Poem: I Dream of a Day

I dream of a day,
in my heart of hearts.
Picture it, in my mind.
I know that if I can picture it
clearly enough,
if I can feel it to be true enough,
if I have enough faith,
enough patience,
my dream will come true.

I dream that one day I will wake up,
and just feel OK.
Feel Good, even.
About myself,
about my surroundings.
About my future,
about everything and anything.

Physically,
inside,
I feel unwell.
Ill,
wrong.

Besides my physical pain,
there is a deeper pain.
Call it "emotional,"
call it "Mental,"
maybe even call it
a "Psycho-neuro ailment complex."
But whatever it is,
it's bad.
Not good, definitely.
It makes me scared,
leads to self-pity,
makes me want to drink
and do drugs,
do anything
to get away from "It."
But I can't really,
because it is me,
or a part of me.

I am unwell.
Inside.
Deeply and truly.

Often I can distract myself from "It"
for a few moments.
Reading a good book,
the first half of a cup of coffee,
a love affair,
cigarettes,
writing,
pot,
listening to music,
or whatever.

But in the end the distraction leaves
and I'm back to my empty pain;
my infinite dis-ease.

A fabulous short-term cure I've found
(since they're all short-term)
is in Compassion.
It always seems to work for me,
when nothing else does.
Like talking to someone
who has it "harder" than me.
Or calling someone on the phone
and really listening to them.
Not just waiting for my turn to speak,
but really listening to someone
and contemplating their life
and how hard it is to be them,
to walk in their shoes.

Because truly too,
in many ways,
I am blessed.

And I practice meditation,
and I pray,
and I live a mostly ascetic life;
abstaining from alcohol,
and leaving a lover,
all for my personal quest for Peace.
An end to the pain,
inside of my being.
Blocking me,
stunting my growth,
painful engrams of the past
burned into me so hard
that I can no longer enjoy myself.
I can no longer enjoy myself.

The best I can do is distract.
For a moment.
From the pain.

I dream of a day
when my world
will be reversed.
Where I'll live in beauty
and happiness,
with only brief moments of pain.

I don't know if I'll ever get there.
I have a lot of life left to make up for,
building many walls for much too long.

It seems to be getting better.
Inches and centimeters at a time.
I dream of a day.
Yet the "Feeler" is only
a human ego; fragile at best.

I wasn't always like this.
I remember days,
barely,
when I knew who I was.
Despite the violent beatings
and a life of unavoidable lies,
suppression,
imprisonment,
and horror.

Despite the madness around me,
I knew who I was,
and I wasn't part of "that."
"That" evil.
I was good.
I was the victim.

Now twenty years later,
my inner resolve has been smashed.
By more professional torturers than my father,
torturers like the Police,
the Courts,
and the "Social Services"
for the "Poor and Homeless."
Oh, yes;
My father was Bad,
but the World was worse.

Now I'm a clusterfuck of experiences,
mostly negative.
I don't remember what it's like
to have fun,
or maybe I just haven't been able to afford it for so long...

My hearts been hurt by others,
besides my family,
situations I could not claim "victim" in
(though often I did anyways).
My friends you can count on the limbs
of a quadruple amputee;
I'm alone,
with my past and some hope.

I've learned a few techniques,
and I've felt some stings of failure.
To keep on trying,
my only choice.

I dream of a day
when I will feel OK.
Have my willpower again,
self-respect,
satisfaction.

A day I can greet
the Great World
in The Eye
and say
"Damn am I glad to be here!
Now how, may I be
of service?"

Poem: Chistmas Eve '09

I'm an angry,
mean,
spiteful,
grumpy,
Old Man.

I despise my friend's
wife and child,
because I do not have any,
and probably never will.
I despise my friend for having them,
for being part
of a web of comfort,
that I have no part of.

I am a bitter,
envious,
Old Man.

Hating my friend
for traveling far and wide,
seeing sights
I had only dreamed of,
apparently only to dream.
I hate him so,
my skin tingles
on the top of my head.

I am a lonely,
and selfish,
Old Man.

Remembering all
the hearts I've broken,
yet still wanting
to break more.

I'm a devious,
atrocious,
Old Man.

Taking comfort in
my friends'
troubles and ills;
All the better to
"show them"
how much
I care.

I'm an old,
Old Man.
And I'm alone.

It's Christmas again.

And I'm actually 29.

Story/Theory: The Shaman of Lascaux

The half-man/half-beast shambled deeper into the cave, using his femur-bone torch dipped in the last of the animal fat. The Cold was still alive outside the cave and his days foraging had not gotten him very far from the cave, nor any new food for his skeletal-thin body, draped in layer after layer of furry large-beast hide. The half-man hadn't seen a large-beast in many darknesses. Many, many darkness. Rotations of the sky even. All he had seen and eaten in the last sky rotations were the tiny-beasts. Hard to catch, energy-consuming to cut and clean, little meat and marrow to be got from such fair.

