Seldom comes feeling without a price, nor trickery, sacrifice. Years fall through the fingers like grains of sand, new stories told through the lines in the palm of one’s hand. Every single solitary cell replaced, bodies, in their entirety erased. There exists not a single same follicle of hair, and evidently, in a world of junk food and television, not a reason to care. We awake to new morning rays, feeling the exact same as yesterday. An inescapable vacuum of impermanence but we somehow bathe in the warmth of blissful ignorance in spite of the ontological enormity of this. I am not who I claim to be, not one of us is that person we believe we see. Who is he? An ephemeral representation of me. And yet he still contains the same memory. His brain’s hemispheres are not mine, his four lobes have changed over time. What of these universals, this non-tangible memory? Exists it independently of him and me. They float in a sphere of abstractions, telepathically absorbed by every moment’s new brain cells, floating languidly through a realm betwixt heaven and hell.

The word “neurological” cannot be deemed autological because there is nothing logical to the neurological; beyond us, theological, asking too many questions all too toxicological. The highway of life’s mental slideshow evokes too much; why should a single melody or song permit a daydream with your touch? I am a completely different person in body and mind; it should only logically follow that the present me is doing well, no history on which to dwell, a clean slate calm as the music of the sea shell, but an amalgamation of the required tastes seldom does not remind me of your smell. Unable am I to tame excessive epistemological thought, but know I aught, the evolution of a being ought, after years passed of growth and mental capacities always wrought, should of a hammer and toad share a difference of naught. Study a photo of five years ago, it’s not a five years younger you, but a de-aged clone. An undeniable assent: frivolous is our physical world, for memories always transcend. They float through the air like subtle wind, surreptitiously seeping through cavernous cracks in the wall of your skull; a physically entirely different brain systematically installed that still holds onto every stat of professional baseball.

Though know: far more paramount than a statistic or number, is the film in your head that plays the moments of her. The representation of “me” that is he (perhaps a notional me, the clone in the photos we study and see) loved her years ago; yet I pay the sorrowful fee, docilely drowning in the shade of the morose trees, and therein lies an irony: I choke on love of a crippling degree, the bitter salts of varying emotional seas, a prodigious pathos of pity that never even belonged to me. I loved you, but it never truly was “me”, I meditate on these thoughts lest I may ever die under the leaves of those forenamed trees.

I thus ask: what are you God? Thou art a conscious both brilliant and wicked, simultaneously loving and cryptic. A pernicious general with an army of credulous obsequious talking heads of acquiescence, though too a benign shepherd of selflessness and kindness that’s beyond humans’ finiteness and what we may deem realistic; an omniscient love of the altruistic. I must be shackled inside this brain of truth and lie, but is it truly “I”? How may one define “I”? Ethereal transfers of images and tastes like wireless data that transcend what we may deem real, we cannot know anything from what we see and feel. This body a capsule that imprisons the soul, a perennial curse where I keep close both the best and the worst. I tire of her. Cannot she go away? Must she continuously keep coming, conspiring curse, contriving cries: those of “please” and “why”?

Let me sleep the longest sleep; blessed would be a new life, one to cherish and keep; somber sobs become euphoric cries, bred by these, such virgin eyes. Weep only the jubilant weep, resurrection from a consciousness so deep. Please, I besige! May I a reincarnated conscious reap! I preach not as victim, nor so piteous a pilgrim of the pedantic, I only desire a true love; not that of the ephemeral romantic.

Let the flow of new memories correlate with the new body and mind we await; a stepping stone into the future, walking on a more stolid water into things far more beautiful. Some stories, stagnate. Tales of emotional tempests, end in a storm of the tumultuous. Neither is there peace or placidity, scarcely a story that guarantees our emotional indemnity.

The fates of the eternal dictate a story’s ending; change be only permissible, approval of the Almighty pending. The power of the nefarious Gods impending, their guffawing condescending, though notwithstanding, the fates’ will not need servitude nor bribery for bending. For it’s not their decision for which the ending is intending, not their verdict to which goodness is tending; this one belongs to me, on no one else’s vision is it depending, a poorly written finale that needs mending, a tale to which I die defending because it is finite human limitation I am transcending and another plane to which I am ascending. No longer a need for pretending, I pen this new beginning that required amending, the previous story’s true ending.

I awake under the rays of an unsullied sun. I turn to her. “I love you”, says the one.

