Repost: Holliday Letters Between a Father and his Son

Holliday Letters Between a Father and His Only Son

Letter #1 From Son to Father:

"Hi Dad,

Merry ChanuKwanzMas and Happy New Year! Your Dentist keeps sending me these Dental Reminders. I've emailed back telling him that you make all my appointments with him and they should be emailing you, but he keeps emailing me, so I thought I'd just forward it along so you can either schedule one for me or remind him to stop emailing me. Wishing you all the very best!

Love,

John jr."

Letter #1 From Father to Son:

"Just remove yourself from the e mails. You would not like a father who beat you your whole life to pay for your dental work, because then you could not play your academy award winning role of 'THE VICTUM'.

John Q. Doe"

Letter #2 from Son to Father:

"I wasn't asking for a father (and even if I was, it's a little late now; I'm all grown up), I was asking for an email removal or action regarding a Dentist that you were recently sending me to and paying for; Nothing more, nothing less. I apologize if you misunderstood.

I'm 31 now, Dad. Technically you only beat me for about 1/4 of my life, but that's in the distant past for me. I'm truly sorry that it is still very present for you. I love you very much despite your sadly ongoing mental war with me, despite our past, I can't help it (though sometimes I wish I could), blood is thicker than water.

But anyways, this was just about a simple email request, not your resentment towards me or what I view as ancient history. I hope one day you can view it as the same. I have asked to be removed, but I'll try again. Thanks for responding so fast and again Have a happy New Year!

John jr

P.S. Did it ever occur to you that YOU may be acting out 'THE VICTIM' (misspelled by you)? You are acting out the role of the poor father who did everything he could for his messed up lying kid who says that the poor victim father abused him, when really the father was wonderful. Poor, poor, father, to be stuck with such a bad child. Bad from birth. Nothing the son did was the Father's fault! The Father did everything he could, but the Boy was just born bad and always was mean to the Father?

You have given me some good advice over the years (and some bad advice), maybe you should turn your eye towards yourself one day?

P.P.S. Whether you believe it or not I FORGIVE YOU for the way you treated me as a child. You did the best that you knew how to do at the time and you provided for the family very well financially. Even if you never forgive me for whatever it is that is still sticking in your craw about me; I STILL FORGIVE YOU.

Letter #3 from Father to Son

"YOU are as crazy as your mother, your both idiots.

John Q. Doe"

Letter #3 from Son to Father

"Again, your grammar is a bit mistaken Dad. Your letter should read 'You're both idiots,' as in the contraction 'You are,' rather than 'your' which refers to possession.

My mother is a teacher and a published author who has won awards for her work. She definitely has her mental faults and she is definitely a little crazy, but she is no idiot. I love her, I'm very proud of her, and the fact that you, my father, think it's appropriate to speak to me about my mother that way shows the truth of your character and ability as a father; Ugly.

As for me I've been scoring as a Genius on every Academic test I have ever taken and though I may be a bit crazy (everyone is), I'm certainly not an idiot. If you were able to understand my published works you would see that. My readers are some of the smartest people in the world and their compliments mean a lot more than the resentful insults of my senior citizen father. Your opinion of me ceased to matter a long time ago, you might as well keep it to yourself.

I feel sorry for you that you can only communicate by means of insults, but I guess that's one of the reason's we don't communicate much. Despite your venom, I'm also proud of you and the work that you've done; Building yourself up from nothing and the legacy of buildings you will leave on the earth and the pages of Architectural Digest after you go (Until they are inevitably torn down). Goodbye for now Dad. I hope next time I hear from you, you are a little nicer.

On a side note: It's a very odd and ironic feeling for me to suddenly find that our situation is now reversed; For once I am the adult and you are the angry child. You once told me that people age like wine and from what I read, you sound like Sour Grapes. That's too bad. You can say all the mean things you want, it only reflects on your character, not mine, and certainly not my mother's. Those words are wasted on me; I don't even hear them any more.

But before you die, in the distant future, (since I don't anticipate your attitude changing before then, though I pray) I just wanted to make sure I set the record straight. That I forgive you. That I love you.
Goodbye.

Letter #4 from Father to Son

"The fact that you would respond to me proves that you are an idiot.

John Q. Doe"

Letter #4 from Son to Father

"Touche! And the fact that you write me back proves...?"

Poem: The Waiting of My Life

Feeling trapped
time is just passing.
A room, routines,
pissing, pills,
and shopping for food.

A lover, so tough,
she can't even stand
on her own two feet.
Each time I love her
I lend her my shoulder,
dragging me further down
on my very slow climb out.
Up and out
of the dirty prison
The conditions of my Life.

My Health, my Poverty,
my Loneliness, my Pain.
The only answers come from me
She does not offer any.
Just time pleasantly spent
or time tortuously wasted.

She doesn't see
what I see.
Doesn't understand
what I understand.
For all the time I spend with her:
It takes twice as long to recover.

And for all the time
I try to help her,
she tries to help me none.
"So don't try to help me,"
she says in my head,
but that's not my definition
of Love.

For my Life to change
I'm the only one to do it;
No lottery, no family,
no helpers, no miracles.
Just the Power
of my Choices:
Do I work
or go to school?
Or keep sitting on my butt
doing fuck-all,
but get worse.

My life slows down spiraling.
The waiting of my Life.

Poem: Waiting and Love

There's a Love and an affection,
a Worshiping;
I'm told to wait
and I wait.
And I keep waiting.
And I keep loving.
And then I'm tired.
Tired of loving
and getting nothing in return.
Tired of loving
and being ignored.
And then they are ready.
Ready to receive my Loving
and Love me back;
but I'm Empty.
Out of Love.
Used up and tossed aside,
feeling like I have nothing left
to give.
And they kiss me
and they touch me
Finally.
What I've been wanting all morning.
But I have nothing left to give.
I feel empty.
Worse, I feel pouty
and Sad.
I don't want to feel this way,
but I do.
I wait for it to stop,
not knowing
if it will.

