Another day and my body
is shaking.
My heart feels like a
hummingbird; ultra-light
and beating too fast
I dont't know what's
wrong with my body
I'm scared and I
want to cry.
Popping an extra
Xanax and Methadone pill
I sit beside a tree
in the shade
and write in my little book
to get outside my
vastly uncomfortable
perspective
for a moment.
This feeling can't go on all day,
it's too fucking severe.
I'll die of heart attack, first.
Too shaky to write..
(writing become illegible)
...(20 Mins later)
A little better now.
Maybe the damn heat
makes me sweat out my medicine
too fast. Fuck.
Life as a legalized Junkie:
Where my dope comes from
a smiling pharmacist at Walgreens
and it's never enough
to get me high,
just enough to keep me from
screaming in pain and
shaking with spiders
all over my skin.
No sleep last night,
but greatful, exhausted,
tossing and turning.
Like every night.
Somehow I know that
I will never be O.K. again.
The rest of my life
will be spent with The Doctors, or worse:
spent with Guards or Nurses.
Too sick to have a life,
to have a job,
to have a wife.
Too sick to have friends,
to sick to have joy.
There's not much life left,
for this too-sick young boy.
"Fuck it," I think,
as I take two more pills,
"I have them for a reason,
might as well take them."
Like any proper Junkie
I've been hoarding my pills
against a run at the pharmacy
or other unforseen emergency.
Doling them out to myself
oh-so-carefully.
Ever aware of the monkey on my spine
and the proverbially tight Anus's of Doctors
when it comes to medications like mine.
(With good reason too, I'm sure;
I would not wish my condition on anyone
who had other choices left in life.
Indeed if my parents loved me more
I would have other choices. But that is
for a paralell universe. In this one I'm
on my own and the best Doctors I can afford
are Free!)...
The meds do some good,
the worst of the shaking has stopped.
I can still feel my heart,
like a feather,
trying to climb up my throat
and the worms in my stomach
that can't decide if I am hungry
or naseus, but suddenly life
is slightly more barable.
My breathing gets deeper;
and I decide to go walk.
If life gets too unbarable
I can always come back to this tree
and I can always take some more pills.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Poem: I'm Dieing
I feel like I'm dieing.
The Dr. told me I lost 30 pounds
in the last three months.
Wasting away.
I'm not hungry,
just a dull lump in my stomach.
On the verge of crying
but the tears wont come.
Something in my heart stops them;
like my body can't afford to waste
precious water on tears.
Concentration hurts.
Nothing is good,
I want to just keep walking,
keep reading,
keep doing anything,
anything except stopping,
and thinking about my life
and how horrible I feel
and how even if
someone does care about me
there is nothing they can do
but give me: Money, food, drugs, or sex.
Everything else is useless now.
Now that I am dieing,
poor, insane, and lost
to the world.
Give me a quarter?
The Dr. told me I lost 30 pounds
in the last three months.
Wasting away.
I'm not hungry,
just a dull lump in my stomach.
On the verge of crying
but the tears wont come.
Something in my heart stops them;
like my body can't afford to waste
precious water on tears.
Concentration hurts.
Nothing is good,
I want to just keep walking,
keep reading,
keep doing anything,
anything except stopping,
and thinking about my life
and how horrible I feel
and how even if
someone does care about me
there is nothing they can do
but give me: Money, food, drugs, or sex.
Everything else is useless now.
Now that I am dieing,
poor, insane, and lost
to the world.
Give me a quarter?
Poem: might call it "hopeing"
It's been two days
and she still isn't here yet.
I look down the road
to see if I can see her coming.
Nope.
There could be an email waiting for me,
right now,
saying she is coming.
Or saying that she's never coming again.
I havn't been able to bring myself to check.
Just keep looking down the road
expecting her.
Some might call it "hopeing"
but it doesn't feel very hopefull.
Maybe 'cause I know
she wont come again.
and she still isn't here yet.
I look down the road
to see if I can see her coming.
Nope.
There could be an email waiting for me,
right now,
saying she is coming.
Or saying that she's never coming again.
I havn't been able to bring myself to check.
Just keep looking down the road
expecting her.
