Just another e-mail
that batters my brain.
Just another email
which fills me with pain.
Just another e-mail
which keeps asking "Why?"
Just another e-mail
that's making me sigh.
There's rarely good news,
it's usually just crap.
The made up waste matter
of people in stacks.
As crap-throwing monkey's
we've come not so far,
for email-throwing humans
is what we now are.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Repost: Letter from Abusive Mom
(This is a REAL e-mail my mother just sent me. I have been listening to this stuff from her for years and my Psychiatrists, Therapists, and I, believe it is a major factor in my current anxiety and depression issues)
How long is this agony going to continue? Everyone tells me not to write you and certainly not to read your blog...you have to realize there is my point of view also...it's not right that you just spout on about your point of view: 1. You DO have a family...but, you don't want them. I have offered time and time again to come and get you but you will have nothing of it. You won't even meet me for lunch, for God's sake. All you want from me is MONEY. 2. You are not an addict just because of your back. I warned you that your family on the maternal and fraternal side had abusive alcoholics.... That fact has affected all of us. Why do you think I've chosen abusive men as mates? Oh well, at least, you have admitted that you are abusive, also. I guess that is a start.
You do have a home. I bought this house with a pool house for you to live in or at least stay in, when you
were visiting.
GIVE IT UP! Call me and get back in recovery...or do you want me to arrange for you to return to the Orloff House (at least, that seemed to work for awhile....)
I could not afford to keep Kearny. You don't seem to understand that. Don't you think I would have loved to have kept it. How do you think I felt when I had to sell it? You practically bankrupted me. If my dear mom hadn't left me some money I would have gone under. I am 64 (almost 65) and am still teaching. Do you think I am teaching for fun? Well, I am stable now financially and I'm not going broke because of you. You are old enough to earn your own money and stop living off the public teat.
If I sound mad, I am. This nonsense has gone on for almost twenty years now. Yes, since you were ten. I like the way you start your bio at 15 at UC Berkeley. What went on the five years before then? Your being kicked out of two schools, dropping out of two and running away from home and two other programs. I was by myself with no support and Dad was making my single life very difficult. You could have helped me then (as other kids have chosen to do with their single parents) but no, you had to make my life more challenging than ever.
ACCEPT THE THINGS YOU CANNOT CHANGE (me, Dad, Tom, Terry, Kearny house gone), CHANGE THE THINGS YOU CAN (your future)
(I know you don't believe it but I love you and always have) You break my heart,
Mom
How long is this agony going to continue? Everyone tells me not to write you and certainly not to read your blog...you have to realize there is my point of view also...it's not right that you just spout on about your point of view: 1. You DO have a family...but, you don't want them. I have offered time and time again to come and get you but you will have nothing of it. You won't even meet me for lunch, for God's sake. All you want from me is MONEY. 2. You are not an addict just because of your back. I warned you that your family on the maternal and fraternal side had abusive alcoholics.... That fact has affected all of us. Why do you think I've chosen abusive men as mates? Oh well, at least, you have admitted that you are abusive, also. I guess that is a start.
You do have a home. I bought this house with a pool house for you to live in or at least stay in, when you
were visiting.
GIVE IT UP! Call me and get back in recovery...or do you want me to arrange for you to return to the Orloff House (at least, that seemed to work for awhile....)
I could not afford to keep Kearny. You don't seem to understand that. Don't you think I would have loved to have kept it. How do you think I felt when I had to sell it? You practically bankrupted me. If my dear mom hadn't left me some money I would have gone under. I am 64 (almost 65) and am still teaching. Do you think I am teaching for fun? Well, I am stable now financially and I'm not going broke because of you. You are old enough to earn your own money and stop living off the public teat.
If I sound mad, I am. This nonsense has gone on for almost twenty years now. Yes, since you were ten. I like the way you start your bio at 15 at UC Berkeley. What went on the five years before then? Your being kicked out of two schools, dropping out of two and running away from home and two other programs. I was by myself with no support and Dad was making my single life very difficult. You could have helped me then (as other kids have chosen to do with their single parents) but no, you had to make my life more challenging than ever.
ACCEPT THE THINGS YOU CANNOT CHANGE (me, Dad, Tom, Terry, Kearny house gone), CHANGE THE THINGS YOU CAN (your future)
(I know you don't believe it but I love you and always have) You break my heart,
Mom
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Poem: Mirror Wall
Even though it's over,
I still wonder...
Who taught you to yell like that, my dearest?
Someone did.
Who taught you to push someone away
while you're sleeping?
Rather than holding them close?
Who taught you that sex is bad?
Who taught you that submission is always bad?
Someone taught you, though you deny it.
Someone, teaches us all.
Stop all your blaming,
of others,
like me,
and look in your own...
Mirror Wall.
I still wonder...
Who taught you to yell like that, my dearest?
Someone did.
Who taught you to push someone away
while you're sleeping?
Rather than holding them close?
Who taught you that sex is bad?
Who taught you that submission is always bad?
Someone taught you, though you deny it.
Someone, teaches us all.
Stop all your blaming,
of others,
like me,
and look in your own...
Mirror Wall.
Poem: Take Me Dead
I haven't seen her now for six months.
My holdout and stubbornness has won.
Though it took her some time,
she finally discovered, the rudeness,
the offense to me, she'd done.
Sincerely repentant, I did not forgive,
for what of my life have I left?
But the mule stubborn Bastard debt
which I keep towards this girl;
for an offense she never repaid.
But she offered me nothing,
except fake, kind, words,
a nothingness filling up air.
My heart that she owned,
long since burned to dust,
in the fire,
she started,
with air.
So take of my last,
whatever you want.
You thin, fucked-up girl
of brown eyes.
But take it,
believing,
you'd enjoy it
much better,
with me,
at your side,
still alive.
My holdout and stubbornness has won.
Though it took her some time,
she finally discovered, the rudeness,
the offense to me, she'd done.
Sincerely repentant, I did not forgive,
for what of my life have I left?
But the mule stubborn Bastard debt
which I keep towards this girl;
for an offense she never repaid.
