My Pleasure To Bear Your Pain.

Amid the anger and tension,

something I forgot to mention…

just a simple truth or two,

words I’ve spent before on you,

And since I seem to fade away,

things between you and me remain,

always, a thing:

unclean – unchanged…

thunder rolling ahead of rain,

this sense of solid certainty,

on my word, will die with me,

hard-wired deep within my brain,

A treasure chest in my rib cage,

you are woven into my destiny…

A truth at rest inside of me,

Until the Gods show me differently,

You can look for me,

and here I always am,

it’s my pleasure

to bear your pain.

Preemptive Blackout with Little Notice.

Face Plant

How much of our lives
Will become simply archives
How many more times
Will I forfeit what’s mine
With every passing night
Feeling homesick at twilight
Being anxious and uptight
Can’t say or do anything right.
And the moments still tick by
We both curse the same night sky
Before one of us will recognize
All the ways we jeopardize
The shot we had to eternalize
Has lost the chance to materialize.
And I wish we could rewind
Go back and redefine
We both tow an identical line
Attached to an internal deadline
Born of a universal design
That will eventually unwind.

Surreality.

Every day I see people who knew you in life, sometimes running into them for the first time in decades; and, they inevitably ask about you as if they expect to find out that you’ve moved away to Canada, like you always threatened to do. The news of your short battle and premature death unfailingly drops jaws all the way around, and I regularly find myself in the position of having to firmly convince someone that you are dead and gone: a highly dissatisfying instance for me.
At least once a month I see a dress or a couch or a set of dishes that oozes your still lingering essence, and this essence permeates my existence for some time – maybe an hour; maybe a day…and as much as it stirs the burn of the embers inside the firepit called Pain, I greedily and secretly lean into the heat because it’s the only way I feel like I still know my Mom. Like I still have my Mom.
Every single night I walk my dog down the street your house is on. Although somebody else lives there and its appearance has been drastically altered since you died, I sometimes see your faint ghost on the front porch doing a crossword puzzle. I see your ghost watering the lawn too, or occasionally it even excitedly waves a hand at me from across Camden Avenue in the darkness.
I catch myself more frequently spitting out random statements and sayings that were always unique to you, alone.
Things like,

“In like Flynn.”

Or I sing stupid bits if stupid songs like,

“Here we come,
on the run,
like a hamburger on a bun.”
Or,
“Jonathan Joe had a mouth like an O”

I know its really you speaking in my voice, but I wonder what any of it means.

I often thank the Gods that you and I were able to at least scratch the surface of our reciprocal amendments to each other before you died so horribly fast and miserably. I’m continually thankful that I was able to thoroughly explain myself to you after all was said and done between us, but before your brain got so full of metastatic tumors that you were unable to comprehend me. I’m ever thankful that your passing wasn’t during any of our many former years apart, and that I was there to hold your hand when you asked me to be, because I can vividly remember that you were afraid, truly afraid. You never lost face though, you remain a bonebreakingly strong idol of my candlelit shrine. And no matter what else life throws at me, I will meet my last day on Earth with your smile on my face and your strength in my bloodstream. And, while your death killed off parts of me and stole any comfort I knew in the big, bad world, I haven’t let it burden me.
Though, I still bitterly wish we could have had Christmas in Sutter Creek, but it wasn’t meant to be.
Every single day passes with a strangling sense of your absence. And some days, I find you staring back at me from a mirror or the reflection from a storefront window as I pass. The tiniest and subtlest bits of your essence still trickle from the hole that losing you that way has left in my heart.

Inklings.

Don’t humor the inkling to test me,
Always searching for angles to best me,
Your presence must constantly tempt me,
daily fail on your part to preempt me,
Too pathetic to bend,
Bite at the bowl that’s empty.
bullshit side-stepping,
pathetic button pressing,
Get on track dead last,
Any shot you had to win has passed,
Neurotic tail chasing,
Your stupidy’s amazing
Go long, carry on,
its so entertaining,
Your need to bear teeth,
at absolutely nothing,
It’s so funny,
You humor me,
Not a soul cares,
If you never get out of here,
You made your bed and it’s filthy,
The stench of the things you can’t be,
So many piles of what’s needy,
You think your logic is stealthy,
But your face makes me angry,
I want to punch at you; God help me,
For striking a helpless puppy,
It made me.

