I had someone respond (via a comment) to my poetry with rap. As much as I respect anyone who has something real to say, this youngster had nothing new to say. General same old bullshit - money, guns, life on the streets. Been there, done that - cut him off. The fact that I'm ardently pro-White (not anti-anyone, until they give me a reason) and he wasn't White didn't have a damn thing to do with it. It's just that if you don't have anything original to say, don't bother. Take some time to think rather than just being pissed off at me.

To that youngster, who I'm not going to slag down in front of anyone who cares to read my comments, I just have this to say - educate and better yourself. Learn to walk, talk, and live on the street and in the life of your mind and better places. Because time on the street runs different. Even with one foot in the "normal" world and the other in the same old bullshit and hate that I grew up with, the past ten years have been a lifetime. I have hands that I can barely use other than as fists because I've broken them so many times, enough stab wounds that I lost count, and enough steel holding my bones together that I'm amazed that I can get through an airport checkpoint. Just don't do it, kid. Walk it when you have to, but live for something more than your mother crying at your funeral or 25 to life. Don't be a nigger when you can be a Black man. Same as I'm not a number in the system or a body in a box when I can be a White man. It ain't all about money, pieces, and respect from people that don't give a shit about their own selves.

It's probably the only reason I'm still alive.

Haven't really put anything up here in a while. My new laptop is driving me bugshit...the keys are laid out in a completely different fashion. Still QWERTY, but too broad compared to the keyboards I prefer (which are relics by the standards of most people, but you can take one from an old SGI or an IBM RS/6000 series and they just seem to fit my hands perfectly). Nonetheless, I felt like saying something. And since I don't care to maintain much of a presence on other social networking websites. Too many old friends and enemies, so I either get the condescension, get to hear the white-washed version of their perfect lives, or I start having to take it seriously that someone's going to pull a drive-by on my place or torch it while I'm sleeping; but I get the crap like "Are you still all fucked up?" or "I'm married, have two kids, life is great - how are you?". I'm fine. Maybe not your definition of it, but it's no bother to me. No, I don't party 'til I almost kill myself. Great, do you have a white picket fence? Whatever.

So here's a few little gifts for those of you who actually care to read what I've written, what I remember, what I think :

that's the ways that it works
----------------------------
i dreamt the lush, vibrant petals and hard cement last night
a woman's child-like voice singing a song about death and love
and let me tell you - a man can't experience that depth of emotion
not in his dreams
even if that's the only place he can get it
past all the ups downs and turn-arounds
past the barriers of memory and self
past the days of light, the days of the steel
and the days of sick
without knowing that soon the record will skip a beat
the belltower will fall
and life will start back up again
it will be beautiful, glorious, and mad
it will be ugly, dangerous, and full of tight corners and narrow edges
and that he'll still die struggling, his spine blown out
bullet at the right angle do that, take out one bone and nothing else
it's an art, to kill someone that way
and still leave them alive, for a moment
to reflect upon their sins?
perhaps, but i will not
i will be struggling to take just one more down with me
or maybe it will be in a dirty bathroom, poorly lit with a harsh neon
a mirror that's only used by girls that come and go
my door bolted and chained, my piece on the nightstand
teeth clenched in a belt while i'm slamming it home
trying to get so alone that it just doesn't matter
only to find out there's a little something else there
some chemical voodoo that is like a word unto thee
a word lethal
so that you hear it, spastically passing through your brain
as you fall down on the cheap and dirty carpet
twitching, thinking momma told me there'd be days like this
repeating that endlessly, looped
as you spiral in on the final beat of your heart
yes, dreams like that are a fine promise
most people protest that it won't be like that, that they're special
well, i got news for you
you're about as special as every other motherfucker in here
which is to say very and none
so i take comfort in the fact that i will die like that
finish my whiskey, light a smoke
and walk away
in the rain
forever