But she offered me nothing,
except fake, kind, words,
a nothingness filling up air.
My heart that she owned,
long since burned to dust,
in the fire,
she started,
with air.
So take of my last,
whatever you want.
You thin, fucked-up girl
of brown eyes.
But take it,
believing,
you'd enjoy it
much better,
with me,
at your side,
still alive.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Story: She & I
I don't want to hurt her, but of course I do. I love her. She hurts me all the time, mostly unintentional, but the other times... clearly on purpose. She turns all my heroic acts of "love," into petty psychiatric fights which hurt everyone. And I tried so hard for her. She just doesn't see me. See the streets and the pain. When i was crying one day outside she put her head on my shoulder and held my hand.
It was really nice and it helped a little. She NEVER does things like that in her home. She just goes away, blames me, yells at me, etc.
I am not really a masochist, but the way I let her treat me... It's not a good precident to set. Her house gives her permission to act strangely, it seems. Hurtfully always. I'm a natural sensitive, feeling somethings stronger than other people do. She likes to hurt me when I'm with her at her house. Though she may not even understand it, it's obvious; It happens every time.
It may even be the house acting with her/through her. These things have happened before. She keeps bringing me to the house despite all my prior bad experiences there. Why? To hurt me more? To beat the odds with a "good experience" for a change?
I'll end with she doesn't listen to me, the worst of them all. I tell her what I need, ask her what she needs, she can't tell me.
Please tell me. When she did it was, " I want to be your friend, lover, and whatever I want whenever I want. You get no say in our relationship. OK?"
No. Of course that's not OK. It's completely selfish.
It was really nice and it helped a little. She NEVER does things like that in her home. She just goes away, blames me, yells at me, etc.
I am not really a masochist, but the way I let her treat me... It's not a good precident to set. Her house gives her permission to act strangely, it seems. Hurtfully always. I'm a natural sensitive, feeling somethings stronger than other people do. She likes to hurt me when I'm with her at her house. Though she may not even understand it, it's obvious; It happens every time.
It may even be the house acting with her/through her. These things have happened before. She keeps bringing me to the house despite all my prior bad experiences there. Why? To hurt me more? To beat the odds with a "good experience" for a change?
I'll end with she doesn't listen to me, the worst of them all. I tell her what I need, ask her what she needs, she can't tell me.
Please tell me. When she did it was, " I want to be your friend, lover, and whatever I want whenever I want. You get no say in our relationship. OK?"
No. Of course that's not OK. It's completely selfish.
Poem: Where are You?
I'm sitting here at the beach.
The sun is setting,
I'm outside,
eating a sandwich
and drinking some beer.
Where are you, my Love?
When the sun sets
I'll walk in the woods.
Find my blanket.
Curl up in it and go to sleep.
Where will you sleep, my Love?
I'll sleep in my clothes,
and the morning will come again.
A little smelly, I'll go downtown.
Because that is where the soup kitchen is,
where there is food in trashcans,
where the action is.
What will you do tomorrow?
Treating me like a toy,
you disagree, saying,
"You disrespect me."
But the truth is only that
I am the most interesting
of your victims.
Still here.
Still fighting.
How rare.
Your Love is Abuse.
Though you don't see it.
Taught to you by older male Abusers.
You think I'm wrong, I know.
But as a male abuser,
I know what to look for.
You are it.
I do not play you.
though I would have when I was younger.
Others may play you, I do not know.
You do play yourself.
This I know.
I don't know who taught you how,
but play you, you do.
This is not good.
And I cry for your games.
The choice is not mine.
It's yours
and you choose the worst
(in my opinion).
Blame everything but you,
I know that you will.
You are so fucked up!
But if you ever come around...
If you ever see straight...
If you ever want real Love...
I'll be here.
Just waiting.
The sun is setting,
I'm outside,
eating a sandwich
and drinking some beer.
Where are you, my Love?
When the sun sets
I'll walk in the woods.
Find my blanket.
Curl up in it and go to sleep.
Where will you sleep, my Love?
I'll sleep in my clothes,
and the morning will come again.
A little smelly, I'll go downtown.
Because that is where the soup kitchen is,
where there is food in trashcans,
where the action is.
What will you do tomorrow?
Treating me like a toy,
you disagree, saying,
"You disrespect me."
But the truth is only that
I am the most interesting
of your victims.
Still here.
Still fighting.
How rare.
Your Love is Abuse.
Though you don't see it.
Taught to you by older male Abusers.
You think I'm wrong, I know.
But as a male abuser,
I know what to look for.
You are it.
I do not play you.
though I would have when I was younger.
Others may play you, I do not know.
You do play yourself.
This I know.
I don't know who taught you how,
but play you, you do.
This is not good.
And I cry for your games.
The choice is not mine.
It's yours
and you choose the worst
(in my opinion).
Blame everything but you,
I know that you will.
You are so fucked up!
But if you ever come around...
If you ever see straight...
If you ever want real Love...
I'll be here.
Just waiting.
Poem: Filthy Black Widow
From the bloody wounds on my feet,
to the underwear I haven't changed
in twelve days; I'm filthy.
All the deodorant in the world
doesn't cover my stench...
and she pretends to love me.
No shower offered,
or laundry nigh,
no nothing offered,
to this homeless guy.
Though I fallowed her where,
she knows I'm so afraid of,
a place that I fear
and have had shanty times of,
I trusted her heart,
thought that she would protect me.
Though it turned out she cared less
and felt more "To Hell with me."
I'm always so stupid,
for trusting in love,
I think it will save us,
come down from above.
But always this demoness,
caring not for me.
Her only desire
is that She is She!
No compromise possible,
no shake of hands.
She must have it all,
and fuck those who stand.
Why must I love her?
This Bitch-Queen of "I"?
It must be my karma
from days I flew high.
When I was a prince
and commanded the slaves.
Well now I'm commanded
by this girl of young age.
I weep for my sorrow
and weep for my plight.
I weep for Black Widow,
who knows not her might.
I weep for her molesters,
who started her bad.
