Of My Court.

The line is clear,
your voice is true –
when you inquire,
if I still belong to you…
my response is sure,
as the day is long –
when I assert,
that I belong to no one…
though, in spite of such,
the flame that we produce –
continues to burn,
the hottest shades of blue…
the whitest heat,
the love runs deep –
like a river’s mouth,
feeding directly into…
the vastness of oceans,
the vacuum of space –
the grip of your fingers,
the look on your face…
you remain my Hero,
the Champion of my court –
whittler of my wooden heart,
fixer of my broken parts…
you’ve caught my tears,
and scrubbed away,
in total disarray –
the stains left by my blood…
you’ve carried me,
screaming and kicking,
cursing the heavens,
from the top of my lungs –
you sat me down,
when the day was done…
and reminded me of how,
redemption would come –
someday, somehow,
you say, let’s focus on,
this moment right now…
and the future to come,
but the truth is,
when good nights are said,
and the laughter is gone –
I still love you as much,
as I’ve always done…
the distance that has,
always plagued –
the wedge between,
any regular touch,
that much needed spark,
a transmission,
the ignition,
a link that strings invisibly –
between yours,
and my own skin…
it is still this way,
for the same reason today,
as it always was back then –
you’re there,
and I’m here,
love can’t make,
the void disappear…
no matter how true,
or how real, or pure –
I know it hurts you so much,
that I need to be touched,
I need to be felt,
heard, and related to –
up close and personally,
not electronically,
not through text messaging…
you can claim me,
the day that I finally –
say “fuck it”,
and come home to you.

Of My Court.

The line is clear,
your voice is true –
when you inquire,
if I still belong to you…
my response is sure,
as the day is long –
when I assert,
that I belong to no one…
though, in spite of such,
the flame that we produce –
continues to burn,
the hottest shades of blue…
the whitest heat,
the love runs deep –
like a river’s mouth,
feeding directly into…
the vastness of oceans,
the vacuum of space –
the grip of your fingers,
the look on your face…
you remain my Hero,
the Champion of my court –
whittler of my wooden heart,
fixer of my broken parts…
you’ve caught my tears,
and scrubbed away,
in total disarray –
the stains left by my blood…
you’ve carried me,
screaming and kicking,
cursing the heavens,
from the top of my lungs –
you sat me down,
when the day was done…
and reminded me of how,
redemption would come –
someday, somehow,
you say, let’s focus on,
this moment right now…
and the future to come,
but the truth is,
when good nights are said,
and the laughter is gone –
I still love you as much,
as I’ve always done…
the distance that has,
always plagued –
the wedge between,
any regular touch,
that much needed spark,
a transmission,
the ignition,
a link that strings invisibly –
between yours,
and my own skin…
it is still this way,
for the same reason today,
as it always was back then –
you’re there,
and I’m here,
love can’t make,
the void disappear…
no matter how true,
or how real, or pure –
I know it hurts you so much,
that I need to be touched,
I need to be felt,
heard, and related to –
up close and personally,
not electronically,
not through text messaging…
you can claim me,
the day that I finally –
say “fuck it”,
and come home to you.

The Psychopathic Bringers of Justice and Peace Part Five: Joe.

Last night, I watched the film called ‘Joe’ starring Nicolas Cage, Tye Sheridan and the late Gary Poulter. I have never really been too much of a Nick Cage fan (with the exception of The Rock) and couldn’t tell you why besides to say that his macho roles are always totally Schwarzenegger’d to all shit.
The movie Joe however, well….wow…is all I can say; this film was super low budget and had a cast that was mixed with regular street actors as well as more famous ones like Cage; but it’s message was PRICELESS. Cage did the performance of his career, in my opinion – and I realize that is likely because he portrays the epitome of a Psychopathic Bringer of Justice and Peace, but his character is EPIC.

cage-joe2
I really can’t do a full review of his role and those of the others in the film without creating a very well-written spoiler – which I only do on movies older than five years. This was a 2013 film, so I will not.
However, in reading up on the film and its making, I was shocked to learn that Gary Poulter, who plays the belligerent and drunken father to Sheridan’s character, actually was a homeless “drunk” that was hired from the streets. His portrayal in the film is said to be one of little acting whatsoever. Additionally, he has died since the film was made; he was found face-down in a shallow pond in an Austin, Texas homeless encampment.

