Poem: Retreat to Fortress Solitude

Retreating back to the Fortress.
Fortifying my position,
the last battle was lost.
The war continues.
It's cold here, freezing cold.
You can see your breath.
The soldiers are grumbling,
stamping their feet on the
hard-packed snow of the courtyard.
Chain-smoking, complaining to each other
in low voices.
But they are glad to be safe again.
Better to be cold and alive,
than hot in the midst of battle,
facing death.

I gave the order to retreat.
The battle started small,
I was sure we would prevail easily.
I was horrendously wrong.
Some casualties latter
I opted for retreat,
bloody and bedazzled by the ferocity
and sheer number of enemy soldiers.

They had been silently mounting
for a surprise onslaught
and the advance of my small raiding party
gave them reason to unleash their fury.
Days of frantic retreat
as we were actively pursued
by an entire squadron of enemy forces.
Exhausted and trail worn
we plotted to ambush our pursuing squadron
at a choke-point we knew of.
But even this,
our last attempt,
backfired.
The results were more casualties,
for our already small fleeing party,
and the loss of some supplies
we had to through overboard
to speed our hasty retreat.

Back to the Fortress.
Our only safe, securely defensible,
position in the area.

And here we make our stand.
So far the remaining soldiers
are doing well enough considering
our recent spate of failures.
Most are happy just to still be alive, I suppose.
The Fortress is an infinitely defensible position
and we have enough supplies to last us
through the Winter.
Baring some unforeseen plague or disaster,
we should be able to hold this position
just fine.

There have been no further direct attacks
by the enemy soldiers as yet,
though the smoke on the horizon
and the occasional disappearance of Outriders
clearly speaks of their
continuing intentions of
violence and harassment.

Poem: Old and Young

I am a thousand years old,
surrounded by children.
Though we all look the same,
speak with similar voices,
attractive and young,
so hip (with my sarcasm),
we all abuse substance.
This has not changed
for as long as my memory,
never an equal
amoung those my age.
Ever with elders,
who better "get" me.
Learning my future
before it comes near.
Never an equal
always the youngest,
who cares,
at least I'm at home.
Pinnocle, Bocce Ball,
Fishing, and Cards.
These are some passtimes
much closer to my soul.
While youngsters (of my age)
have nothing I've known.
Feeling more alien
than lost in Havanna.
Tears want to come,
since I'm not from their world.
Looking the part,
I could not be more removed.
Jelousy, envy,
they don't know what pain is.
I miss the tones of grey.
Miserable self-mumblers,
homeless wrecks,
insanity-plagued prostitutes,
and other hopeless beings.
They make me look good.

Here I am
a flower
amoung flowers.
I have no excuse.

Thoughts: Help Me With Food Ideas!

Having to eat every day is a Chore. Though rarely hungry, I've learned that I do much better in general when I do eat. Particularly, when I eat good things like fruit and granola. But I just don't feel like eating. When I was a Drunk I never had problems eating... when I was drunk at least. The mornings were Hell, what with the puking and diarrhea, etc. But anyways. Now I have to face food alone, consistently, and deal with it. It's really not that easy for me.

Everywhere I look I see horrible "fast-food": McDonald's, Carl's Jr, Subway, KFC, etc. "Fast-food," which these days is neither fast, nor is it cheap, nor is it really food. But it calls to me. Looks so good, so easy, so edible, so tasty, It never is though.

I buy fruit on the cheap in the Mission, bagels and bread at Safeway, a Jamba-Juice when I want to splurge, and trail-mix. This works okay for a while, but going to Safeway every day gets old, and I need more diversity in my diet.

The best of food is just too expensive, I'm left to my own devices. I'll learn what I can, what choice do I have? When fasting makes me weak and low blood sugar makes me angry. What I consume is every bit as important as the quality of the air I breathe (not that good lately), the type of audio/visual media I input to my nervous system, the people I spend time with, the space I live in, the medicines I take, and the very words i speak.

So I leave it to you all! Help me with your ideas and recipes for Eating good, please! The cheaper and easier the better. Remember; I can barely boil water.

Poem: The Difference

On the outside appearing "normal,"
on the inside nothing like.
The outside lulls others
into a sense of security around me;
As if I would always act admirably.
When I do not, they are surprised.
"Do not say I didn't warn you,"
I caution, and
"Please understand the fault is not yours."
Their answer? Molestation.

As a Child my Parents abused me.
Not allowed to have my own feelings.
Not allowed to have my own Privacy.
Not allowed to express myself,
unless I wanted a beating.
"Repressed" is an understatement.

