The Nebuchadnezzar magazine

A quarterly e-zine. Music. Health. Wellbeing

  • Facing Grief in America: Mitigating Violence with Art

    The American Consortium against gun violence on account of all Children. A response to the NRA meeting held on November 14-16, 2025. Forwarded by the initiative of Good Shepherd Lutheran church. No Child left behind.

    On Mediating Violence with Art

    Copyright 2025. The Nebuchadnezzar Publishing House.

    The following is an outline of a speech to be delivered at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, in part of Holy Cow (meals on wheels their initiative to feed the homeless), by Eric-Anderson Momou, an alumnus of Madison College, and UW – Milwaukee. The degree he holds is in English: Literature – Cultural Theory. And an Associates of science from Madison College.

    Furthermore, the following is to be presented extemporaneously on account of the audience if the original speaker is unable to deliver it.

    A speech by E.K. Anderson (Eric-Anderson Momou)

    Hello everyone,

    I come to you today not as a politician, not even as a neighbor, but as a friend.

    And I am concerned on your behalf in lieu of the stream of recent events.

    I am concerned because of the regrettable deaths of both Irina Zeretska, and Charlie Kirk; that have been the subject of headlines for the past week. Their lives have been amongst the most paramount of circumstances that have occurred in our world today.

    (Pause for reflection). 

    Right now America is in a state of grief. The stages of grief as we understand them are:

    1. Denial 2. Anger 3. Bargaining 4. Depression and 5. Acceptance

    One thing, I have learned about the Stages of Grief, with death is that none of these Stages can be skipped. And oftentimes, they overlap into one another. until we accept it.

    (To which Kirk’s wife’s X Tweet – “Go to church.”) Really did hit home.

    I’m starting to realize that this is the only way for me to heal.

    I go to Good Shepherd. It is an LGBTQ safe church. And I, in fact, shed tears upon attending it for the first time.

    One thing, I have realized is that it is not about white or black at this moment in time. It about those who believe in Making America Greater than she is, and has been.

    We can side with racism: that being the collective opinion that every person of a certain condition, creed, or lineage is bad or we can begin to learn that or which we can do the opposite.

    What MLK, talked about with love as the greatest clearance.

    Instead of destruction, I ultimately believe in creation. Instead of defenestration, or destruction of public property, I believe in processing anger in a healthy way.  Taking anger into account, Now, creation takes a lot to begin.

    Sitting down at a table, and taking pen to paper. Taking a paintbrush, and painting on an aisle.

    While I live in a predominantly Democratic State, I am aware that I lean idealogically on the  right.

    To James Telarico, it is in fact about Top and down.

    Violence, we have seen, has been a rampant issue. Regardless of what implementation is used, it seems that it crops up at points most inopertune, and most incovalent…

    In our world, it appears that living in the United States is difficult to come to terms with what we may feel, and why we may feel a certain way.

    Despite these circumstances, what we see is well founded.

    We may feel uncomfortable. We may feel an uncanny sense of disregard for the general populace, but the truth of it is that we must remain calm.

    Lest we mournst, we must must amongst those who those who mourn.

    I must though must not mourn amongst the gnashing and groaning.

    It is upon this cliff, or some may say a mountain, that we must submit our greatest of challenges.

    We must see the summit, that arid cliff on which mourn and not cast ourselves down from it.

    Such an instance may cause one to pause, and reflect. To posit a self-reflect ion unto that which is necessary. And to examine the circumstances unto which is under so as not to go under such diress.

    We may mourn upon the circumstances under which fate is dealt, or  instances of violence occurring in our world today. It has caused me self introspection.

    It has caused me to personally reflect upon the instances of violence that we have been a part of in this nation. The lack of personal culpability, or the admittance of error forthwith and there-in is of personal note to me.

    To be self accountable is the substrate of progress. To say you were in the wrong

    I do not concur with Fox news presenter Brian Kilmeade, who retorted to kill the homeless, and mentally ill.

    I do not agree with popular influencer, Matt Walsh, who says we want their heads on pikes.

    These are the current words of socio-political commentators. Words we know have the ability to heal or to harm.

    It is on this evening, that in regards to the stream of recent events, and our own self-instilled faith that we have congregated here together today. 

    It has come to my attention, I, Eric Momou  pronounced phonetically  (like “air” + “ick”) last name Momou → moh-MOO) (first syllable like “mo” in “moment,” second like “moo” the sound a cow makes). It is ironic that my last name sounds like a cow. And my bank card (show it) has the very markations present of a dairy cow.