gift of a stranger sort
---------------------
i slept
now that might not be such a big deal to you
but coming from down here
it's a motherfucking miracle
the dreams were the same lurid hoodoo scrawls
criss-cross swirl bursting from my grey matter
down to the optic nerve
down to where i shake so goddamn bad
come morn
these weren't so bad
just the usual, stalking through the dark
my knife in hand
and sumbitch looking to get me
but i got him, while he played his silly games
grabbing his rotting parts and muttering nonsense
through maggot-breath mouth
decaying but still deadly
caught him up by his hair, and showed him that i had an edge
too
yes i did
and if you didn't leave off with my little friend
i'd do ya for it
(a lie of course)
and he knew i lied, as all us of down here
down in the cold deadlands of the wasting cities
know that we lie
lie under the realm of king of hell
king of bloody hearts
king of double black deuces
king of low diamonds
and arch clubs
but i cut him once, so what would have been a shout
was just a whistle and a gurgle
said sorry mate, don't worry, i'm a cove who does things right
and ran it all the way this time
motherfucker looked like
like
like a child's toy that'd been rotting in a junkyard
yessir, i ain't no stranger to the junk or the yard
the hard times, the good times
and everything in between
but i took my little friend
and we left there
this is my benediction, my revelation
a small mercy rendered unto me in the night
no surreal dreams of women and comfort and happiness
proved a lie by the dawn
(or whenever i wake up shaking and alone)
just a small fable, pieced together out of bits of my life
doing what i do best
except for a good reason
no cold, old stone
no hammering on the walls
no long-lost beauties to haunt me
just woke to a sense of peace and relief
it's the best thing that's happened in a minute
thank you, my friend

Yes, I know they're grim and brutal, to most people. But FUCK MOST PEOPLE. There's not much anger in that statement, just a resignation to the fact that my nom de plume (or should that be nom de guerre?) on here is quite accurate. And if you didn't get that sentence, then it only proves my point further. A friend of mine asked me the other day why I go with certain types of women (barring certain drunken mistakes), why I'm still looking for my "Poppy" (an allusion to a character in a book I turned her onto). My answer was "because I'm not willing to settle for 'good enough'". That question and answer has been repeated many time between the two of us. She knows the answer, yet still asks. I suppose it's some deeply-rooted female maternal instinct (we differ greatly in years and lifestyle, yet have a very deep bond). But nonetheless she asks. It's not a matter of personal desire - we've settled that a few years back. More just a point she's trying to make, I suppose. In this context, "Poppy" is someone who is loving but harsh, shy and scared of rejection at times, rooted in her deeply questioned convictions, beautiful beyond belief, and can be cold, calculating, and manipulative, yet holds within her a fierce passion for life and a haunted yet brilliant joy in life that comes out when she feels comfortable. She's a lush to top it off, but that's okay by me.

Why? Because I've had every type except what I absolutely wanted. A few times I thought I had "my Poppy" - but they couldn't handle the stress or whatever. I'm not an easy person to comprehend, live with, or even deal with. If you try to slot me into a stereotype, you'll always fail. If you can't handle the fact that my life is a constant struggle between what I truly desire and what I've taken or been dealt every time, then you'll either run or break. There's a gap between myself and most others a mile wide. And I've given without asking for a thing in return (as ideally one should), and found my ass hanging over that gap with no one on the other side.

Why? Probably because I'm not going to change. I'll keep growing, but in the path I've chosen. And I don't mind someone who is the exact same way. I would welcome that. But, like putting pieces in a puzzle together...if they don't fit, that's it. There's no compromise, no relationship counseling, or other mental jack-offs like that. I want what I want, and I'm looking for someone who's the same way.

And, no, I'm not surprised that there haven't been many takers on this site. I do better in bars and clubs...for a hot minute, and then it's gone. But the alcohol is strictly for medicinal purposes.

Maybe the company too.

p.s. - I know my journal entries aren't the most cheery sort, nor my poetry/prose, but this is just a facet of my personality. I can revel in life as well, but choose to be predominantly dark as it's my base nature and I don't like to hide that. If you can appreciate what I put down here, maybe you're the woman (grrrl) who can match me in both my light and dark sides. That's what I truly want. Perhaps I'm being optimistic, but I don't give up, ever. That goes for the concept as well as people.

What I was going to put up on here before I went into my psychotic ramble the other day. Pardon me, insanity doesn't just run in my family, it fucking gallops.

sweet, ain't it?
--------------
yall know that old saw, right?
the one that goes you might not like the candy man
but you sure like the candy, dontcha?
well, think of me that way
for a moment now
i've got all the sweet poisons in my pocket
in my veins
in my eyes
and i'll give them to you, the price is just right
just a little bit now
and a whole hell of a lot later
i can talk a cat out the back of a fish truck
and you're looking like you need something, baby
like you want a fix
like you want a fuck
like you want a bill
like you want a blade
like you want a bullet
don't matter what you do with them, see?
where you put 'em
i ain't picky, i just deliver the goods
i don't write the rules
hell, i might not even tell you the rules
unless you're some sweet lil ole thang, all soft and wet
hard and curved in the right places
a high tone woman
and then you'll believe i'm kidding
that you can make me walk that line
well, sweetheart, pardon the pun
but what you nestle in your breast is your affair
just don't come crying to me when it sinks it's teeth in
because i'll make it all better, sure
but the price went up a little bit, don't worry, babe
babe in the woods
your credit's good, for now
and it'll be even better later
when you get to the end of the line
ride that ole hell-bound train til you can't no more
when you get off, i'll be arm in arm
with sweet death, her tongue in my ear
a whisper on her lips
and my steel in my hand
i'll collect, and she'll take you on your way
it's an all-inclusive package
so what do you say?