As an Adult I continued
what I learned as a Child.
Repressed my own feelings any way that I could
(Mostly with TV and Drugs).
Not allowed to have Privacy by
Society because of my homelessness or crimes.
Beaten and Abused by Police, Doctors,
Social Workers, Lovers,
Anyone who got the chance.
And I let it happen,
not knowing a better way to be.

Now I do know better.
Not yet practiced at behaving,
at least I finally know.
There's years of lost privacy
I have to make up for.
At times I tell others
"I must now be alone."
At times they understand, move aside,
and wait patiently for me,
to be ready for them again:
I Love Them.
At times they do not;
grappling, grabbing at me,
calling, writing, emailing,
ignoring my pleas for silence,
every word
pushing me farther away:
I Pity Them.

Speaking my Truth to others,
it's always their choice
whether they listen.
Friends want me to feel better,
even if it means me being alone.
Abusers don't care what I want or need,
as long as they get to do as
They Want.

That is the Difference.

Thoughts: Getting Better Every Day

I am 30 years old, without two friends in the entire world who would move a piece of furnature for me. This says more about my ability at maintaining human relationships (or rather my exceptional inability), than it does about my low standard concerning who I call a friend. It appears that, for whatever reasons, over the course of my entire life, I've kept about twenty friends.

Ten of these friends I havn't heard from in years and thus, don't really count. Seven of the remaining ten friends will only email or call me occasionally.

Of the three friends left who will actually see me in person; One is "very busy" and naturally flaky - almost never around; totally undependable. One is my lover and doesn't count. The other only really visited me once. Otherwise he's just too poor to drop everything and help me move furnature.

What have I done, to keep people so distant? OK, dumb question. Too obvious.

How about; Why have I helped so many people move furnature and no one helps me? Better question. The answer is that I helped the wrong people move furnature. People who don't give back.

But nothing is lost to the Universe. I have almost always had help when I needed it. Good Karma and all that. Just not help from friends, usually. That is a little sad, but at least I have the rest of my life to try to find a better quality if friend an to be a better quality friend.

My life comes crashing in all around me. I can't breathe, I want to cry, I'm cold, I want to exercise, I'm too scared to leave my room, to leave my bed, to move, too scared to answer the phone and tell someone how I'm feeling. Then I get to feel ashamed for being unable to talk to someone, for being unable to face the World, for being a bum on the government dole, for everything.

The familiar shame spiral in all it's choking, self-pitying glamour. Ruthlessly self-propagating like a computer virus, each new shame causing more, every second feeling more and more trapped. Like a volcano it builds inside me; begging to be let out. To yell at someone, to play the blues on a harmonica, to kill myself, to write these words, to go get drunk, to do anything but feel the way I'm feeling.

My head is a sieve and whatever goes in comes out twisted and perverted. I must hide until these feelings pass. I must turn off my phone. I must avoid everyone, until I feel better. God knows I could make myself feel even worse yet, by taking my confusion (as anger) out on another. A crapy emotional Con my parents bequethed to me- still trying to break myself of the habit. Getting better, every day.

Privacy can be healing. Other must understand. If not, well, Fuck 'em.

Poem: Lady Canna

A very good healer,
but I want her no more.
She's helped me many, many, times.
I would never speak badly about her.

Lately I've been having dreams,
telling me our time is over.

Hate it when Goddess tells me what to do,
though She always knows
what's best for me.
Scared to learn to Live without her,
she's been my medicine for so long...

New medicines for a different Me,
new routines for a better Now.
I love you Canna, I always will.
A thousand prayers to lessen my needs,
refound hope removing my Greeds,
the breath of Faith is all I need,
The Holy Spirit my New-Found Steed.

Maybe discomfort, for up to a week.
Maybe I'll find that it's harder to sleep.
Maybe I wont know just what I should eat.

To put up with it all, for the Greatest of Goods.
I'm liking the looks of my new neighborhood.

The Goddess will help me
every way that she can,
so when my life ends,
will be like it began.

Poem: Sometimes Moods

The wrong thing said at a very wrong time.
My Red Button pushed.
First there is silence from me;
exerting all of my willpower to simply be quiet.
Not explode with the Furor I feel.
Secret Volcano,
the silence goes on,
as I have no good ideas;
only bad ones.

Separation, for some moments,
while I gather my thoughts
and distract myself.
With shaky hands I take my anxiety pill
(for moments like these).
Double my usual dose.

Searching inside, I'm empty.
Anger is all I am, now.
Anger and Hurt.
I know I need to Flee and be alone
as soon as I can.
Until the Evil passes,
until I get perspective,
until I'm safe to be around again.