Dearly.

The sun is burning
The life outta me
My hopes are turning
Into a dumb fantasy
My tongue is yearning
To set my feelings free
My bones are learning
The ache of maturity

What once was agreeable
Feels as off as it can be
The tragic unforeseeable
Seems more comfortable to me
Dreams once deemed unbeatable
Are dust beneath my feet
As I dig deep for the redeemable
Buried somewhere underneath

Thoughts like whispered voices
Fading into vague memory
Lots of different choices
Looked back on regrettably
A kaleidoscope of faces
Come and go while I’m asleep
My brain always erases
The things my heart loves most dearly

Mescalene.

Try I do, to do the right thing,
Suck it up and bite the bean,
Keep it honest, keep it clean,
Oil the gears in this here machine;
Profound lessons learned on mescalene,
While at school all they see are mass shootings,
A universe stealthily winding up to spring,
As we build bombs and don’t suspect a thing;
Life must take pleasure in shaping misery,
While mutated versions of my fellow human being,
Clueless and empty like a fuzzy TV screen,
Get go on thinking they got anything on me.

Gay Penguin Couples Making Headlines!

I Love This!

Barbarian.

I can’t wash the blood from my hands,

The basin is stained with red that expands,

The mirror reflects a perfect barbarian,

As I desperately scrub off layers of skin.

The stars in the sky oddly cease to shine,

I gather up all of the lies that are mine,

Sewn into my mouth one last time,

To be spewed at someone down the line.

My feet refuse to step anew,

And the streetlights cast a yellow hue,

My mind is burning a hole right through,

To ease the pressure I’ve turned into.

Nevermore.

One place stands
In a forgotten hollow
In the crimson tinged forests of Nevermore.
In the windows hang curtains
Hand stitched to perfection
To block out the sunshine
To shut out the truth.
Two faces, two hearts and two hands
Smothered in the sweetest honey
To make me retch everytime
Make me wonder who I am.
Over the door hangs an upside-down horseshoe
Rusted and weathered by lonely seasons
To remind the trees and birds and bees
That things will never be the same
Inside the walls dwell many secrets
Spicy whispers and midnight moans
Divulged to disconnected telephones.

Redress.

I wish you’d take me in your arms,
But I can’t have you touching me,
The thought of you makes my insides warm,
But such thoughts belong to memory,
The months have finally turned into years,
And been added to lost opportunity,
The hope that’s silently kept me here,
By the trunk of our once special tree,

Those were the days, weren’t they?

And I know you won’t see a drop of success,
With any substitute you stick in my place,
The lie that you’re living will never redress,
The tears you’ve tattooed to my face.

A Butterfly’s Wings.

I spent all of this miserable time,
With an eye ever watching what’s mine,
Oh, how these strong emotional walls,
Break to bits when they finally fall,
Watch as my own wrecking ball,
Bitterly destroys it all in due time.

Wildly employing harsh strategies,
Idly killjoying my fantasies,
See how the peace is so far gone?
The why and how, the right and wrong,
Unsevered ties to my tragedies,

No bottom to the darkened depths,
no solidity beneath my many missteps,
Hear how my world is death rattling?
See my walls of glass as they’re shattering,
Around the feet that the mirror reflects?

Like a fluttering paper in a wayward breeze,
Screaming answers to queries whispered silenty,
A blessing disguised as an atomic bomb,
To explode and expose what our oaths have become,
The violent detachment of a butterfly’s wings.

It’s Not Rocket Science.

It can’t be possible that I anywhere in the world, there is someone saying to himself:

“Gee…I just LOVE the way my dog has destroyed my floors by pissing and shitting everywhere in my house since I brought him home NINE years ago…”

I have the hardest time thinking about the fact that The Old Man who I take care of actually paid money -like, lot’s of money- for the stupid ass, neurotic, total loser of a dog that he calls his own. It actually makes me laugh to myself, seeing as how they say you get what you pay for. Not in this case. In this case, The Old Man was ripped off horribly on the doomed day that he picked out the Red Headed Devil and brought him home.

