Jane Doe

Repost: Holliday Letters Between a Father and his Son

2010-12-30T01:08:00.001-08:00

Holliday Letters Between a Father and His Only Son

Letter #1 From Son to Father:

"Hi Dad,

Merry ChanuKwanzMas and Happy New Year! Your Dentist keeps sending me these Dental Reminders. I've emailed back telling him that you make all my appointments with him and they should be emailing you, but he keeps emailing me, so I thought I'd just forward it along so you can either schedule one for me or remind him to stop emailing me. Wishing you all the very best!

Love,

John jr."

Letter #1 From Father to Son:

"Just remove yourself from the e mails. You would not like a father who beat you your whole life to pay for your dental work, because then you could not play your academy award winning role of 'THE VICTUM'.

John Q. Doe"

Letter #2 from Son to Father:

"I wasn't asking for a father (and even if I was, it's a little late now; I'm all grown up), I was asking for an email removal or action regarding a Dentist that you were recently sending me to and paying for; Nothing more, nothing less. I apologize if you misunderstood.

I'm 31 now, Dad. Technically you only beat me for about 1/4 of my life, but that's in the distant past for me. I'm truly sorry that it is still very present for you. I love you very much despite your sadly ongoing mental war with me, despite our past, I can't help it (though sometimes I wish I could), blood is thicker than water.

But anyways, this was just about a simple email request, not your resentment towards me or what I view as ancient history. I hope one day you can view it as the same. I have asked to be removed, but I'll try again. Thanks for responding so fast and again Have a happy New Year!

John jr

P.S. Did it ever occur to you that YOU may be acting out 'THE VICTIM' (misspelled by you)? You are acting out the role of the poor father who did everything he could for his messed up lying kid who says that the poor victim father abused him, when really the father was wonderful. Poor, poor, father, to be stuck with such a bad child. Bad from birth. Nothing the son did was the Father's fault! The Father did everything he could, but the Boy was just born bad and always was mean to the Father?

You have given me some good advice over the years (and some bad advice), maybe you should turn your eye towards yourself one day?

P.P.S. Whether you believe it or not I FORGIVE YOU for the way you treated me as a child. You did the best that you knew how to do at the time and you provided for the family very well financially. Even if you never forgive me for whatever it is that is still sticking in your craw about me; I STILL FORGIVE YOU.

Letter #3 from Father to Son

"YOU are as crazy as your mother, your both idiots.

John Q. Doe"

Letter #3 from Son to Father

"Again, your grammar is a bit mistaken Dad. Your letter should read 'You're both idiots,' as in the contraction 'You are,' rather than 'your' which refers to possession.

My mother is a teacher and a published author who has won awards for her work. She definitely has her mental faults and she is definitely a little crazy, but she is no idiot. I love her, I'm very proud of her, and the fact that you, my father, think it's appropriate to speak to me about my mother that way shows the truth of your character and ability as a father; Ugly.

As for me I've been scoring as a Genius on every Academic test I have ever taken and though I may be a bit crazy (everyone is), I'm certainly not an idiot. If you were able to understand my published works you would see that. My readers are some of the smartest people in the world and their compliments mean a lot more than the resentful insults of my senior citizen father. Your opinion of me ceased to matter a long time ago, you might as well keep it to yourself.

I feel sorry for you that you can only communicate by means of insults, but I guess that's one of the reason's we don't communicate much. Despite your venom, I'm also proud of you and the work that you've done; Building yourself up from nothing and the legacy of buildings you will leave on the earth and the pages of Architectural Digest after you go (Until they are inevitably torn down). Goodbye for now Dad. I hope next time I hear from you, you are a little nicer.

On a side note: It's a very odd and ironic feeling for me to suddenly find that our situation is now reversed; For once I am the adult and you are the angry child. You once told me that people age like wine and from what I read, you sound like Sour Grapes. That's too bad. You can say all the mean things you want, it only reflects on your character, not mine, and certainly not my mother's. Those words are wasted on me; I don't even hear them any more.

But before you die, in the distant future, (since I don't anticipate your attitude changing before then, though I pray) I just wanted to make sure I set the record straight. That I forgive you. That I love you.
Goodbye.

Letter #4 from Father to Son

"The fact that you would respond to me proves that you are an idiot.

John Q. Doe"

Letter #4 from Son to Father

"Touche! And the fact that you write me back proves...?"

Poem: The Waiting of My Life

2010-11-24T19:23:00.000-08:00

Feeling trapped
time is just passing.
A room, routines,
pissing, pills,
and shopping for food.

A lover, so tough,
she can't even stand
on her own two feet.
Each time I love her
I lend her my shoulder,
dragging me further down
on my very slow climb out.
Up and out
of the dirty prison
The conditions of my Life.

My Health, my Poverty,
my Loneliness, my Pain.
The only answers come from me
She does not offer any.
Just time pleasantly spent
or time tortuously wasted.

She doesn't see
what I see.
Doesn't understand
what I understand.
For all the time I spend with her:
It takes twice as long to recover.

And for all the time
I try to help her,
she tries to help me none.
"So don't try to help me,"
she says in my head,
but that's not my definition
of Love.

For my Life to change
I'm the only one to do it;
No lottery, no family,
no helpers, no miracles.
Just the Power
of my Choices:
Do I work
or go to school?
Or keep sitting on my butt
doing fuck-all,
but get worse.

My life slows down spiraling.
The waiting of my Life.

Poem: Waiting and Love

2010-11-24T19:15:00.000-08:00

There's a Love and an affection,
a Worshiping;
I'm told to wait
and I wait.
And I keep waiting.
And I keep loving.
And then I'm tired.
Tired of loving
and getting nothing in return.
Tired of loving
and being ignored.
And then they are ready.
Ready to receive my Loving
and Love me back;
but I'm Empty.
Out of Love.
Used up and tossed aside,
feeling like I have nothing left
to give.
And they kiss me
and they touch me
Finally.
What I've been wanting all morning.
But I have nothing left to give.
I feel empty.
Worse, I feel pouty
and Sad.
I don't want to feel this way,
but I do.
I wait for it to stop,
not knowing
if it will.

Poem: Texts, Tears, Tales...

2010-11-24T01:07:00.001-08:00

She texts me again.
To tell me she "misses me,"
too.
She has sen the Poem about her
on my Blog;
The one I called
"I Miss Her."

I've told her before
not to mistake my blog
for "Truth."
Explaining it's only "Poetry."
only "Art."
She's never listened.

The last time we communicated
I told her never to email,
write,
or text to me,
ever again.
But she could phone
or visit
if she felt she wanted to.
In fact, I've told her,
asked her,
and begged her
many times
not to text me at all.
She's never listened before.

Against my "instincts",
my "better judgment,"
the advice of others,
my pride and self-esteem.
Pulled by my Blind-Heart,
loneliness,
habit,
and sleeplessness...
I texted her back,
wanting to know
the Only 3 Things
which she could tell me
that would make me Happy:

(1)First, that she had found good Doctors
who were prescribing her good, working, medicines;
for her painful medical problems.

(2)Second,
that she was taking her Medications as prescribed,
that they were enough,
that she no longer needed to go "outside" the Medical System
for relief.

And (3)Third,
the most painful to me personally.
That she had realized how unhealthy
her chronic ex-lover Jason was.
The Jason who she once "Loved more than me."
The Jason she had lied to me for.
The Jason who had abused her
over and over and over:
That she had finally realized he was bad for her.
That she had finally found the power
and self-respect
to cut him out of
her life forever.

The only answer I got was number (3) Three,
ignoring my questions (2) and (1):
"Jason and she are still 'platonic' friends."

The kick to my stomach.

She texts again:
"Can we talk on the phone?"

.
.
.

"If you call, I will answer."
I replied
after praying
after meditating.
(Though I wanted
to hear her voice so badly,
to see her, so badly.
To be inside her,
smell her again!
All of it, so badly).

I prepared myself for her call, waiting for hours.
Finally she texted again:
"I've wanted to call you so badly for the last two months,
that I'm too choked up to call right now...
give me a little time to rest."

Me texting, "OK."

Hours more of painful waiting for her.
Proud that no tears had come.
Amazed, really,
that I wasn't falling apart,
like I used to...

Finally it was nighttine,
time for me to sleep.
She didn't call.
My wish for something New with her was falling apart.
Everything was Old, so Old all over again.
Debating myself to send another text,
realizing I never should have answered the first one.
I went on with our sick, old, game:
"I will be going to bed soon, FYI," I texted,
"After all we've been through,
I don't care if you are crying,
or out of it, just call me please...
if you want to."

Her text came fast back to me:
"I just woke up, I'm still a little tired,
I hope you have a wonderful sleep
and sweet, sweet, dreams.
I love you and miss you,
but you can call me whenever you want,
if you feel like it,
Goodnight."

.
.
.

Illusion shattered in me
like a rock through a stained-glass window.

It had been a trick,
the same old trick,
and I'd fallen for it again.
Just like I'd used to.
She never was going to call me,
just manipulation games
to see how I'd respond.

My Final Text:
"I am not ready to communicate with you again.
I am willing/wanting to talk to you if you call.
Besides that, nothing has changed between us.
Thank you for your texts. My best."

Sadness in the pit of my stomach,
but no tears, no blame, no self pity.
Slightly amazed at the
Serenity and Clarity
I feel toward the incident.
I thought (prayed) that I got away unscathed.

But lying in bed, sleep did not come.
Eventually getting back up, puttering around,
meditating and praying for hours,
doing rituals I hadn't done in years;
Anything to keep me from the old pain
she brings.

Finally collapsing, fully dressed, on my bed,
Around 5:AM; I wake up again at 9:AM,
surprised by my pleasant dreams.
I still hope she finds the Courage to call.
I still pray, if she does, that I have the Security,
to Forgive her for everything past,
That my words to her will be filled
only with Truth and Love,
not with Resentment.
Praying that she will hear me.

I cannot force her to understand.
I cannot make her to respect my wishes and boundaries.
I cannot, though I want to so badly,
make her choose her friends wisely.
Rather than just accepting, whoever sticks to her.

All I can do is to wait and to work.
Wait to see if she get's better,
work on making myself better
in the meantime.
The proof of these words
is the Love I still have for her,
manifesting not in Tears and Self-Pity,
but in Patience,
and Acceptance,
of Reality.

Poem: Property Manager

2010-10-24T12:39:00.000-07:00

With flat eyes like a Reptile
It stands before me;
all my words deaf to it's ear sockets.
With snarls and spite
the creature foams in it's rage at me.
No communication here,
no compromise or debate.
My purpose is peace
and a home free of sickness.
It's purpose is stopping me
from any of my desires.
No thought in it's head.
No feelings in it's chest-cavity.
Even when our goals are the same,
It would wound it's own flesh,
just to spit in my eye.
Turn the other cheek
and
love thy neighbor
I believe.

But this Lousy Cunt
has it out for my Nuts.

Poem: Connections on the Cadeuxis

2010-10-24T12:28:00.001-07:00

Sex makes my back hurt.
Laying in bed makes my back hurt.
I like laying in bed.
I love having sex.
I'm too young to have these issues;
But wait, I have them-
I must not be too young after all.
Walking helps my back feel better...
though I'm often very tired.
Stretching is supposed to make my back feel better,
(but really I don't notice the difference).

In this way, One is forced to walk.
And often.
In this way,
One may legitimately fear
that an end to sex
may one day be near.

Sex and pain,
relaxing and pain.
It doesn't seem right
for them to be connected.

Thirty-years-old,
One walks with a cane.
Barely an adult,
One is a slave to medications,
monthly Doctor visits,
hours of waiting at Pharmacies.
Literally unable to function
without this Trinity:
Two snakes intertwined
around a winged staff
indeed!
Their intertwining is my imprisonment.
Their venom is my medicine.
The wings on the staff
is the benefits One receives
from the Medical Trinity.

The staff is the instrument
which administers blows
to the patient,
as well as a permanent reminder
of the pain One would be in without
the Doctors.
A Medical Prisoner.
One never dreamed to be this way.
Not "Free" at all.
By any sense of the word.
No Thailand for a Medical Prisoner.
Not without Medicine, a Cane,
and a secret stash in case of theft.
Documents too,
to prove the need to transfer medicines
across National Borders.

Oh yes, not "Free"
by any sense of the word.

Poem: Insomnia #31

2010-10-22T18:50:00.000-07:00

Nighttime comes again.
The same nighttime I've known most of my life.
Not the drowsy-sleeping,
tucked-in and dreamy-time night.
The Other Night.
The Night where I am so tired.
The Night where I am exhausted.
The Night where no matter what I do
I can't sleep.
The extra eight hours that I am awake
while most people sleep;
So even people the same age as me
have not lived as many hours awake.
Too tired to read, but I can smoke.
Every cigarette costing me 40 cents;
Burning up money, all night long.
The night where I drink "sleepy time" teas
and eat cereal, but it only makes me
pee and poop more.
Just more things to keep me awake.
Watching movies and worried.
No, certain actually,
about how tired I will be tomorrow.
Feeling the psychic stillness in the air,
the empty space of cities at rest.
But not me.
No, not me.
To me that sacred rest is forbidden.
I still don't know why.
I have guesses, suppositions,
but as long as I remember
I've been this way.
Oh, there have been times...
brief, grace-filled times of rest.
Exhaustion from boisterous sex,
or the brief effects of a new medication.
But it never lasts.
It always comes back to this.
Me, alone, awake, wishing I could sleep.
No drugs left for me now.
All that remains is to take it,
take it as best I can.
Watch videos, write, pray,
and meditate.
Turn on NPR and listen
to the droning voices talking
babbling aimlessly into the dawn.

Poem: Freedom/Prisons

2010-10-22T18:36:00.001-07:00

Freedom is not self-sustaining.
"A Double-Edged Sword," Parson's called it.
He was not wrong.
Left on it's own
it degenerates into Anarchy.
Sloppiness, Addiction, and eventually,
Total Imprisonment.
Many Prisoners would call Freedom "imprisonment."
Not unjustly, I think.
It requires repetition, dedication,
some discipline, support of others,
and even moderation...
Who would have thought.

As an Idealistic Youth I imagined
"Freedom"
as living without rules,
indulging without limit,
having access to infinite financial resources
without needing to do anything for them.
Action without consequence.
Everything is permitted,
nothing is sacred.

That "Freedom" led me to
the greatest imprisonment I've ever known;
Mental, Emotional, Physical.

The "Freedom" I now possess,
I would never have called so.
All my actions have consequence.
The best way to get
is to give.
My mental and emotional bondage
is cured by actions;
Meditation, Prayer, Writing,
Uniting with others.
These actions are repetitive,
these actions take energy and discipline.
My physical pain and bondage is cured
by actions:
Stretching, walking, moving,
when I often want to just stay in bed.
These actions take energy,
these actions take discipline.

I am still free to choose.
I can stay in bed,
or take drugs to ease my pain,
but that only leads to imprisonment to drugs.
Only exercise is the road
to Physical Freedom.

I am still free to choose.
Stop meditating, stop prayer,
stop uniting with others;
Staying alone in my room
growing more resentful,
alone, and depressed,
anxious, angry, and hurt,
every day.
A Prisoner to my pain.
Only Spirituality is my road
to Mental and Emotional Freedom.
Meditation takes work,
but so too does misery.

Freedom seems like work.
Freedom IS work.
But not as much as misery.

Freedom is a two-edged sword;
One side is Freedom,
the other side is Responsibility.
I know I sound "old,"
maybe even "boring."
But really I don't care.
I've had enough pain in my life;
I'm ready to wield the sword.

Poem: Like Wishing

2010-10-22T18:32:00.000-07:00

Sleep is for the Lucky,
Sleep is for the Blessed,
Sleep is for the One's.
not me,
who live Their Lives the Best.

Resting is a thing I did
when I was drunk or stoned:
Young,
not-knowing how carefree,
when I was all Alone.
I don't remember quite the Time
when I could sleep at night,
don't remember when I lost It,
how I stopped the Fight.
Sleep is like the Highest Hill;
Unreachable and Far.
A Thing I've longed for naturally,
like wishing on a star.

Poem: Others

2010-10-22T18:28:00.001-07:00

Leaving the bed is hard;
until pain forces me to.
Leaving the house is hard;
until insanity-driven lonliness
drives me out.
Or hunger.
Days that are the same.
Same as other days which came before.
Days of boredom,
days of constriction.
A noose the perfect metaphor.
Walking in place,
perceptions are not perfect,
peace is not always truth,
and discomfort may be helpful.

All things pass.

We fall down until
we are too old and weak
to pick ourselves up.
When I say "we"
I mean "me,"
but it makes me feel better
to imagine
there are others.

