Seraquil is being sold in our streets.
A most powerful anti-psychotic.
Similar to Haldol or Thorazine,
but in pill form.
Walking through the slums
you hear the familiar calls
of the drug dealers:
"Rocks, solids, dimes, Chiba, crack,
tar, heroin, OC's, Vicatin, Valium,
Xanax, Clonopan, Methadone."
Then suddenly:
"Seraquil, one hundred milligrams."
What?
"Seraquil, one hundred milligrams."
And what's worse is, it sells.
What has society come to
when people are turning to
the Street Pushers
for anti-psychotic medication?
We're fucked, man.
Fucked.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Poem: My City
Market street is packed with people.
Weaving through them leisurely,
a head taller than most.
They are like so many ghosts to me;
Insubstantial and transitory.
San Francisco is My City,
born both and raised,
to always return.
My City is the closest thing I've had
to a Home.
Still getting a thrill
when returning from trips,
over the bridge,
first sight of the Ferry Building.
Weaving through China Town,
packed with people,
and I am alone.
Almost every corner holds memories.
Everywhere I have crapped,
performing embarrassingly.
My City forgives me.
With secret spots
only I seem to know.
My City rewards me with
water fountains, parks,
libraries, bathrooms,
coffee shops, cheap food,
and cheaper clothes.
Everything you could want is here.
It has to want you to find it, though.
Invitation Only.
Very Hush-Hush.
Exclusive in the Extreme.
My City is discriminating in it's Lovers,
though I'm by no means it's only.
As it changes and grows,
so do I;
Together.
Weaving through them leisurely,
a head taller than most.
They are like so many ghosts to me;
Insubstantial and transitory.
San Francisco is My City,
born both and raised,
to always return.
My City is the closest thing I've had
to a Home.
Still getting a thrill
when returning from trips,
over the bridge,
first sight of the Ferry Building.
Weaving through China Town,
packed with people,
and I am alone.
Almost every corner holds memories.
Everywhere I have crapped,
performing embarrassingly.
My City forgives me.
With secret spots
only I seem to know.
My City rewards me with
water fountains, parks,
libraries, bathrooms,
coffee shops, cheap food,
and cheaper clothes.
Everything you could want is here.
It has to want you to find it, though.
Invitation Only.
Very Hush-Hush.
Exclusive in the Extreme.
My City is discriminating in it's Lovers,
though I'm by no means it's only.
As it changes and grows,
so do I;
Together.
Poem: Us Again
We always part in sadness,
often meet in joy.
For every time I think
"I wont go back,
wont let her hurt me again."
Finds me returning,
a week later,
in need of her loving arms.
Often deaf to my words;
Her desires are more important.
Plans without me,
what I will do.
Then when I don't,
she cries.
We are all selfish beings,
Thinking only of ourselves.
When we two are one,
I think only of her.
Will she ever
do the same?
often meet in joy.
For every time I think
"I wont go back,
wont let her hurt me again."
Finds me returning,
a week later,
in need of her loving arms.
Often deaf to my words;
Her desires are more important.
Plans without me,
what I will do.
Then when I don't,
she cries.
We are all selfish beings,
Thinking only of ourselves.
When we two are one,
I think only of her.
Will she ever
do the same?
Friday, August 28, 2009
Poem: Bargaining with my Father
The only bargaining chip I have at my father's table is me; My physical presence, my conversation, my dress.
If he refuses to capitulate I have no choice, but to call in my only marker; me.
I have more time than he does on Earth, and he knows this, too.
All I have to do is wait for him and go on with my life. He'll either fold and help me monetarily, or he will not and he'll die alone.
If he refuses to capitulate I have no choice, but to call in my only marker; me.
I have more time than he does on Earth, and he knows this, too.
All I have to do is wait for him and go on with my life. He'll either fold and help me monetarily, or he will not and he'll die alone.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Poem: No More Lunches With Dad
It takes a Big Man to
blame everything on a woman and child.
He takes no responsibility for his actions.
My Father and Mother
have exactly one thing in common
(besides me)
They are both incapable of
taking responsibility for their actions.
No apologies to be heard.
