Unnameable.

So…I’ve written here and there about my lifelong friend and very first boyfriend: The “Jar-head”; the first non-fatherly or brotherly love of my existence; a true soldier, three times deployed; a big-boy sniper wound survivor; Career Tank-Gunner; completely fucking  incorrigible; the veteran Marine. He’s been around lately because I offer some kind of familiar notion, no matter how vague and distant, to his strangely foreign-esque state of mind; he’s been home for a little over a year now (by “home”, I mean that he is back living where we grew up together in the valley, I mean that he is not at war in the desert somewhere in constant danger of being killed), and has just started to come out of his apartment without a medical reason within the past month or so. It was obvious to me right away that he is permanently changed in very deeply painful ways for him; knowing him for so many years and sharing “special” things with like the awkward virginity thing and all that just doesn’t feel real because he is so different than the “him” that I grew up with now, and rightfully. I tried getting him to open up and talk about shit, whatever it is, and he tried; but it seems he is too freshly traumatized to even form the event/s into any kind of translatable concept through words or even emotions at this point. I don’t push him, I know better than that.

I told him,

“That’s okay dude, you can come hang out and roll joints with me if you feel bad and need to be around someone or whatever…”

He commenced to spending strings of afternoons in eerie silence across the room with his back semi-turned to me and the TV off, which was kinda when I the empath awoke and I began to feel really awful for him. He’s not the emotional kinda guy by nature, shit, he grew up to be a Marine, that says it all. I always feel safe and always have in his presence, he has that way about him. He is very logical, practical, and decisive; he is tough and stuffs his emotions, that’s his way; he somehow survived a sniper round to the neck; he is imposing in size and has a sharp streak of machismo in his blood (again he’s a Marine, so there it is)…so, when he broke down a few days ago and cried like he had just run over his own puppy, it was profound and heart-wrenching. I was totally overcome by his sadness and loss and grief; it was one of the very few times I couldn’t keep myself from crying for someone else’ sake, in spite of my best efforts. It’s so fucked up that they don’t make some kind of counseling or support system available for these guys when they come home, damn them to Hell.

First Boyfriend.

Maybe someday it will all, indeed,

come to reconcile with my dark reality,

they’ll fill in the gaps til it seems complete,

they’ll sugar the facts with the dishonesty,

~

This is what’s left of your treasured U.S.M.C.,

you’ve been told to hold for the simplest of things,

they don’t care enough to remember your first name,

or how you fair alone out here: a veteran Marine,

~

it breaks my heart to know you can’t get into therapy,

there will be some issue with your healthcare policy,

they don’t care that you can’t hear against a constant ring,

deep inside both ears from the years of your tank-gun firing,

~

so now, you’re home and you feel sad and alone indefinitely,

and your buddies are silently going through it similarly,

you’ve built a wall up higher than I could’ve possibly conceived,

the word ‘deployment’ still haunts me with my worst memories.

~

Crestfallen.

You know what? No, not Chicken Butt…

I’m serious about this, I’m fucking tired…

Tired of what? I really don’t know how to package this thing that so tires my spirit into any words that I know; this thing that drains the very life from my span is something intangible, something unseen, something undefined…by me, at least. I think it might well be what some folks consider as “love”, others maybe call the same thing “empathy”, “caring” or any one of many titles associated with feeling shit for other people. It hurts me to let my guard down, every time…which in turn, creates the ugly pattern of isolation and loneliness. Those are the rock and hard place that my existence seems to teeter between. That unpromising predicament doesn’t even take into consideration, the horrific train wreck that litters debris throughout the space between that rock and that hard place. It just doesn’t ever turn out to be worth it to get close to anyone to any degree, as most people tend to mutated versions of human being who never dive below the shallow surface of things.

I don’t mean to judge, but damn…if you are so fucked up that you can’t control yourself from needlessly and carelessly victimizing good people just because you can, you should be the hermit in isolation, not me…wtf?

In The Wind.

I just can’t seem to comprehend,

the hatred defined by this downtrend ,

I know that politics and religiousness,

frivolous with human facetiousness,

leave me spinning,

my heart hurting,

aching to protect the innocent,

wanting to stand up and deal with it;

with not a single target to shoot at,

besides what’s blowing in the wind,

we are not acceptable,

as things that harbor self-control,

when we murder babes,

and the elderly souls,

there’s not a reason anyone can give,

it isn’t meant to be like this,

them against us – no,

us against them – no,

we’ve each been given the green light,

we’re each just trying to live,

keep your laws,

keep your Gods,

all your sectors and squads,

what’s so good about any of it,

weighted down with blood,

of babies, and more babies,

we should all be ashamed,

and let our heads hang,

words can’t even begin,

to make use of such names.

 

 

A Woman and Two Men.