I know this because even before I was living here to take care of Rodger, I cleaned his house for over a decade. I know the change that took place upon the Devil coming here and creating a space so disgusting and full of filth and absolute nastiness as it is now. The stupid dog does what he wants, even now. Upon moving in, I at first, didn’t have a problem cleaning up the puddles and piles on a daily basis until I realized how futile it was. I then explained to The Old Man that I will not pick up after his spoiled rotten and despicable dog any longer, as the dog is not reprimanded at all for his pathetic behavior, so there is no point in even cleaning it up because he will simply do it in the exact same spots the next day.

If I wanted to spend moments from each day in cleaning up after a dog, I would have a dog that behaved like a jack ass. However, my FREE of CHARGE rescued dog who cost me nothing to adopt (in comparison to the hundreds of dollars that The Old Man spent on his piece of shit pet) doesn’t have the many problems (and is almost 7 years younger than the Devil, mind you) that the Devil displays regularly. In fact, my dog would die before he let his bowels or bladder loose in the house. He is just built that way and has NEVER been a problem in this area at all. I do not feel in the least bit badly or wrong for refusing to enable a spoiled rotten and completely hopeless waste of money and hardwood flooring.

I struggled at first with keeping my word on this, and have had to adjust my daily tasks to avoid the growing number of puddles and piles around the house. The Old Man either ignores them, hopes that I will clean them up after all, or doesn’t see them at all. It’s really disgusting and sad on many levels, how the dog rules the roost between them. I have started spending lots more time in my room with my good dog as means of getting around the ever-growing stench of dog waste in the common areas.

I didn’t come here to clean up after an out of control and incorrigible animal that has no concept of good behavior. And, to be honest, I barely get paid enough to cover my legitimate workload here; and, most certainly do not get paid to follow around a piece of shit, poorly trained, bad dog and clean up his messes repeatedly and with no end in sight due to the shortcomings of someone else’s ability to control his useless and good for nothing pet. Call me what you will, but you can’t call me stupid on this point. Stupid would be the redundancy of dog shitting and pissing where he wants – and me coming behind him to clean up his filth. Maybe The Old Man should hire someone to come specifically to enable his useless piece of shit dog.

If Only It Hurt To Be An Asshole.

So…I am plagued right now by several people in my life who seem to think that I am an idiot. I may not always say things in the moment, when someone is attempting to play me like a slot machine, I may not always even realize it at that point in time, but I will realize it. Trust that much. I can’t stand it when people are unable to own their own bullshit in life; much less when said people insist on trying to shift any blame or responsibility over such bullshit onto others when they get called on it.

I have my own bullshit and my own problems. I have my own issues to work on without other people constantly trying to force feed me the workload of their bullshit as well. People just don’t seem to comprehend how fucking stupid they look when they do this, as if I can’t do the math and see what they are doing, or trying to do. Do other people not see how low that takes them by behaving like a 2 year old? Do other people actually think that these pathetic and constant attempts at deflecting the TRUTH will somehow carry them through life? Without losing everyone who might have really cared about them?

It would just be really nice if other people could own their shit, even once in a while. It’s really old being mostly surrounded by people who always want to shift blame and try to make me accountable for shit that has NOTHING to do with me. If only it hurt to be an asshole, maybe people would find a way to check themselves.

When Nobody Else Will Do.

From day to day, it’s just me and him.

And there are moments when…

Everything in the world seems to stop and stand still,

And the madness and chaos melt away to the edges,

And in those moments, I feel like his presence is a necessity,

And nobody else will do.

Notes To Self # 771

Upon being woken up in the early morning hours (5:30) because the old man can’t unscrew a pill bottle, try to remember yourself.

Feeling hatred and disgust towards a spoiled rotten, neurotic dog because, despite his almost 9 years of age, he still chooses to shit and piss inside the house while the door’s wide open probably takes years off your life.

Rear-ending a lifted truck with a trailer hitch, even a low speed, WILL total your Jeep.

People do not give two shits about other people.

Knowing your personal limitations doesn’t always mean you must heed this knowledge; sometimes it’s simply best to go against the grain and try anyway.

When you feel the effects of tiresome company, disappearing into your bedroom and refusing to answer the door isn’t always an option.

Dogs don’t comprehend egotism; stop getting mad when your dog knocks you over and drags you down the sidewalk to sniff a new tree.