Some might call it "hopeing"
but it doesn't feel very hopefull.
Maybe 'cause I know
she wont come again.
Poem: The Park
I'd forgot how nice a park could be,
for one who's homeless and pointless like me.
A patch of grass and water fountain,
gives me rest, from life's great mountain.
Troubles in Love and pains in my body,
all put aside in attempts to be jolly.
And though it will pass, as all good things do.
I'll be at the park, till this day is through.
for one who's homeless and pointless like me.
A patch of grass and water fountain,
gives me rest, from life's great mountain.
Troubles in Love and pains in my body,
all put aside in attempts to be jolly.
And though it will pass, as all good things do.
I'll be at the park, till this day is through.
Poem: A Little Peace
I am so glad that it is night time.
Alone-time. In my hut. Swaddled in clothes.
Reading by candle-light.
Safe, for now. Nothing pressing,
for a bit.
Just me. And the noises.
My worries, bugs, and one of three rats.
I want to go to sleep,
but I've waited so long for this peace-time,
I do not want it to end.
I do not want to wake up
to another sunny tommorrow.
My candles are burning
and there arn't many left.
It's early in the month
to be so broke.
I'd better appreciate it now.
Who knows when
I'll have even a little peace
again.
Alone-time. In my hut. Swaddled in clothes.
Reading by candle-light.
Safe, for now. Nothing pressing,
for a bit.
Just me. And the noises.
My worries, bugs, and one of three rats.
I want to go to sleep,
but I've waited so long for this peace-time,
I do not want it to end.
I do not want to wake up
to another sunny tommorrow.
My candles are burning
and there arn't many left.
It's early in the month
to be so broke.
I'd better appreciate it now.
Who knows when
I'll have even a little peace
again.
Poem: Abuser
She fixes my heart
to show me
I can't have her.
Opens my powers
to feel to care to love
so she can leave me.
She puts on a game
and I see the abuser
within myself.
I hate the abuser
and don't know
what to do with him.
But be alone.
And hate myself.
to show me
I can't have her.
Opens my powers
to feel to care to love
so she can leave me.
She puts on a game
and I see the abuser
within myself.
I hate the abuser
and don't know
what to do with him.
But be alone.
And hate myself.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Poem: Homecoming
Coming home today
I had the momentary dellusion
that you would be there
waiting for me.
We would hug each other close
as we murmered our apologies
between hot kisses and warm tears.
Oh, how I wished you'd be there.
Nothing met me at home
as usual
but the empty shack
and the birds.
Never had my home felt so empty
nor my homecoming so pointless.
Yesterday I found my monster.
Felt things i don't even want
to admit.
I never knew I could feel
so evil.
I never knew I could hate
myself so much.
But mostly I never knew
the desire to hurt
the one I love.
It lives within me.
Though it's gone,
right now,
I caught it.
I know it's there
just waiting.
For the proper stimulus.
It's better I'm alone,
you see?
A monster lurks inside.
Protect us both
by leaving me;
Once loved,
Now loveless,
Forever unloveable.
I had the momentary dellusion
that you would be there
waiting for me.
We would hug each other close
as we murmered our apologies
between hot kisses and warm tears.
Oh, how I wished you'd be there.
Nothing met me at home
as usual
but the empty shack
and the birds.
Never had my home felt so empty
nor my homecoming so pointless.
Yesterday I found my monster.
Felt things i don't even want
to admit.
I never knew I could feel
so evil.
I never knew I could hate
myself so much.
But mostly I never knew
the desire to hurt
the one I love.
It lives within me.
Though it's gone,
right now,
I caught it.
I know it's there
just waiting.
For the proper stimulus.
It's better I'm alone,
you see?
A monster lurks inside.
Protect us both
by leaving me;
Once loved,
Now loveless,
Forever unloveable.
Poem: X Wheel of Fortune
She is everything
I have ever wanted
ever needed
ever dreamed of
in a woman.
Gods, how I love her!
What's more:
I have loved her faithfully
for years.
But she has no vagina
or clitoris.
Rather she does have them,
and when I am with her
she seems to have them,
and enjoys me loving them.
