Poem: Property Manager

With flat eyes like a Reptile
It stands before me;
all my words deaf to it's ear sockets.
With snarls and spite
the creature foams in it's rage at me.
No communication here,
no compromise or debate.
My purpose is peace
and a home free of sickness.
It's purpose is stopping me
from any of my desires.
No thought in it's head.
No feelings in it's chest-cavity.
Even when our goals are the same,
It would wound it's own flesh,
just to spit in my eye.
Turn the other cheek
and
love thy neighbor
I believe.

But this Lousy Cunt
has it out for my Nuts.

Poem: Connections on the Cadeuxis

Sex makes my back hurt.
Laying in bed makes my back hurt.
I like laying in bed.
I love having sex.
I'm too young to have these issues;
But wait, I have them-
I must not be too young after all.
Walking helps my back feel better...
though I'm often very tired.
Stretching is supposed to make my back feel better,
(but really I don't notice the difference).

In this way, One is forced to walk.
And often.
In this way,
One may legitimately fear
that an end to sex
may one day be near.

Sex and pain,
relaxing and pain.
It doesn't seem right
for them to be connected.

Thirty-years-old,
One walks with a cane.
Barely an adult,
One is a slave to medications,
monthly Doctor visits,
hours of waiting at Pharmacies.
Literally unable to function
without this Trinity:
Two snakes intertwined
around a winged staff
indeed!
Their intertwining is my imprisonment.
Their venom is my medicine.
The wings on the staff
is the benefits One receives
from the Medical Trinity.

The staff is the instrument
which administers blows
to the patient,
as well as a permanent reminder
of the pain One would be in without
the Doctors.
A Medical Prisoner.
One never dreamed to be this way.
Not "Free" at all.
By any sense of the word.
No Thailand for a Medical Prisoner.
Not without Medicine, a Cane,
and a secret stash in case of theft.
Documents too,
to prove the need to transfer medicines
across National Borders.

Oh yes, not "Free"
by any sense of the word.

Poem: Insomnia #31

Nighttime comes again.
The same nighttime I've known most of my life.
Not the drowsy-sleeping,
tucked-in and dreamy-time night.
The Other Night.
The Night where I am so tired.
The Night where I am exhausted.
The Night where no matter what I do
I can't sleep.
The extra eight hours that I am awake
while most people sleep;
So even people the same age as me
have not lived as many hours awake.
Too tired to read, but I can smoke.
Every cigarette costing me 40 cents;
Burning up money, all night long.
The night where I drink "sleepy time" teas
and eat cereal, but it only makes me
pee and poop more.
Just more things to keep me awake.
Watching movies and worried.
No, certain actually,
about how tired I will be tomorrow.
Feeling the psychic stillness in the air,
the empty space of cities at rest.
But not me.
No, not me.
To me that sacred rest is forbidden.
I still don't know why.
I have guesses, suppositions,
but as long as I remember
I've been this way.
Oh, there have been times...
brief, grace-filled times of rest.
Exhaustion from boisterous sex,
or the brief effects of a new medication.
But it never lasts.
It always comes back to this.
Me, alone, awake, wishing I could sleep.
No drugs left for me now.
All that remains is to take it,
take it as best I can.
Watch videos, write, pray,
and meditate.
Turn on NPR and listen
to the droning voices talking
babbling aimlessly into the dawn.

Poem: Freedom/Prisons

Freedom is not self-sustaining.
"A Double-Edged Sword," Parson's called it.
He was not wrong.
Left on it's own
it degenerates into Anarchy.
Sloppiness, Addiction, and eventually,
Total Imprisonment.
Many Prisoners would call Freedom "imprisonment."
Not unjustly, I think.
It requires repetition, dedication,
some discipline, support of others,
and even moderation...
Who would have thought.

As an Idealistic Youth I imagined
"Freedom"
as living without rules,
indulging without limit,
having access to infinite financial resources
without needing to do anything for them.
Action without consequence.
Everything is permitted,
nothing is sacred.

That "Freedom" led me to
the greatest imprisonment I've ever known;
Mental, Emotional, Physical.

The "Freedom" I now possess,
I would never have called so.
All my actions have consequence.
The best way to get
is to give.
My mental and emotional bondage
is cured by actions;
Meditation, Prayer, Writing,
Uniting with others.
These actions are repetitive,
these actions take energy and discipline.
My physical pain and bondage is cured
by actions:
Stretching, walking, moving,
when I often want to just stay in bed.
These actions take energy,
these actions take discipline.

I am still free to choose.
I can stay in bed,
or take drugs to ease my pain,
but that only leads to imprisonment to drugs.
Only exercise is the road
to Physical Freedom.

I am still free to choose.
Stop meditating, stop prayer,
stop uniting with others;
Staying alone in my room
growing more resentful,
alone, and depressed,
anxious, angry, and hurt,
every day.
A Prisoner to my pain.
Only Spirituality is my road
to Mental and Emotional Freedom.
Meditation takes work,
but so too does misery.

Freedom seems like work.
Freedom IS work.
But not as much as misery.

Freedom is a two-edged sword;
One side is Freedom,
the other side is Responsibility.
I know I sound "old,"
maybe even "boring."
But really I don't care.
I've had enough pain in my life;
I'm ready to wield the sword.

Poem: Like Wishing

Sleep is for the Lucky,
Sleep is for the Blessed,
Sleep is for the One's.
not me,
who live Their Lives the Best.

Resting is a thing I did
when I was drunk or stoned:
Young,
not-knowing how carefree,
when I was all Alone.
I don't remember quite the Time
when I could sleep at night,
don't remember when I lost It,
how I stopped the Fight.
Sleep is like the Highest Hill;
Unreachable and Far.
A Thing I've longed for naturally,
like wishing on a star.

Poem: Others

Leaving the bed is hard;
until pain forces me to.
Leaving the house is hard;
until insanity-driven lonliness
drives me out.
Or hunger.
Days that are the same.
Same as other days which came before.
Days of boredom,
days of constriction.
A noose the perfect metaphor.
Walking in place,
perceptions are not perfect,
peace is not always truth,
and discomfort may be helpful.

All things pass.

We fall down until
we are too old and weak
to pick ourselves up.
When I say "we"
I mean "me,"
but it makes me feel better
to imagine
there are others.

Poem: Dreamon Hunger

The same nightmare again:
sleeping in a demonic Frat-house,
half there/half awake.
I choose there
and wake up in poverty
to be teased, insulted, implications
that I don't give enough.
I go into the next room
where the fattest, loudest,
Mocker
makes fun of me.
I gather the courage to talk back to him,
saying that _he_ is obnoxious, etc.
He nods enthusiastically, seeming to enjoy this.
I'm grabbed from behind by a younger (brother?)
version of the mocker.
His restraining arms are thick
with long, chipped, red fingernails-
like my mother's.
I ask Mocker #1 why he restrains me
and #1 says in a gravelly inhuman voice,
"I think he likes your ears."
and laughter.
I cannot get free, but I remember
this is not my room,
I live alone,
and force myself to wake up.

What were they?
Ghosts of my room?
Demons of my own making?
My right arm is going numb now.
But I don't like repetitive dreams;
especially bad ones.