I weep for the love,
that I wish that I had.
to the underwear I haven't changed
in twelve days; I'm filthy.
All the deodorant in the world
doesn't cover my stench...
and she pretends to love me.
No shower offered,
or laundry nigh,
no nothing offered,
to this homeless guy.
Though I fallowed her where,
she knows I'm so afraid of,
a place that I fear
and have had shanty times of,
I trusted her heart,
thought that she would protect me.
Though it turned out she cared less
and felt more "To Hell with me."
I'm always so stupid,
for trusting in love,
I think it will save us,
come down from above.
But always this demoness,
caring not for me.
Her only desire
is that She is She!
No compromise possible,
no shake of hands.
She must have it all,
and fuck those who stand.
Why must I love her?
This Bitch-Queen of "I"?
It must be my karma
from days I flew high.
When I was a prince
and commanded the slaves.
Well now I'm commanded
by this girl of young age.
I weep for my sorrow
and weep for my plight.
I weep for Black Widow,
who knows not her might.
I weep for her molesters,
who started her bad.
I weep for the love,
that I wish that I had.
Poem: Refuse to Forgive
A kindly woman
she was not.
More like a malicious youth.
The stains on her face
came from the fact that
she liked to control people.
Goddess forbid that she do
something I asked for.
If she did that,
in her hairy-constipated ego,
then I would be "controlling" her.
And she can't have that.
No one can control her.
Even if it would help us both -
to her it's all or nothing.
She refuses to forgive
and refuses to apologize.
Like my mother;
this leaves no option.
She hates me for loving her,
though I don't understand.
Let go
and fall
and maybe
you'll be
happy.
she was not.
More like a malicious youth.
The stains on her face
came from the fact that
she liked to control people.
Goddess forbid that she do
something I asked for.
If she did that,
in her hairy-constipated ego,
then I would be "controlling" her.
And she can't have that.
No one can control her.
Even if it would help us both -
to her it's all or nothing.
She refuses to forgive
and refuses to apologize.
Like my mother;
this leaves no option.
She hates me for loving her,
though I don't understand.
Let go
and fall
and maybe
you'll be
happy.
Poem: The Selfish Bitch-Spider
The Selfish Bitch-Spider
fooled me again.
Filled with promises of Love
"come home and sleep with me,"
a promise unfulfilled.
"I want to be in bed with you."
A lie calculated to bring me to her lair.
It worked.
Despite all my past experience in her lair,
I truly thought it would be different this time.
I always think it will be different
with her.
But it never is.
She cares only for herself
and I'm still left wishing
she cared for me.
Will I ever stop falling for it?
I must,
because the tears
and the breaking of my heart
can't keep on forever.
Yelling at me like I'm a dog,
"Never do that!"
I was promised a cuddle in bed
and instead I got screaming, insults,
emotional battery.
I'm already homeless, you Bitch -
Why must you make me feel worse?
Why must I love someone
who doesn't love me right?
It's not fair.
It's my abusive childhood all over again.
I knew it all before hand,
like I usually do.
Told myself not to hang out with her,
just to leave...
But she opens her eyes
and promises to Love me,
and I fall for it every time -
I want to be loved so badly.
It's so lonely on the streets.
So alone all the time...
An invitation like hers
is hard to pass up.
All she had to do
was be quiet and hold me.
But this was too much,
too much to ask from her.
Queen of her domain
she does whatever she wants,
whenever she wants,
and if I want to cuddle
instead of watching TV,
I can go fuck myself,
because she is
the only one that matters,
in this, her world.
She doesn't care about me.
I hope I can remember that,
in the future.
I can't trust her to be nice to me.
To think of what's good for me,
to do right by me;
The Selfish Spider-Bitch.
So beautiful, so heartless.
I can't trust myself not to fall
for her again.
I never want to see her again.
My life is full of abuse
and I don't need any more.
It will just lead to another
suicide attempt,
with acompanying bad days in tow.
How could someone be so selfish?
How could I love someone like that?
Because I'm used to the selfish-
my family also is expert at
promising Gold and handing out Shit.
My Mom, especially.
She'll promise anything to get me to visit,
then she'll just scream at me,
call me names,
and forget that she promised at all.
I doubt I'll ever see her again.
fooled me again.
Filled with promises of Love
"come home and sleep with me,"
a promise unfulfilled.
"I want to be in bed with you."
A lie calculated to bring me to her lair.
It worked.
Despite all my past experience in her lair,
I truly thought it would be different this time.
I always think it will be different
with her.
But it never is.
She cares only for herself
and I'm still left wishing
she cared for me.
Will I ever stop falling for it?
I must,
because the tears
and the breaking of my heart
can't keep on forever.
Yelling at me like I'm a dog,
"Never do that!"
I was promised a cuddle in bed
and instead I got screaming, insults,
emotional battery.
I'm already homeless, you Bitch -
Why must you make me feel worse?
Why must I love someone
who doesn't love me right?
It's not fair.
It's my abusive childhood all over again.
I knew it all before hand,
like I usually do.
Told myself not to hang out with her,
just to leave...
But she opens her eyes
and promises to Love me,
and I fall for it every time -
I want to be loved so badly.
It's so lonely on the streets.
So alone all the time...
An invitation like hers
is hard to pass up.
All she had to do
was be quiet and hold me.
But this was too much,
too much to ask from her.
Queen of her domain
she does whatever she wants,
whenever she wants,
and if I want to cuddle
instead of watching TV,
I can go fuck myself,
because she is
the only one that matters,
in this, her world.
She doesn't care about me.
I hope I can remember that,
in the future.
I can't trust her to be nice to me.
To think of what's good for me,
to do right by me;
The Selfish Spider-Bitch.
So beautiful, so heartless.
I can't trust myself not to fall
for her again.
I never want to see her again.
My life is full of abuse
and I don't need any more.
It will just lead to another
suicide attempt,
with acompanying bad days in tow.
How could someone be so selfish?
How could I love someone like that?
Because I'm used to the selfish-
my family also is expert at
promising Gold and handing out Shit.