    Amongst you, at Good Shepherd Church (meals on wheels in Madison, Wisconsin) this simple revelation may not be shocking. It may seem of happenstance that these coincidences have occurred to me.

    But I beg to differ.

    I, a citizen of the United States, as well as an African, now so dubbed in identity as an African-American man who believes and who lives in Wisconsin is also proactive as to this very notion.

    Having noted that metaphor, I also note the state of affairs in which I live in. My significant other, brought me over here from the MeadowBridge library the other day, across the street.

    We are not a conventional couple. She is white, and I am black. The dichotomy by which this exists is by no means less than apparent, nor is it a simplistic issue, as I posit in the minds of many.

    We know this to be historical, true. She is from the South, and I am from the North.

    Anyway.

    There was food here, which I should reprimand myself for indulging in, I’m on a diet, and I was struck by the and upon making a public declaration on social media in which I said man must not eat on bread alone, in response to the rising cost of food prices, I was hated by many.

    I said this in response to the current economic situation by which our current President has dangled as a carrot upon a stick in the view of many. Lest we agree with his degree of mercy, we shall not have food.

    But I beg to differ. There is mercy of another kind.

    How many have struggled to get by, and provide food for their children? How many of us have worked tirelessly only to have food prices go up exponentially?

    The answer is too many. Too have been slaughtered on account of guns. Now we enter the conversation on a Biblical front.

    While this is the truth, I choose to speak out, and while being hated for this truth there is still much to be revealed.

    A life is a life. It doesn’t matter if it hails from Eastern European origins, black, or white, or Hispanic, or Israeli or Palestinian.

    What I attest to is that _.

    In 2024, I was amazed by the response of the California fires by way of the aid that came from prison felons. They assisted in calming the spread of the fires.

    Because I was told that I could only speak in one way, or think in one way I was sequestered into a mental coral, a prison by which I knew I was shackled. Upon understanding my bars of incarceration, I sought a freedom of mind from group think, and subsequently to set others free.

    I note that we stand on the shoulders of giants.

    The voices of men, and the voices of women have been silenced for far too long. That is why I will be working with the Black men Coalition in Dane county, The center for Black Excellence and Culture, Journey Mental health services, the Cultural Network, Immigration, a public defenders, and Law enforcement in mitigating violence.

    I will address this issue with poise, with amnesty amongst our borders and Immigration.

    Let it be known that this consortium will be working with Domestic Violence shelters, most notably social services as well to end these occurrences.

    I posit open discussion on the topic of mental health, a new consortium amongst people of many topics and many walks of life, to come together and evaluate laws in respect to gun and criminality occurring here in the United States.

    If we are to Make America great, we cannot abuse civil liberties. No, we must look within at the choices we make, and how they affect others.

    And Wisconsin, being the heartland of our nation, we must self-reflect, and pause before anger. Meditate, and look at ourselves in the Third person. No more green to red.

    Yield on account of our emotions, and practice peace in what we do.

    Such will be a Renaissance.

    Therefore, I will be working hand in hand with our artists.

    We must create. That is why I will be working with artists, and builders, our construction workers no matter their background in discovering their personal excellence.

    Our mayor Satya Road Conway, has posited a difficult job. And though that mantra of convergent authority is difficult, I do suppose we conduce our bus system towards notable businesses for the transportation aorta of Madison to conduce to Chicago intravenously by way of train.

    I am for electric vehicles.

    No matter what culture we belong to, we recognize this as an international, and intersectional conversation.

    EDIT FOR TACT (Remember not everybody believes, as you do Eric): Upon a difficult turning point in my life, where I betrayed those who should been most dear to me, I was at a moral crossroads.

    I had an encounter, of some would say the Third kind. This encounter I do not posit as a normal encounter as one would have physically with another human being. And I do recognize, that this experience is not for all.

    I remember walking from the library. Oddly enough, I started to hear whispers in my mind. There were many voices by which I could hear. And for a moment I felt as if the artist or writers bought of insanity had ensued.

    At the nexus of mental health, I will say that hearing voices is honestly a strange thing. The mental disorder schizophrenia is an example of this.

    While I have not been sequestered into the diagnosis of said condition, I do believe that we are beyond due for a discussion of mental health in this country.

    Mental health, as a phenomena is in part matriculated in different categories in the DSM 5, a strict medical guideline by which medical professionals use for the diagnostic procedure of their patients.

