prophets and poets

Gabriel walks the streets,
an Angel of the Lord dressed in the skin of man,
but police are too afraid of his black skin,
or when he appears as a Native American,
speaking loudly at Standing Rock,
holding up a sign at a Black Matters Protest.
Gabriel attends the protests and the meetings,
a man of god with the fiery strength of his,
trying to make a difference in this suffering world,
knowing that all man are created equal
and yet they beg to differ arguing over each other.
Gabriel is a woman protesting for feminism,
here, there, everywhere that Gabriel can speak,
but no one listens to this Angel of God,
shouting at Gabriel, “Not all Men”
and Gabriel screams back, “You have missed the point!”
Gabriel is a Buddhist nun who strives for peace,
wanting to bring humanity compassion and hope,
speaking regularly to the cameras like the Dalai Lama.
All Gabriel wants to do is bring humanity back to the fold,
to knowing that it is one with the cosmos,
but Gabriel’s message is drowned out in the bitter hate
and the anger and the skewing of media,
and humans lie and lie to each other,
breaking each other’s heart as they ignore
the suffering of enviornment, animal, and fellow man.
Gabriel appears as Prophet among the men,
but no one listens, they just turn their ears away
saying, God doesn’t exist and why should they love their enemy
who has tried to oppress them and
didn’t God do the same kind of shit that isn’t progressive?
Just look at the Bible they say
and they spew forth hate for each other,
never wanting to listen or feel.
—  Modern Gabriel
poetry request for anon
ciel knight
On unlearning prophets and becoming prophecy

1. All this praying
And God still hasn’t
Answered my wish.
I hear the bending of the trees.
The dark wind.
The soft whisper.
He is not going to give it freely.
There is electricity in the air
And ashes in the doorway
Of every monastery for miles.
He is going to test me first.
I am willing.

2. Forty days into this
And my head is empty.
Eyes too full of God to look.
My kitchen is a graveyard.
A testament to my sacrifice.
And like all holy ground
I have not set foot in it for ages.
The whispers come like ravens,
Like children weeping.

3. God has answered me,
But I am his weeping prophet
He says.
His second Isaiah.
All that he tells me
Reeks of viscera and war.

4. I have chewed his words
As communion.
My stomach is empty,
But I have tasted of God.

5. I do not wish to be a martyr,
But I do not wish to be forgotten.

6. No one believes me.
The things that I have seen.
The salt and fire at the end of it.
My mother held my fragile ribs
Between her hands the other day.
Weeping, she told me that God would
Never make me so hollow.

I told her that she must not know God.

7. This is my magic.
The doctors fill my throat with pills
And I resurrect them into porcelain.
I have not seen God’s face in weeks,
But at night I speak into the mirror
And he sends me shadows.

8. I do not think the shadows are from God.

9. He says he knows him, my God.
He says that he was his son,
And he loved Gods very much,
But that is why he betrayed him.
Tried to make himself more.
I told him that love
Is as much a balm as a poison.

The shadow man smiled.

10. He feeds me carrion.
The first thing my earthly body
Holds in weeks.
He tells me that God must
Love me very much.
I beam and ask him
How he knows.
“Because you seem very easy to love,
even as you are now”
I asked him what I was now.
“Decaying” he said.

11. The shadow man will not let me weep.

12. “You are a deceiver.”
I tell him when I see his wings.
“A liar. A murderer.
A king amoung thieves.”
“Yes.” He tells me.
“All this and more.
But this does not mean
I do not speak the truth.
You asked for enlightenment,
But God has made you a plaything.”
“And the ash?” I ask him.
“And the fire, the blood?
These too must be lies?”
I scoffed.
“No. I believe what I have seen.
What has made my heart weep.”
“These things are all true”
He tells me steadily.
“But he has shown you this
Knowing no one will believe you.
You are a prophet.
A foreteller.
A warning bell.
Come with me and I will make you a shaper of worlds.”

13. He has given me a choice.
The light I felt. That steady
Flickering glow like a
Refrigerator bulb
In darkness.
The heaviness of truth.
The weight of knowledge.
Or the dark ocean.
The sculptor’s hands.
A world of my own making.
A ribcage perhaps not so hollow
And without such a heavy heart.

14. I have always preferred the dark whisper.

15. There is a great crash outside
My bedroom window.
The sycamores are falling.
I know this. I do.
But I sit beneath my covers
With a smile of my face
At his anger.
My body, once emaciated
With fastings, weeks lost
In a vision filled haze, now
Regaining its healthy plump
I do not want to be a martyr.
I think.
So I will become the pyre’s flame.

16. My shadow visits me and I tell him
About my dream. The one
Where I pull myself out of water
And God hides his gun.
He does not smile.
He tells me no one should tell me
what payment is owed to them for love.
For the first time in a long time,
I understand.

17. At dawn, I unmade.
I said, “Let there be dark.”
And there was dark.
The shadow man
And I smiled.
For we were well pleased.

What then,
if you heard the Word of God,
what then?
Would you preach on the
street corners of proud New York,
between the stalls of the
farmers market?
Would you rage upon the internet,
saying, “Hark! This is the Word of God!”
Or would you quietly consign
yourself to drugs and institutions?
Would you drown His Words out,
blasting metal to electronic,
to sirens and city lights,
the sounds of the New Age,
the Modern World?
What then would you do,
Modern Prophet,
would you speak or be silent?
—  What Then Modern Prophet? - ck

‘I’m Not There’, Todd Haynes (2007)

There he lies. God rest his soul, and his rudeness. A devouring public can now share the remains of his sickness, and his phone numbers. There he lay: poet, prophet, outlaw, fake, star of electricity. Nailed by a peeping tom, who would soon discover… a poem is like a naked person. Even the ghost was more than one person…

…but a song is something that walks by itself.