06/29/2014 completed





There was an era of recent in which I felt lost. This time may be articulated by sadness’ soliloquy of song, though I shalt not express this sentiment for long. For on the soul it weighs, in sanity’s dollars it’s paid, thy memories’ slideshow deals in spades whilst the heart obeys at the beckoning of truth’s painful days. And therein lies our melody; the tune of the universal therapy blessing us ever verily with ecstasy’s plentifully pleasant pleasantry. I swallow the boulder in my throat, cotton gloves attempting to dam my eyes’ moat; fingers interlaced and hands fused, my beckoning shares the name of what a predator pursues.


I ask “could this happen to me? I want to be free, I want to be free.”


And you drift from suppression’s grasp like an errant kite, nothing is more gorgeous than God’s voice on a winter’s night. So infinite love of the universe, pour on down; buckets of rain, buckets of pain, those buckets from which we may only gain. Ushered in is the new life, where jubilee may no longer be coy; happiness is not a lack of sorrow but the presence of joy. And we are thus reborn, our lives in tune with the soul’s breath, it commands sovereignty’s death; promotes concession to introspection resurrection where you’re freed by the need for self-reliance for only truth shall I bleed.


I scream out “shall this happen to me? I will be free, I will be free.”


The heart swelled so giant it threatened to rip in two as I lamented and celebrated over how much I love all of you. I extrapolated upon the portentous questions as I filter through the trite insipid suggestions in hopes for a logical and sound progression. We always arrive back to sentiment so forgiving, and in being blessed with the eternal good’s thanksgiving, an angelic voice inside instructs that “life is for living”. And bestowed have been I with a new melody to shout, a new song to sing. Seizing the day is such a powerful thing. I drive in the car and I cry in joy; life is grand, life is beautiful, forever shall live the heart of a boy.


“Won’t this happen to me? I shall be free, I shall be free.”


And for some weeks I went for a ponderous swim in the rivers of my head, one of doubt and questioning all things said. Weakly did I bask in the light of the neurological riverbed, only then the book of my soul willed to be read. I tire of the asphyxiation of the soul, of this smothering song I sing; I now know teleology is a very real thing. Sacrificing happiness for comfort is crippling, it’s debilitating and disabling; frivolous is status quo if it’s everything you are that you must forgo. But I will be freed. Slavery is the catalyst to succeed. I will be freed. Happiness is my only need.


“This truly is happening to me. I will be free, I will be free.”


I have learned so much. Never should love and laughter be called a crutch. There is a path to which each of us belong, a place we’ve needed all along. Do not let the world tell you right from wrong, too easily can sullen lives live prolonged. Conformity’s story is over, turn the page, you’re a conditioned bird but in an opened cage. Society will suck you dry, vampiric souls till you die. Society’s pestering will be incessant, but you are the enlightened peasant. Society will never let you off the hook, but you can throw away this world’s little instruction book. So put me in your chains, world, try to tell me what I will be. Look me in the eye, world, and tell me what you see:


it truly has happened to me. I am free. I am free.

Tony Blau Veldt, 12/28/2013 completed


Treason 2

All is quiet on the steps of that building; the rustling of the leaves far exceeds the breathing of the flesh coated droids we call “people”. You know that structure to which I refer. It is large, but smaller than the Tower of Babel (though the concept is the same; it’s not enough to hold power, enjoy it as a synonym for “fame”). It is also white, aptly less than the color of innocence but more so than your average sheet of loose-leaf notebook paper; the type on which the poets record our dying tendrils of freedom.

This place (the one where I live) should be bountiful, like a Biblical spring that nourishes life of all forms and births the captivatingly vibrant flowers, those ones on which the worlds’ greatest symphonies should be based. This place should be vital, should be extravagant to see, it needs to be that without which we would cease to be. But where I should see beauty, I see death. Where I should see prosperity, I see depression. Where I should feel freedom I live suppression. Where I should feast on truth I swallow censorship and where I should experience happiness I am permitted only “pursuit of” it. Why in this world do we convert, people content to contort with rejecting truth but ingesting comfort? Ignorance is bliss, they insist, pound your medication into my brain’s wet abyss. Slave. Decorated as good citizen. Work for the greater good (just like you should). Exploited for money, for power. Beaten and raped with a fistful of dollars. We are living but not alive, I beg of you to see, understand servitu-WAIT, what’s on the TV? Become alive, educated, learn to truly be – “no just take this pill, you obviously have ADD”. Shut your eyes…listen….the lulling effects of my wealthy religion…we are right…they are wrong…we permit you to question but not for long. Questions are pointless, like the knife that has seen too many years, where you live is what is, what you are is what you’ll be, blindly sail complacent-seas where slaves are carved of you and me.