One of the proudest days of my life,
was when I began to take responsibility
for my actions.
All of them.
Good and Bad.
Right and Wrong.
Past and Future.
He cannot hear what I say.
Demands fealty
where none has been earned.
Drinks in front of me carelessly,
knowing I'm an alcoholic.
Speaks the exact same delusions
he spoke at the last two lunches.
As if rehearsed in his mind:
"Your bad childhood was all your mother's fault."
And my favorite,
"In many tribes the son is removed from his mother
and given over to his father's care."
He always says this while
raising his eyebrows suggestively at me.
The implication being
that I am a Mamma's Boy,
for being near her for so long.
Perhaps the best part
was when we were talking about computers,
and he asked very seriously,
"Can hackers get into my computer
when it is turned off?"
"Not that I know of,"
I answered mysteriously.
My request for money or spare change was
predictably
denied.
Should I prostitute myself to him
for the price of a meal?
Some people say "yes."
Because he is wealthy.
Because I am poor.
Because he will die some day.
Because he is my Father.
Fie, I say!
Let him rot in his Hell!
He will enjoy his lunches alone.
See you in a few years, Dad.
blame everything on a woman and child.
He takes no responsibility for his actions.
My Father and Mother
have exactly one thing in common
(besides me)
They are both incapable of
taking responsibility for their actions.
No apologies to be heard.
One of the proudest days of my life,
was when I began to take responsibility
for my actions.
All of them.
Good and Bad.
Right and Wrong.
Past and Future.
He cannot hear what I say.
Demands fealty
where none has been earned.
Drinks in front of me carelessly,
knowing I'm an alcoholic.
Speaks the exact same delusions
he spoke at the last two lunches.
As if rehearsed in his mind:
"Your bad childhood was all your mother's fault."
And my favorite,
"In many tribes the son is removed from his mother
and given over to his father's care."
He always says this while
raising his eyebrows suggestively at me.
The implication being
that I am a Mamma's Boy,
for being near her for so long.
Perhaps the best part
was when we were talking about computers,
and he asked very seriously,
"Can hackers get into my computer
when it is turned off?"
"Not that I know of,"
I answered mysteriously.
My request for money or spare change was
predictably
denied.
Should I prostitute myself to him
for the price of a meal?
Some people say "yes."
Because he is wealthy.
Because I am poor.
Because he will die some day.
Because he is my Father.
Fie, I say!
Let him rot in his Hell!
He will enjoy his lunches alone.
See you in a few years, Dad.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Theory: Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) as Magickal Initiatory Organization
Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), the well-known "12 Step Program," used by Millions around the world for the past seventy years seems to function along the same lines as many Magickal Initiatory Organizations which have existed throughout history and still exist today. Organizations like: The Freemasons, The Ordo Templi Orientis (OTO), The Temple of Set, The Church of Satan, The Knights of Columbus, The Knights of Saint John, The Jesuits, The Muslim Hashishim (Better known as the Assassins) of the 13th century middle east, The Knights Templar of the Middle Ages, The Mystery Schools of Ancient Egypt and Greece, The Ancient Mystical Order of the Rosicrucian (AMORC), and so on.
AA, like most of the organizations I mentioned, is a spiritual one. It has it's own sayings, books, and rituals, which are unique to itself. Like most other Initiatory Orders it has a progression of "Steps" or "Degrees" which distinguish where a member of AA is in the process of gaining in "spiritual progress," and the larger the degree (what step the member is working on) as well as the amount of time in AA, the more "experienced" a member is often considered by the group and the more accepted.
Again we find AA's custom of recommending that each new member gets a "Sponsor," or more experienced member who has already worked the steps, identical to that of Initiatory Organizations. This "Sponsor" teaches the new member how to progress through the steps and often decides when the new member should move to the next. A similarity we also find with many forms of Indian Yoga where the new or young seeker must commit themselves to a single Yogi or Guru and follow their directions in order to accomplish their spiritual aims. In all of these the new member, upon reaching their goal, is expected to become a "Sponsor" themselves for others.
