Weird World

For the crazy ones

There are many brands of mental illness.You’ve got your garden variety schizophrenia, Bi-polar, chronically depressed, OCD, PTSD, ADHD (not to be confused with LGBT). There’s Anxiety disorders, Mood disorders, Personality disorders, Alcoholism, Drug addiction, Paranoia, Narcism and insomnia. 

If you string all those psychobabble labels together and allow them to infest a soul, you’ll find the makings of a poet. Poets possess a menagerie of mental health disorders. They come with many of the same symptoms defined in The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, often known as the “DSM,” To be a poet is to be demented, a lune, batshit crazy, fool-hearted, delusional, insane and a vessel of junkyard beauty. 

Poets hear voices, see visions, are paranoid of the demons and devils that chatter incessantly inside their echoey heads. Some are being channeled by Jesus or Lucifer. Some claim to have been abducted by UFO’s who’ve inserted micro chips under their skin. There’s the ones with tin foil caps covering their skulls to blockout the micro waves that control their thoughts. They possess super powers, they are the cursed, the blessed and the god forsaken chosen ones. 

As far fetched as this may sound, these poets believe they can inhabit your brain and silently transmit disembodied emotions into your flesh. They scribble little black markings, or what we call letters on paper, arranging them into words and sentences. If these markings are assembled with perfection, they have the power to unlock revelations hidden within the readers gray matter. These words; these poems exist only in the readers imagination. They can’t be seen or touched, they mysteriously seep from the subconscious to the conscious mind. The author may be dead, but their words carry on in the readers head, like the breath of gods, omniscient, immortal——omnipotent. 

How crazy is that?

This is more than an observation I’m sharing with you, it’s a warning. If you choose to go down that path of becoming a poet, then you’ll need to go all the way. You’ll have to fearlessly peer into the heart of the darkness. You’ll have to force yourself to see and feel the things that most avoid. And there you’ll find death threats, condemned love, contaminated truth, the meaninglessness of life, a fools complacency, naked truth and simmering nihilism. 

If you can get past the fear and madness, if you are willing to endure the song of the sirens, you will find your own voice. There will be peace and wholeness. In the sadness there is beauty, behind crumbling walls of the fortress there’s freedom. In this secret place, time means nothing, reality is malleable, love is forever sustained and a poet is ordained.   

For The Lonely

When it rains in the forest

I imagine you beside me

As Nightfall is coming down

In the dark gloom of December

A damp fog reclaims a wounded sky

I wonder what becomes of the likes of  you and me

Look how these years have blown thru us

Maybe we aren’t so young anymore 

I have a place I like to go

A bench overlooking an Andrew Wyeth meadow

All I want to say before it’s too late

I lose myself when I find myself in you

Branches sway, shadows dance

Winter is made for the lonely

It’s hard to wait on something new

To lose another day lost

Stranded behind our silent walls 

Between Love and Disaster

Soundtrack by Ruston Kelly “Hellfire”.

This is your life, take it or leave it

Thru your tears and laughter

Were’e all just finding our way

Ya never know what ya got

Till you find out what you’re not

And most the time there’s nothing

There’s nothing there at all

Make your choice between love and disaster 

This is your life, to use as you choose

There’s anger and there’s forgiveness 

They’re both out there waiting for you

Grab a hold with both hands

Sometimes ya win sometimes ya lose

It’s no good to go it alone

Inside your soul make a home 

Made of Glass and stone

Make your choice between love and disaster 

This is your dream, to awaken

Watching your life unfold

Some give in, some give up

Trust your heart, trust your gut

Search the edges of your thoughts

What’s illusion, what’s not

Be careful what you’re chasing after

Make your choice between love and disaster 

Don’t wish me a good night

I too suffer from insomnia. The night can be a prison for the over thinkers and senseless worriers of the world. So much empty time to recount all my failures, follies and faults. Things I should have said and done, opportunities missed, loves gone ill-requited. The red numbers on the bedside digital clock appear frozen in time. I consider taking a half of one of my Ambien sleeping aides, but the after effects often leave me drowsy for several hours the following morning. So, I’ll bravely stare down my meddling ghosts. 