It’s come to where I can’t help but to finally say,

after biting my tongue for two years’ worth of days,

over things ever done in the stupidest ways,

by the two gentlemen who I call my roommates;

 

the idiocy that shines through each one’s daily moves,

leaves me stuck there on stupid like gum on a shoe,

instead of applying any logic to the shit that they do,

they form a tempest of absurdity and sweep right on through;

 

it would kill either one to rinse his cereal bowl,

       before impetuously stacking them in a mile-high row,

right next to the sink where they good and well know,

that I will wash them in order to see out the kitchen window;

 

dirty camping trip laundry and mildewed swim trunks,

overflowing garbage cans that appear to have blown up,

my family room is littered with dollar bills and empty cups,

my back yard decorated with engine oil and cigar butts;

 

and, though I know it isn’t born of grandiosity,

and that my boys must suffer from what’s sheer stupidity,

neither one seems bothered by existing so confusedly,

one day attaches to the next with such mindless simplicity;

 

bottles left on the front porch step when the trash can is nearby,

things that make such little sense that I often want to cry,

toilet seat ever-up, missing socks, poison oak in both my eyes,

stains and spots, rotting apricots, and the associated flies;

 

they hardly wonder why people say that I mother them,

it’s like I live with two schoolboys, ages eight and ten,

any alternative to the drill is hard to let myself imagine,

and so, it goes, the side-show starring a woman and two men.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Parcel.

The modern-day notion
of international post,
is one that most certainly
irks me more than most,
as I sent away
a parcel to the North Pole,
on the 8th of December
but where did it go?

In the time in between
that day and now,
its recipient has already
outdone me, somehow,
and ventured to send
his own package down,
and unbelievably
guess who its already found?

The US Postal Service
is a wonder in itself,
the carriers must be busy
feeling sorry for themselves,
And, all I want to hear now
is how my mail reached him well,
before I lose my patience
and go quite “Postal”, myself.

Going-Postal

Missile-Toed.

missile1As intriguing as the concept of quantum String Theory has always been to my hungry brain, I admit that the principles behind it mean little to me.
Space, in all of its profound glory, has remained much the same throughout life for me: The science-fictionesque backdrop belonging on Star Trek, a mystical and elusive place relative to scientific calculations and mathematical equations that I will NEVER understand in the slightest, creatures that do not look nor behave the way that our own species does (due to some bio-genetic adaptation needed to survive in the vacuum), and an underlying sense of feelings very close to unease and discomfort.
I went to see The Empire Strikes Back in the theater with my Dad, brothers and Papa when it first came out…I was awed and amazed by the various species included – and, it was sometime around then that I became infatuated with finding and kidnapping my own Ewok. The first time I saw 2010 Odyssey, I didn’t sleep for nights afterward…it was upsetting and unfamiliar all the way around. Since those early and wondrous days of life, I have become a “Sky-Watcher”. I am not the type of sky-watcher who owns a high-end telescope or anything fancy like that though; I am simply an observer who cannot keep my eyes from the night skies anytime I am beneath them. I have self-taught myself about the star systems and the solar system on a very generalized scale in order to understand things best I can; and, have grown up to grasp a very basic understanding of the “final frontier”.
In all of my years keeping watch on the stars that twinkle overhead while I smoke outside (usually with a good portion of my attentions directed only at the sky), I have only seen two incidents that I was not able to a sound scientific explanation for, afterward. The first time was two summers ago, towards the end of the season, when I was stricken by a very colorful strobe flashing from high the Easterly sky – very far away and high above any aircraft that passed while I watched. This strobe emitted four very distinctive colored lights in sequence of red – orange- green – blue repeatedly and seemed to be moving in an unnatural way. When I say “moving”, what I mean is that this “star” appeared to be centered on a bungee string that was being pulled from both ends on either side of it creating sorts of very rapid but short jolting motions, while staying mostly in the same general vicinity. I freaked out and called my former roommate to see, by whom my perception was re-affirmed and seconded. I never was able to find any reasonable answer for what we saw that night; although, NASA’s official reply to my inquiry (and I shit you not) was that it is an anomaly known as a “fireball”. As if such a label should have out all of worries to rest, somehow…
The second thing…the much more disturbing and unsettling thing I have witnessed happened last night, as I was walking to my car from my house. I saw in my peripheral, a large streak of what I assumed was cloud cover daubing the sky just to the south of me; but the size and general shape of it caused my brain to need a better a look. The instant that I shifted my full focus onto the streak, it was set ablaze with the brightest and most concentrated light I have ever seen in my entire life; the streak of what I had taken to be clouds suddenly became bathed in this luminous glow, and was connected directly to something that was silently streaming upward in a massive arc. I watched with my mouth dropped open as this cylinder of pure light/smoke/cloud/dust grew longer as the attached object made its trajectory, before it eventually positioned itself in line with the lower and twinkling stars midst the cloud cover. I stood there and watched it; it didn’t explode, it didn’t fall down, it just hung there like some far-future science project:

“Now, here’s how you hang your very own star in the sky, children…”

The shit was skin-chilling. I shrugged and got in my car to go to the store then. When I got out onto the street, everyone was pulled over to the sides of the road as if we had just been hit by an earthquake or something.
This morning, NASA is hard at work with the “California Missile Testing” story; something that they claim is a totally normal and common happenstance here around the valley. My question is: if it’s such a regular occurrence and it happens so often, why did it make any Californian who saw it pee themselves?