AA's liturature emphasizes that the success of their organization in creating spiritual experiences and holding alcoholism in remission for the majority its members comes largely due to the power of the "Group" or "AA Meeting." They assert, just as Wiccans, Pagans, Initiatory Organisations, Jesus in the Bible ("Wherever two or more of you gather in my name I shall be...") etc, that when you put people together the sum is greater than the parts. Thus by holding a meeting each member gets to leave with a part of the spiritual energy which has been generated during that meeting. That spiritual energy is raised using group prayer, chanting, repetition, meditation, and the speaking of heartfelt truths. Finally, at the end of an AA meeting, the members form a circle while holding hands and pray together. This is a magickal ritual humans have been performing since the dawn of time and the tremendous success of AA as an organization (While The Freemasons, OTO, AMORC, and others report record low numbers of new members) is a testement, however small, to the power of such actions.
In summary, Alcoholic Anonymous, rather than being an anomoly, a cult, or group of lunatics, could easily be considered a Magickal Initiatory Organization which fallows the same lines and principles which humans have been practicing for thousands of years. Judging by the last seventy years; AA will only continue to grow ("The only requirement for membership in AA is a desire to stop drinking") and succeed as a more egalitarian method of distributing spiritual practices to the masses than it's forefather Organizations, Religions, and Traditions. Meanwhile the more discriminatory Initiatory Organizations (Knights of Saint John, Bohemian Grove, Pacific Union Club, etc...) will only continue to lose membership, prestige, and power, as the age of information freedom continues to dawn.
AA, like most of the organizations I mentioned, is a spiritual one. It has it's own sayings, books, and rituals, which are unique to itself. Like most other Initiatory Orders it has a progression of "Steps" or "Degrees" which distinguish where a member of AA is in the process of gaining in "spiritual progress," and the larger the degree (what step the member is working on) as well as the amount of time in AA, the more "experienced" a member is often considered by the group and the more accepted.
Again we find AA's custom of recommending that each new member gets a "Sponsor," or more experienced member who has already worked the steps, identical to that of Initiatory Organizations. This "Sponsor" teaches the new member how to progress through the steps and often decides when the new member should move to the next. A similarity we also find with many forms of Indian Yoga where the new or young seeker must commit themselves to a single Yogi or Guru and follow their directions in order to accomplish their spiritual aims. In all of these the new member, upon reaching their goal, is expected to become a "Sponsor" themselves for others.
AA's liturature emphasizes that the success of their organization in creating spiritual experiences and holding alcoholism in remission for the majority its members comes largely due to the power of the "Group" or "AA Meeting." They assert, just as Wiccans, Pagans, Initiatory Organisations, Jesus in the Bible ("Wherever two or more of you gather in my name I shall be...") etc, that when you put people together the sum is greater than the parts. Thus by holding a meeting each member gets to leave with a part of the spiritual energy which has been generated during that meeting. That spiritual energy is raised using group prayer, chanting, repetition, meditation, and the speaking of heartfelt truths. Finally, at the end of an AA meeting, the members form a circle while holding hands and pray together. This is a magickal ritual humans have been performing since the dawn of time and the tremendous success of AA as an organization (While The Freemasons, OTO, AMORC, and others report record low numbers of new members) is a testement, however small, to the power of such actions.
In summary, Alcoholic Anonymous, rather than being an anomoly, a cult, or group of lunatics, could easily be considered a Magickal Initiatory Organization which fallows the same lines and principles which humans have been practicing for thousands of years. Judging by the last seventy years; AA will only continue to grow ("The only requirement for membership in AA is a desire to stop drinking") and succeed as a more egalitarian method of distributing spiritual practices to the masses than it's forefather Organizations, Religions, and Traditions. Meanwhile the more discriminatory Initiatory Organizations (Knights of Saint John, Bohemian Grove, Pacific Union Club, etc...) will only continue to lose membership, prestige, and power, as the age of information freedom continues to dawn.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Poem: A Common Occurance
"Where do you work" he asked me first, not knowing my name.
"Work?" I repeated stupidly,
"I don't work; I'm homeless." Looking at him quizickly as if work was a habit that was beneath me.
"I asked because you look so clean and sharply dressed..." He explained nervously, using his hands to demonstrate, gesturing at me.