It had been so long since his last constant real food supply that he often forgot what he was. Forgot there were others like him somewhere out there... or used to be. He had come from somewhere once, but his memories of it were almost all gone now. Lost in days of constant, repetitive, survival. The half-man became more and more like his animal half every day. Trying new roots and nuts in attempts to satisfy his body's constant aching needs. The Great Cold refused to stop. Several times he'd been made very, very, sick by certain plants and roots. His body remembered these warily and avoided them by smell while foraging.

There was also the dirt-fruit that gave visions. Dirt-Fruit could be found often in the forests during the brief stops of rain, but also in the dark of mountains where half-men like him used to live. You had to grab dirt-fruit fast, because small-beasts ate it too, sometimes, and it took a lot of dirt-fruit to fill an empty stomach. But there were three kinds of Dirt-Fruit the man knew about. The first kind was was food kind, the good kind, and not all food-kinds looked the same. The second kind was the sick-making Dirt-Fruit. They were so bad they could make a half-man very sick or even dead. The third kind was the kind that was used mainly by the Two-Headed Men, Men of the Medicines, to cause visions, talk with the dead, make deals with the forest-spirits, and other things he didn't really understand.

The half-man did not know much about the third kind of mushrooms. Once, dimly, when he was the size of half a man, he remembered being pushed into a cave and prodded to the back. When he got there an old man made him drink a hot drink that tasted like dirt-fruit and a few minutes later the half-boy was in the in-between world with the Man of Medicine. All his ancestors were there dimly and they nodded to him, making ritual gestures he understood at the time but now forgot. It was many years ago and the half-man avoided the third kind of dirt-fruit because he was not a Man of Medicine, did not want to have visions, he just wanted to stay fed. The third kind could make a half-man sick in the stomach, too, but not dead-sick.

For weeks all the half-man could find was dirt-fruit of the third kind. These had bulbous white stems, and red tops, with little white dots on top. Very pretty and some could be quite big. To the half-man, in his condition of starvation, they looked delicious and filling. The half-man didn't know what to do. He picked them and stockpiled them, in case he couldn't get anything else, but he refused to eat them. Maybe he could trade them for some food to a Man of Medicine if he meets one. The Great, White, Cold had gone on longer than any the half-man could remember. Every scavenging trip a failure, not even a single small-beast any more. The half-man tried to think of a way to catch the small air-beasts, but he'd never seen it done and didn't even know if you could eat the air-beasts. He just didn't have the energy.

The firewood was dangerously low as the half-man lay by it, shivering in starvation. Finally his body's needs overtook his sanity and the half-man began gorging himself on his pile of medicine dirt-fruit. He didn't care if it did make him sick, it would be worth it to stop this feeling of his body eating away at itself from the inside. No sooner was his belly full of the red and white dirt-fruit, than he felt the dirt-fruit wishing to come back out again. He tried to hold it inside himself, picturing the energy he badly needed staying inside him, but failed; projectile vomiting onto the cave wall and the corner floor. He lay down in the puddle, totally exhausted, ready to lay down and die, knowing he had probably kiled himself on bad dirt-fruit.

As he continued to lay there, breathing, chest rising and falling, listening to the crackle of the embers of the fire, hearing the whistling, howling, winds of the cold outside the cave, seeing the shadows reflecting on the walls getting larger and smaller in time with the fire, the wetness of the puddle he was laying in seeping into his furs, feeling back to when he was a small-man and he first felt this strange feeling. The Old Man of Medicine nodding to him. He was dieing again. He'd died before with the Old Man, now he was dying again. It's how the Medicine was done. But this time it was much stronger and this time he was alone, he had no Man of Medicine to Guide him.

He lay there. Feeling the pulsing waves around him. Trying to feel something that would help him now. Had he seen something like this? What was he to do now? He did not know the grunts and symbols the Old Man had used, had no other plants or beasts-parts to work with. His days and nights began to pass before his eyes. First slowly, than with increasing speed. But time was going backward. He saw his days in the cave, many and many of them. Saw his days of wandering before the cave. Came remembering back to what must of been his people. He wished he could stop it, wanted to stop, to see his people again, to think about them, but his vision sped on ever faster until he was coming out of his female blood-door, then he was inside, then, nothing.

Endless night. Eternity. There was nothing everywhere, extending to infinity. The half-man no longer had a body, was no longer in a cave, all that existed was a light which lived in eternity at the center of the half-man's being. This light saw that inside the nothingness were other light's like it, an infinite number, like the stars in the sky, and that each light sphere radiated beams of light which touched every other luminescent point, thus all were connected in a web of sentience. Every point was conscious, just as he was. This was the reality, the underworld, the spirit world. The rest is the dream. This is where the Man of Medicine works. For what is affected here is Eternal, and it naturally changes what's out there, what's transitory, what's physical. It's opposite, it's twin and it's lover. The half-man's small sentient point of life asked the web of life to provide food for him and the answer from the sentient Universe web-of-life came to him instantly. It gave him his answer and it gave him his name.

