This free verse poem contains many themes relating to Identitarianism, Christianity, and history.



Deathly waves conquered through, or despite, courage.
Ancestors torn from place to create new place,
But place forgotten as placelessness ascends.

The ocean carried a plague along the paths of the sea.
Written in the genes of its cargo, the destruction of two ethnos.
Hardened Christians in black strode upon predestined stone.
The first of the Americans.

Grey-blue waves lashed arriving epoch on wilderness of hope and fury.
Ignorant beasts both fur and hair ran deaf before advancing fate.
Steel over wood, mind over matter, gods against Gaia over slaves of demons.
Wasting all in their path, paving new landscape, displacing eternal return.

Who can overthrow the fathers who defied history’s limitations?
Who can remake the shattered wheel? Or retie Gordian’s knot?
Who can revive the gods slaughtered by Cortez’s men?

I answer: the Trojan horse within the blood that felled our ancient Rome.
The blood within my veins.
Every drop precious and deadly.

The sea, Leviathan, whose conquest leaves untamed,
will erase our course across him.
Only God created a lasting empire over the sea,
When his spirit hovered over the monster’s temper to begin.

Our fathers have imitated gods for centuries. But…
The Atlantic may wash away our memory before the end.
Our blue-grey eyes will fight the sea.

The Atlantic titan has his reign,
God gave him the throne… for now.
Genealogy. Below thundering waves a dark world unknown.
A lost past hidden, but alive.


Wooden churches, alone, deep in shadow lands.
Christian souls marched their imperial mission on obscure forest paths,
Unperturbed by Montcalm’s barbaric siege.
Posturing along construction roads of manifest destiny.

Revenant’s ventures untold subdued immortal wilderness,
Their train wreck to the finish our progress and spring.
From chaos to community, camps along the hidden lakes.

Lands cleared of profane and forged to sacred progress.
A new world center.
Awakening. Scrambling to subdue raw elements.
Ignorant of our weakness, boldness lent us strength.

The cougar stalks, the savage whoops, our guns and metal test,
Every time there’s battle our fields expanded.
The primeval ethereal forest’s outdated magic reels to retreat.
Hack, scrape, saw, forge a new end disguised as beginning.

World alone. Cosmos. Stars among trees. Contained within isolated nests,
Separated by dark infinite savage lands and shadowy branches.
Extending forever filled with ghostly beasts and chaos.

Men enter these worlds only by agony and courage,
And to leave them is an exile death within violent green-black void.
Here, no annuls nor philosophy,
Only sword forging and drunken steps towards peace.

Purgatory. Only the tortured and lost come here to commit suicide,
Or find themselves.

A monster, rumbles through forest green walls.
Brown power and claws.
To see him one must become him.
Behold him from hidden nest, and look upon yourself.

You take the monster’s life,
You consume his flesh and convert to him.
Feel his fur on your back.
Note your lonely rustic habitation and your cubs.

Your cubs will age. Sustained on forest god’s blood,
They forget the source of their power.
A monstrous Eucharist.
They reject this source of their peace and health.

An autumn memory comes.
Cub’s denounce bare savagery, the work of barbarians.
Living off storehouses built of bones.


She quits my presence across the brook school-neighborhood bridge.
Red-yellow leaves swirl in the cool fresh wind.
The last dusks of summer shimmer gold off a manmade lake,
behind a chain-link fence painted green.
Skater girl… just one kiss. To be real, and convert to your grunge identity.

The library, sanctuary of the intellectual loners,
home of the homeless grunge soul lost in adventurous dysfunction.
Our childhood was autumn. Pleasant communities of peaceful idyllic decline.
The sidewalks full of cracks, the thrift stores full of worn-out culture.
Our inheritance to enjoy.
The harvest of devolution, warm as an autumn sweater.
Walking home among colorful foliage. THE FALL is so enchanting.

We are young, and they say the globe will be like our cul-de-sacs.


The Wiccan spirits chant the lullaby of our generation.
The Jack-O-Lanterns light our course.
Romance of Autumn, our season, the pagan rite of YA bonding.
My costume is black, fallen forest leaves crunch under my sneakers.

A raven haired girl follows close behind… I hope.
I half want her to be a witch.
But it’s all a dream from library books. Fall adventures will be too late.
Black cats watch me on other nights.

Pagan ghouls entice us. Our beauty is theirs. They define us.
Six years later… a Wiccan star stands at my feet.
The raven haired girl is here, but I’m sick, it passes and tempts.
She would lead me to exile, but it’s ok.

The reality of my blood’s adventures forcing itself from me in pale imitation.
Urban exploration.
Tunnels deep into forest abyss become mere backyard games and imagination.
Empire they built, erasing all else. Our generation defeated by success.

Youth is still real for preparation’s sake,
but morphs to absurdity after becoming vain from technicity.
Nothing but modern farce, the death of return’s wheel left all without identity.

The Halloween girls are beautiful sorceresses. Can they save me from the farce?
Is my identity with them? The world howls through eerie trees.
Their calling me, and I might die for them to embrace me.
But He also calls…


Galadriel strides through haunted woods. Glory hidden in a cloak.
Distracts me from my forest games with maybe a gesture to follow.
Long I seek down weary paths of roots.
I enter fallen ruins. At the heart of the fortress she turns.

She bids me peer into ancient basin.
Under clear water, “777.”
I see… Man of Perdition. He’s already here.
He carves into my father’s empire. It was all built on blood.

A colossi rises over the West. Its head hidden in the cloud… if it has one.
They say it’s a mountain, and pray toward it.
It’s appealing and unnatural. It blocks the sun, but no one remembers.
They call it “Liberalism,” say its seed was watered with ancien French blood.
They think its labyrinth is the world. And my home is within it!

I’m dressed all in black.
Revolution was here.
It’s within me.
I was destined to rebel.

I’m surrounded by wreckage and waste.
My flashlight touches the void.
Infinite space empty and abandoned.

A ghoul cries out on another floor…
In another room of the blackness.
I’m in THE HOUSE. Lost here for days,
As the walls shift, in the waste land.

Chaos in the shadows.
Empire crumbling.
Decline, dilapidation, and decadence.
Black gates fallen.
Shredded walls, torn of their wires.

Abandoned ruins of hopes lost,
Being chased in shadowy games until insanity.
Standing on the thousandth rubble of apartment building.
Rooms upon rooms of forgotten chaos below me.
I look out over “civilization,”
More labyrinth, more dilapidated abandoned structures.

Grey as a dream, half real, shadows grown in the night.
A broken doll beneath my black boots.
We search on. I see their lights occasionally in the tomb city.
The sun never rises.

I have seen what no man has seen.
Omnipotence decimated certainty.
I looked into the void. The horror, the horror.
I cannot unsee what I saw… in THE HOUSE.

“What is truth?”
THE HOUSE of leaves?
Nihilism without revelation.
“Only a god can save us now.”


A warrior in the chaos. The last of the Americans.
A man among the ruins.
Not a last man. No, a barbarian. I will sack this empire.
Waiting for tragic glory. Martyr over cancer.

Part VII is lost. But…
My ethnos needs me. Our blood is being erased.
My faith destroys me… I need destroyed.
My destiny, predestined, beckons me rise.

I see Fatal Christ:
“Take my courage!”
“Go and learn that your life is not your own.”