Poem: The Addicts

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

She's still in there.

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

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

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

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

Poem: Hold Me

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

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

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

Poem: Of Course Denial

I didn't know how much she liked me.
She hid it from me well.
Nor did I realize how much anger she kept
hidden in her delicate, bird-like, chest.
Nor how deep the roots of Addiction-denial ran.
Very deep indeed.
With every new letter she convicts herself further.
While thinking she is "scoring points,"
she really digs a grave,
turning my hope to
ashes in my mouth.

I pray it's not too late for her.
The patient not past saving.
But I am certainly no Doctor,
just a Junkie who knows another
when I see one.
It's something I've studied for years;
With two Diplomas from two rehabs
and six others incomplete.
It's fair to say I've seen my share,
and that Lady there fits the bill to a "T."
If the shoe fits,
deny it.
Trivialize it,
say you'll do it later,
blame someone else: anyone else,
pretend to be hurt or angry,
bring up something else,
but whatever you do,
don't admit you have a problem.
Lie, at least, or avoid it.
And no matter what
Don't
go to a Doctor
and tell them the truth.
Because then they might make a diagnosis.
God forbid they might actually
know how to cure her!
Then she'd really have no excuse
for using drugs.
The loss of "Control" one gets with a Doctor,
you know it's called a "Prescription"
and it comes with Rules!
Can you imagine?!
Actually taking drugs according to Rules
rather than whims?
I know, the thought alone can be traumatizing,
but from personal experience I can tell anyone
with the paradoxical mixture of
Addiction and Chronic Pain
that clear regulation and guidance of
pain-relieving drugs
is ultimately, supremely, more effective,
satisfying, desirable, and helpful,
on a daily basis,
than the nonsensical Chaos and Confusion
which existed of my life
prior to my commitment
to a reasonable pain-management program
in concordance with a good Doctor.

Not that you could have told me that
two years ago.
Oh, no, not me.
I was unique, you see.
(All the recovering addicts and alcoholics in the room laugh)
Terminally unique on more than one occasion.
It's a miracle I'm here today.
No, you couldn't tell me anything.
I had to go through almost limitless amounts of
bureaucracy and pure physical pain
to find out for myself that,
at least where drug addiction is concerned,
I am not unique at all.
I line up quite nicely with
all the millions of other
addicts and alcoholics on this planet.
I could choose to deny it,
but I would only be fooling myself.
My life, my past, and my present,
all speak for themselves.

And so it is with her.
And of course, she does not see it.
And of course, there is no way I can force her to.
I can recommend books, lectures, etc.
But just like me,
she will have to come to her own acceptance
on her own time.
My desires do not enter that equation in any way.

Ultimately, I will try to be around her as much as I can,
because I love her.
But as a recovering addict myself,
I need to be around people who are working
to make their lives better as I am.

So long as you live in Denial,
you can never get better.
Just keep treading water,
staying in the same place,
while life
and all of life's unique
one-time opportunities
pass you by.

Thoughts: More and More on Homelessness

I would not wish homelessness upon anyone. Indeed, most of you will never experience homelessness in the narrowest sense of the word. Certainly not for a year, probably not even for a few weeks, out of your entire life.
Homelessness: The state of having zero Capital (economic, social, emotional). Without possession or choice of possessing money, living accommodations, and/or food. Bereft of purpose, means, equitable peers, beyond any help but charity.

As one of my pen-pals pointed out: "You are the only homeless person I've ever really known." I'd never thought about it quite that way before (since I know tons of homeless people), but I'm sure she is not the only person I know like that.

By experience the Homeless largely cluster together for comfort, like herd animals, herded together by prices they can't afford, "No Loitering" signs, "Bathrooms are for Customers Only", and Police. Yes, I am homeless. And what's more I've spent many years of my life this way. It's a part of me that can't be taken away, even with money, a house, or a car.