Back in his cave the half-man tapped his chest and grunted two-syllables together, "Ka-Ba." This would be his name now. For meeting the Universe, This name was so the Universe would know who he was, when we was working with it. He did not need a name for other half-men and he did not have one. A name was his creation alone and he would keep it between him and the Universe. Who else would know what to do with one?

The dirt-fruit had not worn off yet and the cave looked unnaturally bright for it's small fire. Ka-Ba began to worry about his little amount of wood when his point of light made him feel warm inside, made him feel not to worry, so he didn't, just enjoyed the warmth. The feeling of the Universe spoke to him again, this time from the blank brown cave wall he was staring at. The web of light seemed to be pulling him to change the images on the cave wall. Images made by water and moss, images made by time and nature. If he changed the wall,-universe, the universe-wall would change his inside said.

Scooping up puke, excrement, blood. soot, and any other color making substance he could, Ka-Ba painted on the wall pictures of all that would make life perfect for him. A sun in the sky, a whole group of middle-sized beasts, and even a few huge-beasts. And painted next to it all, of course, stood Ka-Ba. Armed with the weapon of a warrior he'd seen once and idolized, Ka-Ba painted himself as a great hunter and the great number of tasty-beasts he would kill, and how rich and happy he would be. When he was finally finished he felt as if the Universe had agreed with him and he felt strangely and deeply that all would be well.

Exhausted from all this he fell down to sleep by the coals of the dying fire and sleep well he did.

When the the half-man awoke in the morning it was with the feeling of one waking from a bizarre dream. His heavy head would not get lighter and he had strange memories of an Old Man and a group of herd-beasts he was hunting with success under a sunny sky. When he finally saw the painting on the wall many more strange memories came flowing back to him, including his new name Ka-Ba. Confused about what to do with this name he'd acquired and shivering Ka-Ba made his way to the cave entrance to find that the Great White Cold had finally stopped. The Sky-Father Disc was actually visible and warm to the skin. The whiteness was slowly melting into water he could drink, but before he could bend down to drink some he saw them. A beautiful group of herd-beasts, the like he hadn't seen in a very long time. Grabbing the closest sharp sticks in hand he made out in a joyous and wild pursuit, exerting far more energy than he thought possible still remaining in his tiny skeletal frame.

By the end of Ka-Ba's spontaneous and sloppy hunt he'd successfully killed two and wounded three others. A total victory. Enough meat to last for many days. Hide to make blankets or even a hut from. Bones for tools. Ka-Ba was suddenly rich. There was much work to be done with the skinning and gutting of two herd-beasts, tracking of the wounded ones to finish them off, and foraging for fresh dry wood now that the sky-disc had reapearred.

By nightfall Ka-Ba had been working all day on his food preparation and cave stockpiling. He didn't know how long the Sky-Father would protect him until the White Cold came back and Ka-Ba wanted to do as much as he could. He had not spent a single moment that day thinking about his cave drawing or the medicine dirt-fruit visions of the night before. It was only after eating himself full of roasted herd-meat and drinking several skulls of water that Ka-Ba began to look at the paintings he'd done. He'd painted the Sky-Father and the Sky-Father had come. He' d painted the herd-beasts and the heard-beasts had come. He painted his being a successful hunter (which he was not always good at) and that had occurred too. The only thing that didn't happen was him having a made weapon and the appearance of anuy huge-beasts. Ka-Ba remembered talking to the Universe, the Universe accepting. He thought it very strange, but beyond that he did not think anything of it. He had enough meat for a bit and there seemed to be more outside. The reason it was there was unimportant and still Ka-Ba was no Man of Medicine, he was a hunter.

After eating and thinking more (concerted thinking a process that he did only rarely because it caused head-pain and didn't seem to lead anywhere) Ka-Ba took some of the bones of the herd-beasts and sharpened them with rocks to make better weapons for his next hunt. The next morning he went outside and the first thing he saw was two huge-beasts, just like in his painting, and this time he was holding weapons. Stopping in his tracks, he didn't know what to do. In his long lost days of being with a tribe, killing a huge-beast was a great accomplishment because it fed the whole tribe and stopped a natural predator. Now he had enough food, he didn't need the huge-beast. He thought about this shortly. In his painting he won. If the painting was Medicine Man magick then he would be able to beat these two huge-beasts. Ka-Ba already had enough food so it would be foolish to attack the to huge-beasts for no reason. But Ka-Ba was a hunter and he had been stuck in that small cave for a very long Cold White. Though still weak and undernourished Ka-Ba ran at the Huge-Beasts screaming with everything he had, plunging the bone harpoons repeatedly into both of the huge, tusked, beasts before they knew what hit them.

Ka-Ba raised an ululating victory cry to the Sky-Father and the Earth-Mother the likes of which he hadn't done since he was just becoming a man. The two shaggy beasts simply fell over on their sides and died, heat steaming from the open gushing wounds on their chests. That night he had an even finer blanket than herd-beast-hide. The shaggy, furry, material of a huge-beast is prized for it's warmth and comfort.