Poem: Texts, Tears, Tales...

She texts me again.
To tell me she "misses me,"
too.
She has sen the Poem about her
on my Blog;
The one I called
"I Miss Her."

I've told her before
not to mistake my blog
for "Truth."
Explaining it's only "Poetry."
only "Art."
She's never listened.

The last time we communicated
I told her never to email,
write,
or text to me,
ever again.
But she could phone
or visit
if she felt she wanted to.
In fact, I've told her,
asked her,
and begged her
many times
not to text me at all.
She's never listened before.

Against my "instincts",
my "better judgment,"
the advice of others,
my pride and self-esteem.
Pulled by my Blind-Heart,
loneliness,
habit,
and sleeplessness...
I texted her back,
wanting to know
the Only 3 Things
which she could tell me
that would make me Happy:

(1)First, that she had found good Doctors
who were prescribing her good, working, medicines;
for her painful medical problems.

(2)Second,
that she was taking her Medications as prescribed,
that they were enough,
that she no longer needed to go "outside" the Medical System
for relief.

And (3)Third,
the most painful to me personally.
That she had realized how unhealthy
her chronic ex-lover Jason was.
The Jason who she once "Loved more than me."
The Jason she had lied to me for.
The Jason who had abused her
over and over and over:
That she had finally realized he was bad for her.
That she had finally found the power
and self-respect
to cut him out of
her life forever.

The only answer I got was number (3) Three,
ignoring my questions (2) and (1):
"Jason and she are still 'platonic' friends."

The kick to my stomach.

She texts again:
"Can we talk on the phone?"

.
.
.

"If you call, I will answer."
I replied
after praying
after meditating.
(Though I wanted
to hear her voice so badly,
to see her, so badly.
To be inside her,
smell her again!
All of it, so badly).

I prepared myself for her call, waiting for hours.
Finally she texted again:
"I've wanted to call you so badly for the last two months,
that I'm too choked up to call right now...
give me a little time to rest."

Me texting, "OK."

Hours more of painful waiting for her.
Proud that no tears had come.
Amazed, really,
that I wasn't falling apart,
like I used to...

Finally it was nighttine,
time for me to sleep.
She didn't call.
My wish for something New with her was falling apart.
Everything was Old, so Old all over again.
Debating myself to send another text,
realizing I never should have answered the first one.
I went on with our sick, old, game:
"I will be going to bed soon, FYI," I texted,
"After all we've been through,
I don't care if you are crying,
or out of it, just call me please...
if you want to."

Her text came fast back to me:
"I just woke up, I'm still a little tired,
I hope you have a wonderful sleep
and sweet, sweet, dreams.
I love you and miss you,
but you can call me whenever you want,
if you feel like it,
Goodnight."

.
.
.

Illusion shattered in me
like a rock through a stained-glass window.

It had been a trick,
the same old trick,
and I'd fallen for it again.
Just like I'd used to.
She never was going to call me,
just manipulation games
to see how I'd respond.

My Final Text:
"I am not ready to communicate with you again.
I am willing/wanting to talk to you if you call.
Besides that, nothing has changed between us.
Thank you for your texts. My best."

Sadness in the pit of my stomach,
but no tears, no blame, no self pity.
Slightly amazed at the
Serenity and Clarity
I feel toward the incident.
I thought (prayed) that I got away unscathed.

But lying in bed, sleep did not come.
Eventually getting back up, puttering around,
meditating and praying for hours,
doing rituals I hadn't done in years;
Anything to keep me from the old pain
she brings.

Finally collapsing, fully dressed, on my bed,
Around 5:AM; I wake up again at 9:AM,
surprised by my pleasant dreams.
I still hope she finds the Courage to call.
I still pray, if she does, that I have the Security,
to Forgive her for everything past,
That my words to her will be filled
only with Truth and Love,
not with Resentment.
Praying that she will hear me.

I cannot force her to understand.
I cannot make her to respect my wishes and boundaries.
I cannot, though I want to so badly,
make her choose her friends wisely.
Rather than just accepting, whoever sticks to her.

All I can do is to wait and to work.
Wait to see if she get's better,
work on making myself better
in the meantime.
The proof of these words
is the Love I still have for her,
manifesting not in Tears and Self-Pity,
but in Patience,
and Acceptance,
of Reality.

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.

Poem: Day or Night

Evening falls and I feel relieved.
Night means the day is almost over
and I made it through another one again.
Even though night is
the worst time for me,
the scariest time for me,
the loneliest time for me.
I'm not sure when it happened,
but lately I've been scared
to go to sleep at night.
I've always been scared of Insomnia;
Always been cursed with Insomnia.
Now, I'm scared to sleep,
scared to Dream.
I sleep during the day, now,
enjoying my naps,
while fighting my guilt
for bringing the night closer.
The night I dread
and look forward to
simultaneously.
As the night wares on
I fear the coming day.
The day I'll be exhausted from the night.
But how can one force oneself to sleep?
I can't.
The fear never ends:
Day or Night.
But evening always relieving,
dawn always too soon.
Loneliness makes more sense at night,
it's easier to make excuses for.
Alone all day;
the Sun melts any excuse,
exposing my meager,
lonely,
fearful, existence,
for all it's worth.
The pit in my stomach that asks,
"Where's my friends,
where's my lovers,
where's my life,
what should I do?"
No answers echo back at me,
from my small, white, walls.
Time passes.

Poem: Puzzle

There's a puzzle in my mind
that I think of all the time,
where the pieces do not fit
and I sometimes can't stand it,
but the pieces are my life
and I'm blessed with little strife,
so I settle down to write
it's my only way to fight,
at the madness that I see
and the way it consumes me,
nothing lost and nothing gained,
so my life will stay the same,
but I pray to God for change,
as I'm looking for the Way,
but there's nothing more to say,
I am Mute.
Waiting for time to pass;
My Only Answer.

