Horrible Truth

.

I saw him at a funeral
Then I saw him again--
at his own funeral.
It took one minute to meet
the young soldier,
and one minute or so
for him to lose his life.
Perhaps if I never met him,
with a different equation, hence,
 a different answer.
As the world continues to
revolve around me.

Best Time of the Day

His voice, like light during the night,

chirps with faultless smile and word.

As my head dead on my ancient pillow

wishes for slumber, his smile and word,

like a stone thrown into a pond,

causes ripples of delight in the brain

of my dead head. So soon, my voice,

like light during the night, I hear smile and word

with him. Then, our chirps churn

the light that surrounds us, which begins a

 melodious myriad of harmonies, and we

hold magic in our hands. I call for him so

soft, he hugs me bear, and then darkness takes its turn.

E-x-h-a-u-s-t-i-o-n

my eyelids resting on air and
my chin asleep as it points to noon,
alas,my fingers, busy mexicans picking,
both ears hear a stream of words falling over punctuation,
my legs work alone, on a 24/7 mission to earn slavery
but my toes stay still inside of my Vans,
I honestly don't know what they're up to down there.

I Carve Fiction

I Carve Fiction: "No posts."

Title

I took my usual bath today, I detest showers, and I saw my future while I waded in the hot water waiting for it to reach my up belly button.  I'm not letting anyone in on my fate.  It might even be as beautiful as a destiny.  The flowing water, my thoughts flowing forward, without haste and without intepretation, truly inspired my future to flow through me, in front of me, like a silent film.  For now, my brain thuds inside my head, but I still watched the Southland finale. Man, I want more! I think school is on spring break, and I'm pretty sure I had a stroke two nights ago.  My medication for hypersomnia the insurance company declared not approved, so now I'm forced to try a new drug, a more dangerous drug, at one time I might have said "Bring it on," but now I'm accustomed to a calm peaceful sort of fabrication of life,  and I don't want to fuck it up.  Do I have a choice?  Have I been fucked by the fickle finger of fate? Or does God have a seriously hip and jive plan over all. Stay tuned. My migraine is like a tide that has come in, but won't go out. I'm sinking, in the sand, losing feeling in my feet.  I'm waving like a queen does to the masses, good bye, my rain has been pulled by my psychiatrust and I'm tired. Tell my brother I'll listen to U2 if he'll listen to the new Eminem.  Chow,

After a shot of something or other

Sheen's Korner comes to mind.  Carnes' Corner looks and sounds much better.  Torpedoes of truth.  How about the one headed for Sheen's house.  Charles's only you will survive.  You're goddesses will die and so will all of your other fucking dogs. The dealer sneaking in the back, yep he'll go to.  In traction, the assholes at the hospital will release you to rehab. Talk about a craving, I crave that day.  You said you are not two people, the nice guy, and the crazy idiot.  You claimed to be just the crazy idiot, in the limelight, for all of the world to see.  You've morphed into Hyde, and anything that crosses your path you annihilate.  I bet you would like that idea.  It would serve your narcissism.  I hate that I think about you.  I hate that I worry about you.  My brother said your dead.  I say you're still above ground.  You are not smart, creative, a genius, or funny.  Your manic, coming off alcohol and cocaine, and I've seen more interesting shit inside a coffee shop I go to daily.  You bore me, I want to drown you in a toilet, I want to duct tape your mouth shut since the drowning option would send me to prison.  Please, stop polluting the airways, if your going to use, use, if not, do something useful.  Are you afraid of fucking a woman your age who might really know what she's doing?  You're a coward Charles.  Fuck Betty.