Again it was after diner on a full stomach that Ka-Ba gazed again at his cave painting. He had painted huge-beasts and his success over them and that is what happened. Is this what the Men of Medicine knew? Where there really two-worlds, depending on each other? By changing one you could change the other? The idea gave Ka-Ba a headache. It felt like too much was trying to be squeezed into his small head at once. He didn't want his painting and the world to be connected, but they seemed to be. He decided to try an experiment that night and drew a crude female creature of his own race out of the blood of a huge-beast.

The next day the weather was still bearable with the Skyfather still visible in the sky for most of the day. Ka-Ba travelled around the perimeter of his cave, the land he roughly counted as his current living area. He counted more herd-beasts and a few more huge-beasts, but he ignored them. He had enough meat. What he was seeking he didn't find; no female.

That night again around the fire after dinner Ka-Ba thought about his painting and the world. Why didn't the woman appear that day? Was he wrong about his painting? Did the painting have no true Medicine after all? He continued to think long after his head began to hurt. Replaying the night he lost his mind on the dirt-fruit over and over again, until finally it hit him; the dirt-fruit. As soon as the thought occurred he knew he was right and stopped thinking. He went to the corner of his cave and grabbed the remaining dried stalks and caps of the dirt-fruit medicine he used.

This time Ka-Ba began to recognize some of the things that he felt and saw. He was first forced to lose his name, his body, everything that was not his bright center and then he was a bright pinpoint again in the endless field of night. Again he was united with the Universe and again he painted a woman. Again the Universe heard him.

The next day Ka-Ba awoke and began with a feeling of uncertainty. He did not know what he would find today, but he had no wish to eat any dirt-fruit again any time soon. Just the thought of it made him sick in his stomach. It was the late afternoon at one of the water reservoirs that Ka-Ba first saw her. It took her some moments before she saw him, too, and moved guardedly to her weapon (a (sharpened femur bone). The pure shock and awe that aroused in Ka-Ba at the sight of this beautiful female must have shown from his face, for she quickly felt at ease with him and could see in his eyes that he posed no danger to her. This became a daily courtship ritual at the reservoir that would continue for many months until they joined to each other for the rest of their lives and Ka-Ba showed her the painting he had made long ago.

Ka-Ba only used the dirt-fruit-paint magick a few more times in his life before he died, preferring to simply hunt, let nature occur, and be with his family, though he did teach the way it worked to several ambitious young Men of Medicine who would later go on to create or discover other forms of sympathetic magick, and occaisonally did a few works to help his small tribe.

Story: Pattern Recognition

This is a pattern. I've been here before, or a close variance thereof, many times. Five, Six, Ten? More? I don't really know, but at least five.
The morning after I feel so consumed. Raw. Frustrated, sick, depressed, and a little angry. I leave in search of peace. Take double-doses of medicine, too early, and forgo breakfast. Endure a terrible morning commute BART ride, all just to leave, to go back to peace. Vowing to myself never to endure such emotional torture ever again. Yet somehow I keep coming back.

As usual, I leave. She's sad and confused and hurt. So am I. But every moment I spent there just made me feel worse. Why is there always such pain in that place, in that house? Why, why, why. Never a useful question. My head aches just being there. So I start over.

It's afternoon, I get there. She's in the garage. We start to hang out and she begins to complain about her safety in her house and how random men are always breaking in, etc. So this freaks me out incredibly, possessively, and instantly my feelings drop to Hell as I begin to worry about her safety, which is something else I do not control. I mean, she controls it, if anyone does, so there is nothing I can do about it but worry more. So I do. So twenty minutes into my visit I'm already depressed and scared for her; all amorousness gone. That means not horny. Just both of us nervous and scared together. Ew. No, I was not enjoying thigs. I tried to lighten matters up with descriptions of her happiest places, etc, but I did not seem to succeed much.

Eventually, we semi-mechanically retired to her bedroom, where I become unusually super-conscious of the sound of her mother in the kitchen nearby; I could hear her mother chopping carrots, I could hear her mother walking around, I could hear her mother breathing. And no, she wasn't super sexy. All of this a turn-off. This added to the fact that during intercourse my lover refused to touch my penis, contributed to a lack of amorousness on my part. The final result was us making love only once that evening. My lover obviously wanted more, and usually we would have, but my mood was in the dumps, as was also becoming unfortunately typical as of late. My lover sensed this too, I think, but did nothing to help.

My feelings were so hurt that I thought of leaving, just going home, several times that night. Maybe I should have, but I was determined to make it through the night for "my lover's sake." I wonder now if perhaps it was just masochism. The self-inflicted shame of going home that early would have been great, even with my PTSD excuse.

Thus in my dark, sour, mood, she asked me if a friend of hers whom I didn't know could stop by to meet me, knowing full well that I wouldn't be up for it; and I was not. This further darkened my mood and our short, serious "talk" at this time made my emotional matters even worse.
Not knowing what to do, not wanting to run away in theory while my body screamed "flight", horrified at the painful prospect of more "talking" with her, I did something new for me: I fell sleep. Or close to it. I simply went comatose around six in the evening and refused to be roused. My lover lay with me for a bit, but for the most part she ignored me completely, smoking outside and talking on the phone. Though sad, this option was at least less painful than others. Though cowardly, it was surprisingly efficacious.