Poem: Our Stew

The Stew is Stirred;
it's not ready, yet.
The meat still pink and raw.
The chef refuses
to clean the shrimp,
throw away their shells,
clear their intestinal tracts
of Shit.
Though we are both hungry,
now,
some would say starving.
I know better than to eat
raw stew.
Having wretched it before,
broken-hearted and puking
for months.
Stirring the Stew;
Smelling what wafts to the surface.
Looking for an excuse to eat it,
to taste it even.
But no, I'm too Old for that.
Damn Old.
And this Old Body can't afford
any more sickness.
Starving or hungry,
it matters not.
Bitterly Old; I know too much.
Keep cooking,
young chef,
keep cooking.
Let me know
when you're done
with our Stew.

Poem: I Miss Her Still

I Miss Her Still;
Maybe I Always Will.
Out of Nowhere
I Burst
into Tears.

Though it's been Half a Year
It's my still deepest Fear
that we'll Never
be Together
again.

I Remember Eight Months,
with My Throat Full of Lumps;
When She Wouldn't
or Couldn't
See Me.
And Despite All the Others,
my numerous lovers,
it was Her
I Most Wanted
to See.

Then There was The Year
That I Ran From my Fear
And a Dollar Each Tear,
I'd Be Rich.

But the Truth Still Remains
That Together We're Pains;
While I act a Prick,
She's a Bitch.

So I'll Dream in My Soul,
That Before We Grow Old:
She'll Be Selfless,
I'll Be Healthy,
We'll Be Married,
We'll Be Wealthy.
And I Pray
My Tears Turn
Into Gold.

List: 14 Reasons Why Noam Chomsky is a Member of the Illuminati

*Look, I love Noam Chomsky's writings, mind, speeches, and works. Never-the-less, the more I think about him (and the seemingly negligible effect he has had on world politics), the more his words and actions don't quite seem to match up. And so in honor of "Questioning Reality," I bring you*

14 Reasons Why Noam Chomsky is a Member of the Illuminati:

1. He holds a teaching position at a major American Academic Institution (and has for years); MIT, Linguistics Chair. They've got him by the balls!

2. He is the only major public figure who explains the dynamics of modern day World Politics as they really are, clearly and succinctly... Yet no other major public figures act on what he says, even though he is universally recognized as a brilliant academic.

3. Although Chomsky is brilliant at deconstructing and explaining the true motives of Nation-States, The Military, Global Corporate Powers, etc. He is content to write book after book and give explanations to small-audience Public Radio programs; He refuses to join any group who radically fights for change or tenaciously try to spread his message to the greater public (Of course not, it might threaten his position at MIT and invite reprisals from the Powerful Elites he is reporting on).

4. He conducted part of his doctoral research during four years at Harvard University as a Harvard Junior Fellow; A school well-known as a recruiting area for the CIA, Counsel of Foreign Relations, and other Illuminati fronts.

5. Chomsky is often called "The Father of Modern Day Linguistics," a science which has arguably been used more to oppress other nations/peoples than to free them.

6. He has children and relatives whom he loves; These are liabilities which the Illuminati can use to threaten/manipulate him.

7. He often receives undercover police protection, in particular while on the MIT campus, although he says he does not agree with the police protection (more evidence of his ability to do one thing while "agreeing" with another as well as a way for his Illuminati Masters to keep track of him and make sure he doesn't "step out of line").

8. He was on a list of planned targets created by Theodore Kaczynski, better known as the Unabomber; Kaczynski's connection to covert government mind-control programs has been well documented, though not widely reported. Chomsky's name on this list stand outs as Odd, when compared to the other names, and of course Chomsky never was actually attacked by Kaczynski.

9. As a Theoretical/Experimental Psychologist Chomsky's research has done more to enable Illuminati propagandists and brain-butchers to manipulate populations than he has to frustrate them. "Chomsky laid out an explanation of human language faculties that has become the model for investigation in some areas of psychology. Much of the present conception of how the mind works draws directly from ideas that found their first persuasive author of modern times in Chomsky." To whit, Chomsky sadly cares more about research than what the results of that research can be used for. Einstein had something to say about this after the Atom Bomb.

10. Chomsky declares himself widely and proudly as an "Anarchist" despite his life-long involvement, leadership, and participation in Repressive Institutions. This is an oxymoron and creates cognitive dissonance. He consistently and eloquently states the problems with the World Politics, then rarely-if-ever offers solutions. This only serves to further depress Anarchists everywhere. Can you think of a single other well-known, society-approved, Anarchist?

11. Chomsky has received many honorary degrees from universities around the world, including from the following (Many of which are well known Illuminati Grounds): University of London, University of Chicago, Loyola University of Chicago, Swarthmore College, University of Delhi, Bard College, University of Massachusetts, University of Pennsylvania, Georgetown University, Amherst College, University of Cambridge, University of Buenos Aires, McGill University, Universitat Rovira i Virgili, Columbia University, Villanova University, University of Connecticut, University of Maine, Scuola Normale Superiore, University of Western Ontario, University of Toronto, Harvard University, Universidad de Chile, University of Bologna, Universidad de la Frontera, University of Calcutta, Universidad Nacional de Colombia, Vrije Universiteit Brussel, Santo Domingo Institute of Technology, Uppsala University, University of Athens, University of Cyprus, Central Connecticut State University, National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM)

12. Chomsky spent time in 1953 living in HaZore'a, a kibbutz in Israel. Asked in an interview whether the stay was "a disappointment" Chomsky replied, "No, I loved it." Some Kibbutz's are fertile recruiting areas for young prospective Illuminati members.

13. Chomsky's language and concepts are often so advanced or couched in terminology so complicated that they are completely inaccessible to the poor, uneducated, and immigrant communities. The exact communities who would pose the greatest threat to the Illuminati, if they could understand what Chomsky was saying.

14. Remember the Illuminati's primary motto and means is: "Divide and Conquer!" That is, have control of the leaders (both Political leaders and Opinion Leaders) of ALL sides; Thus with the ability to play all sides of the ideological spectrum off the others at will, no matter who wins, The Illuminati wins. Can you think of a better, more ineffectual leader of "The Anarchists" than Noam Chomsky?