Poem: Dreamon Hunger

2010-10-22T18:19:00.000-07:00

The same nightmare again:
sleeping in a demonic Frat-house,
half there/half awake.
I choose there
and wake up in poverty
to be teased, insulted, implications
that I don't give enough.
I go into the next room
where the fattest, loudest,
Mocker
makes fun of me.
I gather the courage to talk back to him,
saying that _he_ is obnoxious, etc.
He nods enthusiastically, seeming to enjoy this.
I'm grabbed from behind by a younger (brother?)
version of the mocker.
His restraining arms are thick
with long, chipped, red fingernails-
like my mother's.
I ask Mocker #1 why he restrains me
and #1 says in a gravelly inhuman voice,
"I think he likes your ears."
and laughter.
I cannot get free, but I remember
this is not my room,
I live alone,
and force myself to wake up.

What were they?
Ghosts of my room?
Demons of my own making?
My right arm is going numb now.
But I don't like repetitive dreams;
especially bad ones.

Poem: Day or Night

2010-08-14T19:41:00.000-07:00

Evening falls and I feel relieved.
Night means the day is almost over
and I made it through another one again.
Even though night is
the worst time for me,
the scariest time for me,
the loneliest time for me.
I'm not sure when it happened,
but lately I've been scared
to go to sleep at night.
I've always been scared of Insomnia;
Always been cursed with Insomnia.
Now, I'm scared to sleep,
scared to Dream.
I sleep during the day, now,
enjoying my naps,
while fighting my guilt
for bringing the night closer.
The night I dread
and look forward to
simultaneously.
As the night wares on
I fear the coming day.
The day I'll be exhausted from the night.
But how can one force oneself to sleep?
I can't.
The fear never ends:
Day or Night.
But evening always relieving,
dawn always too soon.
Loneliness makes more sense at night,
it's easier to make excuses for.
Alone all day;
the Sun melts any excuse,
exposing my meager,
lonely,
fearful, existence,
for all it's worth.
The pit in my stomach that asks,
"Where's my friends,
where's my lovers,
where's my life,
what should I do?"
No answers echo back at me,
from my small, white, walls.
Time passes.

Poem: Puzzle

2010-08-14T19:34:00.000-07:00

There's a puzzle in my mind
that I think of all the time,
where the pieces do not fit
and I sometimes can't stand it,
but the pieces are my life
and I'm blessed with little strife,
so I settle down to write
it's my only way to fight,
at the madness that I see
and the way it consumes me,
nothing lost and nothing gained,
so my life will stay the same,
but I pray to God for change,
as I'm looking for the Way,
but there's nothing more to say,
I am Mute.
Waiting for time to pass;
My Only Answer.

Poem: Our Stew

2010-07-31T00:01:00.000-07:00

The Stew is Stirred;
it's not ready, yet.
The meat still pink and raw.
The chef refuses
to clean the shrimp,
throw away their shells,
clear their intestinal tracts
of Shit.
Though we are both hungry,
now,
some would say starving.
I know better than to eat
raw stew.
Having wretched it before,
broken-hearted and puking
for months.
Stirring the Stew;
Smelling what wafts to the surface.
Looking for an excuse to eat it,
to taste it even.
But no, I'm too Old for that.
Damn Old.
And this Old Body can't afford
any more sickness.
Starving or hungry,
it matters not.
Bitterly Old; I know too much.
Keep cooking,
young chef,
keep cooking.
Let me know
when you're done
with our Stew.

Poem: I Miss Her Still

2010-07-25T20:33:00.000-07:00

I Miss Her Still;
Maybe I Always Will.
Out of Nowhere
I Burst
into Tears.

Though it's been Half a Year
It's my still deepest Fear
that we'll Never
be Together
again.

I Remember Eight Months,
with My Throat Full of Lumps;
When She Wouldn't
or Couldn't
See Me.
And Despite All the Others,
my numerous lovers,
it was Her
I Most Wanted
to See.

Then There was The Year
That I Ran From my Fear
And a Dollar Each Tear,
I'd Be Rich.

But the Truth Still Remains
That Together We're Pains;
While I act a Prick,
She's a Bitch.

So I'll Dream in My Soul,
That Before We Grow Old:
She'll Be Selfless,
I'll Be Healthy,
We'll Be Married,
We'll Be Wealthy.
And I Pray
My Tears Turn
Into Gold.

List: 14 Reasons Why Noam Chomsky is a Member of the Illuminati

2010-07-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

*Look, I love Noam Chomsky's writings, mind, speeches, and works. Never-the-less, the more I think about him (and the seemingly negligible effect he has had on world politics), the more his words and actions don't quite seem to match up. And so in honor of "Questioning Reality," I bring you*

14 Reasons Why Noam Chomsky is a Member of the Illuminati:

1. He holds a teaching position at a major American Academic Institution (and has for years); MIT, Linguistics Chair. They've got him by the balls!

2. He is the only major public figure who explains the dynamics of modern day World Politics as they really are, clearly and succinctly... Yet no other major public figures act on what he says, even though he is universally recognized as a brilliant academic.

3. Although Chomsky is brilliant at deconstructing and explaining the true motives of Nation-States, The Military, Global Corporate Powers, etc. He is content to write book after book and give explanations to small-audience Public Radio programs; He refuses to join any group who radically fights for change or tenaciously try to spread his message to the greater public (Of course not, it might threaten his position at MIT and invite reprisals from the Powerful Elites he is reporting on).

4. He conducted part of his doctoral research during four years at Harvard University as a Harvard Junior Fellow; A school well-known as a recruiting area for the CIA, Counsel of Foreign Relations, and other Illuminati fronts.

5. Chomsky is often called "The Father of Modern Day Linguistics," a science which has arguably been used more to oppress other nations/peoples than to free them.

6. He has children and relatives whom he loves; These are liabilities which the Illuminati can use to threaten/manipulate him.

7. He often receives undercover police protection, in particular while on the MIT campus, although he says he does not agree with the police protection (more evidence of his ability to do one thing while "agreeing" with another as well as a way for his Illuminati Masters to keep track of him and make sure he doesn't "step out of line").

8. He was on a list of planned targets created by Theodore Kaczynski, better known as the Unabomber; Kaczynski's connection to covert government mind-control programs has been well documented, though not widely reported. Chomsky's name on this list stand outs as Odd, when compared to the other names, and of course Chomsky never was actually attacked by Kaczynski.

9. As a Theoretical/Experimental Psychologist Chomsky's research has done more to enable Illuminati propagandists and brain-butchers to manipulate populations than he has to frustrate them. "Chomsky laid out an explanation of human language faculties that has become the model for investigation in some areas of psychology. Much of the present conception of how the mind works draws directly from ideas that found their first persuasive author of modern times in Chomsky." To whit, Chomsky sadly cares more about research than what the results of that research can be used for. Einstein had something to say about this after the Atom Bomb.

10. Chomsky declares himself widely and proudly as an "Anarchist" despite his life-long involvement, leadership, and participation in Repressive Institutions. This is an oxymoron and creates cognitive dissonance. He consistently and eloquently states the problems with the World Politics, then rarely-if-ever offers solutions. This only serves to further depress Anarchists everywhere. Can you think of a single other well-known, society-approved, Anarchist?

11. Chomsky has received many honorary degrees from universities around the world, including from the following (Many of which are well known Illuminati Grounds): University of London, University of Chicago, Loyola University of Chicago, Swarthmore College, University of Delhi, Bard College, University of Massachusetts, University of Pennsylvania, Georgetown University, Amherst College, University of Cambridge, University of Buenos Aires, McGill University, Universitat Rovira i Virgili, Columbia University, Villanova University, University of Connecticut, University of Maine, Scuola Normale Superiore, University of Western Ontario, University of Toronto, Harvard University, Universidad de Chile, University of Bologna, Universidad de la Frontera, University of Calcutta, Universidad Nacional de Colombia, Vrije Universiteit Brussel, Santo Domingo Institute of Technology, Uppsala University, University of Athens, University of Cyprus, Central Connecticut State University, National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM)

12. Chomsky spent time in 1953 living in HaZore'a, a kibbutz in Israel. Asked in an interview whether the stay was "a disappointment" Chomsky replied, "No, I loved it." Some Kibbutz's are fertile recruiting areas for young prospective Illuminati members.

13. Chomsky's language and concepts are often so advanced or couched in terminology so complicated that they are completely inaccessible to the poor, uneducated, and immigrant communities. The exact communities who would pose the greatest threat to the Illuminati, if they could understand what Chomsky was saying.

14. Remember the Illuminati's primary motto and means is: "Divide and Conquer!" That is, have control of the leaders (both Political leaders and Opinion Leaders) of ALL sides; Thus with the ability to play all sides of the ideological spectrum off the others at will, no matter who wins, The Illuminati wins. Can you think of a better, more ineffectual leader of "The Anarchists" than Noam Chomsky?

Think about it...

Poem: Lovers and Parents Gone

2010-07-10T23:44:00.000-07:00

She's a soft and hollow memory,
Every breath further away.
My Missing unchanged,
but farther,
distant.
The Love hasn't changed,
but the Absence
makes it Bearable.
Somehow my heart's
Missing
of old Lovers
is intertwined with the pain
of my Parents;
Their past and present
Abuse
still Unforgiven.
This lack of Forgiveness
causes me Pain,
no matter how Justifiable
their Guilt.
Perhaps my Lovers need Forgiveness, too.
The Pain of their Absence,
The Pain of their...
Not Understanding Me Enough,
The Pain of their Not...
Loving
Me Enough.
In the end it seems
the Crime's the same;
Lover and Parent.
Not Enough Love.
The Answer?
The healing ointment balm,
Forgiveness.
Such an easy word to say,
Not always an easy thing to do.
Gods know I've been trying for years.
But blotting it out
only makes the Pain stronger,
while Facing It brings me to tears.
So tears it will be
and tears it will stay.
Until the rains of my salty waters
turn into healing.
And the Pain
recedes
into dust.

Thoughts: Food Poisioning, The Perfect Crime.

2010-07-08T20:28:00.000-07:00

How many places did you eat at in the last few days? How many different types of food did you eat out of your fridge or other peoples fridge? If you got deeply, gut-wrenching, vomit-all-over-the-floor, sick food-poisoning; would you know for sure where you got it from?

I'd never thought that deeply on the subject until I worked as a dishwasher at a Fancy Restaurant and saw how sloppy, disgusting, and frankly careless the other dishwashers, waiters, and even Chef's took their job. Mostly everyone was too rushed to really pay attention to cleanliness, and really, not that many cases of food poisoning win in court. Why? Because it's nearly impossible to prove! You'd have to eat at the same Burger King every single day for a whole month, with no snacks in between, to prove that they might have poisoned you. And even then, could it have been the toothpaste you used or some chemical in the air of your house?

I guess the point I'm getting at is that today's "modern" society is based on a lot more Trust in our common human beings than most people like to think about. It only takes a few of the proverbial "someone-pooped-in-the-refried-beans-at-Taco-Bell" stories before the average person never wants to think about it again; but we all have to eat. Not only that, but most of us have to rely on an army of unknown people daily, who we trust, are not poisoning our food or any of the ingredients in it. Because if they were, there is not a damn thing we could do about it.

"But what about the FDA (Food and Drug Administration), or AC (Agricultural Committee), and other Government Agencies? Aren't they watching out for us? Don't they keep our food safe?" My answer to that is "ha, ha, ha. As if." A few intelligent counties and cities (like Los Angeles, California) have instituted programs where they inspect restaurants randomly and give them ratings which are posted for the customer to see and this is a good start, but any teenager knows how to clean their room on inspection day and keep it filthy the rest of the time.

In the end, all I'm saying is, if you are looking to hurt someone, look no further than the food supply. And if all you wealthy people out there think there is nothing better than being served food by the poor, I urge you to think again. It's a lot easier to piss on your salad than it is to successfully lobby for fairer wages.

Poem: Another Holliday

2010-07-04T23:30:00.001-07:00

Look at
All the Happy People,
going out for fun.
An evening spent
with friends and lovers,
at night on the run.
They watch the colors in the sky,
they dance, they drink, and laugh.
For this one night
of spending money,
caring not for math.

I watch them
from my little room,
my eyes through slitted blinds.
And no matter
where I look,
no reason
can I find.
What is the reason I'm alone,
while many bunch for joy?
What feelings beat,
inside their souls,
are lacking,
from this boy?

Their instincts tell them:
"Be together!"
"Dance beneath the sky!"
And as the crowds
keep passing me,
all I can say's
"Goodbye."

Will there
one day
be a group?
With me,
a one,
inside?
Or will I spend
the rest of life,
just me,
just one,
alive?

There was a time,
when I was young,
this was no sore for me.
But now I'm old,
the time has passed,
for this old man to be.

Another Holiday is passed,
while I am still alone.
No group,
no love,
no celebration,
no one on the phone.

Poem: Letters From Mother

2010-07-04T23:07:00.000-07:00

My Email should not be my Enemy.
Letters from Mother, causing Pain in my Heart;
Living, pulsing, pain.
"I'm too old to still be hurt by words," I think,
knowing all the while it's not true.
Mother rarely cared about Me.
Mostly she cared about the dillusions
she made in her head.
Pictures of a "happy family."
No, she never tried to commit suicide,
when I was a baby.
Not to get away from the cruel fists
of my Father.
No, she never broke promise,
after promise, after promise,
after promise, after promise,
to Me.
For as long as I can remember:
The Promise-Breaking Mother,
The Liar Mother,
The Selfish Mother.
Her only reparation was
Money or Toys.
No apology.
No respect.
No validation.
No freedom for Me.
Money or Toys?
I got to pick one,
as a child,
but as an Adult?
Nothing.
But a Mother who keeps her word?
Well,
it's too late for that,
now.
A Mother who cares more about Me,
than whatever drunk penis
she is dating at the time?
Sorry, son, it's too late.
Yes, I hear the anger in my words.
Feel the warm, salty, tears on my face.
For all her Abuse and imperfections,
Biology demands that I love her.
So I do.
So I have to remain Celibate;
Dare not to repeat
her mistakes.

Poem: Used

2010-07-02T23:41:00.000-07:00

If there is an "It,"
then I do not have it.
I used to have it,
but somehow I lost it.
While one day I'm surfing
on top of The Wave,
the next day I'm drowning;
No life to be saved.
When once there was something
I wanted to do,
now I'm just wondering
how I got screwed.
The older I get;
the less I become,
The smaller I shrink.
into The Beyond.

Poem: I Hope You Don't Worry

2010-07-02T22:53:00.000-07:00

I sit alone in my four walls: Writing as the last resort.
Ear too bloody; accidents happen while sober too.
Imagining years of loneliness,
getting dirtier and filthier, more soiled and putrid.
Feeling the noose of Self-Pity
closing around my brain and heart.
Some part of me saying that
"I've been here before,
that tomorrow will be better",
then I will be here, again.

But my hand hurts, as I hold this pen,
which hasn't happened before.
I'm getting older,
my body is falling apart too soon.
If I want to stay a writer,
I'll have to start typing,
or getting bigger paper
and pen.

"It's not fair," I think again.
Just as I used to say to my Father,
as he was beating me.
"Life isn't fair," he'd yell,
and hit me again harder.
I disagreed with him, then,
but the older I get,
the more I agree.
I think I see his point.
As my body begins to fall apart.
As the whole World seems to shit it's pants with
Wars, Riots, Oil-Spills, and Etc.
My Father was right,
and maybe if I'd understood him then,
I could have been more selfish growing up;
more heartless and greedy.
Taken more for myself,
hurting others in the process;
The Law of the World.
"Fuck 'em all, as long as I get My Cut."

Even as I write it now I know,
my sensitive heart could never have gone that way.
For all the riches in the World I could not Rape an Innocent.
Does this mean I'm meant for the Lonely Poverty I endure?
Soul Disposition points towards "Yes."
The sooner I accept it the better.

In Jails I heard the never-ending banter
of Gangsters and Thieves, the Takers of Advantage.
Listening with curiosity, I always knew,
I could never have been one.
A silent Killer, perhaps, a Hit-Man, maybe.
But there are far less of those jobs
than the movies would have us believe.
I tried selling drugs, but I was too fair to the Addicts,
more compassion, than Lust for Money.
I tried working for a Mega-Corporation, or two,
but I had no Will to pass on blame,
point the finger, cover my ass.
Just wanted to do my job.
Never back-biting, nor butt-kissing;
Promotion was not my Destiny, there.
Just a permanent Corporate Cubicle,
at best,
being shit on by an endless procession
of ladder-climbing Management,
who do nothing but climb.
I even tried Academia,
my dreams of the Ivory Tower.
But I had not the Will to back-stab fellow Scientists,
grubbing and scrounging, rumor-mongering and
Character Assassination; These Traits I would not learn.
All to sweep up the ever fewer Grants
that all Serious Academics need to survive...

*Sigh*

Besides "homelessness" I could not find a
non-competitive field,
though sometimes the homeless compete more than any.
Dreams of being
a Poet, a Writer, an Artist...
Do you know what it takes to get Recognized today?
With the World of Five Billion
and The Internet for Us all?
Everyone clambering for their Art
to be Famous?