The next morning I woke her with a shower of kisses and genuine good cheer I had not expected to have. Last night's sadness remained in my heart, but for the moment it was in the back of my mind. I gave way to the unexpected cheer and made coffee. She wanted sex, I thought, which brought back last nights feelings stronger and I gradually became quieter and more withdrawn.

I drank my coffee and chatted with her sister, things seemed okay enough... though the darkness and the heaviness of the house atmosphere was still oppressive, still tangible. My lover came out to smoke with me... we sat in silence, I think, unusual for us... she seemed so sad, though... she might have invited me back to bed and I night have refused, still hurt by her strange fear of my penis. I can't really remember clearly. I talked with her about this fear and she agreed, saying she understood how I felt, but how could she really? She did not apologize for anything (though I was secretly hoping she would), nor did she seem to understand how deeply it all hurt me. I got quieter again...

I went out to her house's garden to meditate by their tree, as I usually did. My sitting was shorter than usual. Rather than soothing me it seemed to awaken in me a fervent desire to run away from the horrible place, my lovers psychically poisoned house, and her similarly poisoned heart. To leave now, at all costs. Upon reentering the kitchen with the full intenet of grabbing everything I had and leaving ASAP, still holding the door open I saw she had made me breakfast.

A beautiful act. Something she'd never done for me before.
So simple, so kind. It looked delicious, but my stomach felt sour and I still felt I had to get away. Looking to her for strength I found none. I refused it, with tears in my eyes. I did not feel any hunger. Flight, freedom, the only things on my mind. Add to that now Guilt, for refusing my lovers sweetest of intentions. I didn't even take a single bite. I had to go. Sadly, almost wordlessly, we hugged numbly, said almost nothing to each other, and I left.

A jerk, an ingrate, an early-leaver, spent, stressed, a lover at his wits end.

Poem/Thoughts: "Luxery Problems"

"Luxury Problems,"
- I'd first heard
the term
at an AA meeting,
described by a person,
who had lost everything;
Because of Addiction.

A "Luxury Problem" is a problem
which does not directly affect
a person's physical security
or vital emotional functioning.
"Damn,
I can't decide which tie to wear,"
is a Luxury Problem.
"Damn,
I can't get any drinking water,"
is a Real-Life Problem.

This distinction can be
very hard to grasp
by anyone who has
never had many
Real-Life Problems,
having always been provided for,
in one way or another.

In Modern First World Western Cultures,
especially rampant in The United States;
There are many people who only
suffer from "Luxury Problems"
and can't understand
what the rest of humanity suffers,
simply trying to survive.

However, these "Luxury Sufferers,"
are not to be blamed.
Indeed to them, not getting their way,
or breaking a fingernail,
may be the worst feeling
they have ever been forced to suffer,
and feel quite justified in comparing their
"Luxury Problems"
with those of peoples in
totally, qualitatively, incomparable,
to their own.

While the homeless man,
going through the trash,
is overjoyed
at finding half a donut.
The business man,
nearby in a Mercedes,
is angrily yelling
into his cellphone,
because he just lost some stock
in a Mutual Fund.
The homeless man has no idea
what a Mutual Fund is,
or why someone would be so angry
about it.
Especially someone in a Mercedes.
The business man is
disgusted to his stomach
at the mere thought
of eating a donut
from the trash.
Their two value systems
are completely different
and independent
from each other.

One is attuned to immediate survival.
The other is attuned to Symbols
and Representations of Ideas
which are supposed to be related
to his survival eventually
(If he loses his stock, he may lose his job,
then his car, then his house, etc).

One persons attention is immediate
and one is projected far
into the imaginary future,
filtered through yet unknown possibilities
and his own desires.
Clearly such a projection is itself a luxury.
If the human is so financially secure
that they can emotionally afford
to invest energy
in figmentory futures.
It follows logically
that the person in question
is either Well-Off
or perilously imbalanced.

Thus the human goal becomes:
To distance oneself
as far as possible
from survival questions,
IE "Real Life Problems."
The more secure one's food supply,
or shelter, or emotional happiness,
the more free time one has
to better secure themselves,
to get thelmelves even farther away from
problems of survival.
Freer and freer
to pursue pastimes
of pure joy and relaxation;
Like watching football
and having sex.
Dangerously, this also applies,
to those who believe wrongly
or only think their needs are secure,
when in fact they are not.

Someone with purely
"Luxury Problem"
oriented living
will not be able to understand
a person with a purely survival oriented worldview.
The survivor will appear to the first like an animal,
while the first will seem like a spoiled, pampered, child,
to the experienced world survivor.

Thus the Concentration-Camp-surviving-Grandfather
tries to lecture his grandson
who has never been hungry in his life
about the value of food,
but the grandson cannot understand.

Perception.
Character.
Somehow it always seems to come back to these.
The same situation experienced through
completely different filters.
Yet the perception affects the situation,
it is never so removed as it seems.