Our bodies act on their own,
playing with each other
in natures most natural way.
And her beautiful brain
comes down like a wedge
saying
"who are you?"
"why are you touching me there?"
"I didn't say you could do that."
"Stop it."
The warmth we were just creating
dissipates to icicles.
Her brain and body fight,
then mine begins to follow suit,
though our battles are different.
I want to be inside the woman I love,
to give her the ultimate joy.
The woman I have loved
above all others
for the past four years,
in my body-emotion-complex.
My rational-mind-complex
tells me
I have no real reason to trust her,
based on her past actions.
More often I choose my Heart.
It is not always wrong,
nor is it inferior to Mind.
While she suffers
her body's and emotion's
betrayal of her Mind
and how dearly she wishes
her being would follow her orders.
When she wants me inside her,
she feels so guilty for thought,
that she can't go through with it.
The guilt clenching her stomach
almost making her ill.
Wishing she could be with me,
but her body fighting her
in accord with stronger and
more familiar emotions like
anxiety, guilt, and sorrow...
So that she is trapped
between different evils
and one must be picked.
And I am left with the same:
My nature is to love.
I am a lover
and I dearly love her.
Love, to me, is not some
ideological fallacy.
To "make love" is litteral
in my mind.
I know in many, these days,
sex has been perverted
to mean so many other things,
by bad, bad, people.
To me it still means Love.
When I do it with her.
And no one,
I mean no one,
have I ever treated like her...
Just to touch her cheek...
When she refuses my sex
I feel like one of "Them;"
the evil one's.
Like my father,
like her other boyfriend,
like all abusers in general.
I want to honor her.
And the few times that I get
to worship her as she deserves
with massages
and fingering
and head
and foot rubs
and candy
and all...
She never wants the same for me...
My cock will not be touched
unless I guide her hand to it.
No matter how much Cunnilingus I give
a kiss on my member wont happen.
I don't understand
these simple things.
I'm sure she does not fully either.
Though one of these days
we'll come to the Stand
that'll show us who's friction
has to stand still.
I have ever wanted
ever needed
ever dreamed of
in a woman.
Gods, how I love her!
What's more:
I have loved her faithfully
for years.
But she has no vagina
or clitoris.
Rather she does have them,
and when I am with her
she seems to have them,
and enjoys me loving them.
Our bodies act on their own,
playing with each other
in natures most natural way.
And her beautiful brain
comes down like a wedge
saying
"who are you?"
"why are you touching me there?"
"I didn't say you could do that."
"Stop it."
The warmth we were just creating
dissipates to icicles.
Her brain and body fight,
then mine begins to follow suit,
though our battles are different.
I want to be inside the woman I love,
to give her the ultimate joy.
The woman I have loved
above all others
for the past four years,
in my body-emotion-complex.
My rational-mind-complex
tells me
I have no real reason to trust her,
based on her past actions.
More often I choose my Heart.
It is not always wrong,
nor is it inferior to Mind.
While she suffers
her body's and emotion's
betrayal of her Mind
and how dearly she wishes
her being would follow her orders.
When she wants me inside her,
she feels so guilty for thought,
that she can't go through with it.
The guilt clenching her stomach
almost making her ill.
Wishing she could be with me,
but her body fighting her
in accord with stronger and
more familiar emotions like
anxiety, guilt, and sorrow...
So that she is trapped
between different evils
and one must be picked.
And I am left with the same:
My nature is to love.
I am a lover
and I dearly love her.
Love, to me, is not some
ideological fallacy.
To "make love" is litteral
in my mind.
I know in many, these days,
sex has been perverted
to mean so many other things,
by bad, bad, people.
To me it still means Love.
When I do it with her.
And no one,
I mean no one,
have I ever treated like her...
Just to touch her cheek...
When she refuses my sex
I feel like one of "Them;"
the evil one's.
Like my father,
like her other boyfriend,
like all abusers in general.
I want to honor her.
And the few times that I get
to worship her as she deserves
with massages
and fingering
and head
and foot rubs
and candy
and all...
She never wants the same for me...
My cock will not be touched
unless I guide her hand to it.