Joe - copy imageThis information made the film that much more powerful and hauntingly surreal. Poulter’s character is evil and truly, truly beyond any help or redemption in the film. It was sad to learn of the lack behind any acting done on his part, for starters.

gary poulter

Poulter’s character being a drunken piece of shit to his son, Sheridan’s character, Gary.

cage poulter

Cage’s character, Joe on the verge of snapping with Poulter’s character, T-Daawg.

Either way – Cage fan or not, I suggest you see this film. It is on Amazon and likely available wherever you get movies nowadays.

Jackson, The EMT.

kindness

Jackson or “Jack” was a stranger to me when I woke up after having my throat cut. He was just as strange to me as any of the nurses, surgeons or anesthesiologists; I didn’t even know his name or where I had seen him before….
He was sitting there, flipping through the pages of magazine that had pictures of hitch campers and fly-fishermen having the time of their lives out in the Great Outdoors of Manly Men; his hair was tousled and his eyes were heavy. He looked exhausted even to someone who didn’t know him.
Jackson…for ten plus years….a fucking ROCK.
He had been there religiously since I got there to the Unit; he was on a first name basis with everyone before I even regained consciousness. He knew nothing about me besides the minimal information he had collected during and immediately following the drama of my injury/attack: my first and last names, my presumed DOB, the fact that I am anemic, and my blood type: AB/RH-. All he was sure of, all that mattered to him for those days in between my actual injury and the day that I woke up, had been that I was not alone and scared as Hell when it finally happened.
He didn’t know that I had no Dad anymore; he didn’t know that my Papa had recently passed, either. He had no details about any part of my life outside of the FACTS that he had seen first-hand, as my own personal Hero. When I ask him wtf he was doing hanging out in a hospital, waiting for some mutant-faced domestic hostage refugee to awaken and lose her shit upon finding out that she had not been having nightmares, after all – he always simply answers with,

“I knew enough.”

A man of few words, Jack has always frustrated me beyond description with his overkilling calm and seemingly delayed responses. He has balance that shines from every pore; the picture of self-containment and control. Never, have I seen him lose his temper for a nano-second; nothing throws him off, he’s “Money”.
Jack is the epitome of ‘Mr. Slickness’ –but, I digress.

The very first memory that I have after surviving and being hospitalized is of Jack the EMT; I became immediately and acutely aware of this strangely familiar man (whom I innately liked, but mentally associated with REALLY bad but unclear experience), fearfulness washed over me like a fucking wave of tangible and anchoring liquid. I tried to jump up and away from the feelings, and was driven closer to panic by the sobering appreciation of the fact that I could not move my body at all, tied into a bed by wires and stringy webs of hospital equipment; I tried to speak but only succeeded in letting out several very telling gasps for air. Reality lingered nearer, my fogginess began to clear quite suddenly and a moment of total recognition came over me then:
He was already up and moving, he immediately dropped off of his chair into a Mechanic’s Crouch at the foot of my bed in a submissive gesture that any mammal of earth, including severely retarded ones, would understand as his assurance of no harm meant. The way he recollects it, his instincts had already told him that I was a “kick in the pants”. His lulling drawl was calm and very passive when he softly spoke to me from his place near the footboard of my hospital bed.
He said,

“I know you are going to feel very afraid and confused right now, Cricket”

(I remember thinking: ‘my name isn’t Cricket…is it?’)