Insisting one is right,
is always wrong.
Judgement is not for me.
Advice is a form of Nostalgia.
All judgement stems from knowledge
and experience.

Though I have learned quite a lot...
Though I have seen many things...
Though I have known many people...
I do not feel able to Judge.

Who knows how deep
one's craziness goes?

If I wish to be forgiven,
I must first forgive.

Poem: Time, The Girl, and Sorrow

I have me no parents;
to help keep me fed.
I have me no friends;
to wipe tears from my head.
I have me no lover;
with whom to console.
I just have this room
and my government dole.

I'll never be equal,
to you or your friends.
Your life will not change,
never seeing me again.
You think that you know now,
but time proves you wrong.
For when you are dead,
you were alone all along.

I tried to unite,
our two hearts
into one.
But your heart
was divided,
my battle
not won.

While you were my highest,
my reason to be.
You found me wanting,
and left by the sea.

Your friends were much better,
to you and your life.
Your ex-loves the reason,
you wont be my wife.
While I have all nothing
and you were my all;
You had life already,
at your beck and call.

My soul
in your market
was not worth a dime...

I hope you will learn more,
I've nothing,
but time.

Poem: Bad Transformations

An Intimate Lover turns into
a strange, unknown, Monster!

How could this be happening?!
So fast!
Where is the human Lover I knew?

This, this, this...
Doppelganger,
who took Their place!
Hearing not a word I say!
Seeming to care for me not at all,
knowing nothing of my feelings towards e-mails,
contradicting themselves with each paragraph.
Great, lieing, Haughty, Hypocrite:
Demanding response,
while no response will do.

No matter what I say,
it is taken by Them for Evil,
only fueling Their Unrighteous Fire,
their weird Demon's thirst.

They will not rest
until We (My Lover & I) are destroyed completely.
Until all chances of friendship between us,
and all contact,
of any kind,
is gone.
Made Impossible.
Our Time Over.

I list my boundaries;
the Monster,
my Lover's Doppelganger,
immediately crosses them all,
taunting me with sadistic glee.
"Now what?" They sneer.

Knowing how fragile I am ,
knowing how sensitive to
my lovers written words;
This Being I used to Love,
hurts me on Purpose.

Hurts me, hurts me,
and hurts me again.
Deliberately,
with Malice aforethought.
Self-Pity may be pathetic,
I am not such a Fool
as to not see that in me.
But so too is being a doormat.
Even a doormat for
a Beautiful young person.

Aiming Their verbal bullets
at my weakest parts,
(weak points they learned of naked,
in Love, in Trust, in bed, with Me).

Their justifications,
for my heart's Assassination,
are nearly infinite:
Blaming me for the bulk of it,
nothing left for me to say.

Sometimes -Silence -
is the only reply.

Every response I give them,
bent into an excuse to attack me.
interpreting my answers
as invitations to continue
their never-ending harangue;
Of Me,
all my limitless faults,
all my limitless cruelties.

In one sentence from Them I read they
"...have never loved any one more than (Me)..."

In another They submit reasonably that they
"...cannot ever bare to see You (Me) in person again..."

Then a few pages latter does a few
mental flips in the air again and asks if I
"...would you like to meet up Saturday..."

To pages and pages
of similar,
self-contradictory,
deeply heartfelt,
confusion and lies.

And sometimes,
just plain insanity.

It seems to me that my
Lover-Friend-Stalker,
(hopefully temporarily)
has lost contact with
An Objective Reality.
Governs by Moods,
rather than Morals.

One cannot negotiate with a Madman,
the language barrier is insurmountable.

I had never guessed the depth of
Anger toward Me,
Need for Control,
Power Hunger,
Expectation,
and just plain
Spoiled Brat Selfishness
which resides near the center
of my X-Lovers being.
(Of course these faults are also mine;
that's the reason I can see
the method to this madness).

Remembering back They were very quiet,
through much of our time together.
I never had reason to believe that inside my
Gift from The Goddess
there would be a volcano.
Waiting for a victim,
to make it erupt.

I had finally gotten the
Peace of Mind
to stop reading
Their sad, poisoned, words.
It took a complete Panic Attack,
boarding nervous breakdown,
at just the sight
of another mean letter from Them.
But it worked.

I hate giving up.

Yet it's something I've had to learn to do,
to succeed, to survive;
As gracefully as possible.

Maybe one day
They will be Sane again...
We can meet and hug,
go out,
have coffee,
fall in Love again,
whatever.
I hope so.
I wish so.
I Pray so every day.

Saddest,
most evident,
there is nothing to be said
between us
now.

This part is Over.

Poem: Thanksgiving '09

It gets lonely down here sometimes.
When all your lovers want someone else,
or want you to be someone else.
When all your friends are too busy for you.
When you have no family,
and you never have,
but it's the season of families;
It's easy to feel left-out.

I never predicted,
how easy it is,
to be alone.
Never knew
how fast
it could come.

Complete and total.
Utter and infinite.

The World lives around me,
while for me time has stopped,
at the zero mark.