Forget it.
Now, and in the End:
I write for myself.
To purge, to vomit, to excrete
my Pain out.
And maybe entertain
a few others who happen by.
Good Luck,
whoever you are.
I hope you don't worry,
as much as I do.

Poem: An Ending

2010-06-26T14:19:00.000-07:00

A strange kind of Clarity descends;
a Peace, an Emptiness, Silence.
Passionate Love,
is far off in the distance.
Sex is so foreign,
It's unknown.
The Simple Ending.
No more puzzles,
now the movie is over.
It's all well to argue
about what happens after,
but the Author get's control
of His End.
Is this True Feeling
or yet another Illusory Mask,
passing Phantom of Allure,
Debonair.
Cruelty or Crassness,
Abasement or Freedom,
the Answer to a Question,
hereto never asked before.

And though I didn't want It,
now that I am Here,
I feel the urge to pursue
the Emptiness that I've found.
It speaks to me of
Peaceful Bliss,
though filled with many Bores.
She spoke to me of all my Faults,
as I lay there
on Her floor.

Thoughts: Just Another Person

2010-06-26T14:01:00.000-07:00

She's just another person; no better and no worse. Like me, and my Mother. Like a Drunk and a Celebrity. Just a person, a person like me.

Life is not fair. At least it seems that way so often. My love for Her, my attachment, amplifies Her pain into terrible tortures in My heart. As if I don't have enough misery. Why this Woman? Why Anyone? I must keep this in Perspective.

She seems like my All and my Everything. Her words and promises are broken so easily. Of course, We are only Human. And instead of crying over Her for another two days, two weeks, two months, or two years, I'll just have to say to myself, over and over: "She is just another person. Like me, or anyone else."

Yes, it sucks when She is in pain. But it sucks equally when I hurt too, or my Mother hurts, or my Friend Pete hurts, or Her other Lover Joban hurts, or his Mother hurts, or Anyone. We all fucking hurt. My inclination pulls me to Her pity, but Reality Yawns Large.

I love Her so much; but She's just another person. Not a Goddess, a Priestess, Witch, or gifted Psychic. Just another Person. And I can't keep treating Her whims like the Law, Her moods like the Answers. My emotional well-being must not be tied up in this other Person; It just doesn't work. Been there, tried that. Again and again and again.

My well-being must be tied to prayer, meditation, reading, writing, support, and other Practical Measures. Time wasted fighting in negativity, is bad time, ill spent. And in the End, what else do We have, but time?

Poem: Toilet Time

2010-06-26T13:34:00.000-07:00

Sitting on the Toilet;
hope I do not boil It.
I know that was a bad Rhyme,
all I could think of at the time.
Toilet time is almost over,
then it's fields of grass and clover.
I don't often write like this,
though I must admit;
it helps me piss.

Poem: No Words

2010-06-26T13:29:00.000-07:00

There are no words that I can write,
to describe the whirlwind inside.
The pain, the heart-ache,
broken lust, prior hopes
that now are bust.
Crazy, frightened,
sad and empty.
Wish for death,
but it's not for me.
All alone and teased by love,
as if she wants me,
then she's gone.
And I'm the dust that's left behind.
I'm the dirt and muck and grime.
I'm the fire's dirty ash,
and nothing helps,
not even cash.
Every persons empty words,
make less sense than chirping birds.
I've always known;
no help for me.
All that I do
is just
be
me.

Poem: I Did and I Didn't, A Biography of My Life

2010-06-12T19:25:00.000-07:00

I never played the X-Box.
Or the Playstation 2.
Never gone skiing, snowboarding,
or swimming at the Lake with Friends.
Never even had many Friends.
No trips out of the Country.
No one takes care of me when I'm Sick.
All my visits to the Emergency Room
were Alone.
All of my Vacations were in my head.
If I died today,
there wouldn't be a Funeral.
I'd be burned, or tossed, with the other
Unmourned, Anonymous, Losers.
I went to a few Schools.
I published a few Articles;
nothing Big, nothing Important.
But maybe it Educated someone.
I made Love to more than a few people.
I consumed a lot of Drugs.
I Wrote a lot
and Read a lot.
Walked more than most.
Spilled a lot of Tears.
Meditated more
than the Average American.
But never attained Nirvana,
or Dhyana for that matter.
Or any kind of Peace,
which lasted for more
than forty-five minutes.
I studied a lot of Occultism
and other Weird crap
which never did anyone any good.
But it passed the Time
and vanished with my decomposing brain.
I made more than a few Bums,
Rejects, and Homeless People smile;
made them feel like
they weren't such pieces of shit
after all.
I never reproduced; I'm grateful for that.
I never flew First Class,
or drove an Expensive Car.
Never had a Masseuse.
Never worked at the same job
for longer than a year.
I was never able to keep a Savings Account,
always running out of money.
Never spent an entire week
eating out at Restaurants.
And though I mostly cooked my own food,
I never really learned how to cook
more than two or three things very well.
I never owned an Expensive Suit,
or a really nice pair of shoes.
I never Cheated on a Lover,
though a few Cheated on me.
Also never cheated in School,
though a few Schools cheated me.
I owed a lot of Debts I didn't pay,
but never to a friend.
I never slept with a friend's ex-Lover,
though I had a few offers.
I got Tattoo's,
but not all the one's I wanted.
And No, I never regretted getting them.
Never stabbed a friend in the back,
but like I already said,
I never really had that many.
Not for long, at least.
I sold my Body for Sex a few times,
and only regret it mildly.
But I wouldn't do it again.
I lived on Welfare and Disability.
I never Surfed, Scuba-Dived, or Snorkeled.
I went to a lot of AA meetings
and graduated from eight Rehabs
before I was Thirty.
I lived in Homeless Shelters,
under bridges, in abandoned buildings,
on people's couches, in Cheap Hotels,
but I grew up in Mansions.
I was on T.V. as a child;
my face and voice transmitted across the World.
My Father hit me a lot.
And a more than a few times left bruises.
My Mother lied for him
and taught me to lie for him also.
Terrorized as a Child.

I never did a lot of things,
that people do for fun.
I experienced a lot of pains,
anxieties, depressions, repressions,
cages, tortures, silent agonies,
heartbreaking cruelties;
I could just keep writing words,
but they'd never really get there.
I hope the Next Life is Better.
And that, in the End,
I spread more Love,
than the Pain
I received.

Poem: Mother's Surgery

2010-06-11T19:19:00.000-07:00

My Mother's in the Hospital;
Surgery for a broken hip.
I can't even afford to visit her.
What kind of Son am I?

The day will come
when She will die.
No longer will I be able to rely
on her sporadic
giftcards and money
in the mail.

Pathetic, poor, and weak,
I am.
Everything
my Father predicted.

I'm terrified
to be alone.
Though it feels like
I always have been.

My Mother's in the Hospital;
Surgery for a broken hip.
At least,
that's what
they tell me.

Poeem: Anatomy of a Relationship

2010-06-11T19:01:00.000-07:00

What is a relationship,
if not the uniting of two people,
into one?
"Making the beast with two backs,"
it's called.
Unity.
And Love.

Once United thus:
To harm one,
is to harm both.
To steal from one,
is to steal from both.
To make love to one...
Well...
To make love to one,
is to destroy the Union,
which existed beforehand.
To add to the Union,
creating a Trinity.
Or to siphon from the Union,
secretly, poisonously.
Stealing from the Love,
the Union
created.

The spoiled children of today
know little
of Unity.
Selfish;
They care only for Self-Pleasure.
Two people, together, both
"getting their rocks off."
This, they call "love."
"Sick," is what I call it.
Diseased, immature.

True Union
is a blessed thing.
Where the sum
of it's parts
are far greater
than the whole.
A power,
created from the Love,
as if from Nowhere,
which blesses the two Lovers.
Protecting them,
making them to feel
the whole world
is at their command.
Simply there,
for their pleasure.
And it is.

For the Vampires,
there is never enough.
Their sex is not fulfilling.
What they do in private
"should not matter"
to their lover.
Always viewing themselves
as alone, apart.
They need more, more,
more.
More attention,
more people,
more friends,
more affection.
It will never be enough.

Goddess let me be
as a Lover in your Garden.
The snake is always reveled
in it's secretive, selfish, bite.

Poem: Self-Pity Opera

2010-06-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

A Master of Heart-Ache;
It's me, that I dub so.
Sadness, depression,
the depths of despair.
These have I known
and invoked
in my years.
The opposite too,
the warmth of sweet Love...
But only too briefly,
compared to above.

The last love I had,
who I'm now in despair for.
Christian,
her name,
in this life.
I loved her so much,
that I offered her marriage.
Not joking,
I offered,
my life.
She thought I was kidding,
(or maybe she wished so)
for she loved her Ex
more than me.
And needing to leave her,
I just couldn't stand it,
her sleeping with him,
not with me.

My current depression,
the heart-ache, the lonely.
I know it
from feelings
before.
Before there was Christian,
was six years of Sadness.
From Ruby,
my lover,
before.

And during that Darkness
were many
fine people.
Who offered
their love
up to me.
But all I could see
was my own dark Depression,
it was,
the one way,
I could be.

Before there was Ruby,
was Natalie,
too,
and the Sadness,
which came,
with her flight.
Drinking
and crying
and writing her letters;
Night after night,
after night.

Yet still before that,
was the loss of my Mother,
my House, my Inheritance,
my All.
She gave up my Future,
to some new Abuser,
who cared about me,
not at all.

Even before that,
I cried from confusion,
from the pain,
that was crippling,
my spine.
Anger supreme
at my filthy rich Father,
who refused
to help
make it fine.

But before my back,
came a series
of Lovers:
Older, and sexy,
refined.
All of those beauties
with one thing
in common;
they used me,
but just,
for one time.

When too young to date,
I suffered in silence,
Abused by my father,
and Ma.
I always imagined,
the day I'd be grown up,
and not have to deal
with it all.

And now that I'm grown up,
those dreams are unrealized;
At thirty
I feel
like a child.
And all of those joys,
that I knew in my life;
Compared to the pain,
are quite mild.

Poem: The Ugly Butterfly

2010-06-03T03:48:00.001-07:00

Please vent
somewhere else;
I am your
whipping boy,
no more.

You picked another,
slept in his bed.
Now pick on me,
no more.

You've lashed at me,
injected your poison.
As long
as I can take.

And now there's nothing
left of you;
Just pages
filled
with hate.

I send you love,
you send me shit.
You're just too blind
to see.

The person who has left
is you.
I've always
just been
me.

Poem: My People

2010-06-02T16:28:00.000-07:00

A drop in the Ocean.
This poem has been written before.
By me, by others,
in other times, in other languages.
In fact, it's being written right now,
by somebody else,
somewhere,
who feels the same
as me.

The joy of youth has fled.
The purity of ignorance soiled.
Remaining is the dirty toilet
of myself.
Which I keep trying to clean.
But there is no return
to Innocence.

Where are the joyful adults?
Them that live and laugh and love?
I do not see them near.
There are the scared,
the suppressed,
the hiding,
the repressed,
the pretenders,
the defenders,
the parents,
the drunks,
the lairs,
and the rest:
Treading water
and trying to "survive."
Artistic parasites,
living off the ignorance
of the wealthy,
who will never know
the pain of
"not enough."

Where are the Grown-Ups who know?
The Adults who are?
The people that need
nothing more...
than Themselves?

Poem: Mascha

2010-06-02T16:15:00.000-07:00

My Russian Princess
who gave
without asking.
The Dream
in my time
of Darkness.

I see you again.

Last night I prayed
to be sent a Lover
like you.
The Angels outdid themselves,
and there you are:
Causing me to shake
and panic,
a flood of memories
washing over me
like the Ocean.

Repeating your name
out loud,
"Mascha."
I don't know why.
Reminded of
Frank Sinatra,
somehow;
Your memory
lovely
and loud.

I was in bad straights
when I last saw you,
though you never
judged me
for it.

In later years
I tried to find you.
Invisible,
it was not time.
"Mascha."
Repeating your name,
"Mascha."
Letting the tide of emotions
flow over me.
You are a powerful Drug,
to this Addict,
My Russian Princess.

I must take this slow...
like a Potter,
I would not like to break it
into shards.

Poem: Nervous Agony

2010-06-02T16:10:00.000-07:00

Heart-Beating,
Sweating,
Hyperventilating,
Hate.
"Ignore the one's who bother you.
They will always be there;
We must forgive."
Not running from all
which bothers.

They call it "Panic"
and "Anxiety."
Fear infusing veins.
Running for years
and sitting in tears,
there must be an ending,
some day.

It's taken my youth,
has robbed me of chances,
it gave me excuses,
for ill-thought romances.

I could just go on,
with my running and rhyming,
but perhaps it's time
to learn
how to stay.

Poem: Ungrateful

2010-05-31T13:29:00.000-07:00

I like the peace of Berkeley.
The trees, sunset, air, and people.
I hate my room in San Francisco.
Loathe it.
But it's all I have, for now.
I need to start planning,
how the hell to get free...
no way soon...
I don't want to go there!
But that's my home.
My place,
that I pay for
and fought for,
for years.
Trapped.

Short Story: Losing the Past

2010-05-31T13:18:00.000-07:00

It looks to be falling apart. I'll have to change tin a day; the way that I smoke, the way I relate, the number of laundry I clean. Still starving, but now "they" are taking my joys.
The last addictions I have. Why can't I keep them intact? They seem to me harmless, medicinal even. I don't know how to live without them.
It's not enough for me to be brought so low. To steal the last of my inner child's candy. I must also learn how to be around others who do not go without. Be around them, love them, live with them... live with them, without anger or envy. Without self-pity, competition, hurt, defense, manipulation, or beggary.
Ah beggary, how could I be without thee? To mooch and couch-surf. To bum and to find. These have been my way for far too long. I was still running, while others staked out land; cleared it and built homes. I was away running.
Now I find myself old, unable to afford sugar, remembering the cartoon I saw as a child: About a wolf who did no work, always begging from the hard-working pig. Always lazy, never working, the wolf always starved a little in the winter. But what when there is no pig? The pig gets tired of feeding him.
That cartoon always haunted me, like I could feel my future reflected in it...

As an adult, now, I can confirm that haunted feeling was right.

Poem: The Things I've Loved

2010-05-30T20:05:00.000-07:00

The first thing I ever loved was a pet;
It died before I ever realized.

The second thing I ever loved
was a man;
He left me for a woman,
before I knew
our time was up.

The third thing I ever loved
was a pain-killing drug;
It hurt me more,
than I'd ever
have guessed.
I left it before
it killed me.

The fourth thing I ever loved
was a young woman;
I hurt her more
than I'd ever
have guessed.
She left because
I told her to.

The fifth thing I ever loved
was Coffee;
It's hurting my stomach
so much
I'll have to quit.

The sixth thing I ever loved
was Tobacco;
It's hurting my lungs
so much
I'll have to quit.

The seventh thing I ever loved
was a woman;
She loved herself
more
than she loved me.

The things I love
haven't treated me well;

I guess I'll just stop

and rest

a spell.

Poem: Fake Friends

2010-05-14T04:21:00.000-07:00

Those people are dead to me now.
Burned up in a moment of rage.
No love or forgiveness,
for one such as me,
though why I don't know,
I deserve it.

When sides become chosen
there's no one on mine,
just me,
and the ghost of my thoughts
for all time.

Paper-thin all my friendships,
dissolved in an instant,
I cry for connection that deeper,
but where is it?

At first comes regret, then shame, embarassment.
Self-Pity, depression, acceptance.
Then back-sliding, attempts to fix,
and apologies, realization
that there is no going back
for me.

The hate and disgust
my peers feel for me,
like metal gone rust
stuck out in the rain.

If only they knew
my true feelings inside,
they'd love me the most,
not cast me aside.

But that's just a dream
and reality sticks.
Alone in my pain,
all my "friends" are short-lived.

Forgiveness and warmth
are feelings unknown:
Not given, not seen,
no calls on my phone.

For a few angry words
is enough to destroy
all semblance of friendship
for this little boy.

Al that this proves is
the hate all along.
I never was loved,
it's been faked,
an illusion.

And so I grow older
and learn the hard truths.
It's better to be unknown
than known as uncouth.

Poem: Old Friend Mike

2010-05-14T04:12:00.000-07:00

A friend that I had
he turned out quite bad,
though I've known him
since his very start.

Once brothers in faith,
he smiles to my face,
in private he tears me apart.

While spreading sick rumors,
I don't understand,
his cowardly gossip,
that slanders this man.

It must be because
I never began,
to fuck him,
or view him,
with awe.

The lies that he spread
awoke pain in my head,
confusion,
at malice so cruel.

Small network of friends,
I thought true to the end,
kicked me
in the gut
like a mule.

So now here I stand,
just like I began,
alone,
with my Angel
and God.

I know all those who lie,
will sure one day die,
and answer for sins,
one and all.

Poem: Insomnia #17 (Mother's Day)

2010-05-12T19:05:00.000-07:00

No sleep.
Big Jeep.
Fat sheep.
Food cheap.