A Rant After 2 Episodes of Southland

Hey you, did you just look behind you? or suck your chin inwards, as if you is not a universal word for honey or douchebag? Listen, I freakin love this cop show. The antics of a drug addicted cop are all over the place.  I can't decide if he is worse then the grief ridden impulsive detective going off the books to avenge his partner's murder. In a way, they blend together to make sense of this absurd world.  Life only makes sense in books or on TV. When I try to understand why I'm crashin from a pill that "mocks" a stimulant that I take at 11:00am  for a condition that causes me to sleep all day for real, I'm crashin at 6:00pm, what are you serious?  Can the doctors raise or triple the dosage of this mockery?  If I mock you, I make fun of you by acting like you in one of your not so proud moments.  So WTF is this taking a mockery of a pill that legitimately amps up me like kids on koolaide?  So  I need a cushion for each brain cell, unfortunately it's Lifetime, and some food for my belly. Oh I'm so embarassed, Lifetime, an all time low.  Barbituates are lovely, just not so kind to me.  I eat them like candy, and they beat me like a husband on crack who finds me in bed with his dealer.  Actually, that might work out.  I'm losin it.  My head huurrts.  Enough.  Watch Suckerpunch when it comes to theaters. Send a dollar to a Bury Charlie Sheen's Body Fund, but distill the drugs and alcohol out of his veins to resell first. See yah=     

It's Over, Finally

I broke my right arm

when I fell off a flying

saucer.  The doctor took

off my cast and dumped

me in a pool of warm, soft

lotion.  I later learned we

call it water.  I took

navigation classes until I

turned five, then I joined a

team of swimmers who

navigated quicker than fast

forward up and down in the

pool divided into aisles.  I later

learned swimmers called them

lanes.  I kicked and pulled up

and down those lanes I bet

enough length to go to

California, and yes, I took a

flight to race in California,

So as I see it, I visited there twice.

Nothing obeyed me like water,

I cupped it in my hand, pushed it

under my body and flipped my

hand out of the water at my hip

thirteen times a lap.  Nothing

ever felt as predictable as that.

Last time I swam, the water numbed

my lower body due to its mountain

source, and my asthma prevented me

from actually swimming. Walking my

fat ass from the lake to my towel on

the beach convinced me to never

swim again.  Remind

me to throw away my medals and

trophies.  

(Cognitive) OCD

You’re cheating on me.

No Paige, I’m not.

But, that text message,

she wants to meet you.

Paige, my buddy gave

her my number as a joke.

I have no interest in her.

Okay Sean, text that to her.

If it will make you feel better.

Text: I already have a girlfriend.

You’re cheating on me still.

No Paige, I’m not.

But your text message,

It could be just for show.

It’s not Paige.

How do I know?

Can you call the girl now?

Paige, why? I just texted her.

To prove to me that

you’re not cheating Sean.

Fine, Paige. That’s it though.

Phone call: Hey, it’s Sean,

Yes, I just texted you, no

I haven’t changed my mind,

Please, just don’t text me

again, I have a girlfriend.

Yes, I know, thanks, bye.

Okay Paige, are you satisfied?

You still could be cheating on me.

What the fuck Paige, No I’m not!

How do I know you talked to the

girl who texted you on the phone?

Who the hell else would it be Paige?

Your buddy, who set you up in the

first place.

I called her Paige.

Well, let me call her and ask Sean.

I draw the line at certified, Paige.

What do you mean Sean?

So you are cheating on me asshole!

Date Night

Come lady divine lay

with me in the slums of

Detroit, to dine on dead

rat and desert on dumpster

cheesecake.  As your golden

tresses drag behind us, instead

of TV, let’s go to a shooting

gallery and watch dope fiends

juggle dice by shooting up

junk in their arms.  Next, our

date continues on the top

floor of a parking garage.

The lights of Detroit look like

pinpoints, the slums reach

out far into the distance. 

We begin to slow dance,

our pulse slows, our limbs

grow cold.  We prefer

this.  The dance slows,

we kiss, your tresses look

black from the streets now.

A car’s head light’s shine

upon us as we fall to the

concrete.  The driver mistakes

us for speed bumps, only in

the slums of Detroit.  

