting, God doesn’t worry about our mess, he knows sooner than later we’ll disappear from the earth, and He’ll still be left— Never does He need our help, although some religious freaks, I mean: nuts, think so…)

Therefore, no more butterflies, limits, stoplights, just one big orgy, doing what we do best, feeding our ever desire with whatever the earth has to offer, Lucifer’s creed: do it until you bleed.

Part IV the Devil Talks

Admiration, attention, someone to say: how great thou are!” We want it all; we want to be Grasshopper-gods. (That’s the highest we can go—on the totem pole, even if we don’t think so, and God laughs at that too.)

Admiration, I cannot say what it is,
It comes and goes
I only know that it sings in me
A little while, then sings in me no more.

Windows and mirrors, devils and imps, black love from Hell, Shoal, the Underworld, that Poe knew so well, and H.P., and C.A. Smith, and seemingly Stephen King too: “Do as you please” is their earthly philosophy. Hell will tell you there is no discipline or limits down there, do as you will, so why not do it here, now, “do whatever is your heart’s desire,” says Lucifer, and his demonic followers “in my abode, there is no fire, that’s all made up from the preachers on earth long ago, who want to control, control, control you, and play with your soul… (but hell has rules too, a command center, generals and nobles and cruel punishment for those who not head those rules, and the soldiers of hell are more discipline than me and you) Forget Heaven,” Lucifer murmurs on the sly, He’s the king of the airwaves and knows soon you’ll die… “Up there,” he implies, “there is discrimination, loud horns blowing all the time and rules galore, evil that is justified—you see when they use the swords up there, it’s okay; God can kill at will and so can his angelic beings, and we cannot protest—just stand there and watch, and are we not made in his image, allowed to think and talk; thus, we do not think the same, so we can’t always follow his ideas; so, it can’t always be his way, thus we claim—sweetly with grace as we play our silent music down here.” (But it’s really a bluff, and a threatening thrust, to enlarge his beachhead, with charm, and sabotage you when the time comes.)

Great literature (and poetry) creates its own pathways, its own form of writing—hence this is the celebration, perhaps the only lasting one they will ever get, for their madness (the Grasshopper-gods) —; you see, at birth they all come out of a long coma (God not really wanting to allow it, but He had hope for them nonetheless—it’s called predestination, with a choice and a glance—it was how He meant it to be, but it has to be wanted; in other words, it was meant—their talent, skill, drive—meant to enhance, not to desecrate the mind of man…but Grasshopper-gods want it all, they abuse and let it all out, let it all fall where it will, lit it all hurt who it may, and we can’t blame Lucifer for that, although he planted it, and that’s a fact…but choices, we have choices!) at death, they will all return to it, the long, long everlasting coma. No victory for the little Grasshopper-gods (not really, it will all be covered up in mud someday, and they like their works, their writings, literature or poetry, long forgotten, never again, to be on display), just an end, that is all they get, just a bleak dark, everlasting, empty nothing, just an end to it all, all of it, and perhaps we are all better-off for it; I mean the whole world is better for it, if not now, surely then.

Perhaps Lucifer at one time was a good fellow, who’s to say, like Robert Frost has so cunningly stated: “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and sorry I could not travel both…” thus he went his own way. Split, separated from God, now in the forest called Hell, a road now trodden by so many feet, its worn-out. But for us, in comparison to time, in comparison to him, Lucifer’s time on earth, we have but minutes;—in consequence, we must find our worth, in spite of his diabolical hand, challenge:

In some kind of content
We all struggle forward from birth
Exposed to light and dark
Confounded, transfixed
Changing places with those before us
It is a glorious fight, nature’s way
In finding the truth….!