Cold air,
feels fair.
Go where?
Nowhere.

Mother's Day.
Little pay.
Friend's gay,
Says "hey."

Feel OK.
Another day.
Which way?
Mid May.

Poem: Rhibald Othello

2010-05-12T19:01:00.000-07:00

The Selfish Swine
I love all the time
cares not
for my sleep
or my food.

Her only concern
is her cigarettes burn
and the swell of her
all-changing mood.

My pain doesn't move her,
my words come out silent.
Continuing hubris
that strikes me
like violence.

While owning the World,
she spits on this bum.
Distorting my heart-ache
and sucking her thumb.

Poem: The Heroes of Justice

2010-05-12T18:49:00.000-07:00

The Heroes of Justice,
chuckling, drinking coffee.
The masses of Animals,
Human-Animals,
locked up
only ten feet away
behind a wall
no one can see.

The Heroes of Justice
no longer believe,
only "doing their best"
and sometimes
not that.

The Animals who used to feel
Human.
The Heroes who once wanted
to feel Heroic.
Neither like their position.

Between them;
The Parasites.
Bail Bondsmen, Courts,
Lawyers, and worse.
Fake lawyers
who pretend
to be
on your side
and you never
suspect
they are not
until it's over.
And you lost.

Justice the Blind Woman,
with a sword and a scale,
She rules here no more.
Dead, raped, and defiled,
cold corpse on the floor.

The Heroes of Justice
eat lunch.
While the Animal-Humans
starve.

Man's cruelty knows no end,
often hides itself,
from itself.

Thus The Poison attains
a strangle hold
on Life.

Poem: This Little Earing

2010-05-12T17:11:00.001-07:00

I wear this earring
in remembrance
of a young woman
who claimed
she loved me.
And I her.

I always will love her
and this Golden Circle
is a fine symbol.

I was young,
but she was younger.
She was sick,
but I was sicker.
We were both addicts,
but I was legit.
We argued about it for years,
but she'd never get a Doctor.

And I...
I ran out of waiting.
Got raw from her whippings,
all of which came
from her lack of medicine,
which she refused to get.

She blamed me for our
"failure of a relationship."
I blamed her addiction.
We were both right.

I wear this earring in
remembrance
of a young woman
I loved.

May it never happen
again.

Poem: Old Future Henry

2010-05-12T16:59:00.000-07:00

Henry walked through the years of advertisements
on his way home from the Library;
First ads for movies he'd never be able to afford to see,
then 3-D movies and virtual reality.
Still using a keyboard at sixty years young,
Henry was considered more archaic than a fossil.
He was an enigma, a retard, an art piece maybe.
But few would notice.
After a few decades the ads on the walls changed
to things he'd never heard of before,
"4-D" and "Senso-Motion Experience"
and on and on.
But Henry wasn't interested
and couldn't afford to be if he was.
He just kept typing out his gibberish until death,
hoping that one day
it might mean something to someone.

It never did.
Like so many other hopefuls
his life's work was thrown in the trash
along with his body and megre personal belongings.
Lucky for him,
he was too dead to notice.

Poem: Another Day #5

2010-05-09T19:43:00.000-07:00

I feel like I'm all nerves;
stomach hurting for food
but revolting at the first bite.
"It's just another day,"
I say to myself.
Wanting to cry,
wanting to scream.
There are no answers to my pains,
no cures for my questions.
Everything in this life seems wrong,
I don't belong here.

But here I am.
Surviving like a cockroach.
I've already taken my medicine,
but my hands are still shaking,
can't write
any more.

Poem: A Prayer to Shango

2010-05-09T19:32:00.000-07:00

When I start to think of God,
I start to think about patterns
and fractals
and pages of math,
describing quanta possibility matrices,
yet there is consciousness.

Each pattern is conscious.
The patterns created from the first
are conscious also,
in different combination's of
Zero and One, The Yin and The Yang.
Different patterns.
Large patterns.
So large I can't even begin
to understand it
except for symbolically.
But conscious never-the-less.

And I.
A consciousness-pattern,
part of a larger one,
who is part of a larger one,
until God,
Infinity,
the Fifth dimension.

Work with me Larger Pattern!
Hear your little self calling to you!
Come to my aid, Great One!
Bring down your fire,
that all your children
of the thunder-stone
may prosper.

Poem: Depressive is Pain

2010-05-09T19:20:00.000-07:00

I am a Depressive;
Most of my life is pain.
My physical health is pain.
My mental/emotional health is pain.
My dysfunctional family is pain.
My deeply troubled lover is pain.

Though I love her,
am often happy to see her,
get fleeting moments
of happiness and warmth,
sometimes,
when we are together.

It's not enough.
My life still hurts.

I don't cry, like she does.
I get real quiet instead.
Slowly losing the ability to speak,
until I'm an unmoving, silent, human,
in pain.
So much pain that any word
seems pointless.

So she leaves me to my silence.
When I need her most.
To hold me.
To talk to me.
She doesn't.

I'm alone in my pain,
like I guess we all are.
She is not good enough
to make my life good.
(Though when she tries
she makes it better).

But no matter what she does:
I'll still be a depressive.
For the pain in my body,
for the pain in my soul.
I wish she could accept that,
accept Me
the way that I am.

And still continue
to love me.

Poem: Why, why, why.

2010-05-09T19:06:00.000-07:00

Why don't you love me,
like I think you should?
When you say that you love me,
but I can't feel it,
or see it.
And you wont hold me.

I'm always there for your tears,
but you're never there for mine.
You just make it worse.

My needs are so simple.
My wants are so pure:
Stay with me,
Look at me,
think about me.
hold me when I'm sad.
Listen to my words,
do not twist around my meanings.

If I can't even talk,
then it's really time to try.
Tell me that you love me.
Lie with me until I say
"stop."
Dedicate your time to me,
as I dedicate mine to yours.

When thinking about you only hurts.
And there is no medicine for me,
but to be alone...

After enough time alone,
anyone seems like an Angel.
I just want to be loved.
Something you are no good at.

Oh, you can talk.
But when it comes to shutting up
and just holding me,
well,
forget it.
Like it is not your job to support,
because you're a female.
All you can do is cry,
which makes me feel worse.

God, baby, I love you.
But when it comes to compassion
and just plain healing...

you suck.

Poem: Love Is...

2010-05-07T20:17:00.000-07:00

Love is:
Letting someone go,
if it is best for them.

Forgiveness,
for any
and all
actions.

Love is not hate,
hateful,
jealous,
greedy,
needy,
angry,
or short.

Love is permanent;
Infinite,
It does not end.

There are no
conditions to be met,
no expectations to live up to,
no rules,
laws,
words,
clauses,
or traps.

Love exists,
It's around us all the time.

Feeling Love
can be a transitory
experience.
Felt for a moment
while eating,
fucking,
falling asleep,
smelling flowers,
giving birth,
and more.

When it passes,
there can be a terrible hole,
a racking,
a sucking,
a painful,
gap.

What will you fill it with?
But Love?

Poem: Balance

2010-04-06T20:19:00.000-07:00

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder..."
Leaving her I feel a glowing joy;
a shine; a star; a Luck.

Seeing her seeing me leave,
I see a misery; damp-rot;
sadness; mourning.

"That the pain of division
is as nothing...
and the joy of dissolution
all."

The sorrow of leaving
should be overcome
by the joy of meeting again.

For me, this is true.
For her, it is not.

Is this balance?

Poem: Waiting for Her (#3?)

2010-04-06T20:16:00.000-07:00

just waiting by the phone,
waiting for that special someone
to call
and say
they are on their way.

It doesn't happen.

Hours go by,
with nothing.

Still nothing.

I know this waiting.

I've been doing it
since I first
fell in Love.

It seems to get
more painful
every year,
though,
sometimes
they don't even show up.

Hours of…
Hope, I guess…
dreams of love.

I fly to her
at a moments notice,
fast as I can,
I love her.

For her I can wait.
Oh yes,
I can wait.

Poem: The Suicides

2010-04-06T20:01:00.001-07:00

I believe in Suicide, as well as Euthanasia.
The first time I learned about Suicide
I was in the 2nd grade.
My family life was so tragic
that I thought:
"Wow! Killing yourself, eh?
What an idea!
I never knew that was an option,
how novel!"

So I tried and failed, pathetically.
I tried three or four more times
over the years,
some more serious than others.
But every single Failure
tolde me unequivocally
that God
would not let me die
that easy.
This would be the beginning
of my passive/aggressive
hatred of God
that would trouble me
over the years to come.

I envy Those who succeed at killing themselves.
I feel like they got off lucky,
like God was in a good mood that day
and gave them a "Get Out of Jail Free" card;
letting them come back home early.

For Those who try and fail,
like myself,
I feel the deepest pity,
compassion,
respect,
and brotherliness.

Nothing sadder than
to try for the Final Exit
and fail.
Usually left with scars
from their attempt.
To remind them of their
Imprisonment on this Earth.
Forced to labor in misery.

As for those who have
great misery in their lives,
yet never contemplate suicide…
I am speechless.
I do not understand their wills,
their souls, or what keeps them
so attached to their life.
Likewise they rarely understand me
or "us" should I say,
for all us Suicides.
They look upon me with horror,
sadness, and often anger,
at my merest suggestion
that Suicide may actually be OK.
Might be a perfectly valid life-style choice,
rather than the
"horrible curse of mental illness"
Society labels it.
Making all Suicide deaths
"shameful"
rather than
"Heroic."
"Sick,"
rather than
"Brave."

I say again that I
do not raise death
on a pedestal.
No worshiper of death in me.
Suicide,
against my wishes,
is not meant for me.
Never-the-less I honor Those
who choose and chose
that Way to go.
I honor your Souls
as greater than many others.
Peace to You in Your Other-Place.
See you.

Poem: Another Sad Day

2010-04-06T15:55:00.000-07:00

Another sad day.
There is no hope for her.
Anger and Pride
Burn in my heart
like lasers.
She should not have
such a powerful effect
on me.
She does.
Heart aching;
I never want to see her again.
Teach her a lesson about
hurt and loneliness.
It will probably pass,
it usually does.
For now a sad day
and nothing to say to her.
I came,
bringing her love
and chocolate ice cream.
I leave,
full of pain, tears,
sadness and ache.
Another poem to say
"I wont go back to her,
not _this_ time. She has finally
abused and disrespected me
for the last time.

*sigh*

Yet even as I write this,
I know it's probably false.
Like a million other Oaths,
this too, will vanish into the air.

Can I be happy without Her?
Goddess I wish it were so.
Tried recently an failed,
maybe the time just wasn't right,
maybe I'll get to try again soon…

But today is a sad day.

Reprogramming

2010-04-06T15:53:00.001-07:00

Hopelessness…
vague and empty.
Struggle pointless,
rewards few
and far away.
Alone,
things are magnified.
The First is so good,
the last, so bitter.
Hardness.
Tribulation.
Constant.
Never-ending.
Everything good
I'm supposed to use less of.
Everything bad
is usually the most responsible course.

I no longer know myself,
my world,
or the path beneath my feet.
Memories retreat
to the time of my young manhood,
hoping against hope,
the answer lies there.

If Sincerity were rewarded,
the riches would be mine.
Every day a little harder,
every inch a little further.

The baseline
of my theme-song
is sad.
Trying to change that
is hard.

Reprogramming, reprogramming,
reprogramming.

I hope it gets better,
soon.

Thoughts: The Occultist

2010-04-06T15:33:00.001-07:00

As a young man, the dream of becoming a solitary student of the Occult, was a fine one. Finer indeed than a job or a family, a house or a car.

As a man of full age, Occult Scholar indeed, the gleam of my Trade has been tarnished. For though it can be exciting, to deal with the world of "Les Invisibles (The Invisables)," a human is made a social beast. Remembering now the surprised faces of the older scholars I questioned. Surprised that one so young would be interested in what they surely viewed as a shabby and ill-suited subject: Occultism.

Many have fallen from great heights of Ivory Towers for the "crime" of an academic interest in the forbidden and foreboding subject. To profess a belief in the actions of practical Magick is enough to get one fired and black listed, lucky to ever teach again.

Yet every college with an Anthropology class on Shamanism or Witchcraft, has the class filled to the limit every Semester. The common people "know" about Magick on an inner intuitive level and every year more and more youths are flocking to the study of it.

Though the same college class is often used by the administration to instill propaganda of society and dispel the modern "myth" of Magick. More and more students are seeing the errors of their instructors rhetoric every day.

Again (Death)

2010-04-06T15:30:00.000-07:00

I wish I were dead.
Again.
That familiar desire
which I've known for so long.
Steps slow,
eyes tear,
head starts to hang,
nose runs,
My Life.
Which is mostly waiting:

Waiting for my bed time,
waiting for payday,
waiting for someone to visit,
waiting for the miracle to come;
Waiting for my Death.

Not in a an angry, spiteful,
"I'll show you" type of way.
Rather the Death which is
a kiss on the lips
from Eternity,
calling me home at last.
That Death that is the
restful reward,
as sleep to one
who's labored all day.

People say I'm too young,
but none know the Labours
I've wearried under,
nor the sweet relaxation I hear
at the very word "death."
Not the "loss of self"
people fear.

Poem: I Wish (#2?)

2010-04-06T15:18:00.000-07:00

I wish my body felt less pain.
I wish I enjoyed life more.
I wish I had a good childhood
and a family who loved me.
I wish I could stop smoking.
I wish I knew how to cook/eat better.
I wish I had good friends.
I wish I knew how to be a friend.
I wish I felt more loved.
I wish I could meditate better.
I wish I could haxor computorz.
I wish I had graduated from college.
I wish I was initiated into *******.
I wish I felt my Life had meaning.
I wish I had more money.
I wish I wasn't an alcoholic,
codependent, 30-year-old wreck,
I wish my father would admit his wrongs.
I wish I had a nice laptop computer.
I wish I were in Therapy.
I wish I understood Mafick better.
I wish I didn't pee so much.
I wish I didn't have to see so many Doctors
for the rest of my Life.
I wish I had a nicer Home.
I wish I wasn't so emotionally/mentally fucked-up.
I wish I had more fun.
I wish I could help people.
I wish I'd never hurt anyone or anything.
I wish my Lover didn't cry so much.
I wish I were more published.
I wish I ever had a chance.

Poem: Nails of the Crucifix

2010-04-06T15:08:00.000-07:00

She dangles my heart on a string,
plucks it,
plays with it.
Stretches the line taught,
then lets it slack again.
She is Secrecy like Nepthys,
The Egyptian Godess
of Night-Magick unashamed.
The darkest powers-female
were hers.
The ways to control a man.
For Her just a test, perhaps.
A dream, drawing,
or conscious sigil.

I bend to her time and again.
Sometimes out of Love,
sometimes out of loneliness,
sometimes, i wonder, as a puppet,
obeying it's Master.
By masochism,
through confusion,
repeated pains.
Together again.

My wits are not about me
with her.
Salome, and her seven veils.
Oh, yes.
She will have the head
of John the Baptist.
No matter what.

Though I Love her like Laudanum,
I know the Dark Secret;
She is just another person.
Like my last girlfriend.
Like my next girlfriend.
Like my Mother, like my Father,
like Me.
Like so many people I Love,
who don't get what they
want in Life.

Why grieve for her
more than the rest?
For the World is sadly
not all diamonds.
Do not blame me,
for the nails
of the Crucifix.

Poem: A Land of Grey

2010-04-04T14:18:00.000-07:00

I dream of doing well

physically,

medically...

No, not really.

But I wish I did.

I dream nightmares.

About my family,

and screaming,

and deep,

frustrating,

emotions,

that go on all night.

Only to wake up exhausted

and embarrassed.

At 30 years old

I don't want to still be having

mommy/daddy nightmares.

Oh, but I do.

The other nightmares feel so meaningful,

while seeming so meaningless.

"Grey Dreams" - all of them.

Dreams of people I know in reality,

but only barely.

Seeing the home-life

of the man who sells me cigarettes

and feeling how horrible it is.

I wake up from these in chills,

knowing that it has been too long since

I have last taken my pain medication

and I'm going into slow withdrawal.

Dope-sick dreams;

where my astral body travels,

unbidden,

to spy on nobodies.

Witnessing everyday crimes,

mostly on the self.

Crimes of loneliness and isolation.

I blame my nightmares on my room.

Maybe I'm wrong.

Poem: I'm Glad it's Raining

2010-04-04T13:43:00.001-07:00

I'm glad that it's raining today.

Yes, I know that I am only writing

because of you.

You, giving me life.

Giving me love.

Giving me hate.

Feelings most unknown.

The aching heart,

the crying phone game

(where nothing I say works).

I see more misery than good

to my works;

Both of us in pain,

is this living?

Is this love?

It seems more like illusion,

to me.

I'm glad that it's raining today.

Hiding the world

and my shame.

Guilt.

Teeth-grinding anger

at my stupidity.

For hurting you

again.