My Mom, especially.
She'll promise anything to get me to visit,
then she'll just scream at me,
call me names,
and forget that she promised at all.
I doubt I'll ever see her again.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Poem: Christ on a Cross
"I don't care what you think,"
thinking it and feeling it as she said it.
"I only care about the fact
that you are offending me with your words.
How dare you say those words to me."
They're just words.
"Please hug me," I say pathetically.
"No, not after what you said to me."
She replied looking at me with disgust,
like I'm a leper.
"Don't touch me."
This is how it all starts with her.
I just want to be touched,
to be cuddled with,
and she doesn't.
So she makes up a fight
to justify us
not-touching.
Without the fight she is stuck
with the truth.
Faced with vulnerability and trust,
That we all give up when we have sex.
Of course it's always my fault.
Totally and completely.
I plead guilty to wanting to touch her.
Why does she hate me for it?
Why does she yell at me,
when she knows I have PTSD,
and my father yelled at me.
Why does she yell at me for covering my ears
because I'm scared of her yelling,
reminded of my father.
Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
Why do I love her...
is it because of her Abuse of me?
Emulating my family?
The air gets still as I write this.
Maybe it's too close,
to the truth.
Her house is kryptonite
to my superman.
thinking it and feeling it as she said it.
"I only care about the fact
that you are offending me with your words.
How dare you say those words to me."
They're just words.
"Please hug me," I say pathetically.
"No, not after what you said to me."
She replied looking at me with disgust,
like I'm a leper.
"Don't touch me."
This is how it all starts with her.
I just want to be touched,
to be cuddled with,
and she doesn't.
So she makes up a fight
to justify us
not-touching.
Without the fight she is stuck
with the truth.
Faced with vulnerability and trust,
That we all give up when we have sex.
Of course it's always my fault.
Totally and completely.
I plead guilty to wanting to touch her.
Why does she hate me for it?
Why does she yell at me,
when she knows I have PTSD,
and my father yelled at me.
Why does she yell at me for covering my ears
because I'm scared of her yelling,
reminded of my father.
Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
Why do I love her...
is it because of her Abuse of me?
Emulating my family?
The air gets still as I write this.
Maybe it's too close,
to the truth.
Her house is kryptonite
to my superman.
Poem: Selfish Lover
The most selfish lover I've ever had
yelling at a homeless, family-less,
friendless, mentally-ill man.
From the center of her castle,
surrounded by sisters
and all other forms of her power.
Once she had enticed me into her realm,
surrounded,
then she decided to torture me.
Miles from anywhere,
too late and too tired to
take a bus or train.
She knew she had me
in the palm of her hand.
There was nothing I could do.
Would she use her Power ro heal me?
To help me?
Cater to me and massage my aching body?
Knowing how hard my life on the streets is?
No.
No.
She would squeeze her fist shut.
Strangling me inside,
until I fled,
or until I died.
I wanted to go.
Wanted her to be quiet and just hold me.
I wanted to go to bed so badly,
wanted to sleep next to her.
That's the promise she lured me back there with.
Imagine!
Just Imagine!
A night in bed for a change! A real bed!
And with a woman to hug!
Wow - it sounded like Heaven.
Too good to be true, sure enough.
But she left me alone in bed.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
It's wierd to be in someones room without them.
When I couldn't stand the waiting anymore
I got up to ask her if she was coming to bed
and she yelled at me:
"You can't control me! What if I don't want to go to bed! You always do this! Why can't I just do a few things! I'm not your slave!"
I couldn't understand it, but I knew
my Illusion was over.
There would be no sweet bed for me this night.
No loving human to hold.
It was all a trick from god.
I was so happy- for a moment. I thought,
"I should leave right away,"
but it was too late at night
and I was so, so, tired.
I tried to hug her, to calm her down,
hoping my loving touch would help.
"Don't you ever fucking touch me
without my permission!"
So hugging was out too.
I was too tired to talk
but I tried anyways.
Nothing helped.
She was a screeching evil shrew
who completely hated me
for some reason I could not comprehend.
I thought we were lovers.
After more talking,
mostly me saying ingenuously,
that I'm totally wrong
and she's totally right,
about whatever evil
figment she'd made up
as a sudden excuse for hating me.
Then some mutual crying
and she was at least a little calmer.
I took a handful of pills to fall asleep
- alone of course.
When I awoke in the morning
she was next to me in bed.
I tried to hug her, but she pushed me off.
I tried again and she pushed me off much harder.
The house was a mess.
My things were all over the place.
I couldn't find them all,
especially my favorite sweatshirt,
but I had to get out of there as fast as I could.
My broken heart was heavy
and covered with spidery lines of fracture,
cracked in my chest, oozing pain.
as I started the long walk to BART.
No hug. No wish good luck.
I shoulda just stayed on the streets.
It would have been a lot less painful than this
selfish, selfish, woman.
Who couldn't find it in her heart
to just be quiet and hold a homeless man
for comfort.
She had to "make her point"
by dealing out Abuse
instead.
Sadness upon sadness.
yelling at a homeless, family-less,
friendless, mentally-ill man.
From the center of her castle,
surrounded by sisters
and all other forms of her power.
Once she had enticed me into her realm,
surrounded,
then she decided to torture me.
Miles from anywhere,
too late and too tired to
take a bus or train.
She knew she had me
in the palm of her hand.
There was nothing I could do.
Would she use her Power ro heal me?
To help me?
Cater to me and massage my aching body?
Knowing how hard my life on the streets is?
No.
No.
She would squeeze her fist shut.
Strangling me inside,
until I fled,
or until I died.
I wanted to go.
Wanted her to be quiet and just hold me.
I wanted to go to bed so badly,
wanted to sleep next to her.
That's the promise she lured me back there with.
Imagine!
Just Imagine!
A night in bed for a change! A real bed!
And with a woman to hug!
Wow - it sounded like Heaven.
Too good to be true, sure enough.
But she left me alone in bed.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
It's wierd to be in someones room without them.