If you have a family,
give thanks.
If you have friends,
give thanks.
If you are not alone,
give thanks.

As for me,
I'll continue to write.

Poem: A Sorry Sorrow

I'm sorry baby, I really am.
I see you hurting, pouting.
My chest aches with yours.

Your decisions brought us here.
My decisions brought us here.
It does not matter,
it is here,
as shown by
the tears
on your face.

Acting my cool,
I try to console you,
just silence,
the only result.

Somewhere inside
I want to scream at you,
shriek that you ruined our home.
Part of me cat-calling:
"Spoiled Brat,
why were you so greedy?
You had me!
We had us!
Why did you need him?!"

My Fury has no answer.
My Rage, no dignified comment.
Just smile sadly,
shaking my head,
say,
"Darling what brought us to this?"
Touching your head and hand
is paradise...
now closed to me
by your commitment
to damnation.

I love you.
I always will.
I will not be destroyed with you,
nor help you drown in flames.
All honesty,
I do my best,
Act Rightly
toward one
and for all.

Poem: Tomorrow (#3?)

I'm finally feeling well,
and it's time to go to sleep.

The long battle of my day is over.
All day I've been
hungry, anxious, scared,
in pain, nervous, rushed,
bored, frustrated, and more.

When I've finally come down,
to where I have wanted to be;
calm, fed, happy, at peace:
It's time to go to bed.

After all my fighting,
I've finally won,
only to sleep,
starting over again,
tomorrow.

Poem: Bow and Repeat

My mother chose my father,
over me.
Over and over
and over again.
As a child.
He would beat me
and I would beg her
to leave him.
But she wouldn't.
He'd scream at her
and beat her
and I'd beg her to leave him.
But she wouldn't.
Or she couldn't.

Later in life she remarried.
My stepfather would beat me;
stealing all my inheritance
from my mother.
I asked her to leave him,
or at least protect my inheritance.
She wouldn't.
Or she couldn't.

Later still I was dating
a woman I loved.
Who was addicted to
an abusive former lover.
He said mean things to her,
and once she left me,
for him.
Telling me she didn't
care for me
anymore.

Finally back together,
I asked her to leave him for me.
Let his friendship go,
and live in our love.
She wouldn't.
Or she couldn't.

Like my mother before her,
the abuse is more important than,
my love.

Poem: One Year

One year ago exactly.
Homeless.
The same cold bite in the air,
same anxiety about upcoming Holidays.
The wildest,
most unlikely,
wish I dreamed at the time,
my greatest prayer:
That one day I would have
a place of my own.
Coffee in the Morning.
A radio.
That;s all I wanted,
those three things,
more than anything else.
I didn't think It'd ever happen.
Picturing it perfectly in my mind,
every day,
regardless of my surroundings.

Now its here.
I have my own place,
my coffee, my radio.
A few more things
I hadn't dreamed of...
My gratitude is overflowing,
let there be no doubt.
Hugging my floor, kissing my bed.
Yes I love parts of life, now.
Sunlight streams through my windows,
the sign taped to my door reads,
"Go Away! This means YOU."

I never pictured the
constant pain in my stomach.
Never pictured my desire to
never leave my bed,
cowering under the covers
with NPR on the Radio
for the rest of my life.
Never pictured walls
sometimes driving me mad,
forcing me out the door,
if for nothing but to get away.
Only to return gratefully later.

All these and more
Afflictions Unpredictable.
What dreams do I have left now?
What pictures will I imagine?
What future will I create
for myself,
one year from now?

Poem: My Heart Does Not Fail Me

Is Love greater than Infidelity?
Would you mind if I had a back-up,
a second lover,
just in case it doesn't work out
between us?
I mean, we'd only be friends for now,
as long as you and I were dating...
but you know, just in case.
So as soon as you fail me,
they can step right in
and replace you.
Like you never even existed.
A built-in power back-up system,
for my pleasure and comfort.
Would you mind?
I do mind, sadly.
I think not unfairly.
Of all the
unreasonable and selfish
requests,
this single one
astounds me.
Naivety? Perhaps.
Blind rebellion? For sure.
Disregard for the feelings of others? No doubt.
Acceptable treatment? Afraid not.

Swimming in the worlds of "Love,"
coming from first-strikes, and name-calling,
lies, misdirections, dysfunctions,
and the rare moment of true, undiluted,
Feeling.
The goal for me now is Peace,
Harmony,
Love,
and Respect.
Interaction with "healthy" people
who have "healthy" interrelationships.
Role-models,
for ideals heretofore unknown.

Limbs infested with Gangrene and poison,
must be cut off to save the whole.
Sometimes if you are holding onto someone
and they are hanging off a cliff,
they can pull you off with them,
instead of your daring rescue.
Unless you let go you are dead,
helping no one.

Not all that sparkles is Gold;
Sometimes it's a spiderweb of demon saliva,
trying to ensnare you by it's sickness,
thus hurting everyone you know,
by extension.