I look to history; I take trial, tribulation, tumultuous times of tenacious tyrants and treasonous traitors. They teach you truth, so long as it be permitted in the voting booth. They’ll give you years of classes called “history” that won’t touch perspective unless it’s white victory. Is not one man’s terrorist one man’s freedom fighter? Such a doctrine is “trash”, such an idea “unconstitutional”. But a story that offers up one side is not compete. Truth in our schools is not replete. A generation of ardent little soldiers, given no choice, speech but no voice, stars and stripes rejoice, grown on a steady diet of lies that creates the ties to that building; the one of Babylonian pride, the thorn in progress’ side. The one whiter than the faces of those who live in fear from the repercussions of questioning those values held so dear.

I reject the dystopia. I eschew the truth that is the place I live. I walk those lonely streets, the sky an off-gray and the grass dry as bone the barren land the evidence of the seeds avarice has sown. We obsequiously unify and band and wander in this land of vanity and greed because those with power will always feed off others’ planted seeds while those peasants accede because despots mislead and exploit the working soul in you and me. These streets need not be vacant and sad, comprised of history’s dust and sand, but the life in the veins of the body politic is exhausted. We have but bled out after too many years on life support, the kingdom like the moribund geriatric, thought-controlled in the ward they call the psychiatric. It renders our collective power useless, the concept of unity dies, what goes on in that building and its sister ones severs all democratic ties. Never in my lifetime did I think I’d see a monumental collapse on such a scale comprised of such egregiously embarrassing Napoleonic moments, hundreds of grown men and women playing tug-of-war like the aggressive boys fighting for jungle-gym dominance. If only William Golding could see this, the debacle they with suits and ties and chins held high call “congress”. See the sun eclipsed by clouds. See the flowers of yesterday birth the weeds of tomorrow and today. See the birds turned demonic mid-flight, see the happiness, like a nefarious vacuum, sucked out overnight.

And in concluding this message over which equality presides, I must stress that I do not understand the concept of sides. I care not for the endless debate that serves to consternate those who are smart enough to migrate from the fascism that always abates in this human race. Free-thought eclipsed by colors and pictures; autonomy hindered by ideology and symbols. Saying all of this, an ideological “coming-out”, ready for attacks from both sides as prepared am I to say “fuck off” to every single person who by the system abides, this system that creates the ideas of wealth and greed and eliminates love, happiness and equality. So close your mind’s eyes. Imagine a world with no money, money which is a synonym for power; power, which defines the struggle between oppressed and oppressor, wealthy and impoverished. I don’t blame much of the rich for who they are, many have worked hard to have come so far, but there is something in the human spirit that adheres to greed, that beckons a need, that makes you feel the need to cling to dollars like a bucking steed. In this reverie I extrapolate upon, there is no rich, there is no poor, there’s not even a wealth to argue about distribution of. Everyone finds their calling and uses it for the greater good. People take what they need only when they need it. There is no insurance because health care is free (though we don’t use the word “free” because that presupposes there is such a thing as money). We don’t believe in free enterprise because it’s propelled by the lie that any single person can become rich in a short time. I say this piece not as a criticism to any individual, for it’s just a dream, for I too know I want money, I am very poor and want to build my own palace of milk and honey, I want to not feel scared when it’s time to pay bills (health insurance kills), feeling scared is the worst, checking banks accounts with lips pursed, sleepless moments unrehearsed, if you don’t succeed at first you must be cursed as your American mind is coerced into the idea that you can be rich if you dive in headfirst, in hard work you must be immersed and in waxing stock you shall be well-versed. I want to be comfortable. But why aspire for excess? You have been given the news; it’s a disease, you will be dead in 4-6 months not later but soon. Pool the savings, count the possessions. What has been gained? You can’t buy mortality for you, but for years, decades and more, you could’ve helped billions of lives that needed much more than yours. Know your nature is finite. Impermanence surrounds us all. Vanity is the hobgoblin of feeble souls, misguided hearts forever resemble departed stones. Frail intellect placidly buttresses Babbittry, an imprudent world forgets the peacemaker but remembers the trustee.

I am one man. I cannot change the world. I cannot change the way people think or influence the magnetization of an uncertain moral compass. But any person can be a light unto others. One example, no matter how small, can be the seed that blooms into change for us all. The world is imperfect, and I just the same, but there is a better future, where imperfections are openly proclaimed; humility is more than a name; will the history books tell of a time when humanism truly became? If we could spend empathy like dollars; money and love become one and the same.

Tony Blauvelt 11/13/2013 completed