I know, more evil filth that probably screams "HE'S FUCKING CRAZY" like a neon sign above my head. Well, I probably am. No big deal. I don't hide who or what I am.

Hmm, nice little triple-entendre there. I'm killing some time at the moment, there's a few people on my to-kill list, and there's another meaning there...think jailhouse slang. Though I haven't gotten around to the last two today. Yet.

As usual, I find interesting people on this website that I would get along with just fine in the real world but not date. I'm starting to think that this place just doesn't function for me as it does for others. Either that or there's a lot of frustrated yet persistent people on here. Lord knows that I'm one persistent motherfucker. Always have been, always will be. I just don't give up, ever. I think the closest I came to snapping was one time kicking heroin in jail, and it was a bad one. I'd just split with my ex-wife, gone cold turkey, and got arrested on the third day of my kick. I had about a 5-6 gram a day habit. Yeah, you read that right. So I was basically doing about 20 times what your average junkie does. Between that, various other substances, and Mr. Daniels, I don't even think I have a liver left. I always get the biggest laugh when I'm renewing my license and they ask me if I want to be an organ donor. Sure, you can fucking have 'em, sweetheart. I don't think you'll be terribly happy with the bargain, but what do you expect for free? Anyways, main point. I remember I gave the cops such a hellish time on the way in that they put me in the detox tank (large, cold, and you don't have a damn thing to wear except your bottoms...that's pants to you straights, but I don't think what you get in county jail really counts - I can't even remember the number of times that I've been handed bottoms that had shit stains on them...and then the cops want to get all pissy when you tell them you ain't putting on something that some toad shit in - of course, they always relent and give you something better, because what are they going to do? It's not worth their time to get 6 cops to beat the shit out of an aggravated prisoner who's also confirmed - as in "confirmed as a danger to the general population and/or a member of a STG") for almost 2 days, then put me on the crazy floor (picture a quad full of people that are so out there that half of them are locked in their cells 24 hours a day, and the other half can barely keep their shit together enough to line up for chow time; probably payback for spitting on every law that walked past my cell and didn't answer a question if I asked him one) for another 3 days before I made bond. Nobody is stupid enough to give me a hard time in county, but the lunatics screaming day and night combined with the withdrawals damn near drove me insane. But I persevered and remember finally going to sleep. I woke up to the birds chirping (I had the top corner cell, where the loudspeaker and a ventilation grille was...the loudspeaker was just another way to break my balls, which I fail to see how it mattered when I had people screaming and carrying on anyways - at that point I would have given a year off my life for each one of those cells they would have rolled, so that I could have gacked the screamer with whatever was handy), and it was the most peaceful moment I've had in years. I don't think I've had such a feeling of serenity in my entire life, or relief. I've done time, I've seen and done things to people that would make you throw up if you saw it, I don't care how bad you are, I've walked my mile...and I'm walking a few more before they plant me, mind you. I'm not a bad-ass. There's a saying : "All the bad motherfuckers are dead." And it's true. I don't care how tough you think you are, you had your ass whipped by something or someone at one point or another. At this point, heroin had whipped my ass, put a real hurting on me. But I made it. I didn't give up (other than one frustrated scream in the middle of the night when the withdrawals were really hellish, but I don't think that counts). I heard the birds sing (even smiled at the fucking law when he walked by for count time, and I hate cops...but this one was okay, he was a youngster and didn't roll the doors and make you get up just to check off his list), knew I was going to bounce, and that it was okay.

