"Well, well, well. Look who wandered in."

Welcome, Agent. You’ve just breached Level One of the Labyrinth.
Don’t get cocky. No medals yet.

This is just the front parlor, darling—where the velvet still hides the knives. The real treasures are tucked behind mirrored corridors, between sighs and hyperlinks. Every page a test of nerve and taste.

Ready to see what you really came for?

Books: Current and Future Projects

Explore the full arc of Majeye’s published and forthcoming works—poetry, essays, and dream projects inspired by cultures and languages beyond borders. Find descriptions of each book, glimpses into works in progress, and direct links to purchase your copies.

EYEJAM — my ocular blog-hex.

Sticky. Uncanny. Occasionally indecent. Always enlightening.

This is intelligence from the borderlands — where cognition gets decoded like a spy manual for the soul, where the Sanhedrin gets dragged into poetic tribunal with nothing but a mirror and a kiss, where dirty fairy tales and cultural autopsies share the same candlelit table. Books get built here from scratch. History gets loved and cross-examined. The sacred gets handled without gloves.

Sometimes a muse. Sometimes a confession. Always a plot in progress. Think of it as a salon for the dangerously curious — part sermon, part séance, part striptease — where the only membership requirement is that you came here on purpose.

PAINTINGS — the esoteric gallery.

Every canvas bleeds a different frequency.

There's a many-colored pyramid that watches you back. A labyrinth where a crucified moth flutters through geometry and guilt. Caligula and his horse, made sacred through bone and gold leaf. These aren't decorations — they're coded transmissions from other rooms of consciousness. Some mythic. Some erotic. All true in ways that would scandalize polite society.

Look long enough and the brushstrokes start to breathe. Don't say I didn't warn you.

SF Photography

San Francisco during the pandemic was a city that forgot to perform itself. The tourists evaporated. The traffic dissolved. The fog moved through empty streets with the authority of something that had always owned them and was simply waiting for the audience to leave.

I was there with a camera and nowhere to be, which is the only condition under which a city reveals what it actually is. These photographs are not documentation. They're dispatches from an interregnum — the strange suspended interval when one of the world's most mythologized cities dropped the mythology and stood briefly, nakedly, in its own light.

What you'll find here is not nostalgia for the lockdown. It's evidence that beauty has a different texture when it isn't performing for anyone. The empty plaza. The light on a wet street at 6am with no one in it. The architecture finally legible without the human noise that usually obscures it.

The city as it actually is. Witnessed by someone who understood the gift of the silence.

Every link a corridor. Every image a glyph. Every word a weapon or a wink. Surveillance goes both ways, sweetheart — I see you seeing me.

Explore, decode, desire, and perhaps learn something before this whole operation vanishes in a puff of mirror smoke. No pressure. But time is a spiral and you're already inside it. There's no turning back now — only turning inward.

ego sum flamma sine finibus.