“And that’s okay and totally normal…”

He now says that was not the right thing to say and that it was inappropriate (because he has come to strongly harbor an opinion that in the circumstances in which that moment was defined by, there is really no such thing as “normal”) but let me tell you something:
As soon as he spoke, the relation I had to him rushed back over me all at once:
His voice over my face, blood everywhere – even on his upper front teeth, somehow; his voice commanding barks at me in the ambulance and through the swooshy doors of the trauma unit, his steadied hands gripping every single millimeter of my remaining life – fade in, out, fade in, out. The words he used were irrelevant and meaningless to me at that very moment in time, but his voice told me enough to know it was okay, he was okay, I was okay. I could trust that he wasn’t there to hurt me.
I was mean to Jack at first; I didn’t always feel gratitude towards him for being here to write this…on the contrary, we had many months of ugliness and instances that were reminiscent of a father and his unruly, rebellious teenaged daughter. Many days were spent with my eyes on “perma-roll” in response to his patience and lack of reaction to my anger and newborn PTSD. I recall sitting in his den (which became my “bedroom” for a while) with my index fingers plugged into both ears because I could not stand how calm and noiseless he was. (???) I was a bitch; a seriously scared and broken bitch. I do not like to think about what my recovery may have looked like had Jack NOT been the one called to the scene of my attempted murder.
Jack took it upon himself to carry the burden of recapturing the events of The Ripper’s attack on me, as well as his escape from the scene of the crime – and ongoing evasion from police; and he held nothing back with it. In retrospect, he wanted me to be disgusted by all of it, I think. Jackson literally sat beside me through some of nastiest surgical procedures on earth: stuff that made my own family dread having to actually look at me – but, he always made eye contact with me, without once batting an eye…and believe me, I was ever diligent in looking for a cringe or reaction from him over my appearance. He was an EMT for thirty years leading up to that point, and that was no coincidence either, I’m sure. He knew what was going on with my physical recovery process better than I did, and was annoying die-hard with my long-term wound care, wound-cleaning, debriding, grafting progress, etc.
In hindsight, aye…I was mean to Jackson when I woke up to my newborn life as a Cut Throat Survivor – a gift that he had given to me. He didn’t care what I said or did, he never faltered on me. He was like clockwork day in and day out. He was the scientifically sound evidence of humanity floating sacrificially amongst a sea of hungry evidence-eating sharks and humanity devouring monsters I was trying to resurface from. He waited THERE for me. To his detriment, I’m sure. He was single because of me for way too long in my opinion; any woman that he tried to be serious with has been threatened by my existence and his ongoing contributions to it. Did he give a shit about a single one of his ex-girlfriends’ feelings or insecurities when it came to me, even one time? No, he did not.
As a Native American tribesman, Jackson’s devotion to giving back to the community he lives in runs deep, and his devotion to me was born of this characteristic. He has never been remotely shitty to me, even when I would redundantly spit out hatefulness and embittered perceptions at him for ensuring me the life in order to feel so angry; even when I wasn’t yet devoted to me, he was. After the doctors were finished with “Frankenstein”, and I got to go home finally – Jack was unable to keep himself together – he cried tears of joy. His bottom lip still quivers when he speaks of that day, he was proud of me. He is still proud of me. I struggle, even now, to understand my stroke of luck when it comes to him.
A few months ago, I asked him why he insists on calling me “Cricket”; and his response to my question was this:

“When I saw you for the first time out there in the yard…I saw YOU. Yeah, yeah…your face was not your face back then; that was before you grew up, shit what were you? All of twenty?…I remember the fear in your eyes when I got to you, if you coulda talked to me, you woulda asked me not to let you die, I saw that in your eyes…I saw you wanted this terror and fear to be over, I saw in your eyes that you were willing to work with me in order to stay alive to the unit…”

I was tearing up by this point in his recollection – due to the fact that he is totally correct in his summation – I remember these things – staring up into his face intentionally, willing my eyeballs to burn into him so that he’d recognize my ‘fighter’, still in there with her fists up.

“…those little legs folded up under you, you were bone-broken into bits… and gurgling blood…it was a tough last ride to retire on…”

I was nearly killed on Jackson’s VERY LAST DAY AT WORK, prior to his retirement – again, no coincidence.