I am a new sort of prophet.
The kind your find sobbing in bathroom stalls,
Preaching poetry instead of prayer.

I’m sorry that I slipped
And now all my sermons
Are covered in blood.
But what’s a religion
Without a little sacrifice, right?
What’s a prophet
Without a little madness running through them?

I only speak for god.
I don’t not pretend to know her.
And she burns like matches in my head.
Burn like Novocain.
Like ghost limbs and amputation.
Like Dresden in a sandbox.

Made a new sort of gospel.
Sinners O Sinners, gather round.
Found a new toy
To sink your guilt into.
Watch them pick
At the parables like seeds.
Watch them argue over every interpretation,
And follow none of it.

Don’t worry,
This gospel only asks for the basics.
A couple teeth,
A new strand of pearls,
A little blood on an altar place,
Your lover’s hands,
Your lover.
Nothing too radical.

We don’t have time for each other anymore
Let alone this.
Too many tuition bills to pay.
Too much heart ache shoved into the dark.

“Do you understand this?”
I want to ask.
“Don’t you see
How this world is killing me?
How I will break the world
If you asked me too?”

So sing me a homily,
And I might pour a glimpse
Of the rapture in your coffee cup.
Destruction always comes when you least expect it.
The horse shoes tapping on my cerebellum
Tell me this much.

Hell isn’t always fire and brimstone.
It is a silent house
Filled up with empty.
It is King Midas in a pocket book.
Sorrow sown into your soil,
That kind of sickness runs deep.
Here, even the willows are weeping.

Cracked. Crumbling. Cremated.
Hear my hymn for the way
We all fall apart.
There are no saviors here.
No triumphs over death.
Only blood.
Only blood.
Do not mistake my suffering
For martyrdom.
There is a difference.

Glory be to the fallen ones,
To the
60 hours a week still clinging, ones.
To the
Purple crescents stamped under each eye, ones.
To the
I’m just trying to fucking survive, ones.

Light one up for me, will you?

Here repentance comes from dry mouths,
And cracked throats.
Pour a little wine for a blessing,
Pour a little more to forget.
Both will still leave you aching
When morning comes
To drink the moon to dust.

So make a sign of the cross
At the door
This church is a long way from sanctified.
But we are trying.
And that is all our broken hands can give.

Be no more sinner.
Be sin.
Be ravenous, you are a fallen thing.
Be ravenous, you are.

I heard you found a new religion
where the angels make false promises
to false Gods in flash cars.

Morality is like salty water.

I hear her preaching from the pulpit
the necessity of modesty and fidelity.
How to be loving is to be faithful.

And my shoulders rumble with suppressed laughter.

Too many hypocrites and needless prophets,
too many doing good to mask their profits;
too many who have seen it all before.

I look at the stars but see only the void.



By Ryan Havers

Humans learnt to write to do Accounting

“The first recorded name in history belongs to an accountant, rather than a prophet, a poet or a great conqueror.” Humans started writing essentially to keep records of their crops during the rise of Agricultural Revolution.

The earliest message in writing we have is: “29,086 measures. Barley. 37 months. Kushim.” Kushim is the name or title of the accountant. W👀T.

A Rare Image Of Frederick Douglass Around The Time Of His Escape From Slavery Circa 1841

He became the most photographed American in the 19th century-He loved photography and sitting for photos, but almost never smiled in photographs, with exception of one six months before he passed in 1895

Frederick Douglass on the Promise of Photography-Gregory Fried, Suffolk University- Douglass considered photography, a crucial aid in the quest to end slavery and achieve civil rights.

Man is the only picture-making animal in the world. He alone of all the inhabitants of the earth has the capacity and passion for pictures … Poets, prophets, and reformers are all picture-makers, and this ability is the secret of their power and achievements: they see what ought to be by the reflection of what is, and endeavor to remove the contradiction.

–Frederick Douglass

Wonder what Douglass would think of selfies? 


Olympian Census #6: Apollo

Get the stats on your favorite (and not-so-favorite) gods and goddesses on view at the Getty Center.

Roman name: Apollo

Employment: God of Music, Sun, Prophecy, and Healing

Place of residence: Mount Olympus

Parents: Zeus and Leto

Marital status: Single; Had many tragic love affairs with both women and men

Offspring: Aristaeus, Asclepius, Troilus, Ion, etc.

SymbolLyre, laurel tree, and bow and arrow

Special talent: A multi-talented deity who was a musician, poet, prophet, archer, and healer; often portrayed as the ideal handsome, young man

  • When Leto became pregnant, Hera cursed her so that she couldn’t give birth on “firm land.” Finally, Leto found a newly formed island, Delos, where she gave birth to twins Apollo and Artemis.
  • In revenge for a prior incident, Cupid shot Apollo with his love arrow but shot Daphne, a nymph, with his lead arrow, making her hate Apollo. When Apollo chased after her, Daphne cried for help, and her father, the river god, changed her into a laurel tree.
  • Apollo fell in love with Cassandra, a princess of Troy, and gave her the power of prophecy. But when she refused his love, he cursed her with the ability to see future tragedies and have no one believe her.

Olympian Census is a 12-part series profiling gods in art at the Getty Center.

Name: Byron (after my all time favorite poet) (url-abyronicsituation)

Age: 21

Gender: Trans man! (he/his pronouns)

I just felt the need to inform everyone that how one dresses and how long their hair is does not indicate their gender identity! In all honestly, I just try to be a Romantic poet.

Admin Oliver:

“Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.” -George Byron, the poet I’m sure you’re talking about. Your positivity is a rainbow for all of us today! Welcome to TBP