No matter how much Cunnilingus I give
a kiss on my member wont happen.
I don't understand
these simple things.
I'm sure she does not fully either.
Though one of these days
we'll come to the Stand
that'll show us who's friction
has to stand still.
Poem: She Loves Me (She says)
She loves me, she says,
like my wish has been granted.
Stunned; I stand,
this was not in any of my
contingency plans.
Mind-blowing joy!
With mental reserve
the Mind's
"How could this be so
damn sweet?"
But it is.
And though I have
a bag full of fears
they seem as small as insects
when I look in her eyes
at last.
like my wish has been granted.
Stunned; I stand,
this was not in any of my
contingency plans.
Mind-blowing joy!
With mental reserve
the Mind's
"How could this be so
damn sweet?"
But it is.
And though I have
a bag full of fears
they seem as small as insects
when I look in her eyes
at last.
Poem: Seen Again
It was not very hard
It was not so very easy
just moments
in time
with you.
New moments.
Your presence disolves;
all anger, all cynisicm
leaves our two flames
dancing with each other.
Months of agony,
cured in a meeting?
Time will tell...
But tonight I feel
swollen
pregnant and happy
because I simply
saw
you
again.
It was not so very easy
just moments
in time
with you.
New moments.
Your presence disolves;
all anger, all cynisicm
leaves our two flames
dancing with each other.
Months of agony,
cured in a meeting?
Time will tell...
But tonight I feel
swollen
pregnant and happy
because I simply
saw
you
again.
Poem: Homecoming
I didn't know
that broken hearts
could mend...
Thought they were
permenant, stuck even,
losing color
fading with time
at best
A fix occurred
(or 3 to be exact tee hee)
but one
was long coming, long asked for.
The Dreamworld should
be happier now
the best was done
which could.
I bow to you, princess,
in thanks
and wonder again.
This better not be
a cruel trick
of the Poppy!
that broken hearts
could mend...
Thought they were
permenant, stuck even,
losing color
fading with time
at best
A fix occurred
(or 3 to be exact tee hee)
but one
was long coming, long asked for.
The Dreamworld should
be happier now
the best was done
which could.
I bow to you, princess,
in thanks
and wonder again.
This better not be
a cruel trick
of the Poppy!
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Poem: Master of Time
Walking slower...
makes time go faster.
Strange, but true.
The same path can take five minutes
or fifty...
depending how fast I'm walking.
But it is the same path.
By controlling my speed,
I am ccontrolluing time.
This must be why perfect meditation
leads to consciousness of infinity
and an extinguishment of one's own consciousness.
The slower I go, the faster time goes.
If I go as slowley as possible,
then life will pass as fast as possible.
This is the goal.
For the expert Yogi.
An hour or even a day can pass
while they are under trance
and they wouldn't even notice.
This I would like to have very much.
There is a secret here
because space and time
are the same thing,
but it is enough
for now
just to make time pass faster.
To sit and sontrol my breath and mind.
Focussing or unfocusing,
either way.
Aum.
makes time go faster.
Strange, but true.
The same path can take five minutes
or fifty...
depending how fast I'm walking.
But it is the same path.
By controlling my speed,
I am ccontrolluing time.
This must be why perfect meditation
leads to consciousness of infinity
and an extinguishment of one's own consciousness.
The slower I go, the faster time goes.
If I go as slowley as possible,
then life will pass as fast as possible.
This is the goal.
For the expert Yogi.
An hour or even a day can pass
while they are under trance
and they wouldn't even notice.
This I would like to have very much.
There is a secret here
because space and time
are the same thing,
but it is enough
for now
just to make time pass faster.
To sit and sontrol my breath and mind.
Focussing or unfocusing,
either way.
Aum.
Poem: I must have been on drugs
As I sit by my fire
on the water
with the stars over my head
I breathe in and feel
a sense of pride.
Through all I've had to pass
to get here.
Almost at the midpoint of my lifetime.
No man can claim to be my boss.
I am an outcaste of my society,
but by looking and talking to me
you canot tell.
I have survived.
I have survived so long.
I've had the jobs
been to the schools,
been the rich and the poor
(though mostly the poor).
