Confused States

"I don't think I am capable of having any friendships, but would you be my friend anyway"?

Steady now, don't quaver, don't get weepy. She just may take pity on you, don't fuck this up.

"Of course I will."

You thought she'd say that. She picks up stray dogs and hippies, and brings them home.

Should you say what you're thinking? No, just think how you would react to someone puking up such a mess on your floor. It's downright repulsive. This will do. Stay still. You just might make it out alive.

How the fuck do they do it? I know they have pain. So what the fuck is wrong with me, that I just can't hack it? It doesn't matter, though. You have to do it. You could break out, but they'd take another in your place, and he'd get even worse, you know that. Like it got you, when he took the out.

Fuck. This wasn't supposed to get depressing. Shit. This is me, trying not to get depressing. That's fucking depressing. O.K. Let's try this again.


I'm fond of my stray thoughts. Like homeless dogs, they keep looking for a home, for sustenance. But so many of their remains now litter my head, and I am losing my way.

Does suicide imbue one with a gravity they could not attain in life? Would they want to understand me then, would I suddenly become fascinating and have penetrating insights? They always ask about the note; and here are hundreds. I never knew who they were; I only have a vague notion. They have always been there, but out of reach. The ones that were in reach, I cannot speak of. Though it may not seem so, I am trying to get to higher ground. But I failed again. Let me try it at a run.


Breathe. There must be something light, something less ponderous, something to bring a smile. It is quick, but if I shrug off these chains I will catch it. I'm off.

trapped in a plaintive song

and not just one. it's a nightmare with a strange beauty. one trap after another, a habitrail, a cube, escape only into another trap. i can see out. i have imagined myself out there, i have run for it, but i begin to suspect terrible possibilities. i won't say truths, because, my mind, you know i can't trust it. as arrogant as i seem, it's a protection. i even believe the ruse sometimes. but really i know. i am crumbling, in more ways than one.

what was lost...and gained

my brain would like to rest. that was a long run over broken glass. traveling back in time, channeling myself. my younger self, only three then, powerless, not knowing how wrong it was, only that it hurt. insane monster, slobbering, raging. hollow monster, nothing to hold onto. almost, at times, but often only grabbing at a ghostly form.

dad. and mom.

i waited 20 years to tell this tale to him. the tale of the magnets and the belt. i'll tell you, soon. i would never hurt him like that. no, not the actions; i mean just the knowledge of what was done to me. how horrific is that?

i had only given him hints until now. a bad childhood. allusions to a brother i no longer had.

if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear

the hippies played an eerie rendition of "brain damage" last night. all these things i have in me, portable art, forever changed by it. this is my jewelry; what i decorate myself with.

in order for me to hear them, they had to first be embraced by the masses who could not hear them. but oh, how they thought they did. but i would never have heard them otherwise. i don't know how many really did hear, i know i am not the only one, but i know it is a small number. i have often wondered how they managed to be embraced as they were, what they had that the average imbecile responded to. i don't think i have that thing. so no one will ever hear me. but that is beside the point, and a small lament. though i used to think it would save me, to be heard. i now just think it would be lovely if it could get through to those who could hear, and it may, someday. my words may stay lost forever in this sea of mediocrity, but they will stay, so there is the chance.

i am not finding the words to describe the lunatic to you as i had intended. the way that song entwined around the growing madness in my head and caressed it, so that i was not so alone. i still wish i could speak in music. another frustration, but i will keep trying with what i have, and one day the words will come together, and i hope, build something lovely as well as tinged with sadness and regret.

The Box

I see it long ago an old movie in my mind I can't see much the box is closed and silent all around no one talks to me but they never did and he did so I didn't care that he hurt me sometimes and I forget that part and I felt anyway and I needed and I fixed on this one thing which is now in the box.

