Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Arachnia - Many ways, many hands, many deaths

"There are spiders whose bite can cause the place bitten to rot and to die, sometimes more than a year after it was bitten. As to why spiders do this, the answer is simple. It's because spiders think this is funny, and they don't want you ever to forget them.”
  - Neil Gaiman, Anansi Boys 


Brushing lightly against you, a breeze carrying your seeds

Alighting on me, travail of my soul just to begin

Fire burns the course of nature through my primal veins

Caught now by the spider silk of your trouble

I feel the pull of your bite sinking my soul into rapture

Your many hands finding their way, using my body

Your many eyes seeing everywhere I hide

My escape now lost in your lair, wander lust begins

In circles you lead me, my mind numb with senses raging

One escape grabs my fainting sight, away from you I fly

Also published in Broowaha 


Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Diary of a Mad Man - Living with mental illness

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.” ― Aristotle


They said to me, “Walk!” but my feet wouldn't move, frozen by the accident. Appendages that are normally useful, mobile, and independent, I drag them along, taking care that I don't injure them. The accident, as I call it, wasn't an accident, but a purposeful intended act, inspired by lust and hate. What they did to me I cannot tell, the acts so horrific. Regardless of the details of their brutal incursion, what I was left with is a handicap, one of the mind, not the body and having to make do with a shredded normality, I was reduced to crawling through my life, instead of walking, never able to run. What I took for granted became a challenge for me. While others run, leap, climb, and move about with impunity to mental mobility, I develop new ways, ways that hurt, ways that require intense concentration and intense discipline. Still they taunt me, “Get up and walk!”, “Why can't you just be like the rest of us?”. They can't see I'm disabled, bound by forces that were neither chosen, nor desired, but forced on me in a cruel and harsh manner.

My injury cannot be seen, my useless legs are a shattered self-esteem and a mind crippled from ever thinking in a sane manner again. A frothing concoction of shame mixed with insanity, psychosis, visions, voices, nightmares, self-deprecating thoughts and accusations, invade my every waking moment. Perceptions of reality and fantasy mix together, making the deciphering of fact and fiction a huge effort in itself. All day, every day, I roll around in a mental wheelchair, like one with paralyzed legs, committed to implements of bothersome necessity. I watch the heads wag, “Tsk, tsk. Quit being a pansy, just get up and walk”. Damn it! Can't you see I can't freaking walk? Can't you see that it takes me longer to do normal things? I must make preparations for the ordinary, that which you do without an effort takes me great pains to produce, to perform, to succeed.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I'm a success and exceedingly happy, and in these I'll continue, but the insensitivity of others upsets me. Refusing patience with, or acceptance of the fact, that I'm not like them. I cannot get up in the morning and be without fear, I cannot go into a crowd and relax, I cannot be in the dark. Paranoia haunts me, I sense conspiracies coming from everyone, from everything. Shame burns in me, flushing my cheeks at the least exposure of my faults or idiosyncrasies. My mind races with thousands of thoughts a minute, deep thoughts, all of them.

I ask for no special treatment, just for a bit of patience with me as you accompany me on my journey through this world. Please, not only with me, but with the many others afflicted in a like manner, be sure you understand that although the pain of mental illness is not visible, it does handicap us from doing things in a normal manner. Be patient with crazy people, we really are cool, even if it takes us awhile to work our way through the battlefields of life.

Also published in Broowaha


Saturday, August 29, 2015

Malevolent - The Illusion of Freedom is the Strongest Chain

“When she's abandoned her moral center and teachings...when she's cast aside her facade of propriety and lady-like demeanor...enticing from within this feral that moment she is never more beautiful to me. ”
Marquis de Sade

"All the dark, malevolent Passions of the Soul are roused and exerted; its mild and amiable affections are suppressed; and with them, virtuous Principles are laid prostrate." - Charles Inglis


Malevolent is my lovers name,
holding her passions lust near pain

Never to light again let them be,
in the open choices of wills release

Fiery and soft though her affections seem,
her subtlety controls the whole of me

With touches sharp and pleasures same,
malevolent creates her wily game

Obscuring with intangible moves,
binding me with hemp that soothes

The illusion of freedom is her claim,
free will held by the strongest chains

Malevolent from your sultry kiss I turn,
hard lessons taught and hard lessons learned 