If, after ripping you off for over a year by charging you for your dead mother’s line, your cell phone carrier is taking more of your money than the IRS, time to look into leaving Sprint for good. (FUCK YOU SPRINT!!!)

The Back of the Monkey.

A pet in the lap of the admiralty,

purring to the stroking,

laughing at the joking,

you mean to keep me,

to reward your infidelity,

to please the eye by which you see,

to one day stuff my dead body,

and display the beast in me.

Fixed onto the back of the monkey,

the stray in the street,

bloody hands and dirtied feet,

you mean to tame me –

to take me home and re-name me,

to clean me up and change me,

to alter what Life’s made me.

You think you’ve tapped a bead,

but your eyes misconceive,

oh no, that isn’t me,

and since you fail to see,

the truth comes painfully,

I’ll draw blood before I leave,

there’s no re-naming me.

The Life That I Needed.

 

To those who can say that they know me, the old-lady-ness that defines much of my character isn’t at all a surprise. The fact that I am home 7 nights a week reading a book by myself doesn’t come as a shock either. My absolute dismay of large crowds and unacquainted strangers hardly gets a rise out of anyone who knows me at all. I am admittedly the youngest “old lady” statewide, and likely rank with the nations top young “old lady” contenders. I am boring and domesticated to a fault, yes. I have the most bland existence of anyone I know, to be honest. In the life and times of Yours Truly, the sands through the hourglass fall transparently and in full view of everyone, because my boringness leaves nothing to hide or avoid.

Recently, I took a full-time position as a live-in caretaker for an old friend who I have been somewhat looking after anyway as he ages. He is a 96 year old widower who owns the building where I worked in the tax firm for almost a decade during my late twenties and early thirties. Despite our huge age difference, Rodger and I have a lot in common. He is a kind and gentle soul with a lot of knowledge and wisdom he doesn’t mind sharing regularly (an aspect that I absolutely love about him). Rod and I are longtime lunch/dinner buddies, as we have been eating together on a regular basis for going on 20 years now. He doesn’t mind when I fall asleep sitting up watching one of his non-exciting television shows about the Dust Bowl in the 1930s. He takes it in stride that I go to bed earlier than he does every night. He has always been very non-judgemental of me and the things that I have gone through in my life. He always has surprisingly fresh insights on the things going on in the world. Most people look at him as being “gruff”, “stubborn”, and “stuck in his old fashioned ways”; but between he and I, there has always been a sympathetic bond that remains solid.

Rodger has 2 grown children, a son and a daughter; who, for whatever reasons of their own rarely come around for any reason besides to borrow huge sums of money from him. I have all of these feelings over this that I won’t share here now; but suffice to say that he is neglected by those he loves most in the world. Originally, I was supposed to come for the first 30 days following his release from the rehabilitation, after breaking his back in March. At the end of that time frame, he asked me to consider staying longer with him, as he didn’t feel quite ready to be on his own again. One day, he became quite serious over sandwiches and root beer floats, and solemnly said:

“Truth is, that you have me somewhat spoiled already, and the thought of you being gone is a sad one to me…I hope you know that you’ll always have a place here, if you should ever need one after you leave.”

This was a very touching and heartfelt statement; and coming from “Old Gruff” made it that much more meaningful. Since I got here 3 months ago, I have been experiencing the sense of family that I haven’t had in some time. I have been slowly going through the grief processes attached to my mom’s death in the peace and quiet and safety of Rodger’s home. The only bad thing about being here is the fact that our dogs do not get along; which makes for some serious Chinese Fire Drilling; but otherwise, my existence at present is fairly easy and without much outside influence.

 

I needed this. 

Chase.

I once told you I hoped that you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footprints as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

your eyes used to follow my eyes,

As they darted about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

Down the trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I don’t want you to see as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into their bark,

I‘d rather that you might remember times,

when I still held a more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with any of the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you’ve come to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

to pick up, dust off, and carry on,

Past all the times that your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footprints into the trees,

you must finally stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill this unwell prophecy.

 

 

 

Phantom Stitches.