Rising up

fuck rising up and overcoming. i’m fucking tired. working hard; a generation of untouchables, and the rest of you acting like it’s fucking normal, like some fucking aberrant god wanted it so. some are just poor and stuck, some are damaged from when they were too young to protect themselves, and struggle the rest of their lives with what that did to them. but that doesn’t automatically make them decent people. it makes them pitiable, but sometimes, if it weren’t for the abuse, they’d have been assholes just like everyone else. and it’s still in there, covered over by layers of dysfunction. and you think someone is in there, someone worthwhile, if you can just peel off the layers. and so you try. and all that trouble, all that filth you sifted through, you thought for a reason, was for nothing. her fiction of herself, this online persona which was not who she was in life, combined with the fiction i wrote for her in my own head, of what i wanted her to be, and the two things combined to create quite unrealistic expectations.

then there’s the rich. my god, i could go on about them. english is a wonderful language for scorn, and i am chock full of that. scorn and contempt. it is not what i wish. it is not what i choose over other, more lofty emotions. but they are everywhere, ruining everything. there is a way to rise above, i know, but i have not reached that level of enlightenment. and i am stuck. while all around a carnival, a parade that they march in and they don’t even see where they are, any of them, the rich, the poor, the damaged. i cannot understand their greed, the rich. i want nice things too, i can understand to a point, but they take it so far. and so much of what they want is so completely, i would think obviously, useless. then there is the willful blindness. everyone drinks deeply from that fountain. so few can see anything, and that is my loneliness.

of course, i must rise up and overcome. i must. there are only two other options. one, too horrific to think of what it would do to the only two decent people i’ve ever know, and the other, too horrific to think what it would do to me as well as them, to stay like this. and it never lets you stay, anyway. life is never static. and we must negotiate that while everything whirls all around us, as well as the maelstrom in our heads.


now listen to Goodbye Horses by Q Lazzarus, dammit. Please? it's such a fitting end to this piece. Goodbye Horses

i keep trying to talk to people through music, and so few can hear what i hear, can feel the full spectrum of what is contained there. there is such a world there, a dream world where the beauty of the pain entwines with the possibility of something more...and they give us this small space, this hope, a respite, to help us go on, to show us that there is more...if we can learn to see with new eyes, untainted by the shackles the world wants to keep you in.

the pleasure of delusion

oh, to sink into the arms of someone fond of me, and i can pretend it is love, full of hope and promise. the excitement of unknown, boundless possibilities, without that painful baggage, full of spikes, which constantly prick the skin. but then you wake up, and one morning instead of the buzzing of life all around backlit by a luminescent dawn, you see the pain, the struggle, the death, the competition for limited resources, and the harsh, cold light exposing it all.

touch

the frustration of distance
and how we try
what exactly do we think we will touch?
why
always why
what does it mean
all this grasping at strangers
i am grasping at you now
at the air
nothing to hold on to
all the love in the world
could not save me

dissolution

it is over

it
is



polly wants



forever



i think i should be



under tow



the line won't



break



if

i


don't



i think i want


the safety

of the cage


freedom has a price

my cry opened the door


all i wanted

was more food

cloistered

don't believe in love
but i want it
in a stranglehold
beating it down
I can wrap up in
a pale defense against the elements

elements walk by
they never see me
but want to fuck me anyway

i wonder if anyone sees anything
i know it happens
i've read books
i can tell
they see pieces

it's hard to see
in flashes
but so much
i should have gone the other way
just opened the view on one piece
and that would never have been enough

i always come here
breaking behind my eyes
the beauty and horror
it's too much terror and wonder for one person to hold

but letting go...


ceremony

pale shelter

homecoming

listening to nirvana, over and over, because the ipod is way over on the table, 7 feet away.