I go back to find tears, endless tears, and silent reproof.
Look what I did again.
Not everyone takes responsibility for their actions.
Some are clearer than others.
It's all anger, blame, tears, and defensiveness,
until I get to the sink.
Cold water on the face, head, and neck.
Next a good scrub with soap
and anointing with oil.
Drink some water, saying prayers in my head.
Regain some humility, some perspective.
The tears remain with me
in a corner of my rented room.
Unable to look at me,
for Shame they just tried to sneak
another lover into Our bed.
Right beneath my nose;
but was caught.

Ahhhhhh, the fresh, zingy, taste,
of an Old Wound reopened afresh.
One of the deepest I had,
paraded around again.
It had to happen some time, in some way.
Why not this way, eh, Chum?
That's a good Lad;
take'en your licks as they come.

I thought there was more smartness there.
Only time will tell.
It's either Ignorance,
Self-Delusion,
Deliberate Malfeasance,
or this Typical Abusive Creep
happens to have the power to cure Cancer,
or some other equally miraculous Crap.
(And if that were the case he wouldn't need our help).

How big is six years?
How very much can happen in so very little time.
"Too old" is not always an excuse,
an insult, a lie, a social moray,
or a kinky sex term.
Sometimes it's simply True.
I hope this is not the case.
It's gloomy to see something Wrong.
Something broken,
someone hurting,
and me unable to help.
Wishing with all my power,
praying with all my humility,
that someone will be okay.
Knowing all the while that
"Fate," the "Universe," the "Devil,"
or whatever
sometimes has other plans.
I can't do anything about that.

Sometimes this is life.
Growth is often painful, or it wouldn't be worth anything.
Like childbirth; Most painful, most rewarding (if done correctly).
A woman "loses" her virginity in pain,
to make way for a sexual life of pleasure.
Priests cut the skin off the tip
of a male child's penis.

In emotional growth too,
perhaps more like a Garden.
Where some types of people must simply
be rooted up and destroyed,
or they will starve the rest of the Garden.
One's friends, one's family, one's lovers,
one's job, one's home, one's hobbies.
They all create our personal Garden.
Mobile-like the Whole depends on the Health of each area.
Any one area alone can crowd out all the rest.
Stealing the water and nutrients.

It's always our choice what we Do.
Maybe not what we feel.
Maybe not even what we say or think.
But what we Do.
That is Us.
Our Choice; Our Fault.
Today I choose to have Highest Quality People only
around me.
I choose to stay in a nicer area of town.
I choose to be faithful, devoted, to my Lover.
Today I value myself, knowing I deserve the best.
I can't always get what I want.
I can't control or change
anything
anyone else does
or thinks.
This is very sad sometimes,
but also very secure.

For the first time in years
I know where I'm going,
have a pretty clear picture
of everything in my life.
No longer baffled and confused.
The sadness though...
that, I'm afraid, will always find a way in.

I mean,
there wouldn't be happiness without it,
eh?

Poem: Monied (Again)

Money is the Opiate of the Masses, now.

Four walls and a sink, to call my own.
I own my room for 7 days, for $300.
The price of dinner for my dad.

A Real Person again.
High from Privacy,
exhilarated by my money in the bank.
All the world exists for me.
Want to eat: I can.
Want to sleep: I can.
All it took was money, after all that.

Half my Neuroses melt away instantly
-Simply because I now have choices.
Choices the broke person lacks,
simple privacy the homeless don't have,
Respect, which money does buy.

How can I explain the impotence,
the insecurity, the hunger, the jealousy,
the fears, the shame, the filth,
that comes,
from simply being without?

I can't.

No one can understand
unless they have been there.
Ask an old drunk, dying alone in a gutter.
Ask a full-fledged junkie, screaming himself silent
in a jail cell, for lack of medicine.
Ask a new mother, who has just given birth.

You'll never understand any of them.
Until you are one.

My "friends" come back around,
happy to see I have money again.
Now they can see me
without guilt or shame.

I use my room's sink ten times a day,
to wash my face,
because I can; I paid for it.
How wealthy America truly is,
where for $300 a week
I get my own room with a sink
for 7 days.
No more washing at Safeway
under the dubious eyes
of Security Guards.
I check on my room several times a day;
Expecting it to disappear like a mirage.
But every time I turn the lock,
everything is just as I left it.
Lights still on, window still open,
bed unmade, smelling of my brand of cigarettes.

Home at last.
Home at last.
Home at last,
for now.

Poem: 2nd Class

People like that make me feel like I'm
in the 2nd tier of humanity.
2nd rate, 2nd class, 2nd place,
with seconds to go.