Americana Injustica

Somebody taps a chisel,

into a phantom nerve end,

my body racks and wriggles,

as I wake up screaming again,

somebody drives a freight-train,

through thinly-laid dreamscape,

somebody else is using my name,

and handing out my handshake,

someone is chasing me constantly,

anytime I look his face is somewhere,

like a silent horror that’s stalking me,

with a presence that’s everywhere,

somebody rips up the stitches,

the sound of Velcro against my screams,

the scenery changes and switches,

but the stitches are ripped out unfailingly,

somebody please tell me,

this isn’t the best of recovery,

that spending more time in therapy,

will allow the stitches to dissolve naturally.

 

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The Rest Of Them.

Remember how I understood you?

When your mouth was full,

Of weed smoke and jelly beans,

And the rest of the people,

Had no idea what you’d said?

Remember how I came to get you?

When your city was burning,

You tried to sleep through to death,

And the rest of the people,

Asked not after your well-being?

Remember those stupid promises?

Made to each other like idiots,

How they’ve filled my heart with regrets,

And the rest of the people,

Walk by me holding hands and laughing.

A Jewel Dealer.

The bellboy silently closed the heavy hotel door behind him as he left the cushy room. S swallowed hard and calmly shut her eyes. She let her head roll back against the wall and began to quietly count to herself in the dark closet. She heard J’s voice float to her in the darkness, boisterously speaking to the man who’s name was signed on the hotel paperwork scattered across the glass coffee table about 10 feet in front of the closet.

J was carrying on about pointless things, trifling topics that filled the empty space between herself and the jewel collector she was captivating with nonsense.

“75…76…77…”
S stealthily sat up on her haunches, readying herself to spring to her feet.
“85…86…87…”

“I hear it’s lovely there in the spring.”

She heard the sarcasm oozing from J’s low murmuring voice through the darkness.

“95…96…97…”

The footsteps were growing louder, getting nearer, the floor beneath S shook lightly as they approached the closet she was hidden it, lying in wait.

As the closet door opened, S registered the surprise in the face of the jewel dealer; he knew he had been gotten. The jacket he had intended to hang up in the closet was already wrapped tightly around his torso from behind, and J’s maniacal grin peeked at S through the darkness from over his left shoulder.

“Don’t make a sound.”

S was deftly binding his legs already and, rather gracefully, switching her position in the closet with the jewel dealer’s next to J. THUD. The man fell full on his weight like a sack of potatoes into a heap on the closet floor. Two wide eyes staring up at the calmly poised women from the floor of the closet.

“Give us the keys.” J thrust out her hand towards the panicked face in the inky darkness.

“I…I…”

The jewel dealers words stuttered pathetically through gasps and quiet sobs.

“You will be a ghost full of regrets if you don’t stop talking and hand me those keys.”

S was wearing her serious face as she said this. Nervous pocket shuffling in the closet; keys jingling, coins rattling, until finally a small ring with two tiny nondescript keys on it was tossed through the space between them. A groan of miserable defeat followed from the closet.

Introspectivity.

It always starts out with,
that involuntary twitch,
eyes popping,
nervous rocking,
hard to catch my breath;

This much accursed gift,
heart haywire, mind adrift,
engine sputter,
pulse aflutter,
can’t run away from it;

A sand that’s too fine to sift,
these hands: too broken to lift,
no motivation,
slow salvation,
beyond a dark, longstanding rift;

Steaming piles of shit,
line my pathway to its pit,
a one way road,
on the map I hold,
of a soul that’s counterfeit.

Still Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous things,

picking thorns from trees,

like a blended sugarcane,

DMT, bonfires and peyote,

cigars and syringes,

sparkling fringes,

champagne, cocaine,

and pornography,

somewhere out there,

fathomed too deep,

Where I hardly sleep,

And maybe it’s killing me,

how my eyes stay closed,

mouth neatly sewn,

over words of my own,

this place is forsaken,

this space can’t be taken,

the loose change shaken,

from the secret pockets,

sewn neatly in my cheeks.

Flounder.

I’ve been circling the moldy, plankton encrusted bottom layers of life; feeding off of the slowly sinking debris that once littered the surface layers: the leftovers of a long-ago feast that I attended up there.

My vision has adapted to the murk; my breathing has adjusted to the oxygen depletion of dangerous depths and harrowing heights; my skin has settled into the wrinkled prune-esqueness of an over-long bubble bath; my hair now growing shafts of seaweed and tangly kelp in place of it’s natural fibers.