I have tasted the wines of
many different ways to live,
choosing some, discarding others.
It has not been easy.
There has been such pain and tumult
I could write volumes on that alone...
But here I am:
Strong, independant, resourceful,
almost universally well-liked,
and though I have witnessed
actual miracles,
with my own eyes,
I still keep the sanity
and the rewsolve to keep
studying and experiencing
what most would either forget
or shy away from in real fear.
I love myself!
on the water
with the stars over my head
I breathe in and feel
a sense of pride.
Through all I've had to pass
to get here.
Almost at the midpoint of my lifetime.
No man can claim to be my boss.
I am an outcaste of my society,
but by looking and talking to me
you canot tell.
I have survived.
I have survived so long.
I've had the jobs
been to the schools,
been the rich and the poor
(though mostly the poor).
I have tasted the wines of
many different ways to live,
choosing some, discarding others.
It has not been easy.
There has been such pain and tumult
I could write volumes on that alone...
But here I am:
Strong, independant, resourceful,
almost universally well-liked,
and though I have witnessed
actual miracles,
with my own eyes,
I still keep the sanity
and the rewsolve to keep
studying and experiencing
what most would either forget
or shy away from in real fear.
I love myself!
Poem: Laundry Day
"I love doing my laundry,"
I repear to myself
as I sip my coffee
and eat the delicious
apricot bar
I have treated myself to.
Laundry is so benign a task,
yet a leasurely one.
Once the clothes are in the machine
there is nothing to do
but wait and rest.
All the while knowing
I'm doing a good duty:
cleaning my clothes.
It needs to be done
for myself
and for society at larges
delicate nose and sensibilities.
Sitting back to read a magazine
I breathe a sigh of happyness.
Giving thanks to the heavens
that it's Laundry day.
And right now,
there is nothing more important
than the feel and smell
of a pile of clothes.
I repear to myself
as I sip my coffee
and eat the delicious
apricot bar
I have treated myself to.
Laundry is so benign a task,
yet a leasurely one.
Once the clothes are in the machine
there is nothing to do
but wait and rest.
All the while knowing
I'm doing a good duty:
cleaning my clothes.
It needs to be done
for myself
and for society at larges
delicate nose and sensibilities.
Sitting back to read a magazine
I breathe a sigh of happyness.
Giving thanks to the heavens
that it's Laundry day.
And right now,
there is nothing more important
than the feel and smell
of a pile of clothes.
Thoughts: "Friends" & "Lovers"
If Pearls were made of whistles
than we'd all eat
peppermint pie!
It's a way of saying "friend" that actually means something quite different. A "friend" is closer than an "aquantance." A "lover" is closer than a friend. I'm not sure why, but that is the way it is. Ask anyone.
So when someone says they want to be your "friend" and no longer your "lover" then they wish to be less close to you than they are. Presumably, you were already "friends" before "lovers." So back to "friends" is a step backwards, away from someone. Presumably the closeness was not desireable to one or the other.
How natural it is. then, for someone to take offence at being "friends" with someone after "lovers." They've been demoted in the other persons heart, for reasons unknown.
My ciggs got caught
in a spill of gold paint
now every time I smoke them
I taste that gold taint
than we'd all eat
peppermint pie!
It's a way of saying "friend" that actually means something quite different. A "friend" is closer than an "aquantance." A "lover" is closer than a friend. I'm not sure why, but that is the way it is. Ask anyone.
So when someone says they want to be your "friend" and no longer your "lover" then they wish to be less close to you than they are. Presumably, you were already "friends" before "lovers." So back to "friends" is a step backwards, away from someone. Presumably the closeness was not desireable to one or the other.
How natural it is. then, for someone to take offence at being "friends" with someone after "lovers." They've been demoted in the other persons heart, for reasons unknown.
My ciggs got caught
in a spill of gold paint
now every time I smoke them
I taste that gold taint
Poem: My Lies
I act so strong
and old and wise:
It's just an act
to hypnotize
to make you think
it's safe to be
within my arms
and feeling free.
When it's time for you to go,
the truth comes out
in tears that flow:
I never was strong,
mature or wise.