When you are chronically homeless as I am you get yo observe people in all sorts of different social situations that would rarely have come up otherwise. If you ever wonder who your true friends are, just tell everyone you know that you're now broke and homeless. Watch those that scurry away, see them who try to control you, adore those that offer genuine help, loathe then that vilify you.

The sad truth of my life's experience so far is that, as Dostoevsky pointed out, the poor do have a deeper and more meaningful camaraderie than the wealthy. The poor do share more readily with each other than the wealthy. And possibly, just maybe, the poor actually feel more than the wealthy. As the constant threat at a biological level of Hunger and unfulfilled primitive needs keeps the poor person more alive, more aware, and thus, more appreciative, of all of life's gifts.

I have seen money change people, I've seen relationships change people, I've seen jobs change people, I've seen religions change people. When you are broke, you have nothing to hide. How much more honest can you be?

Poem: My Scent

I excrete pheromone from my flesh pores,
which induce in those effected by it,
a fervent desire to rescue, to aid, to shelter,
to protect, my beautiful being, from the
Harsh Evils present everywhere in the World.
An erotic scent which plays with
dominance and submission sexily,
while simultaneously riding the razor-thin wire
of co-dependence, smearing both with superfluous heaps
of reality periodically.

Contrarily, to the Harsh Evils, my scent can be
almost instantaneously enraging.
Causing insistent salivation, wetness, and half-erections,
at the hint of tainting my perceived innocence.
The magnetic desire Evil feels to soil the Good,
to bring them down to the Evils own pain and affront.

A Jealousy, a spite, a rumor, a lie.
Oh yes, they smell me to.
To the rest I am a Neutral, an "OK"
neither here nor there,
not one nor the other,
so-so and that's that.

How rare they are, the Neutral Ones,
in these days of Good and Evil.
These days of two positions:
Drastic, Caustic, and Mad.

Poem: Impatience

This is the look of an impatient man,
pretending to be patient.
Sweat beading on my forehead,
upper-lip, palms, and groin.
Soaking through my underwear, undershirt.

I hate the person in front of me in line,
I hate the cashier of my line,
I hate the store I'm shopping at,
I hate myself for needing whatever
it is I am in line for.

The Devil is near.
My senses are on overdrive,
heart pounding in my ears,
prickling with every new movement
in my vicinity.
The Devil's possessing the body
of the person in front of me;
causing them to move slowly,
fumbling for change,
counting out every penny,
just to fuck with me.
They know I'm waiting,
The Devil knows I'm waiting,
that's why he fucks with me.

(Part of me knows I'm wrong,
that everyone's innocent.
Including the Devil.
This doesn't stop me from
hating them all.)

My turn finally comes
and I disingenuously let
the old lady behind me
go first,
hating her for accepting my offer,
hating myself for making it.
The Devil laughs at my gesture,
feeding off the extra pain
my masochism has created.

Finally she's done
and my medicine is passed over the counter.
Fresh wind blows over my body,
my task is complete.
Free again.
For now.

Story: The Homeless Cold

Getting sick always brings out the "Punative Universe" Neurosis in me. The obesession that I must have done something morally or spiritually incorrect recently and the effect of that behavior is my current viral infection, my illness, my cold.

Waking this morning I discovred that I had to pee, was very cold yet had a fever, dry mouth and throat, every part of my body was heavier, especially my head, and I was dumber. Despite the urge to pee and dry mouth i could not move from my sleeping bag. All will-power was gone from me. Summoning just enough to take my morning methadone and Ibuprofin, finally to pee, then down I lay again. No doubt about it: I was sick. Sick and Homeless, a miserabler combination. Tried to think of places I could stay to recuperate, but my foggy mind refused to work. It was cold outside of my sleeping bag. No will to move. Something in the night had changed me, when only last evening I seemed in fine health, this morning all was different in my world.

Drifting in and out of sleep, by blessed miracle it got warmer and the sun came out. I had to pee again, but lacked the will. When I finally could move again I peed and noticed it was almost noon; five hours had passed. I'd never before slept so late in the park. My parched throat looked to my water bottle which was inexplicably filled with watter. Though I had been positive I had drinken it all during the night.