Think about it...

Poem: Lovers and Parents Gone

She's a soft and hollow memory,
Every breath further away.
My Missing unchanged,
but farther,
distant.
The Love hasn't changed,
but the Absence
makes it Bearable.
Somehow my heart's
Missing
of old Lovers
is intertwined with the pain
of my Parents;
Their past and present
Abuse
still Unforgiven.
This lack of Forgiveness
causes me Pain,
no matter how Justifiable
their Guilt.
Perhaps my Lovers need Forgiveness, too.
The Pain of their Absence,
The Pain of their...
Not Understanding Me Enough,
The Pain of their Not...
Loving
Me Enough.
In the end it seems
the Crime's the same;
Lover and Parent.
Not Enough Love.
The Answer?
The healing ointment balm,
Forgiveness.
Such an easy word to say,
Not always an easy thing to do.
Gods know I've been trying for years.
But blotting it out
only makes the Pain stronger,
while Facing It brings me to tears.
So tears it will be
and tears it will stay.
Until the rains of my salty waters
turn into healing.
And the Pain
recedes
into dust.

Thoughts: Food Poisioning, The Perfect Crime.

How many places did you eat at in the last few days? How many different types of food did you eat out of your fridge or other peoples fridge? If you got deeply, gut-wrenching, vomit-all-over-the-floor, sick food-poisoning; would you know for sure where you got it from?

I'd never thought that deeply on the subject until I worked as a dishwasher at a Fancy Restaurant and saw how sloppy, disgusting, and frankly careless the other dishwashers, waiters, and even Chef's took their job. Mostly everyone was too rushed to really pay attention to cleanliness, and really, not that many cases of food poisoning win in court. Why? Because it's nearly impossible to prove! You'd have to eat at the same Burger King every single day for a whole month, with no snacks in between, to prove that they might have poisoned you. And even then, could it have been the toothpaste you used or some chemical in the air of your house?

I guess the point I'm getting at is that today's "modern" society is based on a lot more Trust in our common human beings than most people like to think about. It only takes a few of the proverbial "someone-pooped-in-the-refried-beans-at-Taco-Bell" stories before the average person never wants to think about it again; but we all have to eat. Not only that, but most of us have to rely on an army of unknown people daily, who we trust, are not poisoning our food or any of the ingredients in it. Because if they were, there is not a damn thing we could do about it.

"But what about the FDA (Food and Drug Administration), or AC (Agricultural Committee), and other Government Agencies? Aren't they watching out for us? Don't they keep our food safe?" My answer to that is "ha, ha, ha. As if." A few intelligent counties and cities (like Los Angeles, California) have instituted programs where they inspect restaurants randomly and give them ratings which are posted for the customer to see and this is a good start, but any teenager knows how to clean their room on inspection day and keep it filthy the rest of the time.

In the end, all I'm saying is, if you are looking to hurt someone, look no further than the food supply. And if all you wealthy people out there think there is nothing better than being served food by the poor, I urge you to think again. It's a lot easier to piss on your salad than it is to successfully lobby for fairer wages.

Poem: Another Holliday

Look at
All the Happy People,
going out for fun.
An evening spent
with friends and lovers,
at night on the run.
They watch the colors in the sky,
they dance, they drink, and laugh.
For this one night
of spending money,
caring not for math.

I watch them
from my little room,
my eyes through slitted blinds.
And no matter
where I look,
no reason
can I find.
What is the reason I'm alone,
while many bunch for joy?
What feelings beat,
inside their souls,
are lacking,
from this boy?

Their instincts tell them:
"Be together!"
"Dance beneath the sky!"
And as the crowds
keep passing me,
all I can say's
"Goodbye."

Will there
one day
be a group?
With me,
a one,
inside?
Or will I spend
the rest of life,
just me,
just one,
alive?

There was a time,
when I was young,
this was no sore for me.
But now I'm old,
the time has passed,
for this old man to be.

Another Holiday is passed,
while I am still alone.
No group,
no love,
no celebration,
no one on the phone.

Poem: Letters From Mother

My Email should not be my Enemy.
Letters from Mother, causing Pain in my Heart;
Living, pulsing, pain.
"I'm too old to still be hurt by words," I think,
knowing all the while it's not true.
Mother rarely cared about Me.
Mostly she cared about the dillusions
she made in her head.
Pictures of a "happy family."
No, she never tried to commit suicide,
when I was a baby.
Not to get away from the cruel fists
of my Father.
No, she never broke promise,
after promise, after promise,
after promise, after promise,
to Me.
For as long as I can remember:
The Promise-Breaking Mother,
The Liar Mother,
The Selfish Mother.
Her only reparation was
Money or Toys.
No apology.
No respect.
No validation.
No freedom for Me.
Money or Toys?
I got to pick one,
as a child,
but as an Adult?
Nothing.
But a Mother who keeps her word?
Well,
it's too late for that,
now.
A Mother who cares more about Me,
than whatever drunk penis
she is dating at the time?
Sorry, son, it's too late.
Yes, I hear the anger in my words.
Feel the warm, salty, tears on my face.
For all her Abuse and imperfections,
Biology demands that I love her.
So I do.
So I have to remain Celibate;
Dare not to repeat
her mistakes.

Poem: Used

If there is an "It,"
then I do not have it.
I used to have it,
but somehow I lost it.
While one day I'm surfing
on top of The Wave,
the next day I'm drowning;
No life to be saved.
When once there was something
I wanted to do,
now I'm just wondering
how I got screwed.
The older I get;
the less I become,
The smaller I shrink.
into The Beyond.

Poem: I Hope You Don't Worry

I sit alone in my four walls: Writing as the last resort.
Ear too bloody; accidents happen while sober too.
Imagining years of loneliness,
getting dirtier and filthier, more soiled and putrid.
Feeling the noose of Self-Pity
closing around my brain and heart.
Some part of me saying that
"I've been here before,
that tomorrow will be better",
then I will be here, again.