I'm a colossal Monster

and an Idiot.

I'm glad that it's raining .

Poem: SMS Game

2010-04-04T13:37:00.000-07:00

I texted again

"Ag. Sorry."

finally clearer of mind.

She texted back

four pages of

anger and spite.

I tried to imagine her fingers

typing so fast on the phone

her fingers

so much smaller than mine,

more nimble,

less swelled,

less,

arthritic.

She knows I hate

long emotional texts.

Has promised not to do them before.

But she does anyway.

It is part of _her_ anger problem,

though she'd never admit it.

Expectations unspoken,

wants not met,

then Guilt,

Shame,

Blame.

I hate that Game.

Poem:Some Don't Even Know

2010-04-04T13:31:00.001-07:00

It's like we're

both

waiting, wounded, worried

animals.

Waiting for the other

to come help.

But neither of us

is strong enough

to go to the other.

Angry, defeated,

and torn.

Screaming at our beloved

in "righteous" fury

at their (and our)

disability/inability

to Help.

The World Is Made

Like This.

Guilt the other to action.

Shame them into moving,

then reward them

for obeying your whims.

Like training a pet,

or abusing a child.

Poem: Some Don't Even Know

2010-04-04T13:31:00.000-07:00

It's like we're

both

waiting, wounded, worried

animals.

Waiting for the other

to come help.

But neither of us

is strong enough

to go to the other.

Angry, defeated,

and torn.

Screaming at our beloved

in "righteous" fury

at their (and our)

disability/inability

to Help.

The World Is Made

Like This.

Guilt the other to action.

Shame them into moving,

then reward them

for obeying your whims.

Like training a pet,

or abusing a child.

Poem: My Best

2010-03-29T13:11:00.000-07:00

I am of the Upper, Lower Class.
Having the coveted
Federal Disability Money.
Living in the dreamed of
section 8 funded
single room occupancy.
I have serious
Physical
and Mental
Disabilities.
Yet not so "serious" as say,
Cancer,
or AIDS.
So though I am,
Mortally Ill,
I do not get the excuse
of something "fatal."
The Power of
"Real Sickness."
Yes, I'm viewed as disabled,
but "not as disabled as..."

Stuck in the Middle.

I am of the Upper, Lowest Class.
Poor,
but not the poorest.
Disabled,
but not the most so.
Downtrodden yes,
but one who can
"do _something_ for themselves,
if they really wanted to."

A pretend sickness?
Fuck You.

I do my best.

Poem: Love-Pusher

2010-03-29T13:02:00.000-07:00

Wanting it your way,
always just your way;
You and the future
and the plans
and lastly, though,
lastly, Me.

I try so hard
not to get too connected;
for both our sakes,
though I don't think you see that.

Playing games like a kitten,
just the edge of ferocity,
the glimmer of death,
in it's eyes.

Nature, the Hunter.

Your hunting does not stop,
once you have me.
Still you must force me through grates,
channels, analysis, obedience-training,
learning to come when you call,
to do whatever you want...

Unfair?
Perhaps.
It is as it is.

I want you truly and directly.
All pomp and circumstance be damned!
I want you directly.
Body to body,
Mind to Mind,
Soul to Soul.

Throw away these "tests" of my office,
the "games" of my affection for you.
Trust in me Lover,
come to me, Lover,
Make me as worthy,

as your Drug Pusher.

Poem: Youth (#2?)

2010-03-29T12:57:00.000-07:00

Out of nowhere I remember being young and doing drugs. Driving our brains like test computers or NASA take-offs; Uppers, downers, trancers, trippers, dancers, and more. Pulling our brains in any and every direction, testing our physical Life's boundaries and sanities.
We didn't all get out unharmed. I know I didn't. Though the "knowledge" we gained, the exclusivity I've attained, the smaller circles I'm a member of...

Leave me searching far away.
But forever close to home.
In the days that I was free.

Poem: Pants Crapper

2010-03-29T12:52:00.000-07:00

Tired of feeling sorry for you,
tired of watching you
feel sorry for yourself.

Self-Pity is a disgusting Thing.
I know.
I've wallowed in it for years.

Watching you crapping your pants,
refusing to clean it up,
not letting me clean it...

What should I do?

The disrespect you show yourself
shines into my eyes,
making me angry.
Wanting to yell at you:
"Clean your ass!
Change your underwear!
For Christs sake,
get some toilet paper!"

But you don't.

You just keep looking at me
and crying,
shitty pants around your ankles.

Poem: Looking at Now

2010-01-17T14:22:00.000-08:00

It's not looking like
my life
is going to get better.
This awful, suicidal, feeling
of failure and pointlessness
(for me)
never leaving,
never ceasing.

All alone, now.
All fingers point at me.
I don't know how I got so weak,
don't know when I became so...
beaten.

But it feels like forever,
now.
I can't imagine a way out.
My options seem so few.
It sometimes seems
I was better off
homeless;
At least then I was
driven.

Life was never meant to be so
alone.
I always had people,
when I was younger,
and wherever I went
I found new people too...

I never imagined
that would change,
but it did.
Experiences drove stakes between
Me and Others;
from abuse, to jail,
to addiction, to homelessness.

Now my life is a
vast, empty, plain,
with a voicemail every 200 miles
and maybe a few emails
blowing through the empty sky.
There are no people any more.
Even the people who pretend to be people,
don't stay for long.
Just a flash in the pan
of my emptiness.

All my very real physical pains;
no longer matter who is at fault.
Because they are there.
Because they are real.
Because nobody
except "I"
have to deal with them.

All my semi-real
mental and emotional pains
no longer have any meaning.
They're real.
They refuse to leave.
And no one
can do anything about it
except Me.

Alone,
in pain,
cut off from warmth,
the only one to blame is me.
Every day I get worse.
Or every day I get better.
It's all up to me.
No back-up.
No best-friend.
No lover, parent, mentor,
pet, or Angel.

Sitting in the corner of my room,
surrounded by blankets,
I cry and cry.

The pain in my back
forces me to
leave my room
for a walk.

Will I look back at this time
and laugh?

I think not.

Blues Song: I Miss You

2010-01-17T14:17:00.000-08:00

Yes, I miss you,
yes, I do.
See your face
in the morning dew,
Evry rainbow,
an evry bird,
evry child now,
it sounds absurd;
I think of you.
I think of you.
Knowing you're out there,
I want to call,
knowing I'm so scared,
that I'll break it all,
yes, I miss you.
I miss you.
But there's nothing I can do,
now,
and you know it's true.
So I'll justa stay here;
Keep on missin you,
I'm missing you.

Poem: Eating

2010-01-05T11:14:00.000-08:00

It's the same every day.
The same
gnawing,
painful,
hole
in my stomach.

Somehow this
painful hole
is connected to
the pain in my head
and the general lethargy
of the rest of my body.

I must eat.
God help me,
I must eat again.
Because if I do not eat,
I will not be able to
stomach my pills.
Vomiting them,
into the sink,
wont help my pain.
And it's a waste
of good medicine.

On good days I can
beat my body
to the punch.
Jump out of bed,
rush to the kitchen,
and shovel down
some oatmeal,
quick.
That pacifies the
monster stomach
sometimes.

More often
I put it off,
as long as possible.
Smoking cigarette
after cigarette.
Just thinking about eating,
and how much I hate it,
feeling the pain grow,
for hours,
yet it must be done.
Like pooping,
only worse,
because I have to
put stuff inside.

"Another bowl of fucking oatmeal,"
I think,
feeling nauseous
at the thought.
But I know
I'll end up
eating it.

If I were rich
I could drink lots of
fruit smoothies
and protein shakes.
That would help a lot.
But I'm not rich
and I don't
even have
a blender.

Eating is one of the
painful,
repetitive,
tortures,
that I endure here.
On Earth.

Every day.
Of this painful life.

Poem: I Dream of a Day

2009-12-24T13:09:00.000-08:00

I dream of a day,
in my heart of hearts.
Picture it, in my mind.
I know that if I can picture it
clearly enough,
if I can feel it to be true enough,
if I have enough faith,
enough patience,
my dream will come true.

I dream that one day I will wake up,
and just feel OK.
Feel Good, even.
About myself,
about my surroundings.
About my future,
about everything and anything.

Physically,
inside,
I feel unwell.
Ill,
wrong.

Besides my physical pain,
there is a deeper pain.
Call it "emotional,"
call it "Mental,"
maybe even call it
a "Psycho-neuro ailment complex."
But whatever it is,
it's bad.
Not good, definitely.
It makes me scared,
leads to self-pity,
makes me want to drink
and do drugs,
do anything
to get away from "It."
But I can't really,
because it is me,
or a part of me.

I am unwell.
Inside.
Deeply and truly.

Often I can distract myself from "It"
for a few moments.
Reading a good book,
the first half of a cup of coffee,
a love affair,
cigarettes,
writing,
pot,
listening to music,
or whatever.

But in the end the distraction leaves
and I'm back to my empty pain;
my infinite dis-ease.

A fabulous short-term cure I've found
(since they're all short-term)
is in Compassion.
It always seems to work for me,
when nothing else does.
Like talking to someone
who has it "harder" than me.
Or calling someone on the phone
and really listening to them.
Not just waiting for my turn to speak,
but really listening to someone
and contemplating their life
and how hard it is to be them,
to walk in their shoes.

Because truly too,
in many ways,
I am blessed.

And I practice meditation,
and I pray,
and I live a mostly ascetic life;
abstaining from alcohol,
and leaving a lover,
all for my personal quest for Peace.
An end to the pain,
inside of my being.
Blocking me,
stunting my growth,
painful engrams of the past
burned into me so hard
that I can no longer enjoy myself.
I can no longer enjoy myself.

The best I can do is distract.
For a moment.
From the pain.

I dream of a day
when my world
will be reversed.
Where I'll live in beauty
and happiness,
with only brief moments of pain.

I don't know if I'll ever get there.
I have a lot of life left to make up for,
building many walls for much too long.

It seems to be getting better.
Inches and centimeters at a time.
I dream of a day.
Yet the "Feeler" is only
a human ego; fragile at best.

I wasn't always like this.
I remember days,
barely,
when I knew who I was.
Despite the violent beatings
and a life of unavoidable lies,
suppression,
imprisonment,
and horror.

Despite the madness around me,
I knew who I was,
and I wasn't part of "that."
"That" evil.
I was good.
I was the victim.

Now twenty years later,
my inner resolve has been smashed.
By more professional torturers than my father,
torturers like the Police,
the Courts,
and the "Social Services"
for the "Poor and Homeless."
Oh, yes;
My father was Bad,
but the World was worse.

Now I'm a clusterfuck of experiences,
mostly negative.
I don't remember what it's like
to have fun,
or maybe I just haven't been able to afford it for so long...

My hearts been hurt by others,
besides my family,
situations I could not claim "victim" in
(though often I did anyways).
My friends you can count on the limbs
of a quadruple amputee;
I'm alone,
with my past and some hope.

I've learned a few techniques,
and I've felt some stings of failure.
To keep on trying,
my only choice.

I dream of a day
when I will feel OK.
Have my willpower again,
self-respect,
satisfaction.

A day I can greet
the Great World
in The Eye
and say
"Damn am I glad to be here!
Now how, may I be
of service?"

Poem: Chistmas Eve '09

2009-12-24T12:52:00.000-08:00

I'm an angry,
mean,
spiteful,
grumpy,
Old Man.

I despise my friend's
wife and child,
because I do not have any,
and probably never will.
I despise my friend for having them,
for being part
of a web of comfort,
that I have no part of.

I am a bitter,
envious,
Old Man.

Hating my friend
for traveling far and wide,
seeing sights
I had only dreamed of,
apparently only to dream.
I hate him so,
my skin tingles
on the top of my head.

I am a lonely,
and selfish,
Old Man.

Remembering all
the hearts I've broken,
yet still wanting
to break more.

I'm a devious,
atrocious,
Old Man.

Taking comfort in
my friends'
troubles and ills;
All the better to
"show them"
how much
I care.

I'm an old,
Old Man.
And I'm alone.

It's Christmas again.

And I'm actually 29.

Story/Theory: The Shaman of Lascaux

2009-12-18T00:55:00.001-08:00

The half-man/half-beast shambled deeper into the cave, using his femur-bone torch dipped in the last of the animal fat. The Cold was still alive outside the cave and his days foraging had not gotten him very far from the cave, nor any new food for his skeletal-thin body, draped in layer after layer of furry large-beast hide. The half-man hadn't seen a large-beast in many darknesses. Many, many darkness. Rotations of the sky even. All he had seen and eaten in the last sky rotations were the tiny-beasts. Hard to catch, energy-consuming to cut and clean, little meat and marrow to be got from such fair.

It had been so long since his last constant real food supply that he often forgot what he was. Forgot there were others like him somewhere out there... or used to be. He had come from somewhere once, but his memories of it were almost all gone now. Lost in days of constant, repetitive, survival. The half-man became more and more like his animal half every day. Trying new roots and nuts in attempts to satisfy his body's constant aching needs. The Great Cold refused to stop. Several times he'd been made very, very, sick by certain plants and roots. His body remembered these warily and avoided them by smell while foraging.

There was also the dirt-fruit that gave visions. Dirt-Fruit could be found often in the forests during the brief stops of rain, but also in the dark of mountains where half-men like him used to live. You had to grab dirt-fruit fast, because small-beasts ate it too, sometimes, and it took a lot of dirt-fruit to fill an empty stomach. But there were three kinds of Dirt-Fruit the man knew about. The first kind was was food kind, the good kind, and not all food-kinds looked the same. The second kind was the sick-making Dirt-Fruit. They were so bad they could make a half-man very sick or even dead. The third kind was the kind that was used mainly by the Two-Headed Men, Men of the Medicines, to cause visions, talk with the dead, make deals with the forest-spirits, and other things he didn't really understand.

The half-man did not know much about the third kind of mushrooms. Once, dimly, when he was the size of half a man, he remembered being pushed into a cave and prodded to the back. When he got there an old man made him drink a hot drink that tasted like dirt-fruit and a few minutes later the half-boy was in the in-between world with the Man of Medicine. All his ancestors were there dimly and they nodded to him, making ritual gestures he understood at the time but now forgot. It was many years ago and the half-man avoided the third kind of dirt-fruit because he was not a Man of Medicine, did not want to have visions, he just wanted to stay fed. The third kind could make a half-man sick in the stomach, too, but not dead-sick.

For weeks all the half-man could find was dirt-fruit of the third kind. These had bulbous white stems, and red tops, with little white dots on top. Very pretty and some could be quite big. To the half-man, in his condition of starvation, they looked delicious and filling. The half-man didn't know what to do. He picked them and stockpiled them, in case he couldn't get anything else, but he refused to eat them. Maybe he could trade them for some food to a Man of Medicine if he meets one. The Great, White, Cold had gone on longer than any the half-man could remember. Every scavenging trip a failure, not even a single small-beast any more. The half-man tried to think of a way to catch the small air-beasts, but he'd never seen it done and didn't even know if you could eat the air-beasts. He just didn't have the energy.

The firewood was dangerously low as the half-man lay by it, shivering in starvation. Finally his body's needs overtook his sanity and the half-man began gorging himself on his pile of medicine dirt-fruit. He didn't care if it did make him sick, it would be worth it to stop this feeling of his body eating away at itself from the inside. No sooner was his belly full of the red and white dirt-fruit, than he felt the dirt-fruit wishing to come back out again. He tried to hold it inside himself, picturing the energy he badly needed staying inside him, but failed; projectile vomiting onto the cave wall and the corner floor. He lay down in the puddle, totally exhausted, ready to lay down and die, knowing he had probably kiled himself on bad dirt-fruit.

As he continued to lay there, breathing, chest rising and falling, listening to the crackle of the embers of the fire, hearing the whistling, howling, winds of the cold outside the cave, seeing the shadows reflecting on the walls getting larger and smaller in time with the fire, the wetness of the puddle he was laying in seeping into his furs, feeling back to when he was a small-man and he first felt this strange feeling. The Old Man of Medicine nodding to him. He was dieing again. He'd died before with the Old Man, now he was dying again. It's how the Medicine was done. But this time it was much stronger and this time he was alone, he had no Man of Medicine to Guide him.

He lay there. Feeling the pulsing waves around him. Trying to feel something that would help him now. Had he seen something like this? What was he to do now? He did not know the grunts and symbols the Old Man had used, had no other plants or beasts-parts to work with. His days and nights began to pass before his eyes. First slowly, than with increasing speed. But time was going backward. He saw his days in the cave, many and many of them. Saw his days of wandering before the cave. Came remembering back to what must of been his people. He wished he could stop it, wanted to stop, to see his people again, to think about them, but his vision sped on ever faster until he was coming out of his female blood-door, then he was inside, then, nothing.