Saturday, July 11, 2015


“The distant soul can shake the distant friend's soul and make the longing felt, over untold miles.” ― John Masefield


Stares into the fires of what used to be
Longing for a shore on this endless sea
Then and still she rejects me

Glares into the mirror of what is to see
Glancing back just the bare image of me
Then and still she blames me

Pairs thrown into storms of life do believe
Splitting again to separate entities
Then and still she's a part of me

Thursday, July 2, 2015

Dream Works

 “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” ― Edgar Allan Poe


I woke with a sweat drenched pillow, the dreams that enthralled me were just out of reach and not hesitating any longer, I pulled back the sounds of voices that harmonized like instruments of lyre and lute. The voices were right, wisdom echoed in their cadence as I found my ship drawn inextricably to their haunting direction. Have you ever smelled perfume? Not the cheap whorish variety that smelled like cotton candy but a subtle scent that lingered long after she left the room? That's how her voice seemed, a wafting fragrance that captivated both my mind and body and caused me to drift aimless but not so misdirected as one lost, for my wanderings found their home in her arms. I wrangled my dreams from their abyss and drug my sweat soaked bedding to the kitchen for an ice cold beer. Simple pleasures, intense dreams, cold beer, what more could a man want from chasing the pleasures of his Queen? I could go on but would you be interested in the musings of one who gave his ear in desperation of love, or one who wrote under the influence of acid and heroin? If not for leisure, philosophy would find no fertile ground. How can you think when your body is burdened with heat, sweat and fatigue? Yet, as I grabbed the sweaty pillow, I was lying down, sleeping, and still I sweated with what? Passion? Work? What trick of nature is this? I'm still and yet my dreams bring labor, enough work to leave me exhausted. Perhaps I actually live a life beyond the awakened drudgery of normalcy? Yes, my dreams are work, yes, that's my job, and yes, from them I'm weary and sweaty. I'm off to work again, don't look for me on the street, my tasks take me to roads never seen, and I dance with her to voices that are hidden in the depths of slumber.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen's Magazine


Thursday, June 18, 2015

A Witness

“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don't.” 


Ah my son, the road has indeed been long and hard with many questions and mysteries. In the depths of my soul I've borne pain that I never thought I could bear. My father, who like myself was adopted after seeing his father shoot his mother and then himself, attempted to protect me (his stepson who was forced on him) by tormenting me in an effort to toughen me up. O god the terrors I experienced just trying to live at home, not just with him but with whoever was the father of the moment. After all this (which is only a small portion of my journey) I found a love that though it didn't remove all the pain, nor guarantee my safety from more pain, gave me an experience of something bigger than me. This experience came at a service in our local church where I, having no strength to continue on my journey, learned that there is a personal God who wants to interact in my life. That night I came to know a love so tangible that I could feel it in the air around me. I knew then that despite whatever troubles and injustices that I have and will have experienced, there is one, Jesus, who will hear me and be my very real help in times of trouble. It's to this God and his son Jesus that owe my life to now. The pain has not stopped, tears bleed from my eyes nearly everyday, but I have a refuge when I can go on no longer. All this said my son, please find Him who has been my salvation from myself and from this life. I'm not religious (I hate that word), in fact if you read the rest of my writings you'll find I'm a screwed up, highly volatile, self destructive, and depressed individual who, if not for God who found me, would be dead or in jail. In the words of another, “I'm just one beggar telling another beggar where I found bread.” My health is failing, and I feel desperate to let you know how to escape the insanity that I passed on to you by my genes. I know what your going through and there is an answer, not to relieve the agony of a mind gone wrong, but to make something beneficial of your life and find an antidote that supersedes the mental and physical. I love you critter...

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

The Guise Of Faith

 “The easy confidence with which I know another man's religion is folly teaches me to suspect that my own is also.” - Mark Twain