“…still, you were smiling at me the entire time…I don’t know, but you were a Cricket – delicately in my lap…a happy little Cricket, gurgling songs…and I made the decision right then and there, that you had seen enough bullshit for one lifetime. That I would see you better and set free…”

I have written countless poems and prose in my lifetime as a result of my love for literary beauty and conciseness; however, when those words, simple and few as they may have been, have remained burned into my head like a white-hot branding to my brain – it’s description, too meaningful and heavy in my own perception to even write poetry about. Basically, what he was saying was that he made the choice way back then (based on my “broken cricket legs”, and my own version of a ‘death rattle’ and morbid smile) – before knowing a thing about me – to FREE me from the living nightmare I had come to know as Life.

“I knew enough.”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JACK THE E.M.T., MY HERO AND FRIEND…
Here’s looking at YOU.
❤ ❤ ❤ ❤

hope

The Psychopathic Bringers of Justice and Peace – Part 3: Marv from Sin City.

“That’s the Thing With Dames…sometimes all they gotta do is let it out, and a few buckets later there’s no way you’d know…”

Marv Goes the Distance for Goldie.

Marv Goes the Distance for Goldie.

 

“Most people think Marv is crazy. He just had the rotten luck of being born in the wrong century.”

 

“What if I’m wrong? I’ve got a condition. I get confused sometimes. What if I’ve imagined all this? What if I’ve finally turned into what they’ve always said I would turn into? A maniac. A psycho killer.”

We all remember the Marvel Classic turned Movie Sin City, in which the enormous and disfigured Parolee, Marv, falls in love with “A Dame to kill for” (Goldie the Hooker).

I have always loved this film, despite the gore and bloodlust involved; because we get a strange but thorough view from inside this psychopath’s mind during the saga.

We experience his self-doubt under his own un-medicated state; he expresses his underlying need and desire to be loved for the scary thing that he looks like. We see how undyingly loyal and die-hard his affections can be when he is given that love – regardless of if it had come from a hooker. The sense of confusion mixed with sheer determination for vengeance in this storyline is unmatched, and couldn’t possibly have been done any better, in my opinion.

Marv helps the viewer to see that there is an awareness of himself all along, he is very mindful throughout his role in the Saga.

His understanding and deep love for the “dames” is eventually what gets him killed, and by that time – – – the viewer is rooting for him to rise again.

“That’s the thing with dames; sometimes all they gotta do is let it out and a few buckets later there’s no way you’d know…”

The Psychopathic Bringers of Justice and Peace Part 2

In my first article in the all-new Psychopathic Bringers of Justice & Peace series, I shared with my readers some of my most celebrated “heroes” from literature, history, and film depictions. This probably gave you a very good idea of how my mind sees a “savior” or a “godsend”; and it’s quite likely not what would be considered “normal” in terms of societal standards (fuck ‘em)…

Pirates, soldiers, beast-like “things” that double as humans, scoundrels, hit men, gangsters, criminals of the most lowly kind; Hell, there’s no doubt in my mind that if I were to run into several of them somehow in a dark alley – I’d be toast by principle, alone.

For this segment, I’m going to examine some generalized reasons behind my unfailing curse of relating to these particular “psychopaths”; and also how the Hell I might openly consider each one heroic in his/her own right. (Though, I already know that many of my readers will not have to reach far in order to completely get it, since they are similar to me in these ways…)

This post examines the darker sides off each character for the most part – – – Next time, we will look at the similarities each of them as Heroes.

Let’s get to know a little about each of these blood-spilling “Boondock Saints“, shall we?


Lisbeth Salander – the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (Novels by Stieg Larsson)

By the end of this Saga, we completely and totally understand, and accept Lisbeth's psychological instabilities.

By the end of this Saga, we completely and totally understand, and accept Lisbeth’s psychological instabilities.