Where'd I start this ramble again? Ah, yes, persistence. Well, I'm a persistent SOB. And maybe one of these days I'll actually run into someone one here that matters in a relationship sense. Who knows? In the real world, I do okay, but most of them turn out to be psychos. Like the chick who came home with me, stayed for a few days drinking and chilling, and things were going alright until she started smoking crack. I've seen people get looped out when they're hitting that shit (I don't smoke it, sell it, or even want to see it - that's my rule about crack), but this chick took the cake. I finally dropped her off somewhere (with her friends...I'm not a *total* asshole), went back to my place, and I'm still finding notes from her all over the place. Shit about how Jesus loves me and she does too, complete with lipstick on the note. Always tucked inside a book that apparently Jesus wouldn't approve of. First off - I don't even know which version of Jesus I believe in. The prophet, the Son of God, the charismatic - who the fuck knows? It's been 2K years since they nailed him up there (fact of life, get used to it - no self-respecting Roman legionnaire would nail someone up by their hands, as bones would break, havoc would ensue, and above-mentioned soldier would end up mucking out horse stables or whatever...and, yes, you can drive a spike through someone's wrist without severing any arteries, veins, et al - I've proved that by sticking a switchblade through my wrist in one of my more masochistic, drunken moods) and he hasn't come back around to inform anyone that I believe. But I can tell you one thing - if he ever does get around to perusing my rather large collection of books, I don't think he's going to much care that I have photo documentaries of the Norwegian Black Metal scene (done by an old friend of mine; this particular book merited at least six notes) or that Poppy Z. Brite has a thing about homosexuality. He might be a little bit more worried about the crackhead broad who put them there. Maybe I'll get a few days in Purgatory for screwing her, who knows? Can't be any worse than any jail or prison I've been to, and I've been in enough of them to write a tour book (a fact which a good friend of mine commented on - the idea is still in committee debate between me, myself, and I). You know the idea - that mankind is basically at the top of the food chain because we are the most vicious predator on this goddamn planet. Yeah, sharks are pretty creepy in a cool sort of way, but after putting triple-ought buck through alligators' skulls in Louisiana, I don't really think too much about any form of life on this planet. You got claws and teeth? Cool, I got a sawed-off shotgun with eight shells in it. Who's placing bets?

Okay, that's it. I'm done, stick a fork in me. I don't know what the fuck prompted all this. It's a boring day and I type fast. See ya!

Yes, I know it's a fucking Stephen King book. America's most popular author. Some of his stuff is pretty damn good, like the Dark Tower series. That is truly an epic. Most of his new (and by new I mean "past the early 90s" (I know - I'm only 29, so it seems rather strange hearing things like that from my someone of my age...but I've always been like that, my perception of time is rather, um, unconventional).

Picture this if you will...I'm sitting here cranking Monster Magnet (including a song that one of my exes dedicated to me...yes, I am the contemplative, brooding sort in an unconscious manner), The Genitorturers (I love sexy, evil female vocalists - and they put on a hell of a show), and Wolfsheim. In a pair of shorts (actual shorts, not my boxers...when I sleep alone, I sleep in my casual, around-the-house clothes), my hair all messed up (it's time to shave my head again), a Camel hanging out of my mouth, a day or so worth of stubble on my cheeks, and loaded already (hey, I'll be sober by the time I need to head off to work, and I can't stand the morning sober...it's the worst time of the day for me, when all the wonderful dreams and nightmares are just a bit much to bear after I discover after I wake up). I wrote a short story once cranking Wolfsheim and Andy Prieboy (working on turning it into a series, just need to get into the headspace, I'd do it today but I'm going to be one busy motherfucking beaver). Not many people can write, get into tunes, and do whatever else at the same time. I can. I'm multi-talented. I can do all of the above, plus piss you off at the same time. It's all a part of the same zone for me. I've been living there my entire life. I remember having on headphones, jamming some punk rock band, fucked up on cocaine, meth, heroin, ecstasy, acid, ketamine, GHB, and a few other drugs when I was 15ish, and having a conversation with my well-intentioned but completely dissimilar father about my lifestyle (like "[insert name here], you've already dropped out of high school, you spend most of your time running the streets, and getting high. Do you have any plan for your life?"). Meanwhile, my body and inner parts (soul, mind, heart, et al) are torn between melting into the chair and shooting off into low orbit. I just sort of gave him that look that, in anyone else would have been interpreted as teenage rebellion but was part of an honest discourse on my part, and calmly replied "Nope. Not a clue...don't worry, I'll figure it out. I'm making money, taking my GED, and I'll be in college at 16. Oh, I got a job at the tattoo shop, so I'll be leaving - permanently this time - in a week or so." "Oh, well, maybe that will calm your mother down" (yeah, right - try heavy-duty anti-psychotics). Sure, whatever, love yall, need to get on with my life. Tired of going to JDC because my mother flips out and the neighbors call the cops, and they assume I'm the guilty party because I'm the one with a mohawk, trashed, tattooed and pierced, and dressed in ripped up jeans, combat boots, and a punk rock shirt. Did I mention that I don't like police?