    

Fried

I’m nuts, framed by cuckoo a

bird.  They put a cuckoo clock

inside my forehead, so every

hour a bird pops out of my worry

lines, scares the shit out of my cat,

and reminds me of my amended

mental status.  It’s terrible to have

been sane, no pane, when everyone

sees that you’re not sick, but swell. Now

with this clock inside my forehead and

a beak courtesy of beak surgeons, I

look disturbed. Crazy, I feel more human

then ever before, besides are not the

bastards who changed my appearance

not the sick ones?  Shouldn’t someone

shrink their twisted noggins? I learned

to live with my idiosyncrasies.  But I scare

the shit out of the “people” who made me

this way.  Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Back Walking

I saw his back, walking away.  Hobbling down the icy stairs, kicking the salt about as his feet slid, barely scraping the pavement.  A brown knit cap covered his head, pulled down so low about his ears covering the lobes.  His jowels, jutting out are all I could make of his chin.  He wore a tattered and old black leather coat, now more gray than black, and drooping faded blue jeans.  His sneakers had to be 15 years young, if not more... wrinkled and worn, laces loose. They scraped the sidewalk crunching the salt and spraying it and the melting ice about.  His breath almost froze as he hobbled along, keys in his left hand, paper rolled into his right.  Damn he looks cold.  Damn I'm cold.  This is what cold looks like walking away...  a demon, shuffling along, quiet, reserved, blending into the world.... frigid.

Pierce

I can't look away
My soul is locked
onto your eyes

Pools of crystal
and green
Soothe my pain
and cool my heart

Your essence
has pierced
my beign
and enriched me

Your eyes
have pierced
my soul.

This one is recent.  9/9/2010

Visit me at Discrete Beauty

Different

I’m driving on aloe roads

twisting and turning,

windows agar, cool sweet

green density the sun emits

as I hang my left leg out

the driver’s seat window.

A screaming stream below

a groaning cliff, sends shivers

down my plastic spine.

The fearful car pines for

paved roads, but instead

a chocolate hail storm

begins.  I withdraw my

foot from the window

to sit straight up inside

the car.  I close the windows,

and turn on the razors I use

in place of windshield wipers.

Shaved chocolate looks

so pathetic right now.  Night

comes from somewhere ahead,

so I beam, and continue my

trip to party at a giant cupcake

mansion with a pink icing roof.

Perhaps

I think I am

coasting

on a shined glass horse.

Downwards, to break/

the silence

of a candy rainbow bliss.

Tears drip from my ducts as

the glass hits the floored

lollipop suckers-

Chaos bits of red, orange

yellow, green, blue and

purple glass rain down-

A veritable Utopia.

A Struggle

It’s paramount to me

that I’m seen.  So why

can’t I look in the mirror

and feel noticed?  Why

the fuck do I split into

two when I walk through

a crowded room?  The

insecure babbler inside

my head, and the breathing

consciousness estimating

how many times I break

a social law as I drag ass

across the room.  Oh,

For Shame!  Why do

people claim the opposite

happens to them?  How

does one calculate what’s

truly opposite versus what’s

meant to happen?  Which is

the opposite sex?  It depends.

Why the hell do I expect me

to receive a once in a life

time chance? You know, to

be published.  Perhaps

because every day is a once

and a lifetime dream.  Jesus

Christ, I almost died in an

overdose or two.  The reason I feel

invalidated in a mirror is the

age old vanity retardant.  Hell,

I should get props in the honesty

department. If you used to know

me…

Who Cares

Who cares
For the lost souls of humanity
What will become of them?

Who cares
For the ghosts of society
Where will they go?

Wandering aimlessly
In search of meaning
Looking for a light
Out of the darkness.

Who cares
For those who don't?

4/12/2000

Teachable

Pessoa taught me the

fine points of a thoughtless

life.  Stressed the blessing

of an awareness not my

own and not God’s,

but perhaps your’s.  I

intend to travel without

moving, to love without

loving and to help without

helping.  A meditation so

fine tuned that my body

becomes merely a vessel,

like a ship or a plane.

I wonder why it’s so

hard to divorce self

from self, especially

if one thinks about the

despicable self.  I find

that part very simple,

enormously easy. But

I think, it’s that self

that hinders a divorce

from self, because then

I want to improve it,

pay more attention to it.

It’s time to make a mad

dash for the forest and not

look backwards, other than

that, I don’t know what the

hell to do.    

A Lament

A natural disaster

occurred one year

ago, to a well human

being when she sat

at her favorite spot.