[Shown in photo as Lisbeth Salander of the Swedish film version of the Series, Noomi Rapace]

 

 

Survivor of SERIOUS multiple types of abuse

introvert

needs “alone time” often

bi sexual

vigilante

resourceful as 10 mother fuckers

honest

must have a set of HUGE nuts

genetic psychopath

knows who she is

Molotov-Cocktailed her abusive father at age 7

Not Giving a Fuck

Willing to die for what she believes to be right

Willing to kill for what she believes is right


 

Mr. HydeLeague of Extraordinary Gentlemen (movie)

Mr. Hyde is Not Giving a Fuck When All is Said and Done, He Will Make the Sacrifice.

Mr. Hyde is Not Giving a Fuck When All is Said and Done, He Will Make the Sacrifice.

 

Legal Hostage/ Fugitive

Betrayed and Embittered

Self-Medicating/ Drug Addict

Anger Management Issues

Passive-Aggressive

Highly Misunderstood

Complete Lack of Self-Control

Highly Intelligent


FlokiVikings on the History Channel

Floki Communicates with Nature but Cuts Throats, Too.

Floki Communicates with Nature but Cuts Throats, Too.

Introvert

Socially Awkward

Fiercely Loyal

Intuitive/ Empathic

Hyper-Vigilante

Very Self-Aware

Fearless

Needs Alone Time

Recluse

Works with His Hands & Tools/ Woodworker

Constantly Observant

Magically Inclined


 Daryl DixonThe Walking Dead (AMC Series)

We've Watched as Daryl Became Human.

We’ve Watched as Daryl Became Human.

Childhood Abuse Survivor

Deeply Embedded Abandonment Issues

Recovered Alcoholic/ Rehabilitated Criminal

White Trash Childhood

Conflicted by Right and Wrong

Very Protective of Children & Women

Sensitive to the Needs of Others

Willing to Kill for Those He Loves

Struggles with Allowing Himself to Feel and Process Emotion

Totally in His Element Outdoors


 Cha Tae-sik AKA “Pawn Shop” the Man From Nowhere (movie)

Pawn Shop is a Truly Broken Hero.

Pawn Shop is a Truly Broken Hero.

Vigilante

Survivor Guilt Sufferer

Grieving Widower and Father of Unborn Child

Resigned to His Grief

Recluse

A Man of Few Words and Many Actions

Fearless

Compulsive

Depressed/ Lonely

Misunderstood/Wrongly Judged

Fights Urge to Bond with Others

Savage Knife Fighter

Wears His Heart on His Sleeve

Not Giving a Fuck


 Lucianthe Underworld (movies)

Lucian Epitomizes Self Control in a Psychopath

Lucian Epitomizes Self Control in a Psychopath

Part Wolf

Born into Slavery

Massive Amounts of Self-Control

Has Integrity

Human Hearted

Capable of Deeply Adoring and Loving Others

Savage Fighter by Nature

Willing to Kill for Those He Loves

Long-Standing Blood Feud

Begrudging/ Chip On His Shoulder

Vengeful and Diabolical

Highly Intelligent and Observant

Honest/ Truthful


 

Léon the Professional (movie):

Leon was a Professional at Becoming a Father and Savior to an abused Girl.

Leon was a Professional at Becoming a Father and Savior to an abused Girl.

Protective

Chivalrous

Observant

Man of Few Words

Calm/Collected

Resourceful

Willing to die for those he loves

VERY Human

 


 

 

Frank Castlethe Punisher (Stan Lee/Marvel Comics):

The Punisher Defined the term "Psychopathic Vendetta".

The Punisher Defined the term “Psychopathic Vendetta”.

Vigilante

Vengeful

Not Giving 

Death Wish

 Longtime Blood Feud

Willing to die for his cause (revenge)

 

 

 


 

 

Dexter MorganDexter (Showtime Series)

Does He See Sheets of Plastic in YOUR Future?

Does He See Sheets of Plastic in YOUR Future?

  Genetic Psychopath

          Fights hard to pretend to have morals

          Knows right from wrong

          Murders bad people because they are bad people

          Good Father

          Loving Brother

          Dedicated and Loyal

          Willing to kill for the ones he loves