Everything took on the greatest of Mass and difficulty. Each movement took thought, each though took energy, there seemed to be no energy, zombified as only a cold can do, I didn't even feel hunger. The world was so sunny and inviting I no longer worried about being indoors, but my tobacco supply being low I knew I would need to go out and replenish it. I couldn't stay in the park all day anyways; that's the way to get caught by the cops or park rangers.

Putting one foot in front of the other I slowly, painfully, methodically, and humbly, began the crawl of my day with sickness. Resolved not to wallow in self-pity as I have in days of past sickness. To move slowly and simply. Read and relax. Knowing with faith that with time it will pass.

Poem:Losing Another Friend

Losing another friend is nice,
except when it isn't.
A life made more simple
by one less variable
to worry about:
Calling, visiting, emailing,
their feelings about your feelings,
your feelings about their feelings.
Yes! Everything much simpler without them...
Except you miss them.
All the time and effort
you put into knowing them.
Events co-experienced, shared memories.

Snapback!
The friend just told you
to "get help and fuck off!"
OK... but...
OK... but, well...
sigh
OK.
There is nothing more to be said.
He'll either come around one day
and apologize
(I can then forgive him or not)
or he wont.

In the end I can't control,
the openness of others,
to the voice of conscience.

Poem\Story: The Crazy Woman Miracle

The craziest woman,
at the craziest AA meeting,
in the craziest part of the Tenderloin,
in the crazy city of San Francisco,
prayed for me.

Or, at least, she told me she did.
I've never heard her say this to
or about anyone else
in the four weeks she's been
hanging around this particular meeting.
At first she didn't seem capable of
making logical sentences at all.
Just grunts, nods, words, eye-rolling,
door-slamming, and spitting.

Then gradually sentences would appear,
in the middle of a stream of nonsense.
Sentences like:
"He just wouldn't stop hitting me,"
and
"I know what rape is and that was rape,"
and
"The dead woman told me there is no god."

Sentences that rang of Truth, even through her
deeply ingrained inability to express it.
With each passing day she slowly became saner
before my very own eyes.
Began sitting still for entire meetings,
began listening to people,
instead of talking to air.
Began talking less,
but making more sense when she did.

We learned her name was Lorna.
I always tried to be extra nice to her,
simply because she was so crazy.
Most people didn't have the patience for her.
She never acknowledged me particularly,
or even seemed to notice my efforts at all,
until one meeting she pulled me aside,
looked in my eyes
and said seriously and softly:
"You. I thought of you the other day."

I blinked several times in surprise, blurting out,
"Me? When did you think of me?"
Not realizing that she knew I was alive outside of meetings.

"It was praying, actually. I prayed for you."
With that she walked away, her message delivered.
Leaving me with a wonderful warm feeling
radiating from my soul outward through my heart.
That someone in such dire personal need
would still pray for me, a virtual stranger,
is a sentiment truly touching.

That Lorna could retain some information
behind her solid veneer of Insanity is remarkable.
That she is now becoming a functional human being again
thanks to the Universal Intelligence behind
Alcoholics Anonymous,
that is a Miracle.

Thanks, Lorna.
I'll pray for you to.

Poem: The Old Junkies Conundrum

"The drugs these days ain't got any legs on 'em.
Don't last as long, don't get you as high.
Everything they make now is crap.
Now in my day they had some gooood dope.
That shit got you high for days."
- The commonly heard refrain of an Old Junkie.

Isn't it possible, I propose innocently,
that the dope is the same (or even stronger)
than in your day?
Only you have changed?
Maybe you took so fucking much dope
that you used up your natural
neurotransmitter balance
and it would take years
of sobriety and Prozac
until your brain gets even close to
relatively average levels again?

The Old Junkie pauses for a moment
to think about what I just said.
But not much longer.