Just did what I had
to pretend I'm alive.
But underneath
my brave and bluff
sits one small scared
and lonely pup,
with no one to feed him
and no boy to pet.
A lost tramp mutt
who wishes the Vet
would find him crying
in his shame.
Stick in the needle
and kill all this pain.
and old and wise:
It's just an act
to hypnotize
to make you think
it's safe to be
within my arms
and feeling free.
When it's time for you to go,
the truth comes out
in tears that flow:
I never was strong,
mature or wise.
Just did what I had
to pretend I'm alive.
But underneath
my brave and bluff
sits one small scared
and lonely pup,
with no one to feed him
and no boy to pet.
A lost tramp mutt
who wishes the Vet
would find him crying
in his shame.
Stick in the needle
and kill all this pain.
Poem: Life Lingers Long
Be wary, son, when life looks swell,
for that is when it goes to Hell.
There's no security to peace,
except that soon there'll be a beast,
creeping deep into your heart,
to start to rend and tear apart.
And when you're sure that you are safe,
then that's the time you will be raped.
The life it holds no love for you,
beleive me when I say "You're screwed."
for that is when it goes to Hell.
There's no security to peace,
except that soon there'll be a beast,
creeping deep into your heart,
to start to rend and tear apart.
And when you're sure that you are safe,
then that's the time you will be raped.
The life it holds no love for you,
beleive me when I say "You're screwed."
Thoughts: Blah
I hate my life. How much longer do I have left? 60 years? 30 if I'm lucky? If I'm very good maybe Santa Claus will kill me this Christmas.
Ever since I first learned the definition of the word suicide, I wanted to do it. But god wont let me. Every time I try I just end up loosing something else that makes this world bareable for me. I'm afraid to try again because I don't want to see how much worse it can get.
I used to be proud of how different was from everyone else. The older I get, the harder that is. Finally ready to be monagamous with a lover, after all these years, and they don't want me because I'm too weird. When will the crying stop? Three days now, at least I had no nightmares last night.
Old friends don't know me anymore and I guess they never did. Friendship is a sham. I've said it before and I say it now, as a lover picked her friends over me, "They wouldn't understand you Jane, and they are more important to me than you." Of course they are. Until they get lovers, then let's see what's more important...
Oh, the letters. The letters from all the people who tell me how amazing I am and how great I make them feel and how much they appreciate it, but they have a train to catch to their future and there is no room on it for me.
Have I a friend in this world? I think not. It's everyone out for themselves. We can pretend to be friends, as long as it suits us, but in the end you will find something more important. Leaving just me. Always just me.
Ever since I first learned the definition of the word suicide, I wanted to do it. But god wont let me. Every time I try I just end up loosing something else that makes this world bareable for me. I'm afraid to try again because I don't want to see how much worse it can get.
I used to be proud of how different was from everyone else. The older I get, the harder that is. Finally ready to be monagamous with a lover, after all these years, and they don't want me because I'm too weird. When will the crying stop? Three days now, at least I had no nightmares last night.
Old friends don't know me anymore and I guess they never did. Friendship is a sham. I've said it before and I say it now, as a lover picked her friends over me, "They wouldn't understand you Jane, and they are more important to me than you." Of course they are. Until they get lovers, then let's see what's more important...
Oh, the letters. The letters from all the people who tell me how amazing I am and how great I make them feel and how much they appreciate it, but they have a train to catch to their future and there is no room on it for me.
Have I a friend in this world? I think not. It's everyone out for themselves. We can pretend to be friends, as long as it suits us, but in the end you will find something more important. Leaving just me. Always just me.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Academic Paper Outline: Soppona & Babaluaye
The African Diasporic "Orisha" Babluaye is the archtype of diseases and sickness in the new worlds. Babaluaye was originally called Soppona and was the Orisha of small pox and other small diseases confined to being worshipped by a secret society.
This paper tracks how the worship of Babaluaye grew in direct proportion to the growth of communicable diseases in the world (large due to transportation line increases).
This paper tracks how the worship of Babaluaye grew in direct proportion to the growth of communicable diseases in the world (large due to transportation line increases).