That guy is 1st class all the way.
Heavy-weight champeen, chess-master,
and Lord of the Warlocks,
all wrapped into one.
He makes it look so easy,
like it's all an accident
that he's got it so good.
Indeed, it does look like an accident.
But I know better.
Nothing that happens in this life is an accident:
It's all a combination of
what you are given for free,
what you do with what you've got,
then what you do with what you get.
That's it, that's all.

Like playing cards;
It's not all luck,
but sometimes strategy counts for nothing.

Now, I guess 2nd class isn't that bad.
It's not 3rd class,
or even any of the many lower unnamed classes
beneath 3rd.
I'd bet, too, that I make other people feel
2nd or even 3rd class sometimes.
That;s something to think on.
Maybe we all just run around in complicated networks,
sometimes feeling lower or higher than others.

Yes, Einstein, there is General Relativity,
Never-the-less someone at any given time
is the richest on Earth,
the oldest human alive,
the most sexually active.
There are real differences, regardless of Relativity.
And we are not all Picasso.
But we all may have one thing in us,
at least,
that is 1st class. Who is to say?

That man, who I'm proud to call my friend,
makes me feel like the 2nd rate human I am.

I think I'm OK with that.
For now.
It may one day lead to 1st class,
or perhaps sag back into 3rd,
we'll see.

For now.
For right now.
2nd class is good enough for me.

Poem: The Rural Mayan

The "New Deal" gave a gift to America:
Money for the old, for the sick,
for the poor, and for the stupid.
The Rural Mayan stands tall,
solid, caring, and true.

Surrounded on all sides by
thick, grey, walls of cement,
red-tape, buck-passing, and bullshit.
She does her very best,
in a land without "thank you's,"
overseen by Neiling fools,
needling tools, needless mules,
yet keeping her cool,
a heart beats inside that Mayan there.

She could have retired and ran for the hills,
but helping the downtrodden gives her the thrills.
An imperfect world which we cannot change,
by helping each other we hope to arrange,
a method of turning the lead into gold
(I'd marry that Mayan, but I am too old!).

There aren't enough words for me to explain
the help that the Mayan has done for my pain.
Her listening ears and recommendations,
I think she deserves the highest citations,
yet all I have left of me is to give,
these very few words:
(Whose spirit will live!)

For all of the energy we send out and away,
will come back to us many times the same way.
Because of this law she lives in no fear,
the Mayan knows well the Good Luck due to her!

So here's to the Mayan, I offer her cheers!
May she be blessed, for all of her years!

Poem: Cell Phone Gods

I'm scared to get a phone;
The time is coming soon again.

To blame the tracking by CIA,
bill collectors, or my family.
To blame my fear of being contactable,
accountable, responsible.
Possibly.
A phone is a commitment,
these days,
a relationship unto itself.
By having one I volunteer my participation
in the electronic voice network.
I can spray paint it
or change the ring-tones
to a song I like,
but that wont change the fact,
the Truth,
the very small way,
the phone enslaves me.

It always starts small,
then the slavery gets bigger.
Today it's a cell phone,
tomorrow it's a laptop,
the next day it's an implant.
Yes, Dad, "They" can listen to your conversations
through your cell phone;
Even when it's turned off.
Take the battery out, at least.

My last memories of my last cell,
two years ago,
are of my Mother yelling at me through it,
giving me a nervous breakdown with each call.
Of endless bill collectors,
of an angry girlfriend poisoning my pocket device
relentlessly with texts and voice mails.
Of calling my contacts to complain about my life,
only complaining just made it worse.
Of days on end afraid to check my voicemail,
the number of voice mails piling up,
getting larger and larger
- competing with my fear -
until I finally can't stand the tension
and I check my voicemail
to find nothing important at all.
Of three hundred calls for a person named "Hymie"
and three hundred explanations that
this is no longer "Hymie's" phone number.
Of hours spent waiting,
holding the radiation-emitting device
next to my brain
while pressing numbers in a corporate phone-tree-trap.

Yes, cell phone, I fear you.
Yes, call phone, I respect you.
Like I respect The Devil.
Like I respect Alcohol.
Like I respect Heroin.
I know how insidious you can be.

When you can reach anyone with a whim and a button-push:
How can you tell those Action-Takers
from the limitless number of Bullshitting-Talkers?
True friends from False?
Pay attention.
You pay attention.

I honor you, New God of Our Age.
Hail to Thee Cell Phone,
may I wield Thee like a Samurai,
like a double-sided dagger
you can both create division
and destroy division,
creating Unity.

Yea, creating Unity.