I’m a flounder, living with a great white shark who is lazy with a eating disorder; I am stuck in the suction of his hefty submerged wake; I am seemingly happy to gobble up the chunks of shit that fall from the sides of his razor sharp bite as he chews incessantly; I am his shadow down here.

Disenchanted.

Americana Injustica

Disenchanted by the headlong rush,

that got the attention of both of us,

beginnings are things that eventually must,

become the contrasted endings that suck,

no apologies to be accepted or said,

no singularities that turned it all bad,

it isn’t just me and my tragic instability,

it’s also due to you and your insecurity,

the instant I recognized the feeling I had,

a tapping began in the back of my head,

a sensation I couldn’t quite put into words,

a commanding thing in demand to be heard,

this feeling grew increasingly familiar to me,

like something hazed over by the glaze of a dream,

that makes itself seen at the edges of sleep,

just before I awaken to the sound of my own screams,

singlehanded have I wrought havoc in reply,

understand it, that I brought my own demise,

its turbulence and ordinance have me seeing things,

possessiveness and…

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Monstrosity.

Americana Injustica

Sacrificially inseminated,
strung across a radar’s rim,
a sported trophy limb for limb;
artificially accumulated,
with the seed of what’s human,
however, unrecognizable to them;
insignificantly appreciated,
straddled astride the old confines,
mirroring through space and time;
purportedly uneventful,
no changes made to our story-line,
ancient wisdom of the senile mind;
Thunderously silent,
across every galaxy in the sky,
expand the Universe to erase the naked eye;
sheepishly obnoxious,
can’t help but to wonder why,
we encourage each other to wither and die;
Elated taciturnity,
the mad dash at being first in line,
flocked together on the doorstep of the divine,
suppressed transparency,
receptive to carbon-based humankind,
an immaculate conception that’s been streamlined .

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Silliness.

Americana Injustica

Silly, silly me,
to once again,
redundantly…
peel back,
broken skin,
to let it bleed…
the point,
as it had been,
is lost on me…

Silly, silly you,
to have,
misconstrued…
such a concisely,
spoken clearly,
cemented truth…
damn you,
to next see,
the full moon…

Yet – sillier still,
was the bend,
of so much will…
and even right now,
it’s twisted somehow,
my stomach’s ill…
over such an end,
in betrayal again,
a void I cannot fill…

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Re-Highlighted Pages.

Okay, then –
fine;
in the spirit,
of saving time:
allow me,
please,
to admit,
whatever deeds,
that you need,
to claim,
as being mine,
well, Hell,
oh damn…
it’s all my fault,
somehow,
once again;
see my arm up,
see it waving,
see how much,
bigger I am?
Gods’ damn,
“Little Man” –
who designed
your B Plan…
as it was,
just because,
so stupidly,
you now stand;
all alone,
left to hold,
a Mystery Bag;
no trigger piece,
left on your hip,
and suddenly,
that tongue of yours,
doesn’t seem to slip…
maybe you,
don’t really know,
how serious,
how deep this goes,
the importance of,
your admitted love:
for being in control,
Red Flag,hash-tag,
highlighted pages,
deciphered by:
all the ages,
with the exceptions,
in each generation,
of the ugliest spirits,
with the prettiest faces.

Every.

Americana Injustica

Every last inch of any space I’ve ever claimed
has been taken in turn and never been mine again

every desperate word spoken from my mouth, in vain
has somehow been twisted by negative change

every bone broken and trampled on in rage
has submitted to the ghosts that haunt my DNA

every moment stolen from every hour of every day
has burned my eyes and settled deep into my brain

every childhood need ignored by a mother who walked away
has permitted my adulthood to slowly fade away

every blog post written in attempt to ease the pain
have become the journal of a ghost that still remains

every time I fool myself into believing I’ll be okay
has only been another lie to get me through another day

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There’s A Reason.

There’s a reason why Trump’s not welcome here in the wake of such a deadly, longstanding tragedy;

There’s a reason why I want to spit on the people here in the South Bay for wearing face masks, as if we have heavy smoke or bad air quality, in comparison to our northernmost counterparts.