But my hand hurts, as I hold this pen,
which hasn't happened before.
I'm getting older,
my body is falling apart too soon.
If I want to stay a writer,
I'll have to start typing,
or getting bigger paper
and pen.

"It's not fair," I think again.
Just as I used to say to my Father,
as he was beating me.
"Life isn't fair," he'd yell,
and hit me again harder.
I disagreed with him, then,
but the older I get,
the more I agree.
I think I see his point.
As my body begins to fall apart.
As the whole World seems to shit it's pants with
Wars, Riots, Oil-Spills, and Etc.
My Father was right,
and maybe if I'd understood him then,
I could have been more selfish growing up;
more heartless and greedy.
Taken more for myself,
hurting others in the process;
The Law of the World.
"Fuck 'em all, as long as I get My Cut."

Even as I write it now I know,
my sensitive heart could never have gone that way.
For all the riches in the World I could not Rape an Innocent.
Does this mean I'm meant for the Lonely Poverty I endure?
Soul Disposition points towards "Yes."
The sooner I accept it the better.

In Jails I heard the never-ending banter
of Gangsters and Thieves, the Takers of Advantage.
Listening with curiosity, I always knew,
I could never have been one.
A silent Killer, perhaps, a Hit-Man, maybe.
But there are far less of those jobs
than the movies would have us believe.
I tried selling drugs, but I was too fair to the Addicts,
more compassion, than Lust for Money.
I tried working for a Mega-Corporation, or two,
but I had no Will to pass on blame,
point the finger, cover my ass.
Just wanted to do my job.
Never back-biting, nor butt-kissing;
Promotion was not my Destiny, there.
Just a permanent Corporate Cubicle,
at best,
being shit on by an endless procession
of ladder-climbing Management,
who do nothing but climb.
I even tried Academia,
my dreams of the Ivory Tower.
But I had not the Will to back-stab fellow Scientists,
grubbing and scrounging, rumor-mongering and
Character Assassination; These Traits I would not learn.
All to sweep up the ever fewer Grants
that all Serious Academics need to survive...

*Sigh*

Besides "homelessness" I could not find a
non-competitive field,
though sometimes the homeless compete more than any.
Dreams of being
a Poet, a Writer, an Artist...
Do you know what it takes to get Recognized today?
With the World of Five Billion
and The Internet for Us all?
Everyone clambering for their Art
to be Famous?

Forget it.
Now, and in the End:
I write for myself.
To purge, to vomit, to excrete
my Pain out.
And maybe entertain
a few others who happen by.
Good Luck,
whoever you are.
I hope you don't worry,
as much as I do.

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.

Poem: Ungrateful

I like the peace of Berkeley.
The trees, sunset, air, and people.
I hate my room in San Francisco.
Loathe it.
But it's all I have, for now.
I need to start planning,
how the hell to get free...
no way soon...
I don't want to go there!
But that's my home.
My place,
that I pay for
and fought for,
for years.
Trapped.

Short Story: Losing the Past

It looks to be falling apart. I'll have to change tin a day; the way that I smoke, the way I relate, the number of laundry I clean. Still starving, but now "they" are taking my joys.
The last addictions I have. Why can't I keep them intact? They seem to me harmless, medicinal even. I don't know how to live without them.
It's not enough for me to be brought so low. To steal the last of my inner child's candy. I must also learn how to be around others who do not go without. Be around them, love them, live with them... live with them, without anger or envy. Without self-pity, competition, hurt, defense, manipulation, or beggary.
Ah beggary, how could I be without thee? To mooch and couch-surf. To bum and to find. These have been my way for far too long. I was still running, while others staked out land; cleared it and built homes. I was away running.
Now I find myself old, unable to afford sugar, remembering the cartoon I saw as a child: About a wolf who did no work, always begging from the hard-working pig. Always lazy, never working, the wolf always starved a little in the winter. But what when there is no pig? The pig gets tired of feeding him.
That cartoon always haunted me, like I could feel my future reflected in it...

As an adult, now, I can confirm that haunted feeling was right.

Poem: The Things I've Loved

The first thing I ever loved was a pet;
It died before I ever realized.

The second thing I ever loved
was a man;
He left me for a woman,
before I knew
our time was up.

The third thing I ever loved
was a pain-killing drug;
It hurt me more,
than I'd ever
have guessed.
I left it before
it killed me.

The fourth thing I ever loved
was a young woman;
I hurt her more
than I'd ever
have guessed.
She left because
I told her to.

The fifth thing I ever loved
was Coffee;
It's hurting my stomach
so much
I'll have to quit.

The sixth thing I ever loved
was Tobacco;
It's hurting my lungs
so much
I'll have to quit.

The seventh thing I ever loved
was a woman;
She loved herself
more
than she loved me.

The things I love
haven't treated me well;

I guess I'll just stop

and rest

a spell.

Poem: Fake Friends

Those people are dead to me now.
Burned up in a moment of rage.
No love or forgiveness,
for one such as me,
though why I don't know,
I deserve it.

When sides become chosen
there's no one on mine,
just me,
and the ghost of my thoughts
for all time.

Paper-thin all my friendships,
dissolved in an instant,
I cry for connection that deeper,
but where is it?

At first comes regret, then shame, embarassment.
Self-Pity, depression, acceptance.
Then back-sliding, attempts to fix,
and apologies, realization
that there is no going back
for me.

The hate and disgust
my peers feel for me,
like metal gone rust
stuck out in the rain.

If only they knew
my true feelings inside,
they'd love me the most,
not cast me aside.

But that's just a dream
and reality sticks.
Alone in my pain,
all my "friends" are short-lived.

Forgiveness and warmth
are feelings unknown:
Not given, not seen,
no calls on my phone.

For a few angry words
is enough to destroy
all semblance of friendship
for this little boy.