When I couldn't stand the waiting anymore
I got up to ask her if she was coming to bed
and she yelled at me:
"You can't control me! What if I don't want to go to bed! You always do this! Why can't I just do a few things! I'm not your slave!"
I couldn't understand it, but I knew
my Illusion was over.
There would be no sweet bed for me this night.
No loving human to hold.
It was all a trick from god.
I was so happy- for a moment. I thought,
"I should leave right away,"
but it was too late at night
and I was so, so, tired.
I tried to hug her, to calm her down,
hoping my loving touch would help.
"Don't you ever fucking touch me
without my permission!"
So hugging was out too.
I was too tired to talk
but I tried anyways.
Nothing helped.
She was a screeching evil shrew
who completely hated me
for some reason I could not comprehend.
I thought we were lovers.
After more talking,
mostly me saying ingenuously,
that I'm totally wrong
and she's totally right,
about whatever evil
figment she'd made up
as a sudden excuse for hating me.
Then some mutual crying
and she was at least a little calmer.
I took a handful of pills to fall asleep
- alone of course.
When I awoke in the morning
she was next to me in bed.
I tried to hug her, but she pushed me off.
I tried again and she pushed me off much harder.
The house was a mess.
My things were all over the place.
I couldn't find them all,
especially my favorite sweatshirt,
but I had to get out of there as fast as I could.
My broken heart was heavy
and covered with spidery lines of fracture,
cracked in my chest, oozing pain.
as I started the long walk to BART.
No hug. No wish good luck.
I shoulda just stayed on the streets.
It would have been a lot less painful than this
selfish, selfish, woman.
Who couldn't find it in her heart
to just be quiet and hold a homeless man
for comfort.
She had to "make her point"
by dealing out Abuse
instead.
Sadness upon sadness.
Poem: The Drugs
She has feelings for me:
they are stunted, black, shrivelled, ill-born mutations.
Sunless, forced to grow on sweat and rare vaginal moisture.
These "feelings" for me, this "love", if you will,
is totally overshadowed by the
Titans of Need.
My access to narcotics redefines me
as a Person of Power, to her,
a desirable person,
for the sole reason of my Accessss.
To the drugs she likes ("Needs").
Her time with me
and her relation to me must,
by default,
be defined by these facts.
Sorry for me,
and probably for her too,
But it is what it is.
I cannot blame her,
nor myself,
nor the drugs.
"Society," is the closest I come
to blame.
But I love her.
And she loves what I have.
I don't think she loves me.
I may never know.
they are stunted, black, shrivelled, ill-born mutations.
Sunless, forced to grow on sweat and rare vaginal moisture.
These "feelings" for me, this "love", if you will,
is totally overshadowed by the
Titans of Need.
My access to narcotics redefines me
as a Person of Power, to her,
a desirable person,
for the sole reason of my Accessss.
To the drugs she likes ("Needs").
Her time with me
and her relation to me must,
by default,
be defined by these facts.
Sorry for me,
and probably for her too,
But it is what it is.
I cannot blame her,
nor myself,
nor the drugs.
"Society," is the closest I come
to blame.
But I love her.
And she loves what I have.
I don't think she loves me.
I may never know.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Story: A Funny Thing Happened...
Outside the 99 cent store yesterday a slightly buzzed man came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder, half laughing and half crying sincerely.
"What am I supposed to do with a gay son?!" He asked me, looking genuinly confused.
"What am I supposed to do with a gay son?!" He repeated. I felt sorry for his son already and though a strong supporter of gay rights, I knew there were very few things I could say to this man that would help.
"What am I supposed to do with a gay son?!" I rummaged around my brain for a second until I came up with my answer:
"Well... It's better than having a daughter who is so sexy you want to fuck her."
He laughed at that, nodding his head, "You really said something there, brother! You are damn right about that! Ha!"
As I left I could tell by the way he was shaking his head that I had helped him... at least a little.
"What am I supposed to do with a gay son?!" He asked me, looking genuinly confused.
"What am I supposed to do with a gay son?!" He repeated. I felt sorry for his son already and though a strong supporter of gay rights, I knew there were very few things I could say to this man that would help.
"What am I supposed to do with a gay son?!" I rummaged around my brain for a second until I came up with my answer:
"Well... It's better than having a daughter who is so sexy you want to fuck her."
He laughed at that, nodding his head, "You really said something there, brother! You are damn right about that! Ha!"
As I left I could tell by the way he was shaking his head that I had helped him... at least a little.
Thoughts: Hospitality
Hospitality should be a religion. In ancient Greece Zeus was the God of hospitality. He would show up at people's homes, unannounced, as a beggar, or Leper, or widow, or Crone; Asking for some small kindness. A drop of oil, a bit of food, some water for washing. When answered with love: The giver was blessed, their opposite cursed. You get the idea. Islam has a similar rule, where impoverished strangers should be treated well, as a spiritual matter. Similarly the Hindu's, in one of their many paths, go out to the world as a beggar and may accept only that which is given freely. Saint Francis, too, went on a path of begging a.k.a. acceptance.
Many African tribes insist, as a rule, that you give to your guest what you have (no matter if you are giving your very last, give you must). When I was a Haver (someone who has things) I tried my best to make my guests feel at their home, when at mine. I always offered whatever food, drink, or drug I had. Always deferred my attention to them and what they wanted to do. I did pretty well. And those that I know who do not do this practice; I pity and feel I don't know.
A land of possessing, of holding to heart, for keeping and making your own. Where everyone, if they would just give away, would find it a very good world. For every ten people who talk about Hospitality, only one actually practices it at all (if even that many!).
To give what you have, what you earned, what you worked for, to give it away, to the wind. Sound good? I think not, and neither do you, but never-the-less it is BEST. To give it away, you get back something better. Don't trust me, just listen to the wind. When you open your hand you see thousands of grains, but in seconds, there is no more sand.