    Psychiatric illnesses, are understood as pathologies. They are diagnosed via symptoms, and with extensive medical training they are understood as diseases.

    In the psychological, and psychiatric literature, the medical community surmises that the hearing of auditory hallucinations is indicative of a condition unbeknownst to many who do not have it. Such, is deemed mental illness. More so akin to pathologies such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or borderline.

    At the cross-roads of such we wonder where our lies. In the end, we have the freewill to make that decision. But I choose to use mine for the betterment of my community.

    There was much destruction during the George Floyd riots, and try as I did to mitigate such violence, the fury was evident.

    It was upon visiting the library that I was hit with a splitting headache.

    However at this intersection I noticed a plethora of voices, and in such delirium the only sanctuary I sought out, was this very building. These voices were Legion – as one would describe a telephone patch with many voices speaking apart from each other.

    I do not wish to get into the details of what I experienced, but I did note the voices were spoken in different languages, different tongues.

    Good Shepherd Lutheran Church. For many who have been raised in church, the topic of homosexuality has been deemed an enumeration of Sodomy. They have been relegated as lost as was the account of Lot before destruction came upon them in the very city of Sodom and Gomorrah, by which our current ontology of the word hails.

    Oddly enough, I sought solace from these very voices, and the destitution of my state came here.

    However, the voice that I heard upon reaching these very church doors was silenced. My hand touched the glass.

    And upon walking to the bus stop, there came upon me a voice that silenced all other voices in my head. That voice, as outlandish as it sounds, was the voice of my Saviour.

    I have relayed that experience like a VCR in my head for some time. On rewind, it seems incomprehensible, even ridiculous but it stuck. And since that experience the voices have ceased.

    I walked to the bus stop in the rain.

    I touched the stake of the bus stop to the H and I knew there in the rain. As a black man living in the state of Wisconsin, I knelt at that bus stop. It was an odd experience and felt foolish, but something impelled me.

    Being raised a Jehovah’s witness I prayed to the Yahwehnistic God of my upbringing. But as I closed my eyes, I saw two clouds. The greater one, a cumulonimbus spoke with a voice resounding with thunder.

    I petitioned for it, as I recognized it, to be the voice of the God of my nascent origins.

    That voice said, “Pray to Jesus, if you are to return.” For Jehovah’s Witnesses, or those of any Abrahamic religion praying to a man is seen as blasphemy. How could a man suppose the same authority as one would God?

    I struggled with that notion for a bit, and after the voices became more intense, I had no choice but to yield to it. That Law, I felt was engrained in my nervous system, and as a result of my humility I chose to kneel. That humility I call “a glimmer,’ by which my very nerves were healed. I felt sense of recalibration, perhaps more can be researched in regards to this phenomenon in regards the community of neurology.

    I remember the vision, from that smaller cloud eminated a voice. Soft and comforting akin to Matthew Brodericks adult Simba.

    It calmed the voices, and so I knelt.

    In the perifory of my vision, superimposed I saw three signs. One of a pill, another of a cigarette, and another of a condom.

    There was a checkmark after each of them.

    The voice said, you are to get rid of these three things if you are to talk to Yahweh.

    Then I remembered the scripture, Jesus spoke of when he said, no man comes to the Father except through me.

    I knew these words to be true.

    So then I was led to this church by way of my signifcant other. I a sinner.

    When my significant other walked across the street I followed her. The staff offering the tacos were kind. They were Mexican tacos, I remember from Holy Cow were amazing.

    We settled on the grass. We had no seats, but we listened to the indie pop band under the tent. Their music reminded me of Iggy Pop.

    A lady offered us chairs. Then, despite my discomfort, the sermon began.

    A female academic spoke her testament, and the pastor said a prayer.

    It was after the prayer, a disabled woman spilled cheese sauce from her feet. I asked Kirstin for a napkin, and wiped the cheese sauce off her feet.

    It was then that I learned that I was being called. The signs are something I see in my dreams. I see a celestial chessboard wrought of starry pawns.That is why I write ✍🏾 in the genre that I do. It is in fact vision being made manifest in the genre of Magical Realism akin to Isabel Allende, the writer of “The Alchemist” Paulo Coehlo, and Victor Borge’s “The Aleph.”

    (The genre I write in is classified as Magical Realism. The Latin-American authors noted above have been and continue to be my influences. It is how I express myself.)

    I now know that my personal ministry has shifted in a different way to help all races of men, all lives, and all people. God is not prejudicial.