All Apologies was playing in the cab that took me home from the hospital, after my suicide attempt. something about it made me happy, riding home, a beautiful sunny southern california day, having rested up, having been to the garage, where they fix you up (so they say, but really you sit and are kept from sharp object for 72 hours). there was an art class though, and you were meant to draw a circle (this represented the world, specifically your world) and you were to draw something that represented you, i think just a dot, and then around that what your world felt like. so this was meant to show me what, that i didn't know? that my existence was unhappy, gee, you think? but i was happy coming home, having rested for 3 days, well 2 really, the first day was not restful, starting you out at county as they do. have you ever seen The Snake Pit? well, neither have i, but i know in general what it is about, mental hospitals 50 years ago, when mental patients were dumped and abused and neglected. it was kind of like that. there was an obese black woman draped in a blanket (i had one too, it's supposed to be comforting, i guess) and she was in bad shape, ranting and agitated. i had my wits about me, i was despondent, not mad. and i saw two doctors walk by my cot laughing about her. i've seen that kind of callousness in doctors before. the time i was hit by a car, when i was 17, having been on the road for a few months, and gotten involved with some despicable characters, like the one that had just stolen all my money, so i was walking fast to get away from him, he was trying to keep up, trying to deny that he had done it, and i thought the light had changed. i don't know if it had or not, but the car hit me nonetheless. i was thirsty already, i'd only been that thirsty once before, when i was sixteen, and walking home from the bar at 2 am, down a very long, very deserted road, several miles. i think the thirst was amplified by a more metaphysical craving, since i was walking home alone i had not even found an imitation of any sort of pleasure or communion. i knew there was a drinking fountain at the custard stand, about 3/4 of a mile from my house, and the last mile before i got to it, that knowledge sustained me. i felt ready to collapse, but felt joy at the expectation of being able to quench this thirst. i saw the fountain, a dingy little oasis, but it was such a cruel trick. i pushed the button and nothing came out. there was a soda machine there as well, and i had money, but no coins. they only took coins then. i cried in frustration, but there was nothing to do but make it home, which i did. so i was that thirsty, and still metaphysically starved as well. i was begging for water at the hospital. the hospital they took me to. charity hospital, in new orleans. it's as bad as it sounds. close to third world bad. i was on a gurney in the hall, for i don't know how many hours, being ignored. they wouldn't give me water until the doctor looked at me. saying i could have injuries that would make water contraindicated. i begged more anyway, as thirsty as i was, i didn't even care if it hurt me, but i knew it wouldn't, that that was bullshit, but it was policy. and the doctors there were as callous as the ones at county, laughing at the woman. they stood next to my gurney, having a nice chat about their golf games. while i lay in agony for hours.

in the sun i feel as one, married, buried... and it was a mixture of good and bad, i knew what that was, buried in marriage, all apologies, mine, his, all i was ever owed, but still i was in the sun. and i got home, tentatively opening the door. what greeted me was surprising, a house that had been cleaned for my homecoming, and a husband and son genuinely glad to see me home. that was a nice moment. but it didn't stay. whose fault, doesn't matter, both of us, to one degree or another. i tried, but it didn't work, for more reasons than we had hands to fix.


edit: the custard stand i mentioned in passing, i was remembering from when i was a child, i loved going there, once i walked with my sister, sometimes the family went at night which had a special atmosphere, there were neon lights lit, and the heat and humidity and mosquitoes, and chocolate soft-serve cone dipped in chocolate. the old cones, they tasted like cardboard, sugar cones came out a few years later, i was maybe 10. i couldn't remember the name, so i googled it, Serene's, and the fucker is still there! not only is it still there, it looks exactly the same, the sign is the same, everything, only they've added miniature golf now. Serene's

light a fire

it is cold and damp. a fireplace sits unused; i cannot get to it. i miss the fire. i remember a time, a fire, long ago. curled up together, dreaming of better days. days when we might have our own fire, warm, happy, home. a dream of home, of warmth, still a dream. lost then, cold and scared, battered. longing for the protection and comfort of a home, so out of reach.

now i sit in my home, cold. having to weigh the cost against the comfort of heat, as i had to weigh the desire for the TV, its size only accommodated by sitting in front of the fireplace. a trade-off i don't regret, such wonderful things brought right to me, things sharper than real life, no need to leave. i can hole up here, protected, for now. still, i miss the fire, it's unique warmth, warming through and through. i'll just go turn the heat up.

i wonder what's on TV.

coming out

where is that elusive dream? happiness, freedom, meaning? i'll never find it hiding like this in the dark. but i have searched, and have come away scarred and tired. i'll face it again, the world, the unknown. i'll start tomorrow, always tomorrow.