End of Poem

Personal Note: A Statement on Poetry: Poetry in its oldest forms was meant to teach, cultural, tell a story, or tale, to enrich the reader. We as poets are responsible for what we put into the heads of our youth; if not responsible to the people who read it then to God who sees it; and if you do not believe in God, then out of respect for humankind (the exception to the rule, if you are of the demonic world, so shall you have no reason to complain of anything, and you have no rights). Like anything else, or like the fat man says, too much is too much. We have a world today, the way it is, because of the way we are. We want everyone to go by the Golden Rule, but ban the Ten Commandments from schools and courthouses. We want our young men to fight for our country and its ways, but can we blame them when they say ‘No!’ knowing its for oil, or industry (contracts for the rich and powerful, for the influential; for the United Nations Millionaire Club?) when in essence it is not for a crisis in America itself, there are only a few recent wars justified: perhaps WWII, and Afganistan, the rest we never should have gotten involved with, they were not a crisis for the United States, perhaps we should look at the Constitution, limit presidential powers, We want our kids to be raised properly, to respect our neighbors and the laws of the land, but we are put in jail for punishing them, thus they end up with no limits or discipline (perhaps that is why we have three-million citizens behind bars); stop and think about it, that’s more than Russia. A kick in the ass never hurt anyone, but nowadays if you kick that kid in the ass, you’ll be seeing the judge. We need licenses for doctors, for driving cars, for teachers, but not for parenting. Rights for Children to have abortions, is one of the greatest sins our Government has allowed—they have this right and we have no right to stop them, yet we are punished if we do not support them: food, clothing excreta; we have a million abortions a year, we are killing our legacy just as fast as we are butchering cows. So when we complain of way things are the way they are, we need only look backwards, to see how they developed. Gay rights, gay marriages, for God’s sake, what have we come to, Gomorra? Too many of us have turned into Grasshopper-gods.

No: 2983/July: 19-22, 2011 (by: Dlsiluk)


Bloodline of the Lost
(From the author’s ‘Book of Methuselah’)

The pre-Adamic race, the race God created before Adam, Adam, father of the Jews, from the Book of Genesis, the book written by Moses. Thus, between Adam's time and the pre-Adamic period there was a ruined-reconstruction period that took place. Where after, God told Adam to replenish the earth—because the sins of man before him, were great and he wanted to dissolve that lost race and because the 'death sin' was not in place, they are still living—ghosts within the bloodline of the misplaced. And thus, death entered in through Adam.

No: 2984/ 7-20-2011 (by: Dlsiluk)
Midnight Poems/in Poetic Prose


The Magnificence of summer
(—in the Mantaro Valley)

The birds have come back into the air,
for new beginnings.
The magnificence of summer
comes back to the Valley.
Whenever I walk up and down the old
Inca Road, in Huancayo
My whole body feels warm for its
Ancient cultures…

The moon appears; there is wind
sounds in the surrounding Andes.
Walking across the Plaza de Arms,
I notice the Wanka Music.
The people sitting on the benches look
up at me from the edges of their eyes
The shadows from the mountains touch
my shadow, my clothing.

No: 2988 (723-2011)
Dedicated to Mayor Dimas


On an Antarctic Road

For a long time now my thoughts have ran on and on,
now they are near flood level…

What does the penguin think deep in a blizzard—
while trudging an Antarctic Road
(making his way to the open sea?)

He thinks of having more life…that only the bold can
survive (in this most atrocious climate)

Of never seeing his children again, he had to leave—
(unable to see them, behind him)
somewhere, on this Antarctic Road!

No: 2986 (7-21-2011)
Midnight Poems


((or, Headlights) (Haiku))

My life is a deer in the
A car racing
on an icy street—

We both meet eyes to headlights…

No: 2987 (7-21-2011)
Midnight Poems


The Watermelon-seed
(—Eyeball Poem)

Eyeballs, like watermelon-seeds
sinking into the open sea
Dark eyeballs, that once asleep
never see me….
That’s my wife, five minutes
after she hits the bed
She’s like she’s dead!

No: 2990 ((7-24-2011)(Midnight Poems))
Dedicated ed to Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk


The Cleaver Dream

A car pulled up beside me, on a highway
both, I and the driver had gotten out of our cars
he pulled out a meat cleaver, seemingly from nowhere
ready to kill me—
I looked to jump over the edge, where
a deep, deep canyon resided—
I said, to my head “…it is way too deep for me to jump!”
Then I thought of pulling out my gun
but the man was way too quick—
the cleaver was on its way down
inches from my head.
I thought then to scream for the police
but, with a glimpse, they were nowhere to be found!
Then I made my two arms into an X
crisscrossing them, to where the upper parts were a ‘V’
to stop his thrust,
to stop his forearms before the blade penetrated me—
And then I thought of prayer
and I woke up,
realizing it was just an unbearable dream
(wish I would have thought of prayer before the cleaver thing).