    This ministry is far more than we would have understood, I believe. Dwight Eisenhower, the 34th American President, whose mother was coincidentally a Jehovah’s Witness, spoke upon these matters – in particular the love of liberty.

    Liberty as we understand it is freedom of thought, freedom of mind, and freedom of speech. With the silencing of men who have posited a different notion to group think, it seems as if our Democracy has exacted community justicd

    (That in our world today, I am of the opinion that there are some who have relegated cruel, and unusual means of exacting community justice.

    This community justice that is decried is a schism away from actual justice. This is why we see so many differing opinions in response to Charlie Kirk’s assassination. In fact from history, I see that those who were in fact assisinated, or attempts were made on their life were in fact the most honest of our number.

    -It is not the implementation of execution that kills a man, but rather the intention by which he is killed. The intention can therefore be used as an implement for the intended purpose. It is up to our freewill how that implement, can be used.

    What I see amongst social commentators like Matt Walsh and Charlie Kirk, is the undying proclamation that they have used for times immemorial. That it is lawful to kill.

    The truth is, that it in fact is.

    Under these pretenses:

    -A person has threatened your family.

    -A person has threatened, or posited injurious harm unto your person.

    However, the arbritors of said community justice has been relegated to the personal condemnation of the individual in power. In our day, this may be relegated means the Germanic man, who hailed from the Germanic tribes originating from Rome, by which they have had Celtic and Eastern European origins. These “wayward” tribes, anglicized after their perceived barbarism after the crusades, I posit have had a projection of self unto other tribes (othering). As colonialism continued in the 17th and 18th centuries, so did anglicization.

    This othering has been of the kind, by which we in the modern day may describe as racism. A sort of verisimilitude into the public Oversoul conscience that is stipulated on the Truth from the Lie, darkness from glory, light from shadow or black vs. white.

    Racism then, is the public opinion of a moral fall by which one member of a tribe dies. This collective consciousness may be falsely attributed to all members of their number.

    I have heard of the killing by a member of the LGBTQ+ community upon children in a very church in Minneapolis. I have heard of Irina Zeretska, and the assassination of Charlie Kirk.

    However, I do not believe that correlation does not equal causation:

    A child may kill another children, but do all children kill?

    Furthermore does a child who breaks the rules on a playground, such as throwing gravel at another child, not learn from their error. And even more so, do all children throw rocks? 🤔.

    Let he who does not sin cast the first stone.” A poignant statement.

    No. Such that, not all LGBTQ+ kill kids. Also not all Black people kill Ukrainians, or whites. But there are and have been very many whites who have killed blacks, and other minorities.

    Therein lies the lie of the substrate by which the enemy uses to condemn us, if we do not choose salvation.

    What then do we choose.

    The narrative therefore goes, if we as a Democracy have allowed faith in our African Americans, and they have killed a narrative of our democracy does that mean the epigraph of all African Americans? No.

    In fact, I do not believe that entire group of people must be villiainized, and brought down on account of a select fee who choose otherwise.

    Why then, must they be collectively all be mistreated on account of the action of one man, a tale of which we may know or not know to be true.

    We do not hold one children to the same moral arbitration as to all of their number. Or do we? These are questions we must ask ourselves as Americans.

    So then, to my point: we are all children on this playground until Recess is over. What happens after Recess is up to us, individually with freewill.

    For men such as Matt Walsh to say the following:

    “…I can’t even fully articulate it. It’s primal. We want scalps. We want heads on pikes.”

    This was why I wrote All, Us Children, because Jesus said, “Unless you become as these, you will never enter the Kingdom of heaven.”

    -Words as you well know, Matt Walsh, are incendiary. How little a flame it takes to set a woodland on fire. – I’ll let you figure out what passage of the book that comes from.

    His words are holding true unto this very day. The Bible also says in regards to the very Jews who killed him that they do not believe about Jesus, even until this day. Ironically very many Jews do not have a channel to believe in, because of pride, I do believe, and lest they have a mediator by which they have empathized with slavery their Rabbinic belief still exists.

    If supposed Christians continue to hate, that therefore continues their version of “racism,” so posited Anti-semitism.

    Now then, if that person is no longer your flesh and blood, you no longer have a legal right to kill them or even protect them.

    You can extend that, that is true, but what I see in your tribe is a lack of concern for your fellow man. Hopefully your neighbor disagrees.

    Oddly enough through my escapades, I believe I have encountered the KKK. Harassed by them in fact.