"Naaaaah, man. Nice try, though.
It's the dope.
It's just worse shit.
One day I'll find the good shit again
and then you'll see."

Found the "good shit" lately?

"Not for fifteen years," he says sadly.

Yet this common refrain goes on,
in many different languages,
all around the world.
"The drugs aren't what they used to be."

Sure.
Blame it on the drugs.

Theory: Class Differences, Homostasis, & Isolation

I've described in these pages before how real "class" is as well as how comforting routines can make even the most terrible and deprived of lives bearable and even pleasant. In addition I've shown repeatedly how the breaking of my established routines by: visitors, visiting others, traveling, interlopers, talking to others on the phone, writing to others, etc... Can break the comfort of my routine, especially when the intruder or place of visit is of a different class than myself (i.e. higher classed). Since I am homeless I represent the lowest class and thus even middle-class people, to me, are very different and privileged.

A simple example of this is sleeping over at someones house once in a while. Because the class comforts of people with a home (refrigerator, TV, laundry, shower, etc..) are so largely disproportionate to my own, I slowly become acclimated to my visits and I begin to crave and even depend on my sleep-overs. Thus the more I visit the higher class, the more miserable my lower class status becomes. This effect has been well documented by Psychiatrists and Psychologists, most notably in the book about gestalt therapy "Ego, Hunger, and Aggression."

Because of this fact, greatly, I choose not to spend my time surrounded by class-comforts which aren't really mine or readily accessible to me. To do so would be masochistic or sociopathic. Some may call me an isolationist and I could not argue with them, though i get along well with the poor, the downtrodden, the different, and other member of my lower class. I would plead that I am simply in an early stage of psychological healing and as such need to be left alone.

It is my sincerest hope and prayer that one day I will have developed enough materially, emotionally, and spiritually, so that I can accept all beings as equals regardless of class. But I'm not quite there yet!

Thoughts: Different Rains

The rain is different for everyone, at different places and different times. As a young child I loved the rain; it meant we got to stay inside and gym class was cancelled. As a young Magician I once made it rain. Boasting about it the next day to a homeless man, he yelled at me saying: "That rain was your fault?! Do you know how many people got hurt because of you?!" I'd never really thought about how my actions affected others before.

As a younger bum myself I too hated the rain. All the cigarette butts on the street became soggy and unsmokeable. Less people out and about meant less spare change, less spare food, less warm places to pass the time, just less of everything.

Now, as a homeless man, I like the rain again. Though the thunder woke me up and the lightening almost blinded me. Sleeping next to a tree in a lightning storm is considered dangerous, but I don't really worry. As long as my sleeping bags are dry and my camping spot is still mine; the rains OK with me. The air all electric, trash washed down the gutters. Mother Nature reminds us, that she can do as she pleases.

Postscript: After writing and boasting of my love for the rain, I spent an uncomfortable night getting pretty damn wet, falling asleep praying that the rain would stop and the sun would come out before my bedding got soaked.

Poem: Murderer?

I killed the man she loved.
I can hear it in her voice.

The weak-willed, codependant, man
she could control.
The predictable, the forgetful,
the man with access to drugs.
Oh, yes, the Drugs.
The Marvelous Drugs he had.
The Drugs she needed so badly.
The Drugs she deserved.

She had made such plans for him,
for them.
Exquisite plans.
It would have been perfect.

But I had to come along
and fuck it all up.
Me, with my sobriety.
Me, with my aversion to enabling.
Me, with my audatious request
for a little time off,
So that I could get housing.
So that she could get a Doctor.
The two most troubling aspects
of our relationship,
fixed in one fell swoop
of fifty days or so.
Or so I thought.

She must have really loved him,
to be so mad at me.
I hope one day she'll love me
as much.