Endless night. Eternity. There was nothing everywhere, extending to infinity. The half-man no longer had a body, was no longer in a cave, all that existed was a light which lived in eternity at the center of the half-man's being. This light saw that inside the nothingness were other light's like it, an infinite number, like the stars in the sky, and that each light sphere radiated beams of light which touched every other luminescent point, thus all were connected in a web of sentience. Every point was conscious, just as he was. This was the reality, the underworld, the spirit world. The rest is the dream. This is where the Man of Medicine works. For what is affected here is Eternal, and it naturally changes what's out there, what's transitory, what's physical. It's opposite, it's twin and it's lover. The half-man's small sentient point of life asked the web of life to provide food for him and the answer from the sentient Universe web-of-life came to him instantly. It gave him his answer and it gave him his name.

Back in his cave the half-man tapped his chest and grunted two-syllables together, "Ka-Ba." This would be his name now. For meeting the Universe, This name was so the Universe would know who he was, when we was working with it. He did not need a name for other half-men and he did not have one. A name was his creation alone and he would keep it between him and the Universe. Who else would know what to do with one?

The dirt-fruit had not worn off yet and the cave looked unnaturally bright for it's small fire. Ka-Ba began to worry about his little amount of wood when his point of light made him feel warm inside, made him feel not to worry, so he didn't, just enjoyed the warmth. The feeling of the Universe spoke to him again, this time from the blank brown cave wall he was staring at. The web of light seemed to be pulling him to change the images on the cave wall. Images made by water and moss, images made by time and nature. If he changed the wall,-universe, the universe-wall would change his inside said.

Scooping up puke, excrement, blood. soot, and any other color making substance he could, Ka-Ba painted on the wall pictures of all that would make life perfect for him. A sun in the sky, a whole group of middle-sized beasts, and even a few huge-beasts. And painted next to it all, of course, stood Ka-Ba. Armed with the weapon of a warrior he'd seen once and idolized, Ka-Ba painted himself as a great hunter and the great number of tasty-beasts he would kill, and how rich and happy he would be. When he was finally finished he felt as if the Universe had agreed with him and he felt strangely and deeply that all would be well.

Exhausted from all this he fell down to sleep by the coals of the dying fire and sleep well he did.

When the the half-man awoke in the morning it was with the feeling of one waking from a bizarre dream. His heavy head would not get lighter and he had strange memories of an Old Man and a group of herd-beasts he was hunting with success under a sunny sky. When he finally saw the painting on the wall many more strange memories came flowing back to him, including his new name Ka-Ba. Confused about what to do with this name he'd acquired and shivering Ka-Ba made his way to the cave entrance to find that the Great White Cold had finally stopped. The Sky-Father Disc was actually visible and warm to the skin. The whiteness was slowly melting into water he could drink, but before he could bend down to drink some he saw them. A beautiful group of herd-beasts, the like he hadn't seen in a very long time. Grabbing the closest sharp sticks in hand he made out in a joyous and wild pursuit, exerting far more energy than he thought possible still remaining in his tiny skeletal frame.

By the end of Ka-Ba's spontaneous and sloppy hunt he'd successfully killed two and wounded three others. A total victory. Enough meat to last for many days. Hide to make blankets or even a hut from. Bones for tools. Ka-Ba was suddenly rich. There was much work to be done with the skinning and gutting of two herd-beasts, tracking of the wounded ones to finish them off, and foraging for fresh dry wood now that the sky-disc had reapearred.

By nightfall Ka-Ba had been working all day on his food preparation and cave stockpiling. He didn't know how long the Sky-Father would protect him until the White Cold came back and Ka-Ba wanted to do as much as he could. He had not spent a single moment that day thinking about his cave drawing or the medicine dirt-fruit visions of the night before. It was only after eating himself full of roasted herd-meat and drinking several skulls of water that Ka-Ba began to look at the paintings he'd done. He'd painted the Sky-Father and the Sky-Father had come. He' d painted the herd-beasts and the heard-beasts had come. He painted his being a successful hunter (which he was not always good at) and that had occurred too. The only thing that didn't happen was him having a made weapon and the appearance of anuy huge-beasts. Ka-Ba remembered talking to the Universe, the Universe accepting. He thought it very strange, but beyond that he did not think anything of it. He had enough meat for a bit and there seemed to be more outside. The reason it was there was unimportant and still Ka-Ba was no Man of Medicine, he was a hunter.

After eating and thinking more (concerted thinking a process that he did only rarely because it caused head-pain and didn't seem to lead anywhere) Ka-Ba took some of the bones of the herd-beasts and sharpened them with rocks to make better weapons for his next hunt. The next morning he went outside and the first thing he saw was two huge-beasts, just like in his painting, and this time he was holding weapons. Stopping in his tracks, he didn't know what to do. In his long lost days of being with a tribe, killing a huge-beast was a great accomplishment because it fed the whole tribe and stopped a natural predator. Now he had enough food, he didn't need the huge-beast. He thought about this shortly. In his painting he won. If the painting was Medicine Man magick then he would be able to beat these two huge-beasts. Ka-Ba already had enough food so it would be foolish to attack the to huge-beasts for no reason. But Ka-Ba was a hunter and he had been stuck in that small cave for a very long Cold White. Though still weak and undernourished Ka-Ba ran at the Huge-Beasts screaming with everything he had, plunging the bone harpoons repeatedly into both of the huge, tusked, beasts before they knew what hit them.

Ka-Ba raised an ululating victory cry to the Sky-Father and the Earth-Mother the likes of which he hadn't done since he was just becoming a man. The two shaggy beasts simply fell over on their sides and died, heat steaming from the open gushing wounds on their chests. That night he had an even finer blanket than herd-beast-hide. The shaggy, furry, material of a huge-beast is prized for it's warmth and comfort.

Again it was after diner on a full stomach that Ka-Ba gazed again at his cave painting. He had painted huge-beasts and his success over them and that is what happened. Is this what the Men of Medicine knew? Where there really two-worlds, depending on each other? By changing one you could change the other? The idea gave Ka-Ba a headache. It felt like too much was trying to be squeezed into his small head at once. He didn't want his painting and the world to be connected, but they seemed to be. He decided to try an experiment that night and drew a crude female creature of his own race out of the blood of a huge-beast.

The next day the weather was still bearable with the Skyfather still visible in the sky for most of the day. Ka-Ba travelled around the perimeter of his cave, the land he roughly counted as his current living area. He counted more herd-beasts and a few more huge-beasts, but he ignored them. He had enough meat. What he was seeking he didn't find; no female.

That night again around the fire after dinner Ka-Ba thought about his painting and the world. Why didn't the woman appear that day? Was he wrong about his painting? Did the painting have no true Medicine after all? He continued to think long after his head began to hurt. Replaying the night he lost his mind on the dirt-fruit over and over again, until finally it hit him; the dirt-fruit. As soon as the thought occurred he knew he was right and stopped thinking. He went to the corner of his cave and grabbed the remaining dried stalks and caps of the dirt-fruit medicine he used.

This time Ka-Ba began to recognize some of the things that he felt and saw. He was first forced to lose his name, his body, everything that was not his bright center and then he was a bright pinpoint again in the endless field of night. Again he was united with the Universe and again he painted a woman. Again the Universe heard him.

The next day Ka-Ba awoke and began with a feeling of uncertainty. He did not know what he would find today, but he had no wish to eat any dirt-fruit again any time soon. Just the thought of it made him sick in his stomach. It was the late afternoon at one of the water reservoirs that Ka-Ba first saw her. It took her some moments before she saw him, too, and moved guardedly to her weapon (a (sharpened femur bone). The pure shock and awe that aroused in Ka-Ba at the sight of this beautiful female must have shown from his face, for she quickly felt at ease with him and could see in his eyes that he posed no danger to her. This became a daily courtship ritual at the reservoir that would continue for many months until they joined to each other for the rest of their lives and Ka-Ba showed her the painting he had made long ago.

Ka-Ba only used the dirt-fruit-paint magick a few more times in his life before he died, preferring to simply hunt, let nature occur, and be with his family, though he did teach the way it worked to several ambitious young Men of Medicine who would later go on to create or discover other forms of sympathetic magick, and occaisonally did a few works to help his small tribe.

Story: Pattern Recognition

2009-12-15T16:41:00.000-08:00

This is a pattern. I've been here before, or a close variance thereof, many times. Five, Six, Ten? More? I don't really know, but at least five.
The morning after I feel so consumed. Raw. Frustrated, sick, depressed, and a little angry. I leave in search of peace. Take double-doses of medicine, too early, and forgo breakfast. Endure a terrible morning commute BART ride, all just to leave, to go back to peace. Vowing to myself never to endure such emotional torture ever again. Yet somehow I keep coming back.

As usual, I leave. She's sad and confused and hurt. So am I. But every moment I spent there just made me feel worse. Why is there always such pain in that place, in that house? Why, why, why. Never a useful question. My head aches just being there. So I start over.

It's afternoon, I get there. She's in the garage. We start to hang out and she begins to complain about her safety in her house and how random men are always breaking in, etc. So this freaks me out incredibly, possessively, and instantly my feelings drop to Hell as I begin to worry about her safety, which is something else I do not control. I mean, she controls it, if anyone does, so there is nothing I can do about it but worry more. So I do. So twenty minutes into my visit I'm already depressed and scared for her; all amorousness gone. That means not horny. Just both of us nervous and scared together. Ew. No, I was not enjoying thigs. I tried to lighten matters up with descriptions of her happiest places, etc, but I did not seem to succeed much.

Eventually, we semi-mechanically retired to her bedroom, where I become unusually super-conscious of the sound of her mother in the kitchen nearby; I could hear her mother chopping carrots, I could hear her mother walking around, I could hear her mother breathing. And no, she wasn't super sexy. All of this a turn-off. This added to the fact that during intercourse my lover refused to touch my penis, contributed to a lack of amorousness on my part. The final result was us making love only once that evening. My lover obviously wanted more, and usually we would have, but my mood was in the dumps, as was also becoming unfortunately typical as of late. My lover sensed this too, I think, but did nothing to help.

My feelings were so hurt that I thought of leaving, just going home, several times that night. Maybe I should have, but I was determined to make it through the night for "my lover's sake." I wonder now if perhaps it was just masochism. The self-inflicted shame of going home that early would have been great, even with my PTSD excuse.

Thus in my dark, sour, mood, she asked me if a friend of hers whom I didn't know could stop by to meet me, knowing full well that I wouldn't be up for it; and I was not. This further darkened my mood and our short, serious "talk" at this time made my emotional matters even worse.
Not knowing what to do, not wanting to run away in theory while my body screamed "flight", horrified at the painful prospect of more "talking" with her, I did something new for me: I fell sleep. Or close to it. I simply went comatose around six in the evening and refused to be roused. My lover lay with me for a bit, but for the most part she ignored me completely, smoking outside and talking on the phone. Though sad, this option was at least less painful than others. Though cowardly, it was surprisingly efficacious.

The next morning I woke her with a shower of kisses and genuine good cheer I had not expected to have. Last night's sadness remained in my heart, but for the moment it was in the back of my mind. I gave way to the unexpected cheer and made coffee. She wanted sex, I thought, which brought back last nights feelings stronger and I gradually became quieter and more withdrawn.

I drank my coffee and chatted with her sister, things seemed okay enough... though the darkness and the heaviness of the house atmosphere was still oppressive, still tangible. My lover came out to smoke with me... we sat in silence, I think, unusual for us... she seemed so sad, though... she might have invited me back to bed and I night have refused, still hurt by her strange fear of my penis. I can't really remember clearly. I talked with her about this fear and she agreed, saying she understood how I felt, but how could she really? She did not apologize for anything (though I was secretly hoping she would), nor did she seem to understand how deeply it all hurt me. I got quieter again...

I went out to her house's garden to meditate by their tree, as I usually did. My sitting was shorter than usual. Rather than soothing me it seemed to awaken in me a fervent desire to run away from the horrible place, my lovers psychically poisoned house, and her similarly poisoned heart. To leave now, at all costs. Upon reentering the kitchen with the full intenet of grabbing everything I had and leaving ASAP, still holding the door open I saw she had made me breakfast.

A beautiful act. Something she'd never done for me before.
So simple, so kind. It looked delicious, but my stomach felt sour and I still felt I had to get away. Looking to her for strength I found none. I refused it, with tears in my eyes. I did not feel any hunger. Flight, freedom, the only things on my mind. Add to that now Guilt, for refusing my lovers sweetest of intentions. I didn't even take a single bite. I had to go. Sadly, almost wordlessly, we hugged numbly, said almost nothing to each other, and I left.

A jerk, an ingrate, an early-leaver, spent, stressed, a lover at his wits end.

Poem/Thoughts: "Luxery Problems"

2009-12-04T21:19:00.000-08:00

"Luxury Problems,"
- I'd first heard
the term
at an AA meeting,
described by a person,
who had lost everything;
Because of Addiction.

A "Luxury Problem" is a problem
which does not directly affect
a person's physical security
or vital emotional functioning.
"Damn,
I can't decide which tie to wear,"
is a Luxury Problem.
"Damn,
I can't get any drinking water,"
is a Real-Life Problem.

This distinction can be
very hard to grasp
by anyone who has
never had many
Real-Life Problems,
having always been provided for,
in one way or another.

In Modern First World Western Cultures,
especially rampant in The United States;
There are many people who only
suffer from "Luxury Problems"
and can't understand
what the rest of humanity suffers,
simply trying to survive.

However, these "Luxury Sufferers,"
are not to be blamed.
Indeed to them, not getting their way,
or breaking a fingernail,
may be the worst feeling
they have ever been forced to suffer,
and feel quite justified in comparing their
"Luxury Problems"
with those of peoples in
totally, qualitatively, incomparable,
to their own.

While the homeless man,
going through the trash,
is overjoyed
at finding half a donut.
The business man,
nearby in a Mercedes,
is angrily yelling
into his cellphone,
because he just lost some stock
in a Mutual Fund.
The homeless man has no idea
what a Mutual Fund is,
or why someone would be so angry
about it.
Especially someone in a Mercedes.
The business man is
disgusted to his stomach
at the mere thought
of eating a donut
from the trash.
Their two value systems
are completely different
and independent
from each other.

One is attuned to immediate survival.
The other is attuned to Symbols
and Representations of Ideas
which are supposed to be related
to his survival eventually
(If he loses his stock, he may lose his job,
then his car, then his house, etc).

One persons attention is immediate
and one is projected far
into the imaginary future,
filtered through yet unknown possibilities
and his own desires.
Clearly such a projection is itself a luxury.
If the human is so financially secure
that they can emotionally afford
to invest energy
in figmentory futures.
It follows logically
that the person in question
is either Well-Off
or perilously imbalanced.

Thus the human goal becomes:
To distance oneself
as far as possible
from survival questions,
IE "Real Life Problems."
The more secure one's food supply,
or shelter, or emotional happiness,
the more free time one has
to better secure themselves,
to get thelmelves even farther away from
problems of survival.
Freer and freer
to pursue pastimes
of pure joy and relaxation;
Like watching football
and having sex.
Dangerously, this also applies,
to those who believe wrongly
or only think their needs are secure,
when in fact they are not.

Someone with purely
"Luxury Problem"
oriented living
will not be able to understand
a person with a purely survival oriented worldview.
The survivor will appear to the first like an animal,
while the first will seem like a spoiled, pampered, child,
to the experienced world survivor.

Thus the Concentration-Camp-surviving-Grandfather
tries to lecture his grandson
who has never been hungry in his life
about the value of food,
but the grandson cannot understand.

Perception.
Character.
Somehow it always seems to come back to these.
The same situation experienced through
completely different filters.
Yet the perception affects the situation,
it is never so removed as it seems.

Insisting one is right,
is always wrong.
Judgement is not for me.
Advice is a form of Nostalgia.
All judgement stems from knowledge
and experience.

Though I have learned quite a lot...
Though I have seen many things...
Though I have known many people...
I do not feel able to Judge.

Who knows how deep
one's craziness goes?

If I wish to be forgiven,
I must first forgive.

Poem: Time, The Girl, and Sorrow

2009-11-29T16:53:00.000-08:00

I have me no parents;
to help keep me fed.
I have me no friends;
to wipe tears from my head.
I have me no lover;
with whom to console.
I just have this room
and my government dole.

I'll never be equal,
to you or your friends.
Your life will not change,
never seeing me again.
You think that you know now,
but time proves you wrong.
For when you are dead,
you were alone all along.

I tried to unite,
our two hearts
into one.
But your heart
was divided,
my battle
not won.

While you were my highest,
my reason to be.
You found me wanting,
and left by the sea.

Your friends were much better,
to you and your life.
Your ex-loves the reason,
you wont be my wife.
While I have all nothing
and you were my all;
You had life already,
at your beck and call.

My soul
in your market
was not worth a dime...

I hope you will learn more,
I've nothing,
but time.

Poem: Bad Transformations

2009-11-26T20:41:00.000-08:00

An Intimate Lover turns into
a strange, unknown, Monster!

How could this be happening?!
So fast!
Where is the human Lover I knew?