"I get that a lot," I replied laconicly,
"It's like people think there is a dress code for the homeless, or that we all shop at the same store or something," I continued to explain.
This happens to me all the time.
People,
by and large,
are stupid, prejudiced, and extraordinarily naive.
Oh, well.
Assumptions and bias are a weakness most profound.
Rendering the possessor of these attributes
completely vulnurable to the assaults and confidence games
of those with a greater understanding of the
True Ignorance inherritted by us all.
Every one of us.
Be it a single Thief,
the most expensive marketing tactics of
multinational corporations,
or black propaganda dealt into the news by
the Military-Intelligence Complex;
they all prey on the same
Defects of Character.
Propagating these defects as virtues,
so that they can control you.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Admit your Ignorance
and step into the Light.
Admit your powerlessness
and let go of your programmed personality.
Look up into the Sky and know
that you are Loved.
Every Morning
and Every Night.
Amen-Ra.
"Work?" I repeated stupidly,
"I don't work; I'm homeless." Looking at him quizickly as if work was a habit that was beneath me.
"I asked because you look so clean and sharply dressed..." He explained nervously, using his hands to demonstrate, gesturing at me.
"I get that a lot," I replied laconicly,
"It's like people think there is a dress code for the homeless, or that we all shop at the same store or something," I continued to explain.
This happens to me all the time.
People,
by and large,
are stupid, prejudiced, and extraordinarily naive.
Oh, well.
Assumptions and bias are a weakness most profound.
Rendering the possessor of these attributes
completely vulnurable to the assaults and confidence games
of those with a greater understanding of the
True Ignorance inherritted by us all.
Every one of us.
Be it a single Thief,
the most expensive marketing tactics of
multinational corporations,
or black propaganda dealt into the news by
the Military-Intelligence Complex;
they all prey on the same
Defects of Character.
Propagating these defects as virtues,
so that they can control you.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Admit your Ignorance
and step into the Light.
Admit your powerlessness
and let go of your programmed personality.
Look up into the Sky and know
that you are Loved.
Every Morning
and Every Night.
Amen-Ra.
Poem: Born Again (Again)
From a blackout I am born.
The gift of giving returns.
Look outward or inward.
Think of the things you want and crave,
think of the things you're greatful to have.
Remember someone you have wronged,
remember someone you have helped:
Which feels better to your heart?
Which helps you sleep at night?
Resigned to Peace.
Commited to courage.
Working for Wisdom.
Freedom is a double-edged sword.
I wouldn't have it,
any other way.
The gift of giving returns.
Look outward or inward.
Think of the things you want and crave,
think of the things you're greatful to have.
Remember someone you have wronged,
remember someone you have helped:
Which feels better to your heart?
Which helps you sleep at night?
Resigned to Peace.
Commited to courage.
Working for Wisdom.
Freedom is a double-edged sword.
I wouldn't have it,
any other way.
Poem: Alchemy
There is a way in which;
Lead can be turned into gold.
The prideful can become humble.
The rich can become poor
and the poor can become rich.
Ugliness can be beautiful
and the beatiful can be very ugly.
Rules are broken,
Laws are rewritten,
Opinions are changed,
Even mountains turn to sand.
The Fool can be wise,
wise men can be foolish.
Love can be painful
and hate can feel good.
Freedom can be restrictive,
and restrictions can free you.
If you think you know
what you are doing,
you are probably wrong.
The Inertia of Time
and all which came before you
is too big for one person to alter
based on their own selfish motives.
Like the greatest Tsunami,
horrific car accident,
or the freezing anal thermomiter;
The best you can do
is relax and go with it.
The more you fight,
the more you get hurt.
Surf the Tsunami.
Survive the crash.
Relax your anus.
And your on your way.
Lead can be turned into gold.
The prideful can become humble.
The rich can become poor
and the poor can become rich.
Ugliness can be beautiful
and the beatiful can be very ugly.
Rules are broken,
Laws are rewritten,
Opinions are changed,
Even mountains turn to sand.
The Fool can be wise,
wise men can be foolish.
Love can be painful
and hate can feel good.
Freedom can be restrictive,
and restrictions can free you.