    I took up work at a hardware store. A man without an arm, with a prosthesis, labelled in an American flag met me.

    He was looking for galvanized screws, but he didn’t know which size. I asked for what intended purpose? He said: for a motorcycle.

    Interesting, I thought.

    I also need a black pipe he said.

    Black? I thought, that’s interesting. That word, itself is a dillineating trigger, of which I suppose is a demarcation between good and evil.

    Okay, I said.

    Ya… He said, something for the hose line.

    “For the hose line…” I said.

    “Ya,” I noted he sounded Southern. His hair was long, like a Hell’s Angel. Graying, and fraying.

    Anything can be used as a weapon. A fist, a nail, a ring.

    “What size,” I said.

    “Three fourths, probably galvanized.” I noted his demure expression, an uncanny grin on his face.

    I showed him where to find them, and he said, “Hmmm, not this kind. Nevermind. I’ll be back.”

    With that he left the hardware store. He has since come back.

    Either way, I figure, I caught him in the act. Gang stalking, while not recognized in the court of law, and is enumerated as a conspiracy theory, has a basis to those who choose to speak upon their experiences.

    Either way:

    -Cain killed Abel with a stone. It wasn’t a gun, mind you. The intention was to kill, not desecrate, or vilify. The intention was to kill.

    The stone, therefore is an interesting symbol. So are pikes and scalping which are known as torture methods. They are another method by which to kill ones enemy.

    Stoning still occurs in very many parts of the world. And I do not need to tell you which places by which these may routinely occur. The people that do these things are relegated under a moral code, and a moral hierarchy institutionalized for generations.

    A bullet is made of steel, a modern day equivalent to a  stone or pebble as would David would have used with Goliath.

    To quote Malcolm Gladwell from his book, “David and Goliath,” a projectile is used as a modern day equivalent of a stone, circumvented with modern day propulsion, to reach an intended target at the hands of technology.

    Beware of the interplay which technology can be used.

    That “target,” if one is skillful, hits center mass – or some in the police profession know as the area in which kills immediately.

    Words are incendiary as well. They too can be used as projectiles.

    The declarative statements by which many . White men who continue to be for MAGA, on the Right continues to reveal the hatred for all who are not like them.

    In the end though, I choose to love.

    We cannot bar our hearts or our people from doing what is right.

    Acts 2:17

    “In the last days,’ God says,

    ‘I will pour out my Spirit upon all people.

    Your sons and daughters will prophesy.

    Your young men will see visions,

    and your old men will dream dreams.”

    Woe to you scribes and Pharisees who bar the way to heaven.

    Thank you.

    Edit 1

    Copyright 2025, The Nebuchadnezzar

  • Think back on your most memorable road trip.

    My most memorable road trip was a drive through Virginia. All along the mountains.

    I thought, “ah, America. Herein lies the Majesty.”

    I have also appreciated the mountains of Montana as well.

  • What snack would you eat right now?

    Hmm. Eggs, and cheese. With a side of lean chicken, and wild rice.

  • Restart a new enlightenment period. Greater, than before with a under a Democracy unlike the world has ever seen.

    -It starts with our artists, our businessmen, our poets.

    -And it starts with our home-ec guys too.

    Things are nice in hindsight, but they are better when you move forward. ☀️

  • Its two seconds to the bell, and already I know I have him. The hook is his weakness: specifically his left flank. Yes, I am a man—but a pseudo-man, like austrolipithicenes or cromagnon. On occasion, I can be reasoned with, but I am operable on fear. That is my drive, and has always been. I will not admit it, lest I appear weak, to the insubordinate few.

    As the bell peals, that sullen tintinabulation, I drive my heel into his ribs and supplement this action by burrowing my knuckles into his Adam’s apple. Stomache 9.

    On the ground he flounders. He flops like a fish on dry land. Up comes a fist, but I thwart that. Through a bloodied mouth I grin. How pathetic. Let me relieve him of his misery.

    its funy becuasse the last thing I can rembmer of my dad was his fist. It came down strong, and hard with a whooshing soun. I saw it in slo moshon. Then I heard it land:

    Crack!

    Right on mom’s jaw.

    I never called him dad after that. Tsering, I say. That was his name and I didn’t care if id get hit for doin it..

    Years later I’d hear the mantra: “Respect is a two way street.” Of course I’d heard it before, but it didn’t stick until Alice the social worker said it.