Don't know where all that random crap came from. Like you're interested in my past (not looking for sympathy or even particularly interested in sharing it with anyone, just rambling).Very little sleep (hence the title of the post). So, regardless, I'll post some words up here and then sober up to go about my day...

was this what you wanted?
-------------------------
just shut up, goddamnit, shut up for once
i'm so sick and tired of all this shit, of the incessant voices
battering their way through my skull
down into my heart, and from there all the fucking way down
into my gut, my soul
breaking everything along the way
all these echoes picked up over this rambling, gambled life
they're killing me, can't you see that?
i don't bother looking in the mirror anymore, it's that bad
i know what's there, this thing that looks like it was drowned
in a sea of liquor, smashed against a cliff
of broken needles and brick walls, then buried
in a landslide of blades and bullets, then exhumed
to face the morning again
well, what if i can't do that trick one more time?
when will it ever be enough for you?
when will pretty death finally relent and take me into her arms?
i'm about two steps from just going in the other room
jamming that fucking barrel under my chin
and doing it myself
but it seems like that would ruin it, that it would be relenting
giving in, giving you power
giving you what you've wanted my entire life
and i've doggedly denied you, no matter the cost
no matter how much it hurt, no matter how many times
i watched them slip away, into the cold
cold stone, cold ground
hollow words tumbling through the air, sipping whiskey
and cursing god while his puppets mouthed hollow words
and there's no escape, ever
is there?
that's what this is all about, right?
it's just one big fucking joke, and i'm just too dull to get it
or maybe i'm the punch line
while i punch through your face, punch into a vein
lash out in a futile attempt to claw my way out of this world
get somewhere warm
where i had a cigarette, somewhere to sleep, and a girl
where i didn't feel this way all the time
where hope wasn't something that i forgot along with the rest
where you didn't turn your face away from my mad glare
i remember what it was like, but i can't feel it anymore
i saw a girl the other day
my numb, broken hands could feel her skin
her kisses were hot and fervent, as lost and confused as i
my heart, such as it is, lay in the palm of her hand
much as i cradled hers
two of a kind, able to love and fuck as the dead can only
as those who have lost so much cling desperately to one another
but she's gone today, she had to run from something
that i can't see
just as i have to stand and fight
against what none but i can perceive
my god, i don't pretend to to love you for everything you've given me
everything you've taken away
and every choice that you've put before me
i won't say that we don't understand one another
to a certain degree
you needed your killer, and you got him here
i needed my out, and so i'm slowly waiting for my favorite angel
death
to come unto me as i'm delivered others into her arms
friend and foe alike
they've gone away on the tides
i know that i can't love that girl from the other day near as much
half as much even, as i am in love
infatuated
with both the concept and reality of death
but oh how i hunger for the chance to try
remember, i had a life once upon a time
it wasn't much, it was as hateful and almost as empty
as what i have now
but i had my pretty little delusions
my silver-haired angel, sunshine on water, hozomeen in the park
my art would save my soul
and perhaps someone else's as well
you shattered those for me, showed me the truth beneath the world's mask
the meat beneath the skin, dragging the razors and barbs gleefully
slowly, in the perverse joy i've been taught
don't pretend like i should be grateful
i was enjoying my precious ignorance
but that was then, this is now
you wanted your killer
well, here i am
do your worst

I do believe I owe someone a mail, but I think I'll sober up before responding to it. It's all fine and well to post this while I'm trashed, but dialogue with another human being is another story. So, hang on there doll, I'll get to you shortly. Would have responded last night, but I didn't get in until 1AM, tossed and turned most of the night (despite consuming enough benzos to take out a small town), and couldn't formulate a decent answer (or an indecent one) if my life had depended on it.

So, go one and all, enjoy your day. Try to be original, "out of the box" (even if it's just the litter box), find something unique and treasure, and by all means hunt down something bland and conformist and kill it.

Where I feel like randomly torturing people with shitty poetry. Been in that mood a lot lately. Yes, I'm wasted. But I'll be sober in the morning (for at least a few minutes). You'll be ugly and stupid for the rest of your life. To (roughly) paraphrase Winston Churchill.

junk gets a tombstone
-----------------------------
the night is a lovely shade, swathed in black
and dancing at her own funeral
serene in the knowledge that when the day has died
when there is no love in your heart
and you have ripped the rose from it's womb
when your smile is frost on the end of a dead man's barrel
and you go rolling down into the cold, old stone
full of bullets and broken-off rigs
that you can sing the praises of joy and fierce passion
do it all you wish
but i'm waiting down at the docks
with my grimace and my blade
down at the boneyard
with my bag of hell and my spade
down where the junk train stops
with all the poison you could ever want
and i'll have you in the end, never mind
never mind
and never mind again