If you think you know
what you are doing,
you are probably wrong.
The Inertia of Time
and all which came before you
is too big for one person to alter
based on their own selfish motives.
Like the greatest Tsunami,
horrific car accident,
or the freezing anal thermomiter;
The best you can do
is relax and go with it.
The more you fight,
the more you get hurt.
Surf the Tsunami.
Survive the crash.
Relax your anus.
And your on your way.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Short Script: Oh The Alchi's!
Man: "I want to have a drink."
Woman: "Why?"
Man: "Because I'm an alcoholic. That's what we do; we drink."
Woman: "I thought alcoholics died if they drank... It's non-alcoholics who can drink."
Man: "Oh, yeah."
Woman: "I love you."
Man: "I love you, too. Thanks for reminding me."
Woman: "Any time."
Woman: "Why?"
Man: "Because I'm an alcoholic. That's what we do; we drink."
Woman: "I thought alcoholics died if they drank... It's non-alcoholics who can drink."
Man: "Oh, yeah."
Woman: "I love you."
Man: "I love you, too. Thanks for reminding me."
Woman: "Any time."
Poem: Something Happened
Ag.
Spellbound by stupidity.
Something happened.
Run up to somebody and yell:
"Oh my God! Something Happened!"
And they go
"What?! What happened?!"
As they start to panic,
You say
"This."
They stop their panicking to say:
"What?" Again.
You clarify:
"I ran up to you and said 'something happened'. That's something."
You explain lamely.
"Oh...OK."
Awkward ending.
Spellbound by stupidity.
Something happened.
Run up to somebody and yell:
"Oh my God! Something Happened!"
And they go
"What?! What happened?!"
As they start to panic,
You say
"This."
They stop their panicking to say:
"What?" Again.
You clarify:
"I ran up to you and said 'something happened'. That's something."
You explain lamely.
"Oh...OK."
Awkward ending.
Poem: Live With It
It feels so good,
to sit and rest.
The day is long
- with clarity comes time.
With awareness comes repetitions.
Repetitions and cycles
and repetitions.
What should one do,
with so much time?
A little for eating,
for grooming,
for peeing.
Some for meditation,
lots for walking,
little steps to fight
the entropy of life,
hoping to spiral up,
rather than down.
The day passes too slow,
the years pass too fast.
All grown up now
and I'm not yet the
Astronaut-Voodoo Lord-Lawyer-Uberman
that I thought I'd be.
Oh, well, life must go on.
It is not for me to know,
my effects upon the world
and others.
The smallest
most insignificant act
of my life
-may very well be the cornerstone
which saves the lives of many.
In truth I am a small,
anonymous,
man.
I can live with that.
to sit and rest.
The day is long
- with clarity comes time.
With awareness comes repetitions.
Repetitions and cycles
and repetitions.
What should one do,
with so much time?
A little for eating,
for grooming,
for peeing.
Some for meditation,
lots for walking,
little steps to fight
the entropy of life,
hoping to spiral up,
rather than down.
The day passes too slow,
the years pass too fast.
All grown up now
and I'm not yet the
Astronaut-Voodoo Lord-Lawyer-Uberman
that I thought I'd be.
Oh, well, life must go on.
It is not for me to know,
my effects upon the world
and others.
The smallest
most insignificant act
of my life
-may very well be the cornerstone
which saves the lives of many.
In truth I am a small,
anonymous,
man.
I can live with that.
Poem: My Women Saints
I wonder about Helen,
what she must think of me.
About Tabitha, too,
and inevitably Ruby.
What about Mascha
and Jennifer Lynn,
what about Brooke,
will I see her again?
I know about Candice
and Erin makes me cringe.
I still hear from Sarah
and Rhiannon wont write
(I think she's just busy,
enjoying her life).
Add to them Kendra
and put Meghan, too.
Never forget Julie
(I'm still sorry to you).
If it's not to late
I have to add Patti
(There may be a few more
who'll know get all catty).
But there are still more
whose names now ellude me,
who took of their time
soley to include me,
the meaning of Love,
of Closeness and Unity.
I'll honor them all
at the first opportunity.
Salute to Kristin,
to Lauren, Michelle.