    My brother and me were playing with our legos and hotweels as the bacon and eggs cooked. Mom was making pancakes, fliping them with the wooden spatula. I smelled the onions, and parsely

    Mom! I called, but she dint move.she lied there still on the groun EVEN WHEN I POKED HER. Then Tersing shove me against the counter.

    He say,” you stupid fuck! “ then I fell on my brothas legos. “Ouch!” my baby brother say.

    i

    dint

    cry.

    Even tho it hurt real bad. Id been hurt worse on the inside. I wispered for mom she still dint move.

    My lil bro threw his legos, the enterprize ship wed just built at his head. The whole thing busted, sprayed all over the room like splintrd wood. Tsering was mad. He rolled up his sleeves, a I smelt ber on his braeth.if I hadn’t yelled, im sure he’d have hit my bro.

    “Tsering!” I yell, “You the stupid fuck!”

    Then he hit me again. And again. I was glad becaze he didnt hit my litle brother.

    I saw grandmas shinto shrine in the corner of the living room between the hits.i saw the rice on the floor, and the incense smolering.he slapped me til I could hardly stand, but no: I wouldn cry.

    I rembmer in scool they tol me to call the police. When I tol mom what I learned she said she’d handle it.she said that because she was scared, but on the flor she couldn handle it. I ran to the phone but I forgot the number.i forgt numbers becaze there confusing, and I don see the poin in them.

    I now how to add sum things but I dont much get the point in it. My taecher once showed me three apples. She ask how much. I told him: three.

    Then he showed me three bananas. I told him I din know. That was first grade. I took it twice.

    That’s when the doctors daignsoed me with dislecksia, and dyscalcalcucalcala.

    I remenber dialling the phone to call the poleece but I didn no wat to do. I tried, anyway. I knew there was a nine somewhere. Then the greasepan fell, hot bacon grease on my leg.

    It didn’t fall, but Tsering poured it. I could smell my skin, saw it pucker into boils. I’ve got a burn on my arm till this day. Not that you can see it. My tattoos cover it.

    Mrs. Bernson taught me in special ed then. She was old but nice with gray curly hair. I wanted to shout becaze I din know what else to do. I felt like an angry snake in a bag.

    Idont care if people call me stupid, because once you got one fingr pionting, you got three more looking back. People act dumb all the time. Its not what you say but what you think.

    Coach Lancer told me that.

    Sports caem easily to me. I liked footabll. I was the running back. But boxing was my forte.

    It wasn’t until junior high that id decided to pick it up, after getting into a brawl at school. I was expelled for two weeks.

    Mrs. Bernson holds up ESL cards. I see a squirrel. I see a dove. I see a parakeet.

    I like to learn English. Slowly I forget Tibetan.

    After I practice in the Ring. Coach Lancer looks tired, he is missing his wedding ring – and his face is gray.

    Tsering he say. Do you want to fight?

    After practice I walked in. I took off my jersey, my cleats, and pads. I hadn’t noticed Tsering sitting on my bed until I’d removed my helmet, and set it on the bedstand. He sat with a vodka bottle, ninety proof.

    “You a big boy now,” he said. I could tell he was fairly drunk by the way his head bobbed—his eyes danced like firelight. He gulped the remnant air. “Aren’t you?”

    “I am,” I replied, “Does that scare you?” I couldn’t understand why mom hadn’t left him when I was younger. But he was a hardworker at the meat plant, with a modest income, and she couldn’t afford to raise us herself.

    That’s why I think she went back to school. She took night classes, while he pitiously drank from morning to evening.

    “I am,” I say emboldened. I muster my voice in a low baritone, and puff out my chest. “I’ve always been.”I wasn’t afraid of Tsering or anybody. I took pride in myself, that I hadn’t felt scared for a long time.

    “No,” said Tsering. He poured the remainder of the vodka on my sheets. “Big boys aren’t scared. But you afraid of fire,” he grinned flashing ivory teeth.

    For the first time, I choked. I was suddenly aware of the acrid alcoholic fumes. He plucked the joss stick from my bedside shrine, and waited.

    “Your mother left me today,” he stood up. “Fffew, just like that. She vanished into thin air.”

    “She’s at school.”

    “And your brother. Where is he?”

    “He’s studying–”

    “Just like your mother.” He lumbered over to me, expelling his sour breath into my ear. “But you, you will stay. Because you’re a big, stupid boy.” He poked me in the chest.

    That ticked me off enough. I pushed him. I should have thought about the joss stick in his hand before I did it, but an animal in turmoil doesn’t think in terms of reason.