it doesn't let you hide forever, always changing, shifting around you. you find yourself exposed, and all the best spots taken. so pretend this was your idea, a spark of life burgeoning forth. go on, go on, you can only fail, and all the novelty has left that long ago.

angry young man

i was an angry young man, as there is no female equivalent, sadly. we are left to flounder, without identity, home, or understanding. i stayed an angry young man until about 40; now at 45 i am entering a different stage.i may eventually come through a curmudgeon (again, no female equivalent), but i don't think so. i am angry still, but it is not an anger that wants to fight any longer. it is full of sadness and resignation; it only wants to find a home to hide from all of the horrors, and to nurse these wounds which still remain. and just maybe, if possible, alleviate the horror of someone else.

containment

i have a name that contains the essence of who i am; a cryptic way of sending that message to anyone who cares. but who could be so perceptive, and who even knows what the wire mother is anymore? we are down to a null set now. i'll keep writing, my words will survive forever, and one day, another lost monkey will find them, and i will sit with them, and smooth their hair, and we will speak of beauty and the soft, and the savage beauty of truth. - softmonkey

cult victim

let's put aside my dream of riches. i'll settle for comfort and health and be satisfied. but for a mind like mine, comfort is a complicated thing. health as well, for that matter. these things are rare in the world, comfort and health. we forget how rare in wealthy countries. in cases of having enough to live on, the question of comfort comes down to feeling. are we all victims of western thinking, despite our best resistance having taken in a warped view given to us with the explicit purpose of manipulating us to pursue money only to hand it over for shit we never needed? could we be deprogrammed, like cult victims, removed from the source until the lies become apparent? but we will cling, like cult victims, convinced that we sincerely love that which anyone else can see only wants to take as much as it can, wholly without regard for what impact this has on us. it is like racism, in that we all have been tainted to some extent in this culture, no matter how insistent we are to ourselves that such things do not live in us. let us acknowledge that it is there, and then address it from there, in all things unsavory. you can do like most, and pretend the rot is not there. you can even get used to the smell, especially if those around you are full of rot as well. or you can admit it's there and try to clean it up.

askew

Listen now; I can't hear it anymore. I never could. Yes, I know, but neither does the world make any sense. Or I should say humanity; the world makes perfectly logical sense. So I suppose do we, viewed in the proper amoral light. But that still doesn't explain the madness. Or that empty feeling. Can you hear it?

solo

It is lonely at 2 am. It’s always lonely, but there are fewer distractions then, and the appearance of a lack of loneliness at other times. Here is my heart. Barely beating. Still, in spite of all of it, I am alive. What fancies fill my time; I dream of that other place. Where all happiness lives, some other world, where god did touch down, and lay upon them a blessing without accompanying it with a tenfold curse. Yes, it is all a lie, every happy thought. It is sometimes too late to be what you might have been. I could have flown, were my wings not broken by lunatics and their children. As it is I can sing, and I will do so, whether you can understand my song or not.

never enough

I suppose that’s why Jane Seymour is hawking her atrocious jewelry with that fake sincere melodramatic sappy story about her mom (the kind Americans lap up with no other possible explanation than gross stupidity), at Kay Jewelers. I don’t want this to be true. That it’s never enough. My privations have so far given me reasonable allowance to believe happiness will be in my grasp one day. If I can just get enough. But it never will be.

what do i want?

What do I want?

Practically or fantastically?

Practically it’s hard to say. So many difficulties to move around, and my mobility in question.

In a world where my finances are taken care of, but by whom, there is the problem. How do I feel if this dependence is removed? I am afraid of the answer. I do not want to look at it. It is conflicted. It is not one thing or another. Variable variables. Maybe it would all be different in a different situation, with the fear and stress removed. Maybe. Maybe we could come to who we are in this place, and then figure out from there. Maybe. Always so many maybes. They never sleep. They cluster over there, some hopeful, some churlish, some lie - white lies, malicious ones, who knows which is which in this mélange?