Many African tribes insist, as a rule, that you give to your guest what you have (no matter if you are giving your very last, give you must). When I was a Haver (someone who has things) I tried my best to make my guests feel at their home, when at mine. I always offered whatever food, drink, or drug I had. Always deferred my attention to them and what they wanted to do. I did pretty well. And those that I know who do not do this practice; I pity and feel I don't know.
A land of possessing, of holding to heart, for keeping and making your own. Where everyone, if they would just give away, would find it a very good world. For every ten people who talk about Hospitality, only one actually practices it at all (if even that many!).
To give what you have, what you earned, what you worked for, to give it away, to the wind. Sound good? I think not, and neither do you, but never-the-less it is BEST. To give it away, you get back something better. Don't trust me, just listen to the wind. When you open your hand you see thousands of grains, but in seconds, there is no more sand.
Poem: Passing Time (#4?)
Each day a year.
Dark mist-morning cold no sun:
Late Winter.
The Walk and Long Bus
across town, across years.
More walking as the sun starts
coming on strong.
The Coffee finally, amazingly good,
(though slightly less so every day)
maybe some writings.
Winter has passed
and the spring is here.
Walking I find popcorn in a bag
on the street: Brunch.
By afternoon it's scorching hot
and I've spent an hour in-line
at St. Anthony's Soup Kitchen.
More walking and I get
my first drink of the day
at a gas station.
It's almost Fall already
and the drink goes with Lunch nicely.
Wanting more, but not having money,
or energy,
I start my walk back towards the beach
where I hide my sleeping bag
and other clothes.
Making it to camp
the sun has finally set
and it is Winter again.
Warm in my sleeping bag,
under the trees,
smell and feel of Ocean on my face,
total darkness surrounding.
I feel very old,
like Shin-Lo, "The Mountain."
So named for his only movements
in ten years of constant meditation
were the paths carved in his cheeks
by the passage of his tears.
I pray to Shin-Lo
that my fate will be better.
Dark mist-morning cold no sun:
Late Winter.
The Walk and Long Bus
across town, across years.
More walking as the sun starts
coming on strong.
The Coffee finally, amazingly good,
(though slightly less so every day)
maybe some writings.
Winter has passed
and the spring is here.
Walking I find popcorn in a bag
on the street: Brunch.
By afternoon it's scorching hot
and I've spent an hour in-line
at St. Anthony's Soup Kitchen.
More walking and I get
my first drink of the day
at a gas station.
It's almost Fall already
and the drink goes with Lunch nicely.
Wanting more, but not having money,
or energy,
I start my walk back towards the beach
where I hide my sleeping bag
and other clothes.
Making it to camp
the sun has finally set
and it is Winter again.
Warm in my sleeping bag,
under the trees,
smell and feel of Ocean on my face,
total darkness surrounding.
I feel very old,
like Shin-Lo, "The Mountain."
So named for his only movements
in ten years of constant meditation
were the paths carved in his cheeks
by the passage of his tears.
I pray to Shin-Lo
that my fate will be better.
Poem: My Lover's Father
The Father of one of my greatest Loves,
added me as a friend on Facebook.
I had to accept, not because of my Love,
but for his acts of kindness to me in the past.
He always liked me and treated me like a son.
Even though his daughter and I
have been broken up for a decade
(She still wont talk to me).
So now I'm my x-lover's fathers friend
on Facebook. God help me.
What if he asks how I'm doing?
I like him too much to lie.
Shall I say I'm doing my best?
Keep it vague and let him infer
that things are well?
Tell him the truth;
My life is horrible and I wish I were dead?
No. People don't usually care for the Truth.
It just makes them feel bad.
Then, of course, whatever I tell him
will go to his daughter Emerald.
*Sigh*
Better to just leave it,
for now,
and see if he sends me a message.
If he does, well...
I guess I'll figure it out then.
Oh, shit.
added me as a friend on Facebook.
I had to accept, not because of my Love,
but for his acts of kindness to me in the past.
He always liked me and treated me like a son.
Even though his daughter and I
have been broken up for a decade
(She still wont talk to me).
So now I'm my x-lover's fathers friend
on Facebook. God help me.
What if he asks how I'm doing?
I like him too much to lie.
Shall I say I'm doing my best?
Keep it vague and let him infer
that things are well?
Tell him the truth;
My life is horrible and I wish I were dead?
No. People don't usually care for the Truth.
It just makes them feel bad.
Then, of course, whatever I tell him
will go to his daughter Emerald.
*Sigh*
Better to just leave it,
for now,
and see if he sends me a message.
If he does, well...
I guess I'll figure it out then.
Oh, shit.
Poem: Bum Weekend
Some days you just want to stay home.
Stay in bed. Order in.
Watch movies on TV and just lazy around
in pajamas.
Then you wake up more
and remember you'd better
roll up your sleeping bag
before some park rangers come
and find you.
Damn: Still homeless.
It's easy to forget
in those small moments
between waking and sleep.
Easy to feel OK for a moment.
I'll be as lazy as possible today,
but it's not the same.
I'll have to go to Safeway
to use the restroom
and get some food.
I'll have to go to the corner store
for smokes.
It's cold outside and windy,
but I'll just sit here anyway.
Too fucking tired and beat up
to make much else happen.
This is my life.
Every day.
I wish something else,
I do what I have to.
Stay in bed. Order in.
Watch movies on TV and just lazy around
in pajamas.
Then you wake up more
and remember you'd better
roll up your sleeping bag
before some park rangers come
and find you.
Damn: Still homeless.
It's easy to forget
in those small moments
between waking and sleep.
Easy to feel OK for a moment.
I'll be as lazy as possible today,
but it's not the same.
I'll have to go to Safeway
to use the restroom
and get some food.
I'll have to go to the corner store
for smokes.
It's cold outside and windy,
but I'll just sit here anyway.
Too fucking tired and beat up
to make much else happen.
This is my life.
Every day.
I wish something else,
I do what I have to.
Poem: Teary Morning
Try not to think about it.
The worst is over now.
Waking cold, alone as ever,
by the Ocean, far from
succor or store.
Wishing to stay in my
warm sleeping bag;
No choice, no choice.
Why did I choose a sleep place
so far away from everything?