Al that this proves is
the hate all along.
I never was loved,
it's been faked,
an illusion.

And so I grow older
and learn the hard truths.
It's better to be unknown
than known as uncouth.

Poem: Old Friend Mike

A friend that I had
he turned out quite bad,
though I've known him
since his very start.

Once brothers in faith,
he smiles to my face,
in private he tears me apart.

While spreading sick rumors,
I don't understand,
his cowardly gossip,
that slanders this man.

It must be because
I never began,
to fuck him,
or view him,
with awe.

The lies that he spread
awoke pain in my head,
confusion,
at malice so cruel.

Small network of friends,
I thought true to the end,
kicked me
in the gut
like a mule.

So now here I stand,
just like I began,
alone,
with my Angel
and God.

I know all those who lie,
will sure one day die,
and answer for sins,
one and all.

Poem: Insomnia #17 (Mother's Day)

No sleep.
Big Jeep.
Fat sheep.
Food cheap.

Cold air,
feels fair.
Go where?
Nowhere.

Mother's Day.
Little pay.
Friend's gay,
Says "hey."

Feel OK.
Another day.
Which way?
Mid May.

Poem: Rhibald Othello

The Selfish Swine
I love all the time
cares not
for my sleep
or my food.

Her only concern
is her cigarettes burn
and the swell of her
all-changing mood.

My pain doesn't move her,
my words come out silent.
Continuing hubris
that strikes me
like violence.

While owning the World,
she spits on this bum.
Distorting my heart-ache
and sucking her thumb.

Poem: The Heroes of Justice

The Heroes of Justice,
chuckling, drinking coffee.
The masses of Animals,
Human-Animals,
locked up
only ten feet away
behind a wall
no one can see.

The Heroes of Justice
no longer believe,
only "doing their best"
and sometimes
not that.

The Animals who used to feel
Human.
The Heroes who once wanted
to feel Heroic.
Neither like their position.

Between them;
The Parasites.
Bail Bondsmen, Courts,
Lawyers, and worse.
Fake lawyers
who pretend
to be
on your side
and you never
suspect
they are not
until it's over.
And you lost.

Justice the Blind Woman,
with a sword and a scale,
She rules here no more.
Dead, raped, and defiled,
cold corpse on the floor.

The Heroes of Justice
eat lunch.
While the Animal-Humans
starve.

Man's cruelty knows no end,
often hides itself,
from itself.

Thus The Poison attains
a strangle hold
on Life.

Poem: This Little Earing

I wear this earring
in remembrance
of a young woman
who claimed
she loved me.
And I her.

I always will love her
and this Golden Circle
is a fine symbol.

I was young,
but she was younger.
She was sick,
but I was sicker.
We were both addicts,
but I was legit.
We argued about it for years,
but she'd never get a Doctor.

And I...
I ran out of waiting.
Got raw from her whippings,
all of which came
from her lack of medicine,
which she refused to get.

She blamed me for our
"failure of a relationship."
I blamed her addiction.
We were both right.

I wear this earring in
remembrance
of a young woman
I loved.

May it never happen
again.

Poem: Old Future Henry

Henry walked through the years of advertisements
on his way home from the Library;
First ads for movies he'd never be able to afford to see,
then 3-D movies and virtual reality.
Still using a keyboard at sixty years young,
Henry was considered more archaic than a fossil.
He was an enigma, a retard, an art piece maybe.
But few would notice.
After a few decades the ads on the walls changed
to things he'd never heard of before,
"4-D" and "Senso-Motion Experience"
and on and on.
But Henry wasn't interested
and couldn't afford to be if he was.
He just kept typing out his gibberish until death,
hoping that one day
it might mean something to someone.

It never did.
Like so many other hopefuls
his life's work was thrown in the trash
along with his body and megre personal belongings.
Lucky for him,
he was too dead to notice.

Poem: Another Day #5

I feel like I'm all nerves;
stomach hurting for food
but revolting at the first bite.
"It's just another day,"
I say to myself.
Wanting to cry,
wanting to scream.
There are no answers to my pains,
no cures for my questions.
Everything in this life seems wrong,
I don't belong here.

But here I am.
Surviving like a cockroach.
I've already taken my medicine,
but my hands are still shaking,
can't write
any more.

Poem: A Prayer to Shango

When I start to think of God,
I start to think about patterns
and fractals
and pages of math,
describing quanta possibility matrices,
yet there is consciousness.

Each pattern is conscious.
The patterns created from the first
are conscious also,
in different combination's of
Zero and One, The Yin and The Yang.
Different patterns.
Large patterns.
So large I can't even begin
to understand it
except for symbolically.
But conscious never-the-less.

And I.
A consciousness-pattern,
part of a larger one,
who is part of a larger one,
until God,
Infinity,
the Fifth dimension.

Work with me Larger Pattern!
Hear your little self calling to you!
Come to my aid, Great One!
Bring down your fire,
that all your children
of the thunder-stone
may prosper.

Poem: Depressive is Pain

I am a Depressive;
Most of my life is pain.
My physical health is pain.
My mental/emotional health is pain.
My dysfunctional family is pain.
My deeply troubled lover is pain.

Though I love her,
am often happy to see her,
get fleeting moments
of happiness and warmth,
sometimes,
when we are together.

It's not enough.
My life still hurts.

I don't cry, like she does.
I get real quiet instead.
Slowly losing the ability to speak,
until I'm an unmoving, silent, human,
in pain.
So much pain that any word
seems pointless.

So she leaves me to my silence.
When I need her most.
To hold me.
To talk to me.
She doesn't.

I'm alone in my pain,
like I guess we all are.
She is not good enough
to make my life good.
(Though when she tries
she makes it better).

But no matter what she does:
I'll still be a depressive.
For the pain in my body,
for the pain in my soul.
I wish she could accept that,
accept Me
the way that I am.

And still continue
to love me.

Poem: Why, why, why.