The day hugged her

with chills, the sun

poured vile gold rays

onto her body, and two

people coughed as they

walked in front of her.

 Since the natural disaster

a tiredness nibbles at her

muscles and clouds her

already grey matter.

Headaches assault her

and rob her of the only

currency that exists, time.

 She puts an SOS on

Facebook every day,

but so far, she figures,

since she refuses to

post a picture, no one

sees.  What the hell,

she’s starting to sink

into the carpet like

quick sand.  Good-

bye sweet breath.

Good-bye.

No Joke

Never mind the guy

that pushes a rock

up a mountain for

eternity, I drag one

behind me one day

at a time.

 I realize the Ironman

symbolizes strength

and endurance, but walk

inside my skin one day

as it starts to drag

 on the ground.

 Some believe God

never gives us more

than we can handle

in a day, bullshit, I

eat dirt with a low signal

emanating from my sagging

skin, secure in the fact

that this is an end.  

In and Out

Cold steel
Empty time
Endless thoughts
fill my mind.

The reality of
my concrete walls
brings memories
of soft passion.

What seems forever
is an instant
What seems an instant
is forever.

written 4/3/2000

Detour

Feeling good.

Life laying in

front of me

like a resplendent

grassy meadow.

A slight breeze

brushes my face,

and I here birdies

chirp lightly all around

me.

A plane flies above,

with the word “Detour”

on a sign tagging along

behind it.

 I observe my surroundings

again.  I stand in a

parking lot of a

state hospital. Sent there

because of my tendency

to try and kill myself.

The brick building

looms over me.  I follow

the case worker inside.

She neglected to let me smoke.

A Spiral

Thorzine, Moban,

Closoril, what

a physical thrill.

Ambien, Lunesta,

Ativan, a sleep

managed by man.

Luvox, Effexor,

Welbutrin, the

doctor’s guess

as good as mine.

Lithium, Depakote,

Tegratol, am I

rock steady yet?

Serequel, Zyprexa,

Risperadol,  I’m

400lbs. but I’m

not hallucinating.

Methadone, Morpheine,

Oxy, opiates that increase

The pain, mental.

I’ve taken more meds

than this in my lifetime.

I’m still insane and

searching for the right

med.

WTF?

I love grapes.

I hate olives.

If I ate a small,dark,

grape,

But thought of a black

olive,

I might taste an olive.

I venture to say I may

Like the olive.

Life would burst with a

new meaning, I may prefer

opera to cinema and caviar to

calamari.

Really?

Hell no!

A grape is a grape.

An olive is an olive.

And olive grapes.

I Know

I know what that
chair is for- to hurl
against the enamled
walls.  I get that the
CD's are to be whipped
like razor sharp frisbees
out the moving car
window.  I feel that
I received a permit
to bang my head
against the wall at
a fantastic decible.
I understand that every
now and again I can
accidentilly trip an old
bag.  What I don't know,
is why the hell science
never answers my desperate
call?  Might as well pinch
an infected area, assholes.

Heavy

My soul, hangs from

my heart, heavy like

when a punching bag dangles

from an unsuspecting paneled

ceiling.  Heavy limbs, heavy breasts,

heavy, not sexy, lashes that tend to

shut my eyes, blind me, add to my

debilitation. A heavy chin, that shows

off my Rosie O’Donnell, damning,

double, drooping chin. My demeanor

heavy and exasperated, in need of

a Ritalin for a break, from the heavy

doors of my perception.  Pep up, brief,

and understated.  Yet the soul remains,

yawns, heavy and left on a the tail

of a prayer.

The I Doctor

                                                                       

Appointment you

scheduled for

twomorrow.

Remember to tell

the I Doctor the

exact nature of what

ails you.  Which part

of the I rots inside of

your flesh canister?

What do your eyes

divulge to you, as you

screw your head inwards.

Tell the I Doctor all.

Leave no door unopened.

Expose every shade of your I.

Look the Doctor in the eyes.

Listen with every pore.

The doctor usually cons the

I out of me and throws it in

acid.  It fizzes into a nonentity.

Lighter, humbler and happier,

I return from the I doctor,

A veritable you. Welcome.