To Jolie and Gina
and LaChon as well.
I pray you the best
in all your affairs!
I pray that it's lifted;
your burdens and cares.
Freed for yourself
to sail through the night,
cackling at all,
and exuding your light.
what she must think of me.
About Tabitha, too,
and inevitably Ruby.
What about Mascha
and Jennifer Lynn,
what about Brooke,
will I see her again?
I know about Candice
and Erin makes me cringe.
I still hear from Sarah
and Rhiannon wont write
(I think she's just busy,
enjoying her life).
Add to them Kendra
and put Meghan, too.
Never forget Julie
(I'm still sorry to you).
If it's not to late
I have to add Patti
(There may be a few more
who'll know get all catty).
But there are still more
whose names now ellude me,
who took of their time
soley to include me,
the meaning of Love,
of Closeness and Unity.
I'll honor them all
at the first opportunity.
Salute to Kristin,
to Lauren, Michelle.
To Jolie and Gina
and LaChon as well.
I pray you the best
in all your affairs!
I pray that it's lifted;
your burdens and cares.
Freed for yourself
to sail through the night,
cackling at all,
and exuding your light.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Story: A House That Love Built
A House That Love Built
I see the reality others don't see. Perceiving the wholeness of situations, from multiple viewpoints, at all times neutral, sensitive to the latent emotional themes sometimes unnoticed by the feelers themselves. I see. And I write.
He was not as crazy as I thought and she much more so.
The sadness of the closing. Their time is now over, though they don't see it. She doesn't know what he did for her. He doesn't know what she's done. Yet. And maybe neither of them really knows what they did for so many...
Nothing lasts.
They gave away so much Marijuana, to so many hopeless indigents. Creating warmth and succor where before had been a gaping hole. And then they gave more. They gave every day of the week, most hours of the day. By phone, by window tap, invited or not. They liked you and cared about you. Whoever you were. He grew and she bagged. Often she'd cook for everyone there. I didn't feel comfortable there at first, it seemed too good to be true.
But every time I returned I saw the same thing; loving, selfless, giving. You could rely on it. They were for real, no doubt about it. Honest to God Street Saints, with nothing to prove, but their Love for their brothers and sisters on Earth.
They dreamed of growing larger, branching out, going legal, or simply living by example. But they would fall apart. She first, to a younger man. He later, back to his own life. Separating, they destroyed the Invisible Temple they'd built for so many.
Where there was Unity came Discord.
For the rest of their lives many homeless men and women would remember the "Pot Angels," who lived near Glide Church. Warming their hearts at the thought and the memory: That two people could create and spread so much Love together.
I see the reality others don't see. Perceiving the wholeness of situations, from multiple viewpoints, at all times neutral, sensitive to the latent emotional themes sometimes unnoticed by the feelers themselves. I see. And I write.
He was not as crazy as I thought and she much more so.
The sadness of the closing. Their time is now over, though they don't see it. She doesn't know what he did for her. He doesn't know what she's done. Yet. And maybe neither of them really knows what they did for so many...
Nothing lasts.
They gave away so much Marijuana, to so many hopeless indigents. Creating warmth and succor where before had been a gaping hole. And then they gave more. They gave every day of the week, most hours of the day. By phone, by window tap, invited or not. They liked you and cared about you. Whoever you were. He grew and she bagged. Often she'd cook for everyone there. I didn't feel comfortable there at first, it seemed too good to be true.
But every time I returned I saw the same thing; loving, selfless, giving. You could rely on it. They were for real, no doubt about it. Honest to God Street Saints, with nothing to prove, but their Love for their brothers and sisters on Earth.
They dreamed of growing larger, branching out, going legal, or simply living by example. But they would fall apart. She first, to a younger man. He later, back to his own life. Separating, they destroyed the Invisible Temple they'd built for so many.
Where there was Unity came Discord.
For the rest of their lives many homeless men and women would remember the "Pot Angels," who lived near Glide Church. Warming their hearts at the thought and the memory: That two people could create and spread so much Love together.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Thoughts: Official Denial For the Record
The very idea that I could be using the poetry on my blog as a coded means of communication to certain unnamed people or peoples is silly at best and paranoid at worst.