The Bird Hollerer (Continued).

Okay…so it is important (and only fair) that I start this post out by saying that I have never been very fond of those feathery, winged creatures that beep and cheap in the trees all day long. My dislike of birds was born when I was about fourteen years old and an obnoxious mockingbird decided to use the awning in my backyard as its podium every night – all night long – for the rest of the time that I lived there (until I turned 17 and moved out).
The next experience that tainted my idea of birds was the “Great Horned Owl’s” return to the city trees – something that I had apparently missed the memo about prior to his re-appearance; and, he chose to nest and perch in the ancient pine next to my window. He was a hooter and did his hooting nightly for almost an entire year. More notably in this ‘negative bird experience’ however, were the tons and tons of reporters, wildlife preservationists, activists, and all kinds of other random people who felt it necessary to constantly visit the Great Horned Owl after his return – there was literally a small crowd that remained permanently assembled with cameras flashing and excited children – at all times until he departed (on his own, I had NOTHING to do with him relocating, I swear…).
I have already written in the past about how I serendipitously became a “finch breeder” in more recent years (see previous bird post here); and, I will say that despite my longtime dislike of the little, useless shits, I have been forced to accept a natural connection that is undoubtedly there between me and birds. Since I have been raising various breeds of finches, I have found that I am:
1. Naturally calmed by dealing with them;
2. Able to understand their needs and preferences;
3. Able to differentiate them with ease;
4. Able to gain the trust of even the most shy and afraid.
Regardless of the relationship I share with my own clutches of domesticated finches though, I was still completely shocked the other evening while I was outside smoking – when a tiny, but bold zebra finch walked right up to me and hopped onto my foot. I was stupefied by his audacity – as small as he is. To make a long story short – I was adopted by another bird at random two days ago, and the little fucker has stolen my heart already. He has the personality of a Tiger…and I have been doing all I can think of to figure out if somebody is missing him like I’d be if he disappeared.
If you are nearby, are missing an adorable zebra finch, and, reading this:
He’s safe and sound – email me.

Jealousy’s Dead King.

I know who my friends are,
and also who they aren’t;
I see those who take the heed,
and I see the ones that won’t;
I feel the people who try to steal,
away what isn’t theirs’ to take;
I hear the ones who never mean,
a single promise that they make;
I touch the hands of many,
both the wicked and the good;
I taste the wishes and secret desires,
of the least expectant that I would;
I sense the misrepresentations,
belonging to faces of those I’ve believed;
I’ve held the lies and deceit in my palm,
while the mouth tried to find them to speak;
I am not blind to the inner-workings of envy,
and the ways that its evil unfolds;
I was marked by Jealousy’s Dead King,
back in my own days of old;
Do not think that my big heart is a target,
because its dark surfaces hold bright red within;
do not think you will come up on my weakness,
of still managing to live like a decent human;
For all of your troubles and scheming,
will land you long and far from me;
my great, big heart holds no room inside,
for the many wanna-be’s of true humanity.

Huh?

Based on the fact that she is my Mother, and wasn’t present in any way, shape or form throughout my youngest days, she has been glorified in my heart and my mind somehow; in my mind over time, she has morphed into some painted-faced Goddess with great power and control over my actions and sense of self; she continues to have the carrot to dangle before me, and I continue to focus on it and follow her lead.
She is my Mother, yes – but she is not right in the head, and never was – so I’m told…she never had any business having babies of her own with a head as twisted as hers – never had the stuff it takes to be somebody’s Mama. My Mother doesn’t really know how to care about other people; she is just hard-wired that way…some people call it sociopathy, others call narcissism; she’s a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic – she has the history of getting way out there at times, if not medicated and monitored regularly by a “specialist”. She is aggressive and violently explosive in her mental instability; this is the trait about her that she has most impressed upon me throughout my lifetime in observation of her behaviors; she is ruthless when it suits her needs – I have bared witness to this many times, as well as played the role of her “victim” during such instances also.
I cannot trust her word – it is mud in my book; despite what she says, her actions always speak horribly louder than what she tells me. Anyway, our relationship is the epitome of awkward and edgy, because it newborn for the most part – I am only barely getting to know her, I’ve never made the effort in the past. She is a nut job, no doubt – and oftentimes, when I have a conversation with her, I find myself hardly able to control myself from just bursting out:
“The fuck are you talking about, Man?!!!”
I just can’t relate to any of the things that define the daily existence of my Mother, Willow…she is seriously on another planet in my opinion…all I can do is just shake my fucking head over it, I suppose.