Until then I'll keep doing
the very nexy right thing
the best I know how.
Learning to live in the present
and discovering what Life asks from me,
rather than what I ask from life.

repost: ICAR (Institute for Conflict Analysis & Resolution) US

[This is a poem written for me by a lover]

ICAR (Institute for Conflict Analysis & Resolution) US
by Someone

with my hands
i can trace lovingly
the flowing
ink carved in
curved across
your beautiful back
bones all day

with my hands
i can photograph
and fashion
feathered serpent wings
sprouting
from your shoulder
blades

with my hands
shall i tell you how
to fly?
how high? too
close to
the sun and you
may fall
deep
into the sea

with my hands
can i mend sun
burnt waxy
waterlogged wings?

with my hands
i can't clip
your wings

Poem: In Mourning

In Mourning,
though natural,
heaviness of heart and
harder to breathe and
nothing seems funny at all.

Embarrassing why-asking,
probing around and around
with the tongue
to the nerve
of the decaying tooth:
Ouch
and do it again and:
Ouch
and do it again and:
Ouch
and one more time and:
Ouch!
And stop.

In Mourning,
stop probing,
the tooth that is far gone.
For Faith is still Faith
and Love is still Love.
My days still go on,
even without her bliss.
I did it before,
long before I met Miss.
And Miss will still be there,
I'll see her again.

So why am I feeling
that Mourning begins?

Poem: She-Addict

She cares for the drug
more than she cares for me;
Of course,
that's the definition of addiction.
I cannot say "NO" to her
and she uses my sympathy,
my empathy,
my love,
to manipulate me.
My feelings be damned,
as long as she gets
what she craves.

She lies to me,
hides things from me,
and when I catch her,
she cries and yells at me,
as if it were my fault;
Her behavior.

Going out of my way to help her,
I'm rewarded with abuse.
The more I give,
the more she wants.
We are both spoiled children,
though I try much harder.

Leaving her house
to be homeless again.
Left to the streets
feeling emptier
and more miserable
than when I came.

She does not deserve me, now,
and I deserve much better.

I love her.
I don't think she knows
what that means.

Mother-Moon,
I tire of her games,
I tire of her "take, take, take."
My life is hard enough
without her
making it worse.

The worst of all is that
She is now Me,
and I am now Ruby.
Seeing how I treated her
in days now too far gone.
Wondering if this is my Karma.

"You do not get to choose your Karma,"
Mother-Moon reminds me.

I wish she'd given my
8 pills back.
I wish she'd said,
"I love you more than that."

She did not.

Picking pills,
she sent me out the door without Love.
Back to my life:
Alone.

Prayer: The Serendipity Prayer

Gods grant me the Serendipity

to change the things I cannot have,

the Courage to have the things I do,

and the Wisdom to appreciate their differences.

List: The 12 Steps of Egotists Anonymous (EA)

1. We admitted we were powerless over the Laws of Nature - that we could not control everything in the Universe.

2. We came to believe that Powers greater than ourselves could control everything we could not.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of those Greater Powers.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

5. Admitted to the Greater Powers, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

6. Were entirely ready to have the Greater Powers remove all our defects of character.

7. Humbly asked the Greater Powers to remove our shortcomings.

8. Made a list of all persons, animals, plants, ghosts, and corporations we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

9. Made direct amends to such entities wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

11. Sought through prayer, meditation, magick, divination, and service to others, to improve our conscious contact with the Greater Powers as we understood them, praying only for increased knowledge of their will for us and the power to carry that out.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

Poem: SF Mime Troupe

The SF Mime Troupe finds a way,
to say the things we need,
today.
The Holy Clowns have always told,
the total truth,
to young and old.
The Jester of the Kingly court,
includes the Truth,
in his report.

For of these methods I don't jest,
but put them to the final test;
For after show is gone and done,
for after all have had their fun,
for after clown's new jokes have passed,
I ask the questions I must ask.

Though I am glad we can be funny,
I wonder at the powers of money.
Though I know the truth they say,
I wonder if they changed the day.
For though I know the clown's are right...

That does not mean,
that we,
will fight.