This, this, this...
Doppelganger,
who took Their place!
Hearing not a word I say!
Seeming to care for me not at all,
knowing nothing of my feelings towards e-mails,
contradicting themselves with each paragraph.
Great, lieing, Haughty, Hypocrite:
Demanding response,
while no response will do.

No matter what I say,
it is taken by Them for Evil,
only fueling Their Unrighteous Fire,
their weird Demon's thirst.

They will not rest
until We (My Lover & I) are destroyed completely.
Until all chances of friendship between us,
and all contact,
of any kind,
is gone.
Made Impossible.
Our Time Over.

I list my boundaries;
the Monster,
my Lover's Doppelganger,
immediately crosses them all,
taunting me with sadistic glee.
"Now what?" They sneer.

Knowing how fragile I am ,
knowing how sensitive to
my lovers written words;
This Being I used to Love,
hurts me on Purpose.

Hurts me, hurts me,
and hurts me again.
Deliberately,
with Malice aforethought.
Self-Pity may be pathetic,
I am not such a Fool
as to not see that in me.
But so too is being a doormat.
Even a doormat for
a Beautiful young person.

Aiming Their verbal bullets
at my weakest parts,
(weak points they learned of naked,
in Love, in Trust, in bed, with Me).

Their justifications,
for my heart's Assassination,
are nearly infinite:
Blaming me for the bulk of it,
nothing left for me to say.

Sometimes -Silence -
is the only reply.

Every response I give them,
bent into an excuse to attack me.
interpreting my answers
as invitations to continue
their never-ending harangue;
Of Me,
all my limitless faults,
all my limitless cruelties.

In one sentence from Them I read they
"...have never loved any one more than (Me)..."

In another They submit reasonably that they
"...cannot ever bare to see You (Me) in person again..."

Then a few pages latter does a few
mental flips in the air again and asks if I
"...would you like to meet up Saturday..."

To pages and pages
of similar,
self-contradictory,
deeply heartfelt,
confusion and lies.

And sometimes,
just plain insanity.

It seems to me that my
Lover-Friend-Stalker,
(hopefully temporarily)
has lost contact with
An Objective Reality.
Governs by Moods,
rather than Morals.

One cannot negotiate with a Madman,
the language barrier is insurmountable.

I had never guessed the depth of
Anger toward Me,
Need for Control,
Power Hunger,
Expectation,
and just plain
Spoiled Brat Selfishness
which resides near the center
of my X-Lovers being.
(Of course these faults are also mine;
that's the reason I can see
the method to this madness).

Remembering back They were very quiet,
through much of our time together.
I never had reason to believe that inside my
Gift from The Goddess
there would be a volcano.
Waiting for a victim,
to make it erupt.

I had finally gotten the
Peace of Mind
to stop reading
Their sad, poisoned, words.
It took a complete Panic Attack,
boarding nervous breakdown,
at just the sight
of another mean letter from Them.
But it worked.

I hate giving up.

Yet it's something I've had to learn to do,
to succeed, to survive;
As gracefully as possible.

Maybe one day
They will be Sane again...
We can meet and hug,
go out,
have coffee,
fall in Love again,
whatever.
I hope so.
I wish so.
I Pray so every day.

Saddest,
most evident,
there is nothing to be said
between us
now.

This part is Over.

Poem: Thanksgiving '09

2009-11-23T14:00:00.000-08:00

It gets lonely down here sometimes.
When all your lovers want someone else,
or want you to be someone else.
When all your friends are too busy for you.
When you have no family,
and you never have,
but it's the season of families;
It's easy to feel left-out.

I never predicted,
how easy it is,
to be alone.
Never knew
how fast
it could come.

Complete and total.
Utter and infinite.

The World lives around me,
while for me time has stopped,
at the zero mark.

If you have a family,
give thanks.
If you have friends,
give thanks.
If you are not alone,
give thanks.

As for me,
I'll continue to write.

Poem: A Sorry Sorrow

2009-11-23T13:52:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry baby, I really am.
I see you hurting, pouting.
My chest aches with yours.

Your decisions brought us here.
My decisions brought us here.
It does not matter,
it is here,
as shown by
the tears
on your face.

Acting my cool,
I try to console you,
just silence,
the only result.

Somewhere inside
I want to scream at you,
shriek that you ruined our home.
Part of me cat-calling:
"Spoiled Brat,
why were you so greedy?
You had me!
We had us!
Why did you need him?!"

My Fury has no answer.
My Rage, no dignified comment.
Just smile sadly,
shaking my head,
say,
"Darling what brought us to this?"
Touching your head and hand
is paradise...
now closed to me
by your commitment
to damnation.

I love you.
I always will.
I will not be destroyed with you,
nor help you drown in flames.
All honesty,
I do my best,
Act Rightly
toward one
and for all.

Poem: Tomorrow (#3?)

2009-11-23T13:43:00.000-08:00

I'm finally feeling well,
and it's time to go to sleep.

The long battle of my day is over.
All day I've been
hungry, anxious, scared,
in pain, nervous, rushed,
bored, frustrated, and more.

When I've finally come down,
to where I have wanted to be;
calm, fed, happy, at peace:
It's time to go to bed.

After all my fighting,
I've finally won,
only to sleep,
starting over again,
tomorrow.

Poem: Bow and Repeat

2009-11-21T07:31:00.000-08:00

My mother chose my father,
over me.
Over and over
and over again.
As a child.
He would beat me
and I would beg her
to leave him.
But she wouldn't.
He'd scream at her
and beat her
and I'd beg her to leave him.
But she wouldn't.
Or she couldn't.

Later in life she remarried.
My stepfather would beat me;
stealing all my inheritance
from my mother.
I asked her to leave him,
or at least protect my inheritance.
She wouldn't.
Or she couldn't.

Later still I was dating
a woman I loved.
Who was addicted to
an abusive former lover.
He said mean things to her,
and once she left me,
for him.
Telling me she didn't
care for me
anymore.

Finally back together,
I asked her to leave him for me.
Let his friendship go,
and live in our love.
She wouldn't.
Or she couldn't.

Like my mother before her,
the abuse is more important than,
my love.

Poem: One Year

2009-11-17T15:35:00.000-08:00

One year ago exactly.
Homeless.
The same cold bite in the air,
same anxiety about upcoming Holidays.
The wildest,
most unlikely,
wish I dreamed at the time,
my greatest prayer:
That one day I would have
a place of my own.
Coffee in the Morning.
A radio.
That;s all I wanted,
those three things,
more than anything else.
I didn't think It'd ever happen.
Picturing it perfectly in my mind,
every day,
regardless of my surroundings.

Now its here.
I have my own place,
my coffee, my radio.
A few more things
I hadn't dreamed of...
My gratitude is overflowing,
let there be no doubt.
Hugging my floor, kissing my bed.
Yes I love parts of life, now.
Sunlight streams through my windows,
the sign taped to my door reads,
"Go Away! This means YOU."

I never pictured the
constant pain in my stomach.
Never pictured my desire to
never leave my bed,
cowering under the covers
with NPR on the Radio
for the rest of my life.
Never pictured walls
sometimes driving me mad,
forcing me out the door,
if for nothing but to get away.
Only to return gratefully later.

All these and more
Afflictions Unpredictable.
What dreams do I have left now?
What pictures will I imagine?
What future will I create
for myself,
one year from now?

Poem: My Heart Does Not Fail Me

2009-11-16T14:41:00.000-08:00

Is Love greater than Infidelity?
Would you mind if I had a back-up,
a second lover,
just in case it doesn't work out
between us?
I mean, we'd only be friends for now,
as long as you and I were dating...
but you know, just in case.
So as soon as you fail me,
they can step right in
and replace you.
Like you never even existed.
A built-in power back-up system,
for my pleasure and comfort.
Would you mind?
I do mind, sadly.
I think not unfairly.
Of all the
unreasonable and selfish
requests,
this single one
astounds me.
Naivety? Perhaps.
Blind rebellion? For sure.
Disregard for the feelings of others? No doubt.
Acceptable treatment? Afraid not.

Swimming in the worlds of "Love,"
coming from first-strikes, and name-calling,
lies, misdirections, dysfunctions,
and the rare moment of true, undiluted,
Feeling.
The goal for me now is Peace,
Harmony,
Love,
and Respect.
Interaction with "healthy" people
who have "healthy" interrelationships.
Role-models,
for ideals heretofore unknown.

Limbs infested with Gangrene and poison,
must be cut off to save the whole.
Sometimes if you are holding onto someone
and they are hanging off a cliff,
they can pull you off with them,
instead of your daring rescue.
Unless you let go you are dead,
helping no one.

Not all that sparkles is Gold;
Sometimes it's a spiderweb of demon saliva,
trying to ensnare you by it's sickness,
thus hurting everyone you know,
by extension.

We are Networks, Nodes.
There are Viruses,
they're more contagious
than many realize.
The viruses are intelligent,
sentient,
and they use us like Puppets,
like Food.
We are the source of Good,
but Evil abounds everywhere.
Though loving the Evil,
I cannot abide it in My House.
It's too tempting to me.

I spent too long it it's arms.
I know darkness very well when I see it.
How could I not;
It was my lover for so long.
Blackness, Oblivion, Death,
Sadness, Isolation,
Corruption, Negativity.
A blacker hole you'd never seen,
than the pits of my eyes.
And I remember.
Oh yes.
I remember Horrors you can't imagine.
So kindly do not tell me,
"It's only this or that."
I am not blind,
nor inexperienced
in matters like these.
Patronize me if you wish.

My Heart, it does not fail me.

Poem: She Chose Him

2009-11-16T14:30:00.000-08:00

When They ask me what happened
I'll say,
"I was too old for her."
They may not believe me,
but that is the way I'll say it.
She believed in things
I'm too old to believe in,
I've just seen the Truth too many times.
When it came down to it,
I asked her to choose;
her old way of thinking or me.
Unsurprisingly, like most of us would,
she held to her old ways,
resenting me for claiming
to know something she didn't.
Viciously guarding and defending
her lie,
and if passion alone made Truth,
then she may have been right.
But she wasn't.

It may take some time.
The Pride of the Young is Infallible.
We all must fall on our own sword,
muddied and bloodied,
Over and Over
until we get it.

She chose him.

It should hurt more than it does,
but she always chose him,
so it doesn't come
as much of a surprise.

Relief more than anything else,
for now.
The silent, dark, undercurrent
of the infidelity has been present
for weeks,
with me unknowing,
unable to put my finger on it.
Subconsciously strangling.

Exposed to the light
the World shifts back into focus
Everything clearer,
shutters thrown open.

A new day dawns,
she's with him now.

And I am back with me.
All honesty, all the time.

Poem: Lord of Money

2009-11-16T13:51:00.000-08:00

Why do so many
of This World's
financially wealthiest individuals
act in the most
morally reprehensible of Ways?

It's because the
Lord of Material Things
rules This World.
Call It The Devil,
The Lord of the Crossroads,
Shaitain, whatever.
But some of the Wealthy are It's people,
they are rewarded with cash
for doing It's bidding.
Though most of them have no idea of it,
and wouldn't believe it,
nor even care much,
if they did.

Yes... there is Karma.
For every action there is an equal
and opposite
reaction.
It is Vast.
Complicated.
Final.
In many Ages
Poverty
has been revered as Holy,
but rarely has Wealth
had such Honor.
There is a reason.

It rules This World
and tests us daily.
It's not Forever,
nor the only Force at hand.
There is Goodness too,
and Agents of Good,
among us.
There is Help at Hand.

I honor The Master,
as I pass through It's World,
my eye's marvel with all that I see.
The Pain of the Many,
the Wealth owned by One,
Ignorance and Wisdom at Play.
Forces of the Ages
reflecting their dancing,
pray tangles my mind
to their sway.
Observing my fellows
on the wheel of Samsara
Compassion,
not pity,
I Pray.

Poem: Easy

2009-11-16T13:40:00.000-08:00

It's so easy,
to forget that I love you;
lost in the humming of frustration,
daily Angers.
Remembering days when
I didn't have you.
Days when I didn't think
I'd ever have you.
Days when your slightest attention
would brighten my world.

A long time gone from present.
Though feelings are eternal.
The wonder I feel,
in contemplation of you,
in celebration of us,
surpasses my ability to express.

Everything changes and nothing is permanent.
Even if we spent
the rest of our lives
together,
it would not be Enough.
Time would pass too quickly.
The day of Death would come too soon.

My reflowering of love for you,
today,
is immortal,
is tomorrow,
is for never.
The extent of my feelings,
so great and immaculate,
that they do not effect
the Mechanics of Disadvantage.

The Imperial Fact
that I must be alone at times,
that I often do not feel well,
that I cannot always give my Lovers
all the attentions they deserve.

A car needs maintenance,
no matter how much it is loved,
(especially an old, unique, junker like me);
Gas, oil, rotate tires, etc.
How people are no different!

Entrenched in the Physical,
steeped in the Mire,
the Muck, the Dirt,
the Earth.

Poem: I Won?

2009-11-16T13:25:00.000-08:00

I am not used to winning.
You could say I am a sore winner...
It's just that I have been losing
for so long,
and fighting for so long.
Some battles won,
but most of the war lost,
so to say,
so to speak.

Used to fighting doggedly,
persistently,
continuously,
hand-to-mouth,
forever.
Something vital always going wrong,
to be expected even:
Houses burning down
and broken spines.

To Win so largely...
So thoroughly...
So consistently...
Is entirely out of my experience of life.
Things seem too good.
Too easy.
Too happy.

It makes no sense to me.
Though I worked for some of these goals,
I didn't really expect to win;
I never do.
Well, not for long, at least.

So I'm jumping at Shadows
making mountains out of Moles,
always expecting the next disaster,
so I can say:
"Aha! I knew it! Life sucks!"

The disaster hasn't come yet,
days keep passing.

I may have finally won this round...

Now it is time to make new goals.

Poem: Retreat to Fortress Solitude

2009-10-28T09:53:00.001-07:00

Retreating back to the Fortress.
Fortifying my position,
the last battle was lost.
The war continues.
It's cold here, freezing cold.
You can see your breath.
The soldiers are grumbling,
stamping their feet on the
hard-packed snow of the courtyard.
Chain-smoking, complaining to each other
in low voices.
But they are glad to be safe again.
Better to be cold and alive,
than hot in the midst of battle,
facing death.

I gave the order to retreat.
The battle started small,
I was sure we would prevail easily.
I was horrendously wrong.
Some casualties latter
I opted for retreat,
bloody and bedazzled by the ferocity
and sheer number of enemy soldiers.

They had been silently mounting
for a surprise onslaught
and the advance of my small raiding party
gave them reason to unleash their fury.
Days of frantic retreat
as we were actively pursued
by an entire squadron of enemy forces.
Exhausted and trail worn
we plotted to ambush our pursuing squadron
at a choke-point we knew of.
But even this,
our last attempt,
backfired.
The results were more casualties,
for our already small fleeing party,
and the loss of some supplies
we had to through overboard
to speed our hasty retreat.

Back to the Fortress.
Our only safe, securely defensible,
position in the area.

And here we make our stand.
So far the remaining soldiers
are doing well enough considering
our recent spate of failures.
Most are happy just to still be alive, I suppose.
The Fortress is an infinitely defensible position
and we have enough supplies to last us
through the Winter.
Baring some unforeseen plague or disaster,
we should be able to hold this position
just fine.

There have been no further direct attacks
by the enemy soldiers as yet,
though the smoke on the horizon
and the occasional disappearance of Outriders
clearly speaks of their
continuing intentions of
violence and harassment.

Poem: Old and Young

2009-10-28T09:46:00.000-07:00

I am a thousand years old,
surrounded by children.
Though we all look the same,
speak with similar voices,
attractive and young,
so hip (with my sarcasm),
we all abuse substance.
This has not changed
for as long as my memory,
never an equal
amoung those my age.
Ever with elders,
who better "get" me.
Learning my future
before it comes near.
Never an equal
always the youngest,
who cares,
at least I'm at home.
Pinnocle, Bocce Ball,
Fishing, and Cards.
These are some passtimes
much closer to my soul.
While youngsters (of my age)
have nothing I've known.
Feeling more alien
than lost in Havanna.
Tears want to come,
since I'm not from their world.
Looking the part,
I could not be more removed.
Jelousy, envy,
they don't know what pain is.
I miss the tones of grey.
Miserable self-mumblers,
homeless wrecks,
insanity-plagued prostitutes,
and other hopeless beings.
They make me look good.

Here I am
a flower
amoung flowers.
I have no excuse.

Thoughts: Help Me With Food Ideas!

2009-10-27T11:37:00.000-07:00

Having to eat every day is a Chore. Though rarely hungry, I've learned that I do much better in general when I do eat. Particularly, when I eat good things like fruit and granola. But I just don't feel like eating. When I was a Drunk I never had problems eating... when I was drunk at least. The mornings were Hell, what with the puking and diarrhea, etc. But anyways. Now I have to face food alone, consistently, and deal with it. It's really not that easy for me.

