Poem: An Ending

A strange kind of Clarity descends;
a Peace, an Emptiness, Silence.
Passionate Love,
is far off in the distance.
Sex is so foreign,
It's unknown.
The Simple Ending.
No more puzzles,
now the movie is over.
It's all well to argue
about what happens after,
but the Author get's control
of His End.
Is this True Feeling
or yet another Illusory Mask,
passing Phantom of Allure,
Debonair.
Cruelty or Crassness,
Abasement or Freedom,
the Answer to a Question,
hereto never asked before.

And though I didn't want It,
now that I am Here,
I feel the urge to pursue
the Emptiness that I've found.
It speaks to me of
Peaceful Bliss,
though filled with many Bores.
She spoke to me of all my Faults,
as I lay there
on Her floor.

Thoughts: Just Another Person

She's just another person; no better and no worse. Like me, and my Mother. Like a Drunk and a Celebrity. Just a person, a person like me.

Life is not fair. At least it seems that way so often. My love for Her, my attachment, amplifies Her pain into terrible tortures in My heart. As if I don't have enough misery. Why this Woman? Why Anyone? I must keep this in Perspective.

She seems like my All and my Everything. Her words and promises are broken so easily. Of course, We are only Human. And instead of crying over Her for another two days, two weeks, two months, or two years, I'll just have to say to myself, over and over: "She is just another person. Like me, or anyone else."

Yes, it sucks when She is in pain. But it sucks equally when I hurt too, or my Mother hurts, or my Friend Pete hurts, or Her other Lover Joban hurts, or his Mother hurts, or Anyone. We all fucking hurt. My inclination pulls me to Her pity, but Reality Yawns Large.

I love Her so much; but She's just another person. Not a Goddess, a Priestess, Witch, or gifted Psychic. Just another Person. And I can't keep treating Her whims like the Law, Her moods like the Answers. My emotional well-being must not be tied up in this other Person; It just doesn't work. Been there, tried that. Again and again and again.

My well-being must be tied to prayer, meditation, reading, writing, support, and other Practical Measures. Time wasted fighting in negativity, is bad time, ill spent. And in the End, what else do We have, but time?

Poem: Toilet Time

Sitting on the Toilet;
hope I do not boil It.
I know that was a bad Rhyme,
all I could think of at the time.
Toilet time is almost over,
then it's fields of grass and clover.
I don't often write like this,
though I must admit;
it helps me piss.

Poem: No Words

There are no words that I can write,
to describe the whirlwind inside.
The pain, the heart-ache,
broken lust, prior hopes
that now are bust.
Crazy, frightened,
sad and empty.
Wish for death,
but it's not for me.
All alone and teased by love,
as if she wants me,
then she's gone.
And I'm the dust that's left behind.
I'm the dirt and muck and grime.
I'm the fire's dirty ash,
and nothing helps,
not even cash.
Every persons empty words,
make less sense than chirping birds.
I've always known;
no help for me.
All that I do
is just
be
me.