Throwing the covers over my seething nature, I burrow beneath religion, hiding who I am. Pops said, “Religion is for the weak”, that may the case, but my reasons are that I'm fucking scared of who I really am. If my soul had a window, I'm sure there'd be a line to watch the horror show. Damn humanity, they love to watch insanity in action, paying millions of dollars to watch all kinds of degradation on the big screen and drooling, lonely, over their computer late at night. I'm sure people I know and haven't known have stayed around only to see what kind up fucked up shit I'm gonna do or get into next. The guise of church and God is the ultimate facade. I really do believe in God, but I feel like I'm a fake when I act according to my faith, and almost feel like I've been duped when I “do good things” not because I want to, but because my beliefs tethered me into obedience. Being good is desirable, but only because I'm scared of whats inside me. I can honestly say that God is real to me and that I try to listen and obey, but (there's always a but in religion) damn if I don't feel like it's a trick. I'm religious not out of love for God, but from fear of who I'll be if I don't "obey". My soul is filled with many violent and revolting perversions, and most of my self destructive behavior comes through that realization. I don't want to hurt anyone, to cause mayhem and destruction, I don't want to be what I am. My detractors, the greatest of whom reside in my head, taunt me saying, “how can you write all these hope filled articles about God and His work in your life while being a whole different person inside. Your the ultimate hypocrite.”. It'll be known when all things are known that my battles where never seen by humanity, and my greatest victory will be to go to the grave without fulfilling the deviant nature that claws at and through my robes of righteousness.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Can You Fix It?

“As much as I live I shall not imitate them or hate myself for being different to them” - Orhan Pamuk, Snow 

“The world is not ready for some people when they show up, but that shouldn't stop anyone.” - Ashly Lorenzana


The conversation started normally, casual chit chat, but then they noticed my appearance. I look fine but when I turn you can see my deformity, and this prompted them to ask why don't I fix it? I gave my standard response that all of us with defects give but in my mind an angry conversation ensued. Why do you think I need to “fix” me? Is it because you think I'm embarrassed because you're embarrassed for me? I'm not embarrassed, I accept it as who I am. Is it because it makes you uncomfortable? Society sucks, and people gather in their little comfortable niches where they pet each other and console themselves about how they are better than those on the outside of their circle. We're all different and it becomes a strength that binds us rather than separates us when we accept ourselves and thereby are able to accept others. As much as this rant is focused on physical differences I'll point out that there are mental and emotional differences between as well. It may not be easy for someone else to go through the day with a smile, or to look in a mirror and feel good, or for that matter to even get out of bed in the morning. They may not be able to enjoy a shot of liquor with their friends, or be able to put down whatever drug your experimenting with. Relationships may not come easy to them and love is nearly an impossible feat. Accept yourselves, grow the best you can, and don't outcast people because they are different. Try to understand, then you'll ask me how you can be like me rather than why I don't fix it.

Monday, June 8, 2015


"and it was he who some fifteen feet down spotted the body of the young man  floating like uprooted seaweed, upward, a brilliant white in the underwater space, and it was he who grabbed the body under the arms and brought him up, and also he who made the young man vomit all the water he had swallowed.” ― Roberto Bolaño, 2666  

Wave after wave full of debris. It's not just the water, it's the stuff in the water that hurts. I've learned through years of playing in these waves, how to hold my breath to wait out the turbulence above. Being beneath the ocean isn't always a bad thing, but necessary for my survival as I dive into the deep to let the rolling trouble pass. Lately I'm a land dweller and though having never entered the ocean for years, I can still learn from those water bound lessons. It's not so much the living, the actual breathing and going through the days that brings the danger, but its the stuff that's in the living that hurts. 

There are many ways I've held my breath to get under the trouble. Substances, relationships, danger seeking (i.e. adrenaline junkie), have all held me below. With all this avoidance and struggle its nice when I see a boat. That's how God intervened in my life. He sailed through the storm and found me gurgling and diving just to survive the day. With loving hands he picked me up, asking nothing from me. I never made promises to Big Daddy (that's my affectionate name for God), saying “I'll do this or that if you save me”, I was just a panic ridden, scared to death young man who needed the rescuing power of God which He was happy to provide. 

You may not appreciate this power to rescue but believe me, when trouble comes and your life ebbs, you'll grab any hand. Though not just anyone could save me because I have this tendency to jump right back into the frothy waters, that's all I knew how to do. His hand not only rescued me but gently held me in the boat long enough to help me expel the water I swallowed and show me that I can ride the waves for exhilaration. That's the wonder and love I have for Big Daddy, he teaches me a better way. So here I go, pushing ahead to the other side fully aware that though I feel like the waters will swallow me, I'll still be saved.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Traces - Trails left behind

“Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path 
and leave a trail” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hungry dirt records my passage
fading trails showing,
I was here
Homes left in a hurry
Leaves dropped 
when I scurried
Nature's bones scattered around
Seeds haplessly planted
Bring unexpected life