Everywhere I look I see horrible "fast-food": McDonald's, Carl's Jr, Subway, KFC, etc. "Fast-food," which these days is neither fast, nor is it cheap, nor is it really food. But it calls to me. Looks so good, so easy, so edible, so tasty, It never is though.

I buy fruit on the cheap in the Mission, bagels and bread at Safeway, a Jamba-Juice when I want to splurge, and trail-mix. This works okay for a while, but going to Safeway every day gets old, and I need more diversity in my diet.

The best of food is just too expensive, I'm left to my own devices. I'll learn what I can, what choice do I have? When fasting makes me weak and low blood sugar makes me angry. What I consume is every bit as important as the quality of the air I breathe (not that good lately), the type of audio/visual media I input to my nervous system, the people I spend time with, the space I live in, the medicines I take, and the very words i speak.

So I leave it to you all! Help me with your ideas and recipes for Eating good, please! The cheaper and easier the better. Remember; I can barely boil water.

Poem: The Difference

2009-10-26T14:46:00.000-07:00

On the outside appearing "normal,"
on the inside nothing like.
The outside lulls others
into a sense of security around me;
As if I would always act admirably.
When I do not, they are surprised.
"Do not say I didn't warn you,"
I caution, and
"Please understand the fault is not yours."
Their answer? Molestation.

As a Child my Parents abused me.
Not allowed to have my own feelings.
Not allowed to have my own Privacy.
Not allowed to express myself,
unless I wanted a beating.
"Repressed" is an understatement.

As an Adult I continued
what I learned as a Child.
Repressed my own feelings any way that I could
(Mostly with TV and Drugs).
Not allowed to have Privacy by
Society because of my homelessness or crimes.
Beaten and Abused by Police, Doctors,
Social Workers, Lovers,
Anyone who got the chance.
And I let it happen,
not knowing a better way to be.

Now I do know better.
Not yet practiced at behaving,
at least I finally know.
There's years of lost privacy
I have to make up for.
At times I tell others
"I must now be alone."
At times they understand, move aside,
and wait patiently for me,
to be ready for them again:
I Love Them.
At times they do not;
grappling, grabbing at me,
calling, writing, emailing,
ignoring my pleas for silence,
every word
pushing me farther away:
I Pity Them.

Speaking my Truth to others,
it's always their choice
whether they listen.
Friends want me to feel better,
even if it means me being alone.
Abusers don't care what I want or need,
as long as they get to do as
They Want.

That is the Difference.

Thoughts: Getting Better Every Day

2009-10-26T14:31:00.000-07:00

I am 30 years old, without two friends in the entire world who would move a piece of furnature for me. This says more about my ability at maintaining human relationships (or rather my exceptional inability), than it does about my low standard concerning who I call a friend. It appears that, for whatever reasons, over the course of my entire life, I've kept about twenty friends.

Ten of these friends I havn't heard from in years and thus, don't really count. Seven of the remaining ten friends will only email or call me occasionally.

Of the three friends left who will actually see me in person; One is "very busy" and naturally flaky - almost never around; totally undependable. One is my lover and doesn't count. The other only really visited me once. Otherwise he's just too poor to drop everything and help me move furnature.

What have I done, to keep people so distant? OK, dumb question. Too obvious.

How about; Why have I helped so many people move furnature and no one helps me? Better question. The answer is that I helped the wrong people move furnature. People who don't give back.

But nothing is lost to the Universe. I have almost always had help when I needed it. Good Karma and all that. Just not help from friends, usually. That is a little sad, but at least I have the rest of my life to try to find a better quality if friend an to be a better quality friend.

My life comes crashing in all around me. I can't breathe, I want to cry, I'm cold, I want to exercise, I'm too scared to leave my room, to leave my bed, to move, too scared to answer the phone and tell someone how I'm feeling. Then I get to feel ashamed for being unable to talk to someone, for being unable to face the World, for being a bum on the government dole, for everything.

The familiar shame spiral in all it's choking, self-pitying glamour. Ruthlessly self-propagating like a computer virus, each new shame causing more, every second feeling more and more trapped. Like a volcano it builds inside me; begging to be let out. To yell at someone, to play the blues on a harmonica, to kill myself, to write these words, to go get drunk, to do anything but feel the way I'm feeling.

My head is a sieve and whatever goes in comes out twisted and perverted. I must hide until these feelings pass. I must turn off my phone. I must avoid everyone, until I feel better. God knows I could make myself feel even worse yet, by taking my confusion (as anger) out on another. A crapy emotional Con my parents bequethed to me- still trying to break myself of the habit. Getting better, every day.

Privacy can be healing. Other must understand. If not, well, Fuck 'em.

Poem: Lady Canna

2009-10-24T12:26:00.001-07:00

A very good healer,
but I want her no more.
She's helped me many, many, times.
I would never speak badly about her.

Lately I've been having dreams,
telling me our time is over.

Hate it when Goddess tells me what to do,
though She always knows
what's best for me.
Scared to learn to Live without her,
she's been my medicine for so long...

New medicines for a different Me,
new routines for a better Now.
I love you Canna, I always will.
A thousand prayers to lessen my needs,
refound hope removing my Greeds,
the breath of Faith is all I need,
The Holy Spirit my New-Found Steed.

Maybe discomfort, for up to a week.
Maybe I'll find that it's harder to sleep.
Maybe I wont know just what I should eat.

To put up with it all, for the Greatest of Goods.
I'm liking the looks of my new neighborhood.

The Goddess will help me
every way that she can,
so when my life ends,
will be like it began.

Poem: Sometimes Moods

2009-10-21T11:33:00.000-07:00

The wrong thing said at a very wrong time.
My Red Button pushed.
First there is silence from me;
exerting all of my willpower to simply be quiet.
Not explode with the Furor I feel.
Secret Volcano,
the silence goes on,
as I have no good ideas;
only bad ones.

Separation, for some moments,
while I gather my thoughts
and distract myself.
With shaky hands I take my anxiety pill
(for moments like these).
Double my usual dose.

Searching inside, I'm empty.
Anger is all I am, now.
Anger and Hurt.
I know I need to Flee and be alone
as soon as I can.
Until the Evil passes,
until I get perspective,
until I'm safe to be around again.

I go back to find tears, endless tears, and silent reproof.
Look what I did again.
Not everyone takes responsibility for their actions.
Some are clearer than others.
It's all anger, blame, tears, and defensiveness,
until I get to the sink.
Cold water on the face, head, and neck.
Next a good scrub with soap
and anointing with oil.
Drink some water, saying prayers in my head.
Regain some humility, some perspective.
The tears remain with me
in a corner of my rented room.
Unable to look at me,
for Shame they just tried to sneak
another lover into Our bed.
Right beneath my nose;
but was caught.

Ahhhhhh, the fresh, zingy, taste,
of an Old Wound reopened afresh.
One of the deepest I had,
paraded around again.
It had to happen some time, in some way.
Why not this way, eh, Chum?
That's a good Lad;
take'en your licks as they come.

I thought there was more smartness there.
Only time will tell.
It's either Ignorance,
Self-Delusion,
Deliberate Malfeasance,
or this Typical Abusive Creep
happens to have the power to cure Cancer,
or some other equally miraculous Crap.
(And if that were the case he wouldn't need our help).

How big is six years?
How very much can happen in so very little time.
"Too old" is not always an excuse,
an insult, a lie, a social moray,
or a kinky sex term.
Sometimes it's simply True.
I hope this is not the case.
It's gloomy to see something Wrong.
Something broken,
someone hurting,
and me unable to help.
Wishing with all my power,
praying with all my humility,
that someone will be okay.
Knowing all the while that
"Fate," the "Universe," the "Devil,"
or whatever
sometimes has other plans.
I can't do anything about that.

Sometimes this is life.
Growth is often painful, or it wouldn't be worth anything.
Like childbirth; Most painful, most rewarding (if done correctly).
A woman "loses" her virginity in pain,
to make way for a sexual life of pleasure.
Priests cut the skin off the tip
of a male child's penis.

In emotional growth too,
perhaps more like a Garden.
Where some types of people must simply
be rooted up and destroyed,
or they will starve the rest of the Garden.
One's friends, one's family, one's lovers,
one's job, one's home, one's hobbies.
They all create our personal Garden.
Mobile-like the Whole depends on the Health of each area.
Any one area alone can crowd out all the rest.
Stealing the water and nutrients.

It's always our choice what we Do.
Maybe not what we feel.
Maybe not even what we say or think.
But what we Do.
That is Us.
Our Choice; Our Fault.
Today I choose to have Highest Quality People only
around me.
I choose to stay in a nicer area of town.
I choose to be faithful, devoted, to my Lover.
Today I value myself, knowing I deserve the best.
I can't always get what I want.
I can't control or change
anything
anyone else does
or thinks.
This is very sad sometimes,
but also very secure.

For the first time in years
I know where I'm going,
have a pretty clear picture
of everything in my life.
No longer baffled and confused.
The sadness though...
that, I'm afraid, will always find a way in.

I mean,
there wouldn't be happiness without it,
eh?

Poem: Monied (Again)

2009-10-09T13:19:00.001-07:00

Money is the Opiate of the Masses, now.

Four walls and a sink, to call my own.
I own my room for 7 days, for $300.
The price of dinner for my dad.

A Real Person again.
High from Privacy,
exhilarated by my money in the bank.
All the world exists for me.
Want to eat: I can.
Want to sleep: I can.
All it took was money, after all that.

Half my Neuroses melt away instantly
-Simply because I now have choices.
Choices the broke person lacks,
simple privacy the homeless don't have,
Respect, which money does buy.

How can I explain the impotence,
the insecurity, the hunger, the jealousy,
the fears, the shame, the filth,
that comes,
from simply being without?

I can't.

No one can understand
unless they have been there.
Ask an old drunk, dying alone in a gutter.
Ask a full-fledged junkie, screaming himself silent
in a jail cell, for lack of medicine.
Ask a new mother, who has just given birth.

You'll never understand any of them.
Until you are one.

My "friends" come back around,
happy to see I have money again.
Now they can see me
without guilt or shame.

I use my room's sink ten times a day,
to wash my face,
because I can; I paid for it.
How wealthy America truly is,
where for $300 a week
I get my own room with a sink
for 7 days.
No more washing at Safeway
under the dubious eyes
of Security Guards.
I check on my room several times a day;
Expecting it to disappear like a mirage.
But every time I turn the lock,
everything is just as I left it.
Lights still on, window still open,
bed unmade, smelling of my brand of cigarettes.

Home at last.
Home at last.
Home at last,
for now.

Poem: 2nd Class

2009-10-05T11:06:00.000-07:00

People like that make me feel like I'm
in the 2nd tier of humanity.
2nd rate, 2nd class, 2nd place,
with seconds to go.

That guy is 1st class all the way.
Heavy-weight champeen, chess-master,
and Lord of the Warlocks,
all wrapped into one.
He makes it look so easy,
like it's all an accident
that he's got it so good.
Indeed, it does look like an accident.
But I know better.
Nothing that happens in this life is an accident:
It's all a combination of
what you are given for free,
what you do with what you've got,
then what you do with what you get.
That's it, that's all.

Like playing cards;
It's not all luck,
but sometimes strategy counts for nothing.

Now, I guess 2nd class isn't that bad.
It's not 3rd class,
or even any of the many lower unnamed classes
beneath 3rd.
I'd bet, too, that I make other people feel
2nd or even 3rd class sometimes.
That;s something to think on.
Maybe we all just run around in complicated networks,
sometimes feeling lower or higher than others.

Yes, Einstein, there is General Relativity,
Never-the-less someone at any given time
is the richest on Earth,
the oldest human alive,
the most sexually active.
There are real differences, regardless of Relativity.
And we are not all Picasso.
But we all may have one thing in us,
at least,
that is 1st class. Who is to say?

That man, who I'm proud to call my friend,
makes me feel like the 2nd rate human I am.

I think I'm OK with that.
For now.
It may one day lead to 1st class,
or perhaps sag back into 3rd,
we'll see.

For now.
For right now.
2nd class is good enough for me.

Poem: The Rural Mayan

2009-10-05T10:54:00.000-07:00

The "New Deal" gave a gift to America:
Money for the old, for the sick,
for the poor, and for the stupid.
The Rural Mayan stands tall,
solid, caring, and true.

Surrounded on all sides by
thick, grey, walls of cement,
red-tape, buck-passing, and bullshit.
She does her very best,
in a land without "thank you's,"
overseen by Neiling fools,
needling tools, needless mules,
yet keeping her cool,
a heart beats inside that Mayan there.

She could have retired and ran for the hills,
but helping the downtrodden gives her the thrills.
An imperfect world which we cannot change,
by helping each other we hope to arrange,
a method of turning the lead into gold
(I'd marry that Mayan, but I am too old!).

There aren't enough words for me to explain
the help that the Mayan has done for my pain.
Her listening ears and recommendations,
I think she deserves the highest citations,
yet all I have left of me is to give,
these very few words:
(Whose spirit will live!)

For all of the energy we send out and away,
will come back to us many times the same way.
Because of this law she lives in no fear,
the Mayan knows well the Good Luck due to her!

So here's to the Mayan, I offer her cheers!
May she be blessed, for all of her years!

Poem: Cell Phone Gods

2009-10-05T10:39:00.000-07:00

I'm scared to get a phone;
The time is coming soon again.

To blame the tracking by CIA,
bill collectors, or my family.
To blame my fear of being contactable,
accountable, responsible.
Possibly.
A phone is a commitment,
these days,
a relationship unto itself.
By having one I volunteer my participation
in the electronic voice network.
I can spray paint it
or change the ring-tones
to a song I like,
but that wont change the fact,
the Truth,
the very small way,
the phone enslaves me.

It always starts small,
then the slavery gets bigger.
Today it's a cell phone,
tomorrow it's a laptop,
the next day it's an implant.
Yes, Dad, "They" can listen to your conversations
through your cell phone;
Even when it's turned off.
Take the battery out, at least.

My last memories of my last cell,
two years ago,
are of my Mother yelling at me through it,
giving me a nervous breakdown with each call.
Of endless bill collectors,
of an angry girlfriend poisoning my pocket device
relentlessly with texts and voice mails.
Of calling my contacts to complain about my life,
only complaining just made it worse.
Of days on end afraid to check my voicemail,
the number of voice mails piling up,
getting larger and larger
- competing with my fear -
until I finally can't stand the tension
and I check my voicemail
to find nothing important at all.
Of three hundred calls for a person named "Hymie"
and three hundred explanations that
this is no longer "Hymie's" phone number.
Of hours spent waiting,
holding the radiation-emitting device
next to my brain
while pressing numbers in a corporate phone-tree-trap.

Yes, cell phone, I fear you.
Yes, call phone, I respect you.
Like I respect The Devil.
Like I respect Alcohol.
Like I respect Heroin.
I know how insidious you can be.

When you can reach anyone with a whim and a button-push:
How can you tell those Action-Takers
from the limitless number of Bullshitting-Talkers?
True friends from False?
Pay attention.
You pay attention.

I honor you, New God of Our Age.
Hail to Thee Cell Phone,
may I wield Thee like a Samurai,
like a double-sided dagger
you can both create division
and destroy division,
creating Unity.

Yea, creating Unity.

Poem: The Addicts

2009-09-29T10:44:00.000-07:00

Carmen might not be coming back.
Her evil twin remains.
Full of piss, bullshit, and vinegar,
in the body of my Love.
Spewing filth from every orifice.
What happened to the woman I love?

She's still in there.

Locked and silently screaming for escape
from her Lake-Prison of Bile.
Freedom from the Addict who confines her.
The Addict with no respect for me,
The Addict who lies,
The Addict who hides,
The Addict who whores others for drugs;
because She can.
The Addict I will not let step on me
any more.

If my Lover breaks free,
I'll welcome her home,
but take more Abuse from her twin,
I will not.
I value myself again.
I Love myself, again.
Traded places with my Addict,
keeping him locked up deep inside
(He still gets out sometimes, in truth).
Though he will never die,
I pray to Light,
he'll never control me again.

That goes for her Addict, too,
and every other Addict on Earth.
Because We all act the same.
For all we know,
they could all be the Same:
One giant octopus Addict,
working through us all.
Who knows?

I know this, though, now.
Love is a happier Life
than slavery.
I hope one day she'll join me.

Poem: Hold Me

2009-09-25T15:39:00.000-07:00

Sadness like:
Delicate old crumbling lace,
dried stiff roses,
dropping your ice cream on the ground,
losing your wallet and best friend,
a Gothic cathedral built by slavery,
the Irony of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet,
learning about death through your favorite pet,
a root canal,
breast cancer,
Alzheimer's,
and AIDS.

Flowing through it all
like a quiet underground river
- the river Styx even -
Somethings wrong here,
the smell is just off,
bad fruit,
milk rotten,
bread with mold.

Hold me, Mother-Moon, just hold me.
While I cry softly
into your breast.