    I operated on fear.

    The bed set on fire, and Tsering with it.

    The apartment building stood at the corner of Algren, and when the firefighters responded, the entire thrid flor had turned to cinders. I’d gotten out, in the knick of time.

    Even after the bell has rung, I pin him to the ground. I can feel his pulse—his wild drum—beat in my knee. I know I’ve won, but making him suffer is part of the lesson. I punish him for entertaining the notion that he could beat me.

    The ref pries my hands loose before I realize what I’m doing. I’ve spat at him, yelled profanity. His body convulses, but he’ll live.

    I’ve had a grandmal before. I remember when that happened to Tsering.

    Tsering’s clothes were on fire. I don’t think he knew his sikn was burning until he smelled it. By then, though, despite the yips, and the jumping it was too late. The alcohol saturated his flesh, so much so that it craved for exile through his pores.

    I hear the sound of the ambulance, I hear the noise of that sound – I look up at the steel of the ambulance and I hear that round. 

    Peeling, reeling, dealing. 

    I have no idea why I’m reeling, systems kneeling.

    I hear the call. I hear sounds. I see shapes in my periphery: red draping past my eyes, draping past my eyebrow cut.

    Then, I pound and I patter, and I hit with a mit

    I figure it lit

    On fire, 

    Not bothered.

    I am Tsering.

  • How have your political views changed over time?

    They’ve become more neutral, or as some would say politically moderate. But I have understood that grace should be extended, if it has been extended to you.

  • We are living in difficult times hard to deal with – the circumstances we are seeing in the world I believe is a sign of the Times. For those who have accompanied me this far, I commend you – but there are our own journeys we have to take. My words as incendiary as they have been as of late have been condemning and unbridled – unleashed without recompense into the ether of space and time. As a citizen of the United States I must take my time, and heal from all of this and I must do my utmost to get well. I am learning more about myself each day, and my Creator has kept me personally responsible for the incendiary harm I have caused to my community. Yes, in fact it has been a woodland fire. While this is by no means close to what can be contrived I owe my community an apology. And yes, as a pariah I recognize that ostracization and personal condemnation is the only way.

    I must get sober, get clean in all ways here, if I am to do better.

    As for abiding by Law, and for those who enforce the law, I give a personal commendation in your efforts here – but I bend towards cultural competency and not assumption in your citizens.

  • The man dreams of flying in a cloud-ridden heaven, where the sky bleeds sienna and blonde. He is safe here, in this vision, amidst the dawn firmament. The vapors cannot reach him. 

    When he wakes he is in his bed in a hospital room. He is roused awake by his nurse, Nicole, who touches his arm. He glimpses the flash of her face, as she holds out three coconut macaroons on a styrofoam plate. With a fork, she prods the biggest one and goads him with the treat. 

    “Hungry?” 

    He blinks once to signal acquiescence. She places it, tentatively, in his mouth.

    Moving his tongue, he plays with the stringy texture of coconut. He tastes the fluffy mixture of egg, and chocolate. Goosebumps line his arms as he probes the tang of hope and brightness. 

    The gustatory appreciation reminds him of his dream; that seventh heaven between the horizon, and a patch of star-laden sky.

    He groans, appreciatively. Nicole wipes the drool from his lips. 

    Most days they feed him like an infant. They bathe him, and position him on his side, away from the bed sores. 

    But only on special days, do they serve the macaroons. The macaroons remind him of his mother. He remembers his mother with each bite, sees her standing with her walker inside her second story Harlem flat overlooking King’s Street. 

    Down, on the street, the children yell, baying towards the harvest moon. And she laughs, joyously, with a banshee’s lament. In Harlem, the dusk-coated streets harbor sounds like the ocean-sky. He remembers her looking outside, up at the pallor of the North Star, and the seething pink of the moon.

    “Done?” Nicole holds the plate closer to catch the crumbs that fall from his smacking lips.

    He blinks twice. Not yet. 

    He imagines, between successful swallows of the coconut, that one day that he too will walk towards King’s Street. That soon, when the cocktail of morphine, and dilaudid run their course, and his mind is clear that he too will rise and watch the North Star, and see that moon. 

    One day, like a stag, he will  jump up from out of his bed. He will stand again. 

    After eating the last macaroon, Nicole wipes his face, and walks out for him to rest. 

    He dreams of flight again. But this time, he wears a bird’s plumage, wings as wide as a small Cessna plane. They bear him soundlessly through the night. 