Time is so precious but at this tortured hour time takes on a different meaning. I have what the Buddhist call monkey mind. This is when my thoughts jump from one unrelated thought to the next. What a silly ass thing to say “Good Night”. There is no such thing as a “Good Night”. there is only darkness and solitude awaiting me there. Night is where my demons and devils churn out boogiemen that hide under my bed or breathe loudly from behind my closet door. 

Are you a believer in ghosts? Do they come from within us like a dark psychoses? Or, are they materializing out of the night ether? Have you ever seen one? If god created all of the universe, then he/she (binary?) surely could include ghosts in this odd ball thing called reality. Reality is malleable, depending on whose version of reality you choose to subscribe too. There’s a fine line between reality and illusion. And, I don’t give up my illusions easily, they have sustained me up to this point. 

I hope my rants don’t scare you away my dear old friend. Maybe “scare” is too harsh of a word. Perhaps the way I connect my esoteric thoughts is too confounding.  I’ve even grown tired of my own ruminating thoughts. You’ve peaked under my covers and seen my nightmares. I didn’t formally invite you in, but now that you’re here, feel free to make yourself comfortable. I offer you my friendship and therein my condolences—–as this is a package deal.  

The Lost Letter

Yes Norm, indeed it is true—-relentless snow and gray skies can render my mood gloomy and lead me into dark bleak places. It’s been a long hard winter—The Winter of my Discontent” John Steinbeck. I haven’t gone completely mad—-yet? I haven’t killed anyone and buried them under my floorboards “The Tell-Tale Heart” Edgar Allen Poe—-yet? But under the right conditions we can all be driven stalk mad crazy. We can find ourselves doing unthinkable things to one another. And may I ask, when did the hug become a choke hold? I hear them talk, I hear them whisper to one another, plotting against me, making wretched plans to foil my dreams and undo my flawed desires. One man’s fetish is another man’s torture. The opposite of love is not hate, but rather vengeance.  

The snow hems me in behind my frozen doorways and the wind whistles through my windows at night. It sounds like the soundtrack to a scary clown movie. The pantry is empty, my snow shovel broken and my only light is that from a flickering candle. I keep my one good eye on her and my other on the hands of the unwound grandfather clock. Time no longer exists in this abysmal season. She desperately wants to leave this god forsaken cabin, but she is stuck here with me until the spring thaw. And god only knows what the melting Perma Frost may reveal. 

I think walking on all cylinders isn’t an oxymoron, but rather a mixed metaphor. Words are precious things and not to be toyed with or misused. When people mess with things that they don’t understand it leads to a break down in communication AND THAT MAKES ME AWFULLY ANGRY!!!!  

Who’d of thought that out of 26 letters all the masterpieces have been written. What if there were 27 letters? Just think, what poems and stories that could be comprised of 27 letters, a hundred letters?   

The white snow blankets everything, like a white canvas covered in white paint. They say no two snowflakes are the same……I extrapolate from that, no two women’s bodies are the same, but that makes no difference to a man who craves the sun.

Soul Ache

I’ve been trying too hard, for to long , to be something…

I don’t even know what that something might be. For some people life just falls into place. They find jobs and love and buy houses and cars and have backyard barbecues. They don’t need to be seekers. They have their church of stone and their benevolent gods. Everything they want, is given. No questions asked. 

But not me. I spend my sleepless nights wondering about the sanctity of this life. So much bullshit. Dumb fucks are our political leaders. Rich bastards living in luxury while children in poor countries die of hunger. What passes as spirituality fails to give me peace of mind. 

These things don’t make me depressed, no——they make me sad. There is a difference between being depressed and being sad. To be depressed is a chemical thing. It can most often be cured with a pill. It can be prayed away. 

Sadness is rooted in a sense of hopelessness. It can be heard in Chet Bakers trumpet. Sadness comes from facing the futility of life. It has something to do with exaggerated empathy. Maybe it’s laying oneself open to nihilistic thoughts. I’m not depressed. I have a soul that aches, So, I know in spite of it all; I still have a soul. Heart-ache is depressing. Soul-ache is sadness.   