Why don't you love me,
like I think you should?
When you say that you love me,
but I can't feel it,
or see it.
And you wont hold me.

I'm always there for your tears,
but you're never there for mine.
You just make it worse.

My needs are so simple.
My wants are so pure:
Stay with me,
Look at me,
think about me.
hold me when I'm sad.
Listen to my words,
do not twist around my meanings.

If I can't even talk,
then it's really time to try.
Tell me that you love me.
Lie with me until I say
"stop."
Dedicate your time to me,
as I dedicate mine to yours.

When thinking about you only hurts.
And there is no medicine for me,
but to be alone...

After enough time alone,
anyone seems like an Angel.
I just want to be loved.
Something you are no good at.

Oh, you can talk.
But when it comes to shutting up
and just holding me,
well,
forget it.
Like it is not your job to support,
because you're a female.
All you can do is cry,
which makes me feel worse.

God, baby, I love you.
But when it comes to compassion
and just plain healing...

you suck.

Poem: Love Is...

Love is:
Letting someone go,
if it is best for them.

Forgiveness,
for any
and all
actions.

Love is not hate,
hateful,
jealous,
greedy,
needy,
angry,
or short.

Love is permanent;
Infinite,
It does not end.

There are no
conditions to be met,
no expectations to live up to,
no rules,
laws,
words,
clauses,
or traps.

Love exists,
It's around us all the time.

Feeling Love
can be a transitory
experience.
Felt for a moment
while eating,
fucking,
falling asleep,
smelling flowers,
giving birth,
and more.

When it passes,
there can be a terrible hole,
a racking,
a sucking,
a painful,
gap.

What will you fill it with?
But Love?

Poem: Balance

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder..."
Leaving her I feel a glowing joy;
a shine; a star; a Luck.

Seeing her seeing me leave,
I see a misery; damp-rot;
sadness; mourning.

"That the pain of division
is as nothing...
and the joy of dissolution
all."

The sorrow of leaving
should be overcome
by the joy of meeting again.

For me, this is true.
For her, it is not.

Is this balance?

Poem: Waiting for Her (#3?)

just waiting by the phone,
waiting for that special someone
to call
and say
they are on their way.

It doesn't happen.

Hours go by,
with nothing.

Still nothing.

I know this waiting.

I've been doing it
since I first
fell in Love.

It seems to get
more painful
every year,
though,
sometimes
they don't even show up.

Hours of…
Hope, I guess…
dreams of love.

I fly to her
at a moments notice,
fast as I can,
I love her.

For her I can wait.
Oh yes,
I can wait.

Poem: The Suicides

I believe in Suicide, as well as Euthanasia.
The first time I learned about Suicide
I was in the 2nd grade.
My family life was so tragic
that I thought:
"Wow! Killing yourself, eh?
What an idea!
I never knew that was an option,
how novel!"

So I tried and failed, pathetically.
I tried three or four more times
over the years,
some more serious than others.
But every single Failure
tolde me unequivocally
that God
would not let me die
that easy.
This would be the beginning
of my passive/aggressive
hatred of God
that would trouble me
over the years to come.

I envy Those who succeed at killing themselves.
I feel like they got off lucky,
like God was in a good mood that day
and gave them a "Get Out of Jail Free" card;
letting them come back home early.

For Those who try and fail,
like myself,
I feel the deepest pity,
compassion,
respect,
and brotherliness.

Nothing sadder than
to try for the Final Exit
and fail.
Usually left with scars
from their attempt.
To remind them of their
Imprisonment on this Earth.
Forced to labor in misery.

As for those who have
great misery in their lives,
yet never contemplate suicide…
I am speechless.
I do not understand their wills,
their souls, or what keeps them
so attached to their life.
Likewise they rarely understand me
or "us" should I say,
for all us Suicides.
They look upon me with horror,
sadness, and often anger,
at my merest suggestion
that Suicide may actually be OK.
Might be a perfectly valid life-style choice,
rather than the
"horrible curse of mental illness"
Society labels it.
Making all Suicide deaths
"shameful"
rather than
"Heroic."
"Sick,"
rather than
"Brave."

I say again that I
do not raise death
on a pedestal.
No worshiper of death in me.
Suicide,
against my wishes,
is not meant for me.
Never-the-less I honor Those
who choose and chose
that Way to go.
I honor your Souls
as greater than many others.
Peace to You in Your Other-Place.
See you.

Poem: Another Sad Day

Another sad day.
There is no hope for her.
Anger and Pride
Burn in my heart
like lasers.
She should not have
such a powerful effect
on me.
She does.
Heart aching;
I never want to see her again.
Teach her a lesson about
hurt and loneliness.
It will probably pass,
it usually does.
For now a sad day
and nothing to say to her.
I came,
bringing her love
and chocolate ice cream.
I leave,
full of pain, tears,
sadness and ache.
Another poem to say
"I wont go back to her,
not _this_ time. She has finally
abused and disrespected me
for the last time.

*sigh*

Yet even as I write this,
I know it's probably false.
Like a million other Oaths,
this too, will vanish into the air.

Can I be happy without Her?
Goddess I wish it were so.
Tried recently an failed,
maybe the time just wasn't right,
maybe I'll get to try again soon…

But today is a sad day.

Reprogramming

Hopelessness…
vague and empty.
Struggle pointless,
rewards few
and far away.
Alone,
things are magnified.
The First is so good,
the last, so bitter.
Hardness.
Tribulation.
Constant.
Never-ending.
Everything good
I'm supposed to use less of.
Everything bad
is usually the most responsible course.

I no longer know myself,
my world,
or the path beneath my feet.
Memories retreat
to the time of my young manhood,
hoping against hope,
the answer lies there.

If Sincerity were rewarded,
the riches would be mine.
Every day a little harder,
every inch a little further.

The baseline
of my theme-song
is sad.
Trying to change that
is hard.

Reprogramming, reprogramming,
reprogramming.

I hope it gets better,
soon.