I know the weirdest people, have the craziest stories, do the strangest shit and then can't even tell you why. My life is a rollercoaster with more than a few loose wheels. My kidneys feel like they're going to explode (more water, less whiskey? Fuck it...) and I'm not really concerned about it. My brother is balls-deep in his ex-girlfriend, I'm as loaded as I can get when the liquor stores close at 9PM, I'd kill to be in Austin right now even though I hate the fucking city (I have a reason, and it's none of your goddamn business). Houston (or the surrounding areas, for the nonce) is home to me. Why? It's an ugly concrete shithole with few, if any, redeeming features. There's nothing to do here except drink and write. And I'm writing right now, for whatever reason. As I was writing a few days ago (and once again the reason is none of your business...got a saying : "mind your own business, you'll live longer" - I don't suppose that's entirely appropriate on a dating site, but I'll spit it out anyways, it's one of those days and I haven't slept since Thursday night) :

45 units of hope, right in the neck
--------------------------------
laugh if you want to, me feeling this way
i can't even remember what it was like back then
but it is what it is, and you know that old line
'bout how you gotta do what you gotta do
get down when the getting is down
all these sentiments to cut off the emotion and facilitate the bleeding
not of yourself, but the others
those whom you divorce your own humanity from, and just do the job
that i understand
but there's a bridge here, through all these years and all the rage and pain
i can't really remember who i was back then
just catch an echo of how i know i felt, once upon a time
that is a surety, as is the context of the pang
but who you were then is no more who you are now than who you will be
if you live long enough
that is
there's no promises, as long as you don't surrender
burn that white flag
and that's what i dig about you, baby
you knew me then, you know me now, and you just might know me for the rest of the ride
(however short or long that may be)
there's no judgement, no hypocritical desire to see me be a better person
and the feeling is mutual, kid
trust me on that, if nothing else
trust me to be myself
trust me to do what i have to for my own reasons
as i do you
maudlin is seldom a word that i use to describe my mood
as it ill suits my temperment
but it's appropriate for the moment
i'm as warm as i can be
and sitting by the fire hurts
get used to stalking the cold, red fields long enough
and you forget how to process simple emotion
like i said, anyone else and i'd burn the memories up
sit inside my head and feed the pictures to the flames
imprints left in ash still won't go away, they never do
but it dulls with time and angry blows to brick walls
never tears, always blood never tears
anyone else, i'd just push the years and the thoughts
the highs and lows
behind a wall of skag, whiskey, and jail time
they'd never know why i did it, as none have caught on yet
but i know that one day i'd look in your eyes
see the understanding there
and hate myself even more for my failings
failed subterfuge
failed rejection
failed dismissal
standing on the precipice, now
i find myself in that unlikely, long-gone place
where i must hope lest i surrender and lose a little bit more
more of myself, more of you
make this cesspit of a world more of a shithole
instead i must have that soaring emotion, and with it that hurt
sing all the ballads you wish about how pain is noble and true
i'll spit in your face
pain just is
either you choose to feel it for a reason, as i must
or you cut it at the root, as i always have
they say that is the difference between life and survival
i have nothing to say
it merely is
a means by which i keep moving
there is nothing at the moment to diminish the pain
save years of practice in endurance
and a foolish optimism
that perhaps hope will be born out
just this once
laugh while you bleed
it makes a pretty picture, and if it comes out like before
spit in the hangman's eye, or god's
if there is a difference
and kick your boots off
here it comes

There you go. My contribution for the moment. It's all I have right now. Live with it. An ugly, haunted poem for an ugly, haunted mood. That's life, or an approximation thereof.

A nibble...a morsel...a mouthful...

