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: 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: 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.

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: 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.

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: 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: 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: 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.

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: 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: 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.

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.