Poem: I Did and I Didn't, A Biography of My Life

I never played the X-Box.
Or the Playstation 2.
Never gone skiing, snowboarding,
or swimming at the Lake with Friends.
Never even had many Friends.
No trips out of the Country.
No one takes care of me when I'm Sick.
All my visits to the Emergency Room
were Alone.
All of my Vacations were in my head.
If I died today,
there wouldn't be a Funeral.
I'd be burned, or tossed, with the other
Unmourned, Anonymous, Losers.
I went to a few Schools.
I published a few Articles;
nothing Big, nothing Important.
But maybe it Educated someone.
I made Love to more than a few people.
I consumed a lot of Drugs.
I Wrote a lot
and Read a lot.
Walked more than most.
Spilled a lot of Tears.
Meditated more
than the Average American.
But never attained Nirvana,
or Dhyana for that matter.
Or any kind of Peace,
which lasted for more
than forty-five minutes.
I studied a lot of Occultism
and other Weird crap
which never did anyone any good.
But it passed the Time
and vanished with my decomposing brain.
I made more than a few Bums,
Rejects, and Homeless People smile;
made them feel like
they weren't such pieces of shit
after all.
I never reproduced; I'm grateful for that.
I never flew First Class,
or drove an Expensive Car.
Never had a Masseuse.
Never worked at the same job
for longer than a year.
I was never able to keep a Savings Account,
always running out of money.
Never spent an entire week
eating out at Restaurants.
And though I mostly cooked my own food,
I never really learned how to cook
more than two or three things very well.
I never owned an Expensive Suit,
or a really nice pair of shoes.
I never Cheated on a Lover,
though a few Cheated on me.
Also never cheated in School,
though a few Schools cheated me.
I owed a lot of Debts I didn't pay,
but never to a friend.
I never slept with a friend's ex-Lover,
though I had a few offers.
I got Tattoo's,
but not all the one's I wanted.
And No, I never regretted getting them.
Never stabbed a friend in the back,
but like I already said,
I never really had that many.
Not for long, at least.
I sold my Body for Sex a few times,
and only regret it mildly.
But I wouldn't do it again.
I lived on Welfare and Disability.
I never Surfed, Scuba-Dived, or Snorkeled.
I went to a lot of AA meetings
and graduated from eight Rehabs
before I was Thirty.
I lived in Homeless Shelters,
under bridges, in abandoned buildings,
on people's couches, in Cheap Hotels,
but I grew up in Mansions.
I was on T.V. as a child;
my face and voice transmitted across the World.
My Father hit me a lot.
And a more than a few times left bruises.
My Mother lied for him
and taught me to lie for him also.
Terrorized as a Child.

I never did a lot of things,
that people do for fun.
I experienced a lot of pains,
anxieties, depressions, repressions,
cages, tortures, silent agonies,
heartbreaking cruelties;
I could just keep writing words,
but they'd never really get there.
I hope the Next Life is Better.
And that, in the End,
I spread more Love,
than the Pain
I received.

Poem: Mother's Surgery

My Mother's in the Hospital;
Surgery for a broken hip.
I can't even afford to visit her.
What kind of Son am I?

The day will come
when She will die.
No longer will I be able to rely
on her sporadic
giftcards and money
in the mail.

Pathetic, poor, and weak,
I am.
Everything
my Father predicted.

I'm terrified
to be alone.
Though it feels like
I always have been.

My Mother's in the Hospital;
Surgery for a broken hip.
At least,
that's what
they tell me.

Poeem: Anatomy of a Relationship

What is a relationship,
if not the uniting of two people,
into one?
"Making the beast with two backs,"
it's called.
Unity.
And Love.

Once United thus:
To harm one,
is to harm both.
To steal from one,
is to steal from both.
To make love to one...
Well...
To make love to one,
is to destroy the Union,
which existed beforehand.
To add to the Union,
creating a Trinity.
Or to siphon from the Union,
secretly, poisonously.
Stealing from the Love,
the Union
created.

The spoiled children of today
know little
of Unity.
Selfish;
They care only for Self-Pleasure.
Two people, together, both
"getting their rocks off."
This, they call "love."
"Sick," is what I call it.
Diseased, immature.

True Union
is a blessed thing.
Where the sum
of it's parts
are far greater
than the whole.
A power,
created from the Love,
as if from Nowhere,
which blesses the two Lovers.
Protecting them,
making them to feel
the whole world
is at their command.
Simply there,
for their pleasure.
And it is.

For the Vampires,
there is never enough.
Their sex is not fulfilling.
What they do in private
"should not matter"
to their lover.
Always viewing themselves
as alone, apart.
They need more, more,
more.
More attention,
more people,
more friends,
more affection.
It will never be enough.

Goddess let me be
as a Lover in your Garden.
The snake is always reveled
in it's secretive, selfish, bite.

Poem: Self-Pity Opera

A Master of Heart-Ache;
It's me, that I dub so.
Sadness, depression,
the depths of despair.
These have I known
and invoked
in my years.
The opposite too,
the warmth of sweet Love...
But only too briefly,
compared to above.