they're just words, right?
-------------------------------
desperation, pinned on your breast like a medal before they ship your body home
despair, wrapped around you like the shroud after the casket closes
disconnection, a sense of loss that is vague and ephemeral like the preacher's homily
discomfort, a reminder that it's not over yet
that is never has been, might never be
the pain rings eternal, tolls like a bell in the night
inevitable and bleak and there's no escape, not now, not ever
no matter how far you go, no matter how far the ride takes you
you dig for a vein, trying to shut it all off
sometimes it works, for a little while
then you can do these things and feel nothing
a state of the grave, embodied in the volent action
the ebb and flow of the tides of soul
you dig for the words, seeking to find some solace or redemption
but it's just more of the same, and yet somehow that works too
you feel a little better about yourself, like somehow, in some matter
best not discussed with those wishing to retain their sanity
you can become an approximation of a human being
i heard someone say the other day that they thought there was something missing
in me, in someone around me, in some motherfucker
i can't really remember
i was high, god forgive me and all that rot
digression, transgression
there was something missing that's there in other people
that helps them connect with other people, to understand how others live
then they proceeded to launch into a discourse of what that meant
it sounded like bullshit to me, just so much white noise
and their eyes turned into 4AM tv screens tuned to a dead channel
the voice a snarling hiss of static and ghosted mutterings
not really an actual frequency, just something that you catch out there
on the lonely highway
when your tape deck's broke, or your lost your cds
and all what you get is that lonely, haunted thing that tries to be
to shape itself and you into something that can fill a space
and fails miserably
perhaps those pieces are missing, i won't deny it
but then again
i think something else has filled the space so it's not wasted
even if i am
don't get me wrong, there's good times too
like cracking jokes about broads and sharing a few beers
observations upon the surreal nature of the world, little snippets like
kermit the toad
laughing, because it's stupid and so's the wisecracks you're throwing around
asking some chick to marry you because she's good-looking and you're not
saying, hey, chickie - are you still in high school?
fuck you, asshole
hey, baby, don't be like that...it would just make it hotter if you said yes
laughing as the rain comes down
looking in the tired eyes of some black girl at the scrip doctor
she's talking and talking and talking and you want to tell her to shut the fuck up
but she's being nice at least, so you don't
she tells you she has bad nerves
yeah, you, me, and every other motherfucker in here
except the truth of the matter is that she doesn't and you do
bad nerves accumulated over a lifetime of living in places with shot-out windows
coffee can ashtrays and drawers full of syringes and cookers
a shotgun laying next to your bed, a pistol tucked under the mattress
the mattress laying on a dirty floor like an overcrowded jailhouse tank
your soups and books and everything just there
like you are
and you can't really add up all the things that brought you there
but it is what it is
and it's probably a sum of all those missing pieces
but hey - who's counting?
even if we did add it up, it wouldn't make sense in numbers
we'd have to look at it with a sense of perspective
like how the word highway carries a weight of loneliness and madness
that no other culture or language can express
with words like road or route or metro or what-have-you
they fail, and bring the misery and pointlessness home with that failing
when you realize that you're not really connecting even on the basic level
so you piss off
into the night, down the highway, looking for something
and not expecting it to be there

I hope it's good for you, like this...raw, angry, not asking for salvation nor giving any quarter. Yes, I really do sleep on a twin mattress on the floor, with one or more firearms and/or knives close by. I feel better that way. I've lived some places where that was the best way to do it, below the level of where the bullets would pass if someone shot up your house. That I don't live anywhere like that right now is just a fortunate accident. I haven't actually done anything with my life that warrants a cheap rent but nice house practically in the country. Sure, I've gone to work, I've hustled, I've done a little of this and a lot of that, learned a thing or twenty thousand along the way. But it's really just been an exercise in using the gifts that genetics, God, or little white mice in bubbles of extradimensional space have bestowed upon me. Nothing great or graceful like I wish to, that I try to, when I sit down to write. Even that sometimes doesn't work. But it's what I desire with all my evil little heart, so I do it anyways. It might hurt me, or you, or just be meaningless in the end, but it's something. Something to carry you through the night. And you know what they say...any port in a storm, and whatever gets you through the night is okay. Maybe 'they' don't say it. But I do.

So, with that thought, I kindly (or not so kindly) bid you goodnight and totter off to get my couple of hours of whiskey-drenched sleep. Interesting...it's like the less you get of it, the less of it you need. Not like some things, like the love, the soul, booze, or dope. Even hatred and suffering have their daily requirements, their fix quotas. Only creation is truth, but creation is closely linked with destruction. That is the male aspect I embody. So I take these thoughts off to toss and turn their way through the mind-maze I've built over the years...

We'll see what comes out.

I'm at home at 1ish on a Friday night (well, Saturday morning) because my truck is *still* FUBARed (and I really dislike riding with other people - it's not a control freak thing, it's a "I might not get home for 3 days unless I put a gun to someone's head" thing). At least I'm getting a good deal on the labor because it's a friend of a friend's shop. That's the nice thing about living in the same city for over 20 years - you get to know people. You know the city. You can get anywhere you want by the quickest route, you know where to go to get what done, things like that. Everyone says Houston is a pestilent shithole, but it sure as hell beats New Orleans (the only other city I've lived in for an extended period of time).

I wish I had some eloquent poetry to put out here, but I haven't been writing much lately. Working on a chain of short stories that just popped into my head one day. I've started the 2nd and 3rd ones, but just lost focus. Too much else going on. I don't really feel the muse touching me as much as usual, or maybe I'm just too fed up or not fed up enough with day-to-day life.