No: 2989 (7-24-2011)
Midnight Poems


Below the Planet’s Waters
(By Poet Laureate, Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.)

Reflections of hills; mountains
of mist below
What are they? The reds, browns,
that float?
Landmarks—perchance, long
Perhaps valiant stories!
Perhaps someone’s death—!

Blind, cloudy creatures, with
their spines turned up to us—
Crouched, smiling up at shadows
and the landscape below
. . .

How different their world is
from ours!
As I cling onto steel railings
they below (swim carefree about)
bored, waiting for a storm.

Notes: Written after reflecting in the Art Section of the magazine ‘Exploring Tosca’ ((summer issue, 2011, page 37) (Gail Weber, Editor)) the work of Marcia Soderman, in which the author was inspired by the painting named: “Contemplating Deep Waters”

No: 2986/7-26-2011


The Little Rain Roof
((or, ‘Miracle of El Tambo’, 7-27-2011) (Poetic Prose))

A child of three or four, fell today from the fourth floor, just twenty-minutes ago— ((a bang, thump and crash) (5:10 p.m.)). He fell out of a window four-floors up, onto a little rain roof two floors down, then rolled off that, and free-fell two floors more, hitting the outside building wall, onto the grass in the backyard, outside our window (I call him the miracle of El Tambo). He stood up—amazingly, walked a few steps, dizzy, looked at me through the window, looking at him, he walked a few feet more, still dizzy, shaky, lightheaded, in a half circle, half dazed, half conscious, nothing broken (not even a wrist, ankle, or finger bone, for that matter, not even a burse, so it looked) then a tear came from his eye, and he started to cry, and a young lad that was sitting by the fence on a bench, ran to pick him up, comforting him a bit. Then his mother came running down the stairway, made her way around the building; then shortly after that, the boy’s father showed up, coming home from work: my wife explained what had taken place, thus he raced—with a puff and a leap up those four flights of stairs— what can I say, the boy’s simple a miracle today, one that took place in El Tambo (Huancayo, Peru).

Note: Dedicated to Jonathan, that young boy. No: 2987, 7-27-2011.


Hunters of the Turtle

((or, ‘the Turtle Poem’) (in poetic prose))

Part One Thank God for the Angels

No matter which way the old turtle goes, sooner or later he will end up under or over the waterfalls—(or splattered on the highway) Swept to his doom— this he knows. He looks for a good death—but realizes good or bad—the henchman’s melody doesn’t differ (he has lived like a lion, to the fullest, on the edge, not like a dog, and that has made all the difference to his way of thinking). He has learned never to swallow the hook completely (to walk the edge of the highway). He’s discovered the sounds of trains, and rain, rivers and the swift wisp of the wind—dipped in the sun—that man with all this, remains discontent, at the end of the day…lost in his existence. What does all this mean to the old turtle? Perhaps that the world is lost, odd, or insane—worse than hiding in his shell for the hunters (but time heals his suspicions, worries and doubts, and he goes on….).

Part Two The aging old turtle

The aging old turtle has discovered something peculiar about humankind—that their tongues bend more than their kneecaps—how strange. The old turtle hides in his shell, looks out as if he is behind a curtain…looking for the hunters of turtles, and the world goes by moving around the heat within the sun, as everyone grabs sparkles of its sunshine, hunters and turtles alike (he’s tired of it all, ‘Nothing new under the sun,’ he brings to mind, ‘… just old hunters with new faces.’) He doesn’t feel time passing—likened to rain drops falling, although he does discover a few new little wrinkles here and there—now and then: he calls them: ‘Fine groves in the sand, on my forehead’ —looking in the water—; he even notices some new wrinkles like fishing lines driven deep into his shell, but what the hell, it’s just time passing. His legs feel cold and cramped— He knows (because things keep slipping) time is short.