Pluses and Minuses all around.
Think about the moment, now,
no longer cold at all.
Think about good things to come
in the future.
The tears are trying hard to come.
I've been fighting them for days,
and winning.
The worst is over now.
Waking cold, alone as ever,
by the Ocean, far from
succor or store.
Wishing to stay in my
warm sleeping bag;
No choice, no choice.
Why did I choose a sleep place
so far away from everything?
Pluses and Minuses all around.
Think about the moment, now,
no longer cold at all.
Think about good things to come
in the future.
The tears are trying hard to come.
I've been fighting them for days,
and winning.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Poem: Prurience
Love someone, you cannot have,
you'll learn the feel of yearning.
For someone who has something priceless to you,
while they throw it away on some other.
The other wont care and the Irony grows,
but never reunification for any.
Whist you love her so, and she loves another,
there never is any fulfillment.
The distance is far and it only get farther,
though feel that I'm meant just for her.
Her pure disregard is the ice to my prurience,
casting a lake on my Falls.
you'll learn the feel of yearning.
For someone who has something priceless to you,
while they throw it away on some other.
The other wont care and the Irony grows,
but never reunification for any.
Whist you love her so, and she loves another,
there never is any fulfillment.
The distance is far and it only get farther,
though feel that I'm meant just for her.
Her pure disregard is the ice to my prurience,
casting a lake on my Falls.
Poem: Schwarzenegger
As a child I loved you.
Only You and one other (Michael Keaton).
My two Actor Men,
who could do no wrong:
My Idols, my Heroes, my Gods.
The Men of my life.
When I started acting,
my agent contacted yours,
You sent me a Press picture
from the movie "Predator"
picture-frame sized,
you holding a big gun
with a cigar in your mouth,
and a photocopied autograph.
I knew it was photocopied
but I still loved it.
Sylvester Stallone had nothing on you.
(Michael Keaton sent me a personally signed
"Bettlegeuse" poster).
Did you even read my letter?
I was nine.
Somehow I doubt you did.
Now you're the Governor of my state;
I've never been more ashamed.
How could you?
I loved you.
I looked up to you.
Like Reagan you fled to Politics.
Unlike Reagon,
you have no political sense at all.
You've killed the memory I held
of you, Arnold.
A warm, childhood, fantasy hero.
Laid waste to feed
your greedy, hungry, little ego.
Ashamed, Arnold.
Just Ashamed.
Feel it.
Feel the disapointment you have caused,
to this person, to this child,
to children who idolized you everywhere.
Feel the Shame.
Only You and one other (Michael Keaton).
My two Actor Men,
who could do no wrong:
My Idols, my Heroes, my Gods.
The Men of my life.
When I started acting,
my agent contacted yours,
You sent me a Press picture
from the movie "Predator"
picture-frame sized,
you holding a big gun
with a cigar in your mouth,
and a photocopied autograph.
I knew it was photocopied
but I still loved it.
Sylvester Stallone had nothing on you.
(Michael Keaton sent me a personally signed
"Bettlegeuse" poster).
Did you even read my letter?
I was nine.
Somehow I doubt you did.
Now you're the Governor of my state;
I've never been more ashamed.
How could you?
I loved you.
I looked up to you.
Like Reagan you fled to Politics.
Unlike Reagon,
you have no political sense at all.
You've killed the memory I held
of you, Arnold.
A warm, childhood, fantasy hero.
Laid waste to feed
your greedy, hungry, little ego.
Ashamed, Arnold.
Just Ashamed.
Feel it.
Feel the disapointment you have caused,
to this person, to this child,
to children who idolized you everywhere.
Feel the Shame.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Poem: Bumrest
Is there ever enough rest
for a bum on the streets?
There are no bums I know
who say they're well-rested.
From sprinklers to cops
to cold or the shakes;
there's always something
to keep a bum moving.
The promise of food,
or money, drugs,
or just clean socks.
Maybe a need to pee.
Always on the move.
A nap in the park,
a drunken knockout before dawn,
who knows what day it is,
when the world is not marked
by sleeping and waking,
night and day,
job and freedom.
Just hours, just time,
ticking away forever.
Some bums stay awake to fight the time,
others choose downers to slow it to a still.
Some choose nothing but prayer and meditation;
they're usually the Nuttiest.
But time must pass regardless,
and none of us get enough rest.
The mind gets fuzzy after a couple of days
without sleep.
Even when you're sober as a skunk.
Too fuzzy to make plans sometimes,
to make sentences.
A slight, blurry, auric-fuzz
on the edge of your vision,
surrounding everything you see,
slowing reaction time.
What? Huh? Muscles ache.
The jaw clenches.
Speed or crack is almost tempting,
just to change the exhaustion.
But, no.
Got to just keep walking.
Been here writing too long.
Need to go to the bathroom.
Just keep going until sundown.
Then sleep.
Then another day.
for a bum on the streets?
There are no bums I know
who say they're well-rested.
From sprinklers to cops
to cold or the shakes;
there's always something
to keep a bum moving.
The promise of food,
or money, drugs,
or just clean socks.
Maybe a need to pee.
Always on the move.
A nap in the park,
a drunken knockout before dawn,
who knows what day it is,
when the world is not marked
by sleeping and waking,
night and day,
job and freedom.
Just hours, just time,
ticking away forever.
Some bums stay awake to fight the time,
others choose downers to slow it to a still.
Some choose nothing but prayer and meditation;
they're usually the Nuttiest.
But time must pass regardless,
and none of us get enough rest.
The mind gets fuzzy after a couple of days
without sleep.
Even when you're sober as a skunk.
Too fuzzy to make plans sometimes,
to make sentences.
A slight, blurry, auric-fuzz
on the edge of your vision,
surrounding everything you see,
slowing reaction time.
What? Huh? Muscles ache.
The jaw clenches.
Speed or crack is almost tempting,
just to change the exhaustion.
But, no.
Got to just keep walking.
Been here writing too long.
Need to go to the bathroom.
Just keep going until sundown.
Then sleep.