Firstly, there is no one I would need to contact anonymously.
Secondly, even if there were someone we would have to have established the code with each other at some point, or the code is so simple that anyone could decode it. Both are unlikely and neither are in my character. Cheifly because they are so insecure, I would not use that method.
Again and for the Record: This is simply a page for fictional writings. There are no coded messages that I am aware of.
Thank you.
The MGT.
Firstly, there is no one I would need to contact anonymously.
Secondly, even if there were someone we would have to have established the code with each other at some point, or the code is so simple that anyone could decode it. Both are unlikely and neither are in my character. Cheifly because they are so insecure, I would not use that method.
Again and for the Record: This is simply a page for fictional writings. There are no coded messages that I am aware of.
Thank you.
The MGT.
Poem: Posture
Hunched over like
an ancient spinster
reading a book.
Self-consciously correcting my posture
until it is straight, regal, rediculous.
Breasts pointing straight,
chin held high.
It is said this is proper posture.
Healthier for you.
More handsome.
Like a Marine.
To me it feels like torture.
Like wearing a corset.
Unusual pains set in
places not usually felt.
Holding the posture as long as I can.
Neck hurting more this way.
It's said to be good for you.
This body isn't used to it.
Doesn't seem to have been made
for "correct" posture.
But I have to try, right?
The first things to go are my shoulders.
Slumping down and caving into my chest,
the weight pulls next my neck,
my whole back follows with it.
Hunched over like an
ancient spinster, reading a book.
Neck hurting.
It's time to move.
an ancient spinster
reading a book.
Self-consciously correcting my posture
until it is straight, regal, rediculous.
Breasts pointing straight,
chin held high.
It is said this is proper posture.
Healthier for you.
More handsome.
Like a Marine.
To me it feels like torture.
Like wearing a corset.
Unusual pains set in
places not usually felt.
Holding the posture as long as I can.
Neck hurting more this way.
It's said to be good for you.
This body isn't used to it.
Doesn't seem to have been made
for "correct" posture.
But I have to try, right?
The first things to go are my shoulders.
Slumping down and caving into my chest,
the weight pulls next my neck,
my whole back follows with it.
Hunched over like an
ancient spinster, reading a book.
Neck hurting.
It's time to move.
Poem: Dad Skips Lunch
Stupid Father
Slippery Eel
Ugly Old Gnome
with no Heart to Feel.
Careless with words,
but not so with money.
Thinking my Trauma's
are silly or funny.
Broken old Alchi
with noone who cares,
no one who knows,
what he means by his stares.
Daft old fool
whose wasted his life;
Abusing his son
and insulting is wife.
Sterile Stud
far past his prime,
his funeral is due;
It's now his bed time.
Slippery Eel
Ugly Old Gnome
with no Heart to Feel.
Careless with words,
but not so with money.
Thinking my Trauma's
are silly or funny.
Broken old Alchi
with noone who cares,
no one who knows,
what he means by his stares.
Daft old fool
whose wasted his life;
Abusing his son
and insulting is wife.
Sterile Stud
far past his prime,
his funeral is due;
It's now his bed time.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Poem: Forgetter
Here's to my Forgetter,
forgot what I said.
The thought I was forming
is gone from my head.
What was I doing
and where are my keys?
I once had a plan,
for times just like these.
Built into me,
like a strong corner stone.
Who was I just talking to
on the phone?
I thought there was something
for me to remember.
I'm not sure the month,
let's call it December.
It must be the time
for me to now die.
Oh now I remember!
To not tell that lie...
forgot what I said.
The thought I was forming
is gone from my head.
What was I doing
and where are my keys?
I once had a plan,
for times just like these.
Built into me,
like a strong corner stone.
Who was I just talking to
on the phone?
I thought there was something
for me to remember.
I'm not sure the month,
let's call it December.
It must be the time
for me to now die.
Oh now I remember!
To not tell that lie...
Poem: Love Her
Gods I love her!
My jelousy boils and burns.
Not knowing how she feels
-I'm insecure -
and frightened
I'll be taken advantage of.
The heart is so soft.