We are Networks, Nodes.
There are Viruses,
they're more contagious
than many realize.
The viruses are intelligent,
sentient,
and they use us like Puppets,
like Food.
We are the source of Good,
but Evil abounds everywhere.
Though loving the Evil,
I cannot abide it in My House.
It's too tempting to me.

I spent too long it it's arms.
I know darkness very well when I see it.
How could I not;
It was my lover for so long.
Blackness, Oblivion, Death,
Sadness, Isolation,
Corruption, Negativity.
A blacker hole you'd never seen,
than the pits of my eyes.
And I remember.
Oh yes.
I remember Horrors you can't imagine.
So kindly do not tell me,
"It's only this or that."
I am not blind,
nor inexperienced
in matters like these.
Patronize me if you wish.

My Heart, it does not fail me.

Poem: She Chose Him

When They ask me what happened
I'll say,
"I was too old for her."
They may not believe me,
but that is the way I'll say it.
She believed in things
I'm too old to believe in,
I've just seen the Truth too many times.
When it came down to it,
I asked her to choose;
her old way of thinking or me.
Unsurprisingly, like most of us would,
she held to her old ways,
resenting me for claiming
to know something she didn't.
Viciously guarding and defending
her lie,
and if passion alone made Truth,
then she may have been right.
But she wasn't.

It may take some time.
The Pride of the Young is Infallible.
We all must fall on our own sword,
muddied and bloodied,
Over and Over
until we get it.

She chose him.

It should hurt more than it does,
but she always chose him,
so it doesn't come
as much of a surprise.

Relief more than anything else,
for now.
The silent, dark, undercurrent
of the infidelity has been present
for weeks,
with me unknowing,
unable to put my finger on it.
Subconsciously strangling.

Exposed to the light
the World shifts back into focus
Everything clearer,
shutters thrown open.

A new day dawns,
she's with him now.

And I am back with me.
All honesty, all the time.

Poem: Lord of Money

Why do so many
of This World's
financially wealthiest individuals
act in the most
morally reprehensible of Ways?

It's because the
Lord of Material Things
rules This World.
Call It The Devil,
The Lord of the Crossroads,
Shaitain, whatever.
But some of the Wealthy are It's people,
they are rewarded with cash
for doing It's bidding.
Though most of them have no idea of it,
and wouldn't believe it,
nor even care much,
if they did.

Yes... there is Karma.
For every action there is an equal
and opposite
reaction.
It is Vast.
Complicated.
Final.
In many Ages
Poverty
has been revered as Holy,
but rarely has Wealth
had such Honor.
There is a reason.

It rules This World
and tests us daily.
It's not Forever,
nor the only Force at hand.
There is Goodness too,
and Agents of Good,
among us.
There is Help at Hand.

I honor The Master,
as I pass through It's World,
my eye's marvel with all that I see.
The Pain of the Many,
the Wealth owned by One,
Ignorance and Wisdom at Play.
Forces of the Ages
reflecting their dancing,
pray tangles my mind
to their sway.
Observing my fellows
on the wheel of Samsara
Compassion,
not pity,
I Pray.

Poem: Easy

It's so easy,
to forget that I love you;
lost in the humming of frustration,
daily Angers.
Remembering days when
I didn't have you.
Days when I didn't think
I'd ever have you.
Days when your slightest attention
would brighten my world.

A long time gone from present.
Though feelings are eternal.
The wonder I feel,
in contemplation of you,
in celebration of us,
surpasses my ability to express.

Everything changes and nothing is permanent.
Even if we spent
the rest of our lives
together,
it would not be Enough.
Time would pass too quickly.
The day of Death would come too soon.

My reflowering of love for you,
today,
is immortal,
is tomorrow,
is for never.
The extent of my feelings,
so great and immaculate,
that they do not effect
the Mechanics of Disadvantage.

The Imperial Fact
that I must be alone at times,
that I often do not feel well,
that I cannot always give my Lovers
all the attentions they deserve.

A car needs maintenance,
no matter how much it is loved,
(especially an old, unique, junker like me);
Gas, oil, rotate tires, etc.
How people are no different!

Entrenched in the Physical,
steeped in the Mire,
the Muck, the Dirt,
the Earth.

Poem: I Won?

I am not used to winning.
You could say I am a sore winner...
It's just that I have been losing
for so long,
and fighting for so long.
Some battles won,
but most of the war lost,
so to say,
so to speak.

Used to fighting doggedly,
persistently,
continuously,
hand-to-mouth,
forever.
Something vital always going wrong,
to be expected even:
Houses burning down
and broken spines.

To Win so largely...
So thoroughly...
So consistently...
Is entirely out of my experience of life.
Things seem too good.
Too easy.
Too happy.

It makes no sense to me.
Though I worked for some of these goals,
I didn't really expect to win;
I never do.
Well, not for long, at least.

So I'm jumping at Shadows
making mountains out of Moles,
always expecting the next disaster,
so I can say:
"Aha! I knew it! Life sucks!"

The disaster hasn't come yet,
days keep passing.

I may have finally won this round...

Now it is time to make new goals.

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.

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.