The random thought of the morning (it was the thought of Friday morning, but it's now technically Saturday morning, but what the hell) is fetishes and what they say about people. I know I've talked about things like this before, but I've been contemplating it off and on today. Probably because my brother started ranting and raving about some chick he knows that got into town, and sharing some details that I could only respond to with a sarcastic "well, she sounds like a charming young lady" (I'm far from a prude, but there's some things that just ain't my cuppa). It's interesting to note that most people's fetishes/kinks/peccadillos start from some bodily attribute or function and then become mental fixations. Mine start from the mind and then move into the physical. I suppose it's because mine have their roots more in one's psychological underpinnings (or at least the id aspect of one's composite psyche). Attitude, aggression, pain, blood. Things like that. No, I don't beat women or anything like that, nor do I like to be arbitrarily beaten. It's more of an attitude, a stance that one takes towards life. Perhaps my continued failure to find anyone that I can stand for long periods of time (and vice versa) revolves around the difference between the male and female psyche, generally speaking. I like aggressive, violent women (albeit intelligence, creativity, and physical attraction are prerequisites that rank higher than those traits - and what's physically attractive to me is far different than most people...I like chicks with tattoos, piercings, scars, quirky clothing and hair, anything that shows they're wearing their colors right out for the whole world to see). There's nothing like a gal that will smash a beer bottle over someone's head, or that isn't meek and mild when dealing with me. I don't do submissive females. Nor dominant ones either. I like intelligent, assertive (and not in this "we need to have a talk" bullshit that goes around nowadays...this psycho-babble, let's-all-feel-good-and-compromise, spoon-fed PC crap), and crazy women.

What's interesting about that bit is that I also like people (and women in particular, since that's the gender I'm attracted to) who can just SHUT THE FUCK UP sometimes. If you feel that you need to talk constantly in order to verify or validate your existence, then you're probably not doing a whole lot of thinking. That's not my style either. Yes, I'm rowdy and in-your-face, but I have my shy side as well, and can spend hours just contemplating a CS problem, an interesting idea for a story, or just letting my thoughts wander. That's a great thing about working out. You can just let your mind go and your meat pumps the iron. Yes, you have to maintain a certain degree of focus, but that actually seems to help with the process of thinking.

So, dear readers, I hate to disappoint, but this is really all I have to offer at the moment. Just a short yet rambling monologue. Don't worry...I'll get it cranking and start torturing you with poetry and whatnot that is completely inappropriate for a dating site. But for the moment, I'm putting this in the wind and getting my ass laid out with a book...

1) I'm sober, at home, and on a dating site at almost 1AM on a weekend.

2) My fucking truck is *still* in the shop.

3) Half the losers I know got busted for meth, yet only one guy is in jail. Snitches? Yep. And people wonder why I don't call most people I socialize with friends. Before you say it, I don't know most of them by choice. Just assholes I've met, like say a real friend calls me up and says "hey, want to make some quick cash?". Sure. "Okay, this crackhead took off with so-and-so's car and is at XYZ, go muscle him and take the car to her and she'll give you 200 bucks." Sure. Now I'm associated with these morons. Not worth the 10 USD per minute work on a weekend night.

4) I'm going to kill my brother/roommate if he doesn't turn the fucking music down soon. Love him to death, but I don't want to hear trance at 1AM in the morning unless I'm at a club or rave. Definitely not while I'm sober.

5) I'm wasting my time putting this crap up here. Oh well. Like I have anything better to do.

6) While we're on this topic, who voted that toad into the presidency? He's as corrupt as Chimp Jr., hates White people (the majority of the citizens of this country...note that I said citizens - shoot the goddamn border jumpers), and isn't changing any of the legitimate complaints that people had with his predecessor. Fuck that motherfucking toad, his subnormal race-card-diploma wife, and every asshole who voted for him.

7) I still can't believe that I'm fucking sober.

8) Fuck you. That I can believe in.

9) In further continuation of shit I can't believe, it's 5AM and we're still cranking tunes - speed/death metal - in the house. Not unusual, except that my brother and I are both so tired that we're about to fall over.

10) I can still go to sleep with loud-as-hell music playing. Okay, believable that I could sleep when I was 13 w/ Cannibal Corpse, Slayer, or Napalm Death cranked to the max. At 29? I suppose I'm a big kid. Or never was one. One or the other.

11) I never got around to fixing the house tattoo rig so my bro could work on my side.

12) I'm posting more of this idiotic shit.

13) OkStupid actually put someone in my quiver that (and I quote) says that "smoking and drinking are big turn-offs". Uh, hello? Anyone paying attention? I drink whiskey like it's water, malt liquor is acceptable with breakfast, and you can bet your bottom dollar I have a Camel hanging out of my mouth right now.

14) Goodnight, one and all. And go fuck yourself. There, done.