Whatever will happen
will happen.
Regardless of my wishes.
Take the moments
as they come.
Accept that you love her.
That is enough.
Actions are small
and broken things,
often devoid of Life,
never as full of meaning
as I think.
Her heart has loved me.
This I know.
Loved me once, loves me always,
no need for reconfirmation.
Though wishes are many,
the need is not great.
May our Unions be many
and our troubles few.
May I always remember
she said "I Love You."
My jelousy boils and burns.
Not knowing how she feels
-I'm insecure -
and frightened
I'll be taken advantage of.
The heart is so soft.
Whatever will happen
will happen.
Regardless of my wishes.
Take the moments
as they come.
Accept that you love her.
That is enough.
Actions are small
and broken things,
often devoid of Life,
never as full of meaning
as I think.
Her heart has loved me.
This I know.
Loved me once, loves me always,
no need for reconfirmation.
Though wishes are many,
the need is not great.
May our Unions be many
and our troubles few.
May I always remember
she said "I Love You."
Monday, August 3, 2009
Poem: To Home Again
I've been here before,
though it's never the same.
Hopes mingling with Fears,
Gratitude mixing with Anger,
Pride dancing with Shame.
Oh! That it would last!
To maintain my Faith,
so quickly forgotten,
so solid when it Lives.
So very empty when it's gone.
The most beautiful things can happen within it.
But also intolerable frustrations of pain.
To know that my
Patience,
so formidable a weapon.
Endurance,
like mountains to streams.
To hang on
Humility,
fastened to
Faith.
Walk blindly,
but happy,
to home.
though it's never the same.
Hopes mingling with Fears,
Gratitude mixing with Anger,
Pride dancing with Shame.
Oh! That it would last!
To maintain my Faith,
so quickly forgotten,
so solid when it Lives.
So very empty when it's gone.
The most beautiful things can happen within it.
But also intolerable frustrations of pain.
To know that my
Patience,
so formidable a weapon.
Endurance,
like mountains to streams.
To hang on
Humility,
fastened to
Faith.
Walk blindly,
but happy,
to home.
Thoughts: My Book Titles
Possible Titles for Books I Can Write:
1) Losing Your Cool (How to lose your cool without even trying)
2) 101 Ways to Fail (The Optomists guide to Pessimism)
3) Flirting with Damnation (Selling your soul for fun and profit)
4) Crap-Dragging (Re-Defining the Art of Losing at Life)
5) Where Masochism Only Dreams Of (Future Trends in Psycho Personnal Struggles)
6) "I Said What?!" and Other Bad Questions to Ask Saint Peter in the Afterlife
7) "How Much Pain Can a Person Really Feel?" (and other stupid experiments to test on yourself)
8) A Most Exotic Failing (The Struggles of a Young Crap-Dragger)
9) Hey! Where's My Asshole?! (A Memoir)
10) Window A Says: "Please See Window B"
Window B Says: "Please See Window A"
(A Textbook on Beauracratic Struggles)
11) Why Me, Why Not Me? (A Torture Victim's Guide to Sympathy)
12) "What Time is it?" (A Thousand and One Nights of Insomnia: Poetry Anthology)
1) Losing Your Cool (How to lose your cool without even trying)
2) 101 Ways to Fail (The Optomists guide to Pessimism)
3) Flirting with Damnation (Selling your soul for fun and profit)
4) Crap-Dragging (Re-Defining the Art of Losing at Life)
5) Where Masochism Only Dreams Of (Future Trends in Psycho Personnal Struggles)
6) "I Said What?!" and Other Bad Questions to Ask Saint Peter in the Afterlife
7) "How Much Pain Can a Person Really Feel?" (and other stupid experiments to test on yourself)
8) A Most Exotic Failing (The Struggles of a Young Crap-Dragger)
9) Hey! Where's My Asshole?! (A Memoir)
10) Window A Says: "Please See Window B"
Window B Says: "Please See Window A"
(A Textbook on Beauracratic Struggles)
11) Why Me, Why Not Me? (A Torture Victim's Guide to Sympathy)
12) "What Time is it?" (A Thousand and One Nights of Insomnia: Poetry Anthology)