The last love I had,
who I'm now in despair for.
Christian,
her name,
in this life.
I loved her so much,
that I offered her marriage.
Not joking,
I offered,
my life.
She thought I was kidding,
(or maybe she wished so)
for she loved her Ex
more than me.
And needing to leave her,
I just couldn't stand it,
her sleeping with him,
not with me.

My current depression,
the heart-ache, the lonely.
I know it
from feelings
before.
Before there was Christian,
was six years of Sadness.
From Ruby,
my lover,
before.

And during that Darkness
were many
fine people.
Who offered
their love
up to me.
But all I could see
was my own dark Depression,
it was,
the one way,
I could be.

Before there was Ruby,
was Natalie,
too,
and the Sadness,
which came,
with her flight.
Drinking
and crying
and writing her letters;
Night after night,
after night.

Yet still before that,
was the loss of my Mother,
my House, my Inheritance,
my All.
She gave up my Future,
to some new Abuser,
who cared about me,
not at all.

Even before that,
I cried from confusion,
from the pain,
that was crippling,
my spine.
Anger supreme
at my filthy rich Father,
who refused
to help
make it fine.

But before my back,
came a series
of Lovers:
Older, and sexy,
refined.
All of those beauties
with one thing
in common;
they used me,
but just,
for one time.

When too young to date,
I suffered in silence,
Abused by my father,
and Ma.
I always imagined,
the day I'd be grown up,
and not have to deal
with it all.

And now that I'm grown up,
those dreams are unrealized;
At thirty
I feel
like a child.
And all of those joys,
that I knew in my life;
Compared to the pain,
are quite mild.

Poem: The Ugly Butterfly

Please vent
somewhere else;
I am your
whipping boy,
no more.

You picked another,
slept in his bed.
Now pick on me,
no more.

You've lashed at me,
injected your poison.
As long
as I can take.

And now there's nothing
left of you;
Just pages
filled
with hate.

I send you love,
you send me shit.
You're just too blind
to see.

The person who has left
is you.
I've always
just been
me.

Poem: My People

A drop in the Ocean.
This poem has been written before.
By me, by others,
in other times, in other languages.
In fact, it's being written right now,
by somebody else,
somewhere,
who feels the same
as me.

The joy of youth has fled.
The purity of ignorance soiled.
Remaining is the dirty toilet
of myself.
Which I keep trying to clean.
But there is no return
to Innocence.

Where are the joyful adults?
Them that live and laugh and love?
I do not see them near.
There are the scared,
the suppressed,
the hiding,
the repressed,
the pretenders,
the defenders,
the parents,
the drunks,
the lairs,
and the rest:
Treading water
and trying to "survive."
Artistic parasites,
living off the ignorance
of the wealthy,
who will never know
the pain of
"not enough."

Where are the Grown-Ups who know?
The Adults who are?
The people that need
nothing more...
than Themselves?

Poem: Mascha

My Russian Princess
who gave
without asking.
The Dream
in my time
of Darkness.

I see you again.

Last night I prayed
to be sent a Lover
like you.
The Angels outdid themselves,
and there you are:
Causing me to shake
and panic,
a flood of memories
washing over me
like the Ocean.

Repeating your name
out loud,
"Mascha."
I don't know why.
Reminded of
Frank Sinatra,
somehow;
Your memory
lovely
and loud.

I was in bad straights
when I last saw you,
though you never
judged me
for it.

In later years
I tried to find you.
Invisible,
it was not time.
"Mascha."
Repeating your name,
"Mascha."
Letting the tide of emotions
flow over me.
You are a powerful Drug,
to this Addict,
My Russian Princess.

I must take this slow...
like a Potter,
I would not like to break it
into shards.

Poem: Nervous Agony

Heart-Beating,
Sweating,
Hyperventilating,
Hate.
"Ignore the one's who bother you.
They will always be there;
We must forgive."
Not running from all
which bothers.

They call it "Panic"
and "Anxiety."
Fear infusing veins.
Running for years
and sitting in tears,
there must be an ending,
some day.

It's taken my youth,
has robbed me of chances,
it gave me excuses,
for ill-thought romances.

I could just go on,
with my running and rhyming,
but perhaps it's time
to learn
how to stay.