Part Three The turtle keeps talking

The old turtle has been talking—more like whispering—into my ear; he has much to say, he’s trying to stir my emotions, in this new descending season. I don’t mind all of that, but he complains about my hairy ears. Grumbles like an un-tuned guitar. It’s not comfortable. I guess it’s the way of old aging turtles. If it is not me he bothers, it’ll just be someone else, so I tell myself. Sometimes I want to tell him to just be quiet—but I nevertheless bend my neck to his level to listen: “Happiness is doing a service to others,” I tell myself, that’s God’s rule, like it or not. This rule of thumb has been going on for thousands of years, it will not change. I’m sure it will happen to me, perhaps sooner than later, and the listener will say: “Listen to this old man crackle, like an old aging turtle,” as I try explaining my life, or parts of it.

It’s time now to push the old turtle’s head back into his shell. Drag the dock in—as they say, pile the wood up, for the coming winter, and enjoy the silence in a warm bed.

((The old Turtle, his bones appear eager to be laid away in the grave) (he doesn’t wish to be everlasting, in his temporary territory—permanent in his impermanent kingdom, like us; he doesn’t even know.))

Part Four The Turtle Poem

Some poems have their own skins, like bananas and oranges, not all of course are sweet, and some are bitterer than others, the poet knows words are abundant like fruit — he or she can be selective as in this poem. The dear old turtle, abandoned his turtlish-life (to a certain degree; as often animals do, or are forced to do), to live and hide among mankind—sometimes among skyscrapers and highways, and sometimes deep within the swamps. This old turtle, He’s even learned the human language to a certain degree—not really so uncommon, certainly his gestures, or body language. —Well! I must say, before that took place, perhaps deep in the woods he may have lived a scandalous life, perchance an extravagant one, by choice alone maybe—who’s to say?

I don’t want to alarm you, but so many old turtles have been lost in the bog. This old turtle— shrewd to have lived so long—evidently slipped thorough the bushes, that is why he is in this poem.

In closing, let me simply say: things move slowly in the woods. I don’t want to try and cheer you up, it’s all right that the turtle is now long gone, people like animals stroll about, some come to meet and greet you; while on the other hand, human or animal (sometimes more alike than not), come to eat you, walking over your footprints day after day, after century after century—shortening your stay on earth, all trying to make a home—all trusting that the world will not end before their time—while scholars cobble together to product it, while others try to preserve it—it’s simply maddening, but that’s the way it is, odd and mysterious, clumsy as it may look.

Note: “Hunters of the Turtle”, parts one and two written 7-7-2011; part three and four written 7-8-2011 (No: 2965 thru 2968); illustration by the author, Photo by Rosa Peñaloza


A Fine Beast

Those men who cry the loudest “We hate war!” are full of horseshit—we love it, we feed on it. We glorify it, become addictive to it, obsessed by it, making a billion dollar toy industry out of it, reminding us of it; making movies, and weapons galore while at the same time making millionaires through government contracts, billionaires. We live for it, and with it and by it, and we control through it, control the masses, and control other countries with the fear of it. It is our reason to feast, boast, raise taxes, build statues, have expensive funerals, blow the bugle loud, stand proud, we are if anything—a fine beast.

No: 2988 (written specifically for “The Meatpacker’s Boy”
7-29-2011, under the hot sun, of Huancayo, Peru) Poetic Prose


“Ready to Wake” Haiku
(By Poet Laureate Dennis L. Siluk)

Sunrise, be awake
The Great Serpent of the world
Is all around us!

Inspired by the art work “Sunrise at Washburn” by Gail Speckmann;
Poem No: 2991 (7-31-2011)


Blue Shadows
(By Poet Laureate Dennis L. Siluk)

The shadows are blue, and the world is restless.
The sun’s rays are blue, but they warm the world
As they fall, they add to the calm of my soul.
It is Sunday afternoon. I’m reading
‘Exploring Tosca,’ while ‘Fear Factor’ is on.
The shadows are blue, and the world is restless.

Poet’s poem ‘Blue Shadows,’ was inspired by the painting “Blue Morning,” by Christine Halverson, in ‘Exploring Tosca,’ magazine, Editor Gail Weber, summer issue, p. 43. (Poem No: 2990; 7-31-2011)