Poem: Learning to Suck Dick

When nothing is "bad"
all things are permitted.
It's like a final protest
against the Gods who made me.

Clearly I'm meant to learn to suck dick,
why else would I be in this place?

Penultimate Humbler,is there any lower place?
The closest near-guess is the anus!

I do it, just so,
if it's wrong, even better.
Maybe now my prayers will be heard,
on the back of the anguish of my heart.

If the devil truely loves
to demean and rule the purest,
surely I must be
a fine old meal indeed.

Poem: Dead Male God

The dull, pointed, phallus of masculenity,
spinning and thrusting.
it's passion far surpassing common sense.
The mad male thrust,
thrusting ever onward
murmering "relax baby, relax"
fucking to a stump-stop.
It doesn't know any better
and it is truly
the opposite of it's other half.
Sensitive to Insensative,
Rounds to Angels,
Compassion and Vengeance.

The world is run
by that blind male fury.
But it's time has passed
and the time of The Child
just begining.

Poem: Sickly

What's wrong?
It's hard to tell.
Blessed all over
though I still feel
like there is an inch-thick layer
of numb skin and numb emotion
surrounding my entire being.

Where are my options?
It's storming today
as I sit in my box
wishing not to leave.
Tired, yet unsettled,
hungry and nauseous.

The sweetness of Eternity
touched me the other day.
I should be happy still,
maybe I am.

It's just the rain
keeping me from walking.

Poem: Improv

And the True Freedom comes.
The one where I am Free.
Free.
Free.
To do whatever I can get away with,
for as long as it lasts,
bounded only by my imagination,
and the energy for
whatever I may discover...

It is so easy to forget the feeling,
the feeling of "Anything Goes"
- the feeling of
no plans, no net, just straight forward,
All up to me.
No real guidelines, no inspirations,
certainly not routine!
That one thing is sure;
moments unrepeatable.
Only made possible by the fact
that there is no routine.
It could not exist otherwise.

Surrounded by Creatures of Habit,
going too and fro,
I am strange here, but enjoyable.
So much more alive
than the world of the expected,
where everyone knows
pretty much
what is going to be happening.

No room for Improv,
but Improv
is where the Life is.

Poem: Nice People

Most people arn't nice
to be nice.
Most people are nice
to get what they want.
I keep trying to believe
that the person
being nice to me
is being truly good and caring.
I keep wanting to believe.

This results in my being repeatedly
used and crapped upon,
always by choice,
always in the sincerest hopes
that this time,
maybe this time,
things will be different.
maybe this time
things have finally changed
for the better.
God has finally heard me!
Only to be replaced by
my tears and shame
at how wrong
I could have been.

Poem: He is a Demon

A loser again.
The tears come freely.
I chose the wrong trap
and felt so good about it.
Where can I go?
What can I do?
All choices are ugly.
I am alone.
Escape!
Alarm!
Sirens blaze
throughout my entire body,
nothing comes but tears.
Tears and fleeting ideas
of "maybe" and "perhaps."
Arggg!
All of my choices are ugly.
Just when I thought
my luck may have changed;
it had -
for the worse.
He is a demon
looking to make others.
I pray for help,
spirits hear my tears.

Poem: Dellusion

I have just discovered
that the reality behind
which I have been laboring
for so many years
is a complete sham.

I have long suspected and intuited this,
but I have finally obtained concrete proof.

There is no such thing as authority,
or those that know better than you.
They are all pretenders and scam artists;
Those who enjoy control, for some reason.

I do not desire to control, only to love.
Apparently I was dropped in the wrong world.

Poem: S.O.S.-HELP

Trapped in two bedroom apartment with Egotist owner.
Offered the spare room for free,
then found offer of room in conditional on slavery,
humiliation, and exploitation.
Wish to have my own place
with freedom and respect.
Being treated like a dog/whore not ideal.

Sometimes living with 150+ people
in a homeless shelter
is better than living with only one other.

Poem: Baba Lu Aye

Sickness comes
I better not scorn him
Babalu Aye
of the scortching hot winds of change
in body and perception
I'd better not scorn him.
Fevers and chills,
coughs, vomit, and pox,
pus, blood, and sores;
These are brouight by Baba
Baba Lu
Baba Lu Aye.

I am caught now in his thralls,
it is not wise to scorn him.
Baba Lu comes for a reason,
Baba Lu comes for cleansing,
Baba Lu comes for the change.
His hot dry winds sometimes hurt
and though I may not feel it,
I am not alone.
I am under the broom dress of Baba,
Baba Lu
Baba Lu Aye
sweeping through me
for reasons I cannot know
sickness for destiny even.

Ibashe Baba Lu Aye
though your presence may now hurt me.

Ibashe Nana Buruku
bring me the healing medicine waters
when my time has come.

Ibashe Eshu Afra
open the ways for my health and new being.

Guide my ancestors
through my time of sickness.

Poem: Pee

I really need to pee
but that guy is watching me
and why isn't the pee coming out
and oh god I'm just standing at the urinal
holding myself.
Someone's going to think that I'm playing with myself,
god I need to pee so bad,
why isn't it coming?
That guys staring at me
how can I pee while he's staring?
He's enjoying looking at me holding myself,
oh god I just want to pee
why wont it come out
oh wait, oh please
here it comes
oh please,
no! Don't stop,
it stopped,
oh, here it comes again,
oh please,
oh god
oh
yeeessssssssssssssssss.

Story Outline: The Suicide Files

About a young man in a similar world trying to get a license from the government to kill himself. The National Suicide Office makes repeated mistakes with his application, inlcuding sending him an acceptance letter he can't use because the name is mispelled.
When a well-meaning friend mentions the possibility of suiciding without a License the character is appalled at the idea of breaking the law. (E.G. Brazel, sub story perhaps, beauracracy vs. humanity).

Poem: Nice Shot

A bird shit on my head yesterday,
I probably deserved it.
You know immediatly that
it is birdshit.
Not rain, not spit,
nor soda, nor piss.
It's bird shit
and it's in your hair.
Slowley lifting your hand
to touch your gooey hair,
fingers coming back white and green
with bird shit.
"Nice shot,"
I mutter cynically
to the sky,
as I wander off,
in search of toilet paper.

Poem: In Fear of the Internet

The words of the World await me.
Answers to questions
I asked weeks ago.
Questions I no longer remember,
no longer want to remember.
But they will be there,
waiting for me,
in the world that is real.

So many people.
I want to hide from them all.
The Internet does not forget, Lover.
The Internet does not forgive.
The Internet simply Is.

In fear of the Internet,
I go to log on anyways,
to see for myself,
what seeds I have been planting,
in my absence
of memory.

Poem: Mother's Tears

When the Haitian Loa of the
Mother Ocean
possesses the body of someone
she often spends her time incarnate
crying for hours upon hours
for all the sorrow
of all her children.

When I think of my mother
I cry.
When my mother thinks of me
she cries.
Salty tears
salt water
the ocean
salt water
Mother Ocean
Mother tears
cries because she
love you
and it hurts her
to see you in pain.

Endless tears of love.