Then another day.
Poem: Tired (#3?)
Too tired to write
too dirty to clean
the sweat on my skin
leaves a bubbling sheen
No way to think well
with the fuzz in my head
the best I can manage
to wish I was dead.
Though the world is pretty
with fun all around...
I'm tired, my friend,
I'm tired of it all...
too dirty to clean
the sweat on my skin
leaves a bubbling sheen
No way to think well
with the fuzz in my head
the best I can manage
to wish I was dead.
Though the world is pretty
with fun all around...
I'm tired, my friend,
I'm tired of it all...
Poem: Underground
Like an underground river You,
my tears, are always there.
Like I am divided in two
and the bottom half is always crying.
While the top half
interacts with the World.
I can descend into my river
whenever I wish,
simply by letting my guard down,
thinking one too many thoughts
in the wrong direction and
Whoops! Splash!
Drowning and crying,
crying and drowning.
But I never die,
nor am I ever saved
by a Hero or Goddess.
I simply pull myself up,
pretending the river doesn't exist
- and I go on with life.
Unresolved.
Unfixed.
Uncompleted.
About to slip at any moment
back down into the river.
But for now I'm OK.
I used to think the river was good
and may lead somewhere Holy.
Now not so sure,
new power comes
with new introspection.
The more I rise above,
the easier it gets...
Living in the River for years,
the tears are more familiar
than the warmth.
Cold, sepparate, and salty.
They know me so well
that the warmth of Love
always confuses, a creature of
dark being shined by the sun.
The initial warmth so beautiful,
so close,
that the coldness
which used to be my life
is seen as it is;
Sad and Lonely.
Yearning for life in the sun.
Not to be. Not to be.
To imagine I know what Lucifer felt,
what Adam and Eve experienced.
Denial from the Heaven
that oncce was known to them.
Writ in stone:
"Thou Mayest Never Return."
Cast from the most beautiful place
in existance -
to...well... You get the idea.
To imagine I know what they felt;
is that not Pride
of the first degree?
my tears, are always there.
Like I am divided in two
and the bottom half is always crying.
While the top half
interacts with the World.
I can descend into my river
whenever I wish,
simply by letting my guard down,
thinking one too many thoughts
in the wrong direction and
Whoops! Splash!
Drowning and crying,
crying and drowning.
But I never die,
nor am I ever saved
by a Hero or Goddess.
I simply pull myself up,
pretending the river doesn't exist
- and I go on with life.
Unresolved.
Unfixed.
Uncompleted.
About to slip at any moment
back down into the river.
But for now I'm OK.
I used to think the river was good
and may lead somewhere Holy.
Now not so sure,
new power comes
with new introspection.
The more I rise above,
the easier it gets...
Living in the River for years,
the tears are more familiar
than the warmth.
Cold, sepparate, and salty.
They know me so well
that the warmth of Love
always confuses, a creature of
dark being shined by the sun.
The initial warmth so beautiful,
so close,
that the coldness
which used to be my life
is seen as it is;
Sad and Lonely.
Yearning for life in the sun.
Not to be. Not to be.
To imagine I know what Lucifer felt,
what Adam and Eve experienced.
Denial from the Heaven
that oncce was known to them.
Writ in stone:
"Thou Mayest Never Return."
Cast from the most beautiful place
in existance -
to...well... You get the idea.
To imagine I know what they felt;
is that not Pride
of the first degree?
Poem: Payday
Woke up deeply sad about Her,
almost crying,
then remembered it was Payday;
the one day a month I'm rich.
Bum-rich.
It didn't really change my feelings.
Early morning, sun just rising.
Me, deciding weither to cry,
to go back to sleep,
or to get up and start my day.
Deciding to cry, no tears come.
Hiding my head under the top
of my sleeping bag,
no sleep same.
Windering again about crying
and if it was good for me
or just self-perpetuating
dis-ease.
I get up to start my Payday
in foul spirits.
Walking by the seaside,
first thing in the grey morning,
is a hard place to stay
in a foul mood.
Truly beautiful,
my sadness seems petty and small
in comparrison to the Ocean,
who has seen so much.
So much death,
so much birth,
and here's little 'ol me;
Sleeping in the same spot
that countless
Ohlohnes Natives
also slept.
She's using me, I know,
though she may not.
He's done using me, I know,
though he may not.
How can my life change?
Withuot outside intervention?
almost crying,
then remembered it was Payday;
the one day a month I'm rich.
Bum-rich.
It didn't really change my feelings.
Early morning, sun just rising.
Me, deciding weither to cry,
to go back to sleep,
or to get up and start my day.
Deciding to cry, no tears come.
Hiding my head under the top
of my sleeping bag,
no sleep same.
Windering again about crying
and if it was good for me
or just self-perpetuating
dis-ease.
I get up to start my Payday
in foul spirits.
Walking by the seaside,
first thing in the grey morning,
is a hard place to stay
in a foul mood.
Truly beautiful,
my sadness seems petty and small
in comparrison to the Ocean,
who has seen so much.
So much death,
so much birth,
and here's little 'ol me;
Sleeping in the same spot
that countless
Ohlohnes Natives
also slept.
She's using me, I know,
though she may not.
He's done using me, I know,
though he may not.
How can my life change?
Withuot outside intervention?
Thoughts: Dog Owners
Dogs are for people who like to yell, command, and repeat, at other beings. People who enjoy yelling "No Poofie! No Poofie! No Poofie!" Forever in an endless number of commanding tones. Moreso dogs are for people who like telling stories to other people about times when they were yelling "No Poofie!" and it happened to be funny to them.
I guess this is a healthier outlet for people with those sorts of tendancies, while cats have thier own opinions about who they like and don't have to obey their "Master." Dogs are known and loved for taking abuse and being so stupid as to still love their "Master." As long as they are being fed.
I guess this is a healthier outlet for people with those sorts of tendancies, while cats have thier own opinions about who they like and don't have to obey their "Master." Dogs are known and loved for taking abuse and being so stupid as to still love their "Master." As long as they are being fed.
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