Thoughts: The Occultist

As a young man, the dream of becoming a solitary student of the Occult, was a fine one. Finer indeed than a job or a family, a house or a car.

As a man of full age, Occult Scholar indeed, the gleam of my Trade has been tarnished. For though it can be exciting, to deal with the world of "Les Invisibles (The Invisables)," a human is made a social beast. Remembering now the surprised faces of the older scholars I questioned. Surprised that one so young would be interested in what they surely viewed as a shabby and ill-suited subject: Occultism.

Many have fallen from great heights of Ivory Towers for the "crime" of an academic interest in the forbidden and foreboding subject. To profess a belief in the actions of practical Magick is enough to get one fired and black listed, lucky to ever teach again.

Yet every college with an Anthropology class on Shamanism or Witchcraft, has the class filled to the limit every Semester. The common people "know" about Magick on an inner intuitive level and every year more and more youths are flocking to the study of it.

Though the same college class is often used by the administration to instill propaganda of society and dispel the modern "myth" of Magick. More and more students are seeing the errors of their instructors rhetoric every day.

Again (Death)

I wish I were dead.
Again.
That familiar desire
which I've known for so long.
Steps slow,
eyes tear,
head starts to hang,
nose runs,
My Life.
Which is mostly waiting:

Waiting for my bed time,
waiting for payday,
waiting for someone to visit,
waiting for the miracle to come;
Waiting for my Death.

Not in a an angry, spiteful,
"I'll show you" type of way.
Rather the Death which is
a kiss on the lips
from Eternity,
calling me home at last.
That Death that is the
restful reward,
as sleep to one
who's labored all day.

People say I'm too young,
but none know the Labours
I've wearried under,
nor the sweet relaxation I hear
at the very word "death."
Not the "loss of self"
people fear.

Poem: I Wish (#2?)

I wish my body felt less pain.
I wish I enjoyed life more.
I wish I had a good childhood
and a family who loved me.
I wish I could stop smoking.
I wish I knew how to cook/eat better.
I wish I had good friends.
I wish I knew how to be a friend.
I wish I felt more loved.
I wish I could meditate better.
I wish I could haxor computorz.
I wish I had graduated from college.
I wish I was initiated into *******.
I wish I felt my Life had meaning.
I wish I had more money.
I wish I wasn't an alcoholic,
codependent, 30-year-old wreck,
I wish my father would admit his wrongs.
I wish I had a nice laptop computer.
I wish I were in Therapy.
I wish I understood Mafick better.
I wish I didn't pee so much.
I wish I didn't have to see so many Doctors
for the rest of my Life.
I wish I had a nicer Home.
I wish I wasn't so emotionally/mentally fucked-up.
I wish I had more fun.
I wish I could help people.
I wish I'd never hurt anyone or anything.
I wish my Lover didn't cry so much.
I wish I were more published.
I wish I ever had a chance.

Poem: Nails of the Crucifix

She dangles my heart on a string,
plucks it,
plays with it.
Stretches the line taught,
then lets it slack again.
She is Secrecy like Nepthys,
The Egyptian Godess
of Night-Magick unashamed.
The darkest powers-female
were hers.
The ways to control a man.
For Her just a test, perhaps.
A dream, drawing,
or conscious sigil.

I bend to her time and again.
Sometimes out of Love,
sometimes out of loneliness,
sometimes, i wonder, as a puppet,
obeying it's Master.
By masochism,
through confusion,
repeated pains.
Together again.

My wits are not about me
with her.
Salome, and her seven veils.
Oh, yes.
She will have the head
of John the Baptist.
No matter what.

Though I Love her like Laudanum,
I know the Dark Secret;
She is just another person.
Like my last girlfriend.
Like my next girlfriend.
Like my Mother, like my Father,
like Me.
Like so many people I Love,
who don't get what they
want in Life.

Why grieve for her
more than the rest?
For the World is sadly
not all diamonds.
Do not blame me,
for the nails
of the Crucifix.

Poem: A Land of Grey

I dream of doing well

physically,

medically...

No, not really.

But I wish I did.

I dream nightmares.

About my family,

and screaming,

and deep,

frustrating,

emotions,

that go on all night.

Only to wake up exhausted

and embarrassed.

At 30 years old

I don't want to still be having

mommy/daddy nightmares.

Oh, but I do.

The other nightmares feel so meaningful,

while seeming so meaningless.

"Grey Dreams" - all of them.

Dreams of people I know in reality,

but only barely.

Seeing the home-life

of the man who sells me cigarettes

and feeling how horrible it is.

I wake up from these in chills,

knowing that it has been too long since

I have last taken my pain medication

and I'm going into slow withdrawal.

Dope-sick dreams;

where my astral body travels,

unbidden,

to spy on nobodies.

Witnessing everyday crimes,

mostly on the self.

Crimes of loneliness and isolation.

I blame my nightmares on my room.

Maybe I'm wrong.

Poem: I'm Glad it's Raining

I'm glad that it's raining today.

Yes, I know that I am only writing

because of you.

You, giving me life.

Giving me love.

Giving me hate.

Feelings most unknown.

The aching heart,

the crying phone game

(where nothing I say works).

I see more misery than good

to my works;

Both of us in pain,

is this living?

Is this love?

It seems more like illusion,

to me.

I'm glad that it's raining today.

Hiding the world

and my shame.

Guilt.

Teeth-grinding anger

at my stupidity.

For hurting you

again.

I'm a colossal Monster

and an Idiot.

I'm glad that it's raining .

Poem: SMS Game

I texted again

"Ag. Sorry."

finally clearer of mind.

She texted back

four pages of

anger and spite.

I tried to imagine her fingers

typing so fast on the phone

her fingers

so much smaller than mine,

more nimble,

less swelled,

less,

arthritic.

She knows I hate

long emotional texts.

Has promised not to do them before.

But she does anyway.

It is part of _her_ anger problem,

though she'd never admit it.

Expectations unspoken,

wants not met,

then Guilt,

Shame,

Blame.

I hate that Game.