Two Ticks Of A Clock

Between two ticks of a clock

A baby inhales its first breath

Between two ticks of a clock

An old man exhales his last threats

Between two ticks of a clock

Lives may be changed, forever swallowed up

Between two ticks of a clock

Names and days may forever be forgotten 

Between two ticks a clock

Someone falls in love for the first time

Between two ticks of a clock

Someone falls out of love for the last time

Between two ticks of a clock

Entire lives pass by

Between two ticks of a clock

Entire lives slip and lose their grip

Between to ticks of a clock

Everything can change

Between two ticks of a clock

Everything dangles in an abyss 

Between two ticks of a clock

Anything and everything is possible

Between two ticks of a clock

Everything conspires into nothing

Scream-Breathe

There’s no reward for a life well lived

There’s only the conquering of midnight thoughts and defeating those loathed barbed days 

Inhale——-exhale——inhale——exhale——sigh

Time has sun baked our souls and left craters and wrinkles deep in our faces, that mirror like a river refuses to be damned or tamed——-inhale-exhale-sigh

Once young and untested she gave her body to me 

I took it and imagined it would always be this way

But I was wrong, now-a-days the destination is seldom worth the journey—exhale-exhale-sigh

Were we ever that young, that hopeful, so foolish and immortal inhale-exhale-sigh 

Love has a life of it’s own

It lives, it dies

No one knows its life span—exhale-exhale-sigh

It morphs into memories of sun kissed spring days

Time lays in-wait, slipping by, steadily unwinding

Self-doubt is contagious, and it will kill you

Just when you think you have it all figured out

It changes direction—inhale-exhale-sigh

No more listening to boring dweebs yammer on about their views, their values, their beliefs, their god—their rights 

Nobody gives a shit about your petty proclamations, I said nobody, nobody cares asshole!—exhale-inhale—sigh

STOP!  Stop blathering on about your politics, your Jesus, your conspiracy theories and the price of gas and how it was so much better back in the “good ole days”-inhale-exhale-scream!!!!!

Vows 

One of life's greatest mistakes 

Expecting to be loved
Expect is a word best not attached to love

There’s many versions of love
Few are lasting, and even fewer are memorable 

Some covet it as if it were property
Others wear it on their arm like a flashy bauble
Or, proudly tattoo it permanently upon their skin 
Oftentimes vanishing before the ink dries
At times it’s confused with sex
You can have sex without love
And you can have love without sex

After all the gyrations and moaning
Even if she lets you put it where you want?
You’ll still need to find things to talk about at the end of a worn-out night
Humor is the best aphrodisiac 
Honesty is the slipperiest of lubricants

It's naively offered up with open arms 
Like a soon to be broken Vow
Vows are for love-struck suckers
It’s a fabled belief in security and sincerity 

Sometimes, it's a broken record that skips and pops
All noise and no melody
Like a sympathy composed for the deaf

Most want love to be soft and tender
Like sappy verses from a smarmy poem
But it's none of those things 
It's a prize fight, a spectacle of blood, rage and courage
It can suddenly switch from an endearing hug to an enraged choke hold 

It begins with a polite first kiss, ending up in a dark room that reeks of raw savage sex--that is--if you get lucky

Yet, there are those rare flashes of something
Some may call it love, but that's an over-used euphemism
It stirs an ancient ache that resides deep inside us all
Where does it come from? Why does it go?
Who knows? It's a vexing enigma 

It comes with no warranties, no guarantees
It’s fragile, so handle it with care

If ya break it, you'll have to pay for it 
Once shattered, you’ll never be able to put it back together
No glue or counseling can dull its painful shards 

Once the shelf-life has been reached
You’ll need to decide——should it be thrown out?
Or painfully watch it continue to curdle and sour 
Salmonella is a bad way to go 

The trouble with love—-is
It’s what happens between life’s otherwise mundane moments

It has no soul or conscience 
No sense of right or wrong
It makes fools out of it’s gullible victims