There’s a reason why the death toll continues to rise even so long after the fact when we finally have the fire at 98% containment.

In loving and hopeful memory of Paradise and Magalia, California: two of the formerly best places to camp with friends and family, hide from the law, grow large scale killer weed, or just relax in the buttes.

Vacuum.

All at once,

Like a sucker punch,

Surprise, it’s like,

It says so in my eyes,

“Please tell me lies”,

All the same,

Never owning the blame,

It’s true, it’s like,

I saw it way before you,

Subtract one from two,

All in time,

On a clock that’s behind,

And now, it’s like,

Father Time won’t allow,

Still stuck on stupid somehow.

Been.

Been feeling rather

like I’ve been,

tossed out with the trash again,

been hearing laughter

inside my brain,

for getting played like a slot machine,

been taking refuge

in a jackal’s den,

naked, with a so-called gentleman,

been driven into

the wall again,

petal to the metal into the median,

been feeling nothing

but pure obscurity,

a vague and insecure uncertainty,

been here wondering

ponderously,

imprisoned by my own duplicity,

been tapping constantly

on the keys ‘til my fingers bleed,

to dispel the hurt I’ll feel inevitably,

been like, yeah – well, maybe,

I’ve been shafted again,

 sour, that out-dated milk carton,

been eating candy,

vainly, to try and sweeten,

the taste of my faith going quickly rotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mic Check, One One Two.

me n moose

Hello and Much Love to my long-lost cyber siblings and family!

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

I’m here to catch up and share some super fucked up shit with the Universe and anyone else who happens to read this update:

As you may or may not know, my mama passed away on March 20 – 5 days before my birthday. The long battle and everyone attached to one had pretty much done me in by that time and she died in a convalescent home about 30 minutes away from where I live, where she had been staying since the beginning of December 2017. It had been set up that way because that was closer to my Aunt, who had power of attorney over my mom at the time and also had the time everyday to attend to my mama’s dwindling wants and/or needs. So, needless to say, I was traveling that 30 minutes back and forth at least once a day, sometimes more. It wore not only on my spirit and body – but also on my former car, too.

It was at that time that Boo showed up at my work with her starving and sickly dogs, asking me to help her and take them. She knew that they would ultimately be safe and cared for if they went with me, as opposed to staying on the streets with a homeless an drug addicted prostitute. I found the girl blue nose pit bull a home immediately but was at a loss when it came to the very young, 108 pound, totally unruly male German Shepherd. After a few weeks of searching for a family to adopt him and trying then failing at placing him anywhere, I decided to keep him. We had bonded by then and he was very traumatized by his past, very anxious about being left behind. I fell in love with him in time and he has become the only family I have left from day to day.

The Passat finally broke the fuck down totally during that stretch, though it’s so blurry in recollection to me that I can’t say exactly when or where or how it happened. My mama had signed her car over to me to sell after she was gone, so I drove that for the remainder of the time I had the chance to see my mom alive (a blessing that I would’ve surely gone into total despondency without).

Also during that blur of time, my former Dad re-surfaced and came to be with her until she died, though not in time to allow her any peace of mind through the awareness of that fact; she likely never even knew he was there, as at the end she was in so much pain that she was on a 24hr heavy morphine drip. The end was beyond miserable for her (and anyone who knew and loved her); and I can say that when she finally passed away, relief was an understatement, in my case, at least. My brother has had a Helluva time processing our Mom’s death, surprisingly. My Aunt has gone heart-cold again, like she was all those years of my life before my mom got sick and diagnosed with terminal cancer. She texts me randomly saying stupid shit like “hope you are okay…”, and I never respond.

I walked out on my cemetery job in early June and just kinda fluttered in space for a week or so before the next crisis entered my life (or lack, thereof).

My (former) “good” roommate Dice dropped the most heartbreaking bomb on me during this crucially pivotal emotional point in my world:

“I got married, and, she’s moving in next week”.

My world went off kilter at that point, and I can’t really account for much from then until about a month ago, when I moved to the new nightmare in which I now reside. Finding a place to live with a huge GSD was not easy, and I ended up having to settle for an over-priced, under-kept master suite with a private entrance up in the Lexington Hills – a hideous commute to my job and a hard wear on the pocketbook as well. At present, I am struggling to keep Oso (my dog) in line and not backslide on the training he has so far. I won’t be here very long, but in the meantime, it’s “home“.

