Poem: Email

Just another e-mail
that batters my brain.
Just another email
which fills me with pain.

Just another e-mail
which keeps asking "Why?"
Just another e-mail
that's making me sigh.

There's rarely good news,
it's usually just crap.
The made up waste matter
of people in stacks.

As crap-throwing monkey's
we've come not so far,
for email-throwing humans
is what we now are.

Repost: Letter from Abusive Mom

(This is a REAL e-mail my mother just sent me. I have been listening to this stuff from her for years and my Psychiatrists, Therapists, and I, believe it is a major factor in my current anxiety and depression issues)


How long is this agony going to continue? Everyone tells me not to write you and certainly not to read your blog...you have to realize there is my point of view also...it's not right that you just spout on about your point of view: 1. You DO have a family...but, you don't want them. I have offered time and time again to come and get you but you will have nothing of it. You won't even meet me for lunch, for God's sake. All you want from me is MONEY. 2. You are not an addict just because of your back. I warned you that your family on the maternal and fraternal side had abusive alcoholics.... That fact has affected all of us. Why do you think I've chosen abusive men as mates? Oh well, at least, you have admitted that you are abusive, also. I guess that is a start.

You do have a home. I bought this house with a pool house for you to live in or at least stay in, when you
were visiting.

GIVE IT UP! Call me and get back in recovery...or do you want me to arrange for you to return to the Orloff House (at least, that seemed to work for awhile....)

I could not afford to keep Kearny. You don't seem to understand that. Don't you think I would have loved to have kept it. How do you think I felt when I had to sell it? You practically bankrupted me. If my dear mom hadn't left me some money I would have gone under. I am 64 (almost 65) and am still teaching. Do you think I am teaching for fun? Well, I am stable now financially and I'm not going broke because of you. You are old enough to earn your own money and stop living off the public teat.

If I sound mad, I am. This nonsense has gone on for almost twenty years now. Yes, since you were ten. I like the way you start your bio at 15 at UC Berkeley. What went on the five years before then? Your being kicked out of two schools, dropping out of two and running away from home and two other programs. I was by myself with no support and Dad was making my single life very difficult. You could have helped me then (as other kids have chosen to do with their single parents) but no, you had to make my life more challenging than ever.

ACCEPT THE THINGS YOU CANNOT CHANGE (me, Dad, Tom, Terry, Kearny house gone), CHANGE THE THINGS YOU CAN (your future)

(I know you don't believe it but I love you and always have) You break my heart,

Mom

Poem: Mirror Wall

Even though it's over,
I still wonder...
Who taught you to yell like that, my dearest?
Someone did.
Who taught you to push someone away
while you're sleeping?
Rather than holding them close?
Who taught you that sex is bad?
Who taught you that submission is always bad?
Someone taught you, though you deny it.
Someone, teaches us all.
Stop all your blaming,
of others,
like me,
and look in your own...

Mirror Wall.

Poem: Take Me Dead

I haven't seen her now for six months.
My holdout and stubbornness has won.
Though it took her some time,
she finally discovered, the rudeness,
the offense to me, she'd done.
Sincerely repentant, I did not forgive,
for what of my life have I left?
But the mule stubborn Bastard debt
which I keep towards this girl;
for an offense she never repaid.

But she offered me nothing,
except fake, kind, words,
a nothingness filling up air.
My heart that she owned,
long since burned to dust,
in the fire,
she started,
with air.

So take of my last,
whatever you want.
You thin, fucked-up girl
of brown eyes.
But take it,
believing,
you'd enjoy it
much better,
with me,
at your side,
still alive.

Story: She & I

I don't want to hurt her, but of course I do. I love her. She hurts me all the time, mostly unintentional, but the other times... clearly on purpose. She turns all my heroic acts of "love," into petty psychiatric fights which hurt everyone. And I tried so hard for her. She just doesn't see me. See the streets and the pain. When i was crying one day outside she put her head on my shoulder and held my hand.
It was really nice and it helped a little. She NEVER does things like that in her home. She just goes away, blames me, yells at me, etc.

I am not really a masochist, but the way I let her treat me... It's not a good precident to set. Her house gives her permission to act strangely, it seems. Hurtfully always. I'm a natural sensitive, feeling somethings stronger than other people do. She likes to hurt me when I'm with her at her house. Though she may not even understand it, it's obvious; It happens every time.

It may even be the house acting with her/through her. These things have happened before. She keeps bringing me to the house despite all my prior bad experiences there. Why? To hurt me more? To beat the odds with a "good experience" for a change?

I'll end with she doesn't listen to me, the worst of them all. I tell her what I need, ask her what she needs, she can't tell me.
Please tell me. When she did it was, " I want to be your friend, lover, and whatever I want whenever I want. You get no say in our relationship. OK?"

No. Of course that's not OK. It's completely selfish.

Poem: Where are You?

I'm sitting here at the beach.
The sun is setting,
I'm outside,
eating a sandwich
and drinking some beer.
Where are you, my Love?

When the sun sets
I'll walk in the woods.
Find my blanket.
Curl up in it and go to sleep.
Where will you sleep, my Love?

I'll sleep in my clothes,
and the morning will come again.
A little smelly, I'll go downtown.
Because that is where the soup kitchen is,
where there is food in trashcans,
where the action is.

What will you do tomorrow?
Treating me like a toy,
you disagree, saying,
"You disrespect me."
But the truth is only that
I am the most interesting
of your victims.
Still here.
Still fighting.
How rare.

Your Love is Abuse.
Though you don't see it.
Taught to you by older male Abusers.
You think I'm wrong, I know.
But as a male abuser,
I know what to look for.
You are it.
I do not play you.
though I would have when I was younger.
Others may play you, I do not know.

You do play yourself.
This I know.
I don't know who taught you how,
but play you, you do.
This is not good.
And I cry for your games.
The choice is not mine.
It's yours
and you choose the worst
(in my opinion).
Blame everything but you,
I know that you will.

You are so fucked up!
But if you ever come around...
If you ever see straight...
If you ever want real Love...
I'll be here.
Just waiting.

Poem: Filthy Black Widow

From the bloody wounds on my feet,
to the underwear I haven't changed
in twelve days; I'm filthy.
All the deodorant in the world
doesn't cover my stench...
and she pretends to love me.

No shower offered,
or laundry nigh,
no nothing offered,
to this homeless guy.

Though I fallowed her where,
she knows I'm so afraid of,
a place that I fear
and have had shanty times of,
I trusted her heart,
thought that she would protect me.
Though it turned out she cared less
and felt more "To Hell with me."

I'm always so stupid,
for trusting in love,
I think it will save us,
come down from above.
But always this demoness,
caring not for me.
Her only desire
is that She is She!

No compromise possible,
no shake of hands.
She must have it all,
and fuck those who stand.

Why must I love her?
This Bitch-Queen of "I"?
It must be my karma
from days I flew high.
When I was a prince
and commanded the slaves.

Well now I'm commanded
by this girl of young age.
I weep for my sorrow
and weep for my plight.
I weep for Black Widow,
who knows not her might.
I weep for her molesters,
who started her bad.

I weep for the love,
that I wish that I had.