    Then, when gravity reigns, his wings shed, feather by feather — until the moult is complete. He falls from this high heaven, a firmament of his. This is his greatest ascent so far. He’d never been much higher, but after approaching so close to the dawn sun, he plummets down like Icarus.

    Thrown down to the earth, he falls, and hits the ground, careening over the tundra’s glass-splintered frost. He lands in the Black Hills.

    Then, his vision blurs, and he sees the herd and the white buffalo come to him. 

    By the doctor’s reckoning, he should not have lived. Should not have been breathing.

    When they come, The EMT’s grasp the linens beneath him, and hoist him. His vision blurs, and again his spirit lifts beyond his body. Outside the ambulance, he catches sight of the Hills. 

    He sees a pale space, where the graying light dwindles. Again, he sees the patchwork stars, and the highest heaven.

    To the temple of his body.

    To the body of his house.

    To such a derelict, that remains his home. 

    His eyes open before the storm. Outside the snow falls like cotton down, and the lights of distant cars meander near the base of the Veteran’s hospital.

    His bed is too far from the window to see ground-level; and he cannot arch his neck to fight through the strain. He cannot see down below. He can only see the spectrum of blaring reds and blues, from what he supposes is the same ambulance coming and going. 

    And then, he hears a clang from outside the window. There is another thump as a bird lands on the outside window sill.

    The bird lands with a clump, and ricochets from off the glass. Its body clumps upon the brick and mortar sill, to the particular angle of the man’s line of sight. It is a wren.

    Slowly, snow falls. It piles upon the wren.

    The man closes his eyes. He takes a breath; and expels another. offers it to the 

    With a corporal might, the wren rises. Like a phoenix, it is resurrected slowly from its whitened tomb.

    It hops once more and swivels its head with a pivot in one large myopic glance. Then, it ruffles its wings, and ascends off towards the next building.

    The man can see the bird’s arc from outside the window. It is towards the stained glass windows of a chapel.

  • A Binary of Opposites: 

       The Roc, or Portrait of Guilt in a Developing Photograph

    By Eric-Anderson Momou

    She plucks the photograph from the bathtub, She clutches the photograph from the grimy tub

    Waves it in the island breeze, Sloughs off the dust, as flakes part in the wind

    To baptize it in the air stream. As she raises it Dunking in the malaise of the breeze

    In the Sun, Offering to the Moon

    An image develops. The shadow forms

    She flicks the flecks of moisture, from off Blowing the gypsum dust, from off

    The chemical parchment. The papyrus

    The sound is like crumbling bones, thunder snaps       The crisp semblance like a glass armonica peals

    Ballistic missiles, crackling static, tap code Angelic choir, trickling water, lingua franca

    Like a dentist’s drill, Like Gilead’s balm,

    To the encoder’s brainstem, To quench the tongue of the traveler

    Freezes his seizing  jaw with gilded grief Enlivens the bones from joyful repose 

    With haunting cold, With pleasant warmth,

    The image forms. The image crumbles

    He sees a feathered Serpent, He sees a Christ,

    A Descending God, A Rising God

    Ouroboros, Sceptred King,

    Clasped by mighty talons that descend from nimbus With a sword’s sheen girded at the side,

    The receiver falls over, The voice spreads below,

    His landline is dead. Alive as thunder

              The image is formed.                   The image crumbles

  • . Ekphrasis Poem — Final Revision

    (From Light Radiates from the Temple Menorah by Yoram Raanan)

    Fresco of a New Menorah

    By Eric-Anderson Momou

    On the bathroom wall

    The spectral light shifts

    Developing like the sight 

    Of a million stars.

    There are no painters

    Or brushes here 

    Only broad, strokes,

    Beginning upon the white wall

    Here: a rapid dappling of blue

    Smeared to dune

    Attesting to that background. 

    There: a wanton squiggle of lavender,

    Crimson: Prose of passion, 

    Burning a grandiose hall

    That spreads to scarlet shoals.

    Where silver blades slice their wings

    As spirits climb

    Up in that sky, as avian portents

    And there, rests

    A golden stalk

    At the temple’s base.

    Growing up, it climbs to smoke

    And truncates,

    Tapers to,

    Reach 

    Twilight skies:

    Offspring of Yggdrasil.

    Flighted flowering branches.

    Bearing up, 

    The tongues of flame. 

    The candle wicks

    So ends the painting,

    That again will blume,

    To golden plume.