Unhappy as I am, I still feel grateful for many elements of the moments I endure.

 

PART TWO: UPPER MANAGEMENT.

It was a few weeks ago, during the crunch of “month end” in the accounting department, that the regional marketing manager (the “Big Big Boss”) threw open the door and entered with the general manager (the “Big Boss”) into the domain of math, food, and disgruntled women.

I was at the typewriter in the back completing the Day Sheet when the two of them made the obnoxious whirlwind akin to any pair of physically obese and socially dogmatic bigots upon entering a room full of their’ inferiors.

People –ESPECIALLY BIG, FAT MEN THAT TALK LIKE PEEWEE HERMAN – like his tend to have many private conversations among themselves about such inferior beings (employees) in most annoyed manner, for the record…

 

The very first thing that the Marketing Dude says upon opening the door and setting foot in the Accounting Department, and at the top of his Pee Wee-esque voice, says is:

          “Everyone get your green cards out and ready to show ‘em to the guy that pays your bills…”

 fat crook

And, in spite of my own inner-hackles being thrust up immediately, and the quite instantaneous rise in my blood pressure, the two of them just casually walk right on into the main office area and Mr. Marketing repeats the stupid-ass green card comment a second – then, a third time just as loudly, to the rest of my former co-workers (several, such as my former cubicle mate and (by this point) good friend, are natives of Mexico – in my friend’s case, under sponsorship by her husband for citizenship at present).

The two fatties laugh at their own jokes and harass the assistant manager for a brief time before rolling down the hallway to a different department to undoubtedly tell the same stupid jokes and poke each other’s Pillsbury a few more times or whatever they do.

And, in their wake, NOTHING…the supervisors don’t show any surprise or disgust  at the racism that just dumped itself all over our entire office; nobody says a fucking word – besides me.

I went to the office manager’s desk and said,
“Did you here that?”

Her response (and she is a black lady):

“Nobody said anything when they were still in here, y’all were laughing along with them…don’t try to come in here now after they’ve gone and say something about it, don’t try to act like you’re offended or something…”

She looked me up and down as if to say,

“Why do you care anyway, you don’t have a green card?”

 

Fuck that place, I’m so blessed to have gotten out.

 

PART ONE: THE ACCOUNTING DEPT.

Shame on them all, the blind fuckheads that they are…how soon we forget where we came from.

  1. You’ve got Ms. Office Manager of “Deliverance”:
    too caught up in her own confusion and cluelessness to even realize what a mistake it was to put someone as lacking in workplace knowledge and ethic as herself in charge. She calls shots and plays smart as the accounting department goes to shambles because she doesn’t know shit about what she’s doing from day to day. Not cold hearted, but heartless. Not even kidding anyone about anything, despite her failed self-imaging of a Jedi Master.
  2. Then there’s lil Miss “Princess Complex” Assistant Manager:
    She’s like 12 years old, in every way besides her ungainly height…the very last kind of person on Earth you wanna give any control to because yeah, she likely blows kisses to herself in the mirror whenever she gets the chance. This one is single handedly holding up the accounting department, and this can’t last. The gods have put her quite the lose-lose predicament, though she doesn’t know it yet. Too young for me to really hate forever.

Next, there’s Wednesday Addams, the unknowing lame:
So what? Wow, she inputs data and walks around like a permanent Mad Dog, with the most miserably frowning face imaginable every moment of every day. She covertly snitches on co-workers, pays far too much attention to what everyone else is doing, and was personally offended by Miss Princess Complex’s promotion to Assistant Manager when it happened, talking long shot about the entire situation. I’ve never heard her say anything remotely positive about the company etc. If any workplace on the planet had fewer employees like her, the world would be a better place.

The kicker to this scenario is that the rest of “the team” bust their collective assets to hold everything together: good, bad or otherwise. It tolls heavily. Then, the instant somebody speaks up about the conditions that we’re working under, it’s announced that employees are not allowed to walk around expressing any type of dissatisfaction.
Well Wednesday Addams gets to walk around looking looking like her dog just got run over by a car.
Fuck that place, I’m blessed to have finally gotten out.