Cabbage: the Poem

December 6, 2011

I wake up to the smell of cabbage

I am sleeping on a giant cabbage leaf

The blue . . . no green . . now orange

Rib caged baby lion in a now current

Monster of coolness of sorts sorts the

Mail on his autumn leaves in Louisville

A cup of Earl Grey tea you fancy?

Fancy me? What did I do?

Where did I go?

Carpet cleaners are coming around noon.

Can they, would they spray me down with pink poison?

So, I can breathe again

Slim Gilliard would love the gibberish singing you screech

To me about fried ice cream and potato chips.

Alternatives? Drink snot and call me in the morning.

Call someone before you snuff it, off it, give up.

Please.

I’d like to catch up first.

Not save you. Live, learn and breathe with you.

You can go anytime just talk to me first.

Please

Something in the way she crowds around me

Grinds spines in the old chop shop

Aunt Dollien operated by herself

I should have, you should have

Helped her. Bloody mess it was.

Not she. 117-years-old and still

In charge. We listen and obey

She rides off into the distance towards the rising sun

Like the girl with no name in a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western.

Bang Bang. You shot me down.

Bang Bang! I’m vested and not crying yet

Ready

To meet my Angels. Are you?

Powder blue suntan, flowering yellow hair,

Insects in your eyes, resting, not doing any harm

They need rest too, ya know.

Sink deep into an opiate coma with me

With him, with her, everybody sing

“All we need is Love”

The bed drops softly to accommodate

Our bodies.

“Everybody is just a little homosexual. Whether they like or not” Allan Ginsberg once sang through my departed allies.

The piss in your pants somehow comes off

As a romantic gesture. just not sure who or whom or me.

Romance, courting and foreplay have changed.

Piss, spit and a clean T-shirt is all we desire

Under the brown, dark chocolate brown, chair

That wiggles when I turn on Wagner.

Maybe it’s German. Jewish.

“You should burn it and find out.” Jack said to me

Wiping the cocaine off his Skrewdriver T-shirt.

Salute the master. Carry his bones to the crematory

Make sure he’s powdered. Maybe a nice face powder someday.

Bring your tired looking face back to life.

They call you “face job” ya know?

I call you love.

Is life worth the sadness, the happiness, the ups and downs?

Worth love? Worth death?

Worth money?

(pause and take a deep breath.)

Tuna. Grazed grazed 2 day old fish  marked down 58 percent.

Thank God for the rain or the smell would have turned on the perverts and scared the little girls.

Take me back to the thousand foot

Red tranquil trees hanging over my head

Terrifying peace as the sun goes down.

Dreams don’t have to die

Ya know?


The Loss of an Angelic Soldier (for Marcus Shepherd)

December 2, 2011

NOTE: I wrote this November 10th, the day Marcus passed away. I haven’t been on the internet so I am posting it now and I still feel everything I wrote.

Lost another soldier. A soldier of angelic visions and pain. A true warrior of lost souls finding his way. As many times he wandered off the path of enlightenment he always came back to share the sometimes soutrageous yes spiritual paths he found.

Marcus died today. My muse. My confidant. My hero. My friend.

A friend of almost 20 years. As best as he could be. Good enough for me. We became each other despite our extreme differences.

Never have I experienced a friendship that transcended reality like the one I had with Marcus. Marcus Shepherd. A million private jokes. A million laughs. A million cries. A million trips outside and inside ourselves discovering, discussing and over analyzing emotions, theories, thoughts and the world surrounding our soft child like yet genius brains.

He was the only friend that knew everything about me and actually understood me. Missing him is an understatement at this point. At any point. In and out of my life at times as friendships do yet always in thoughts and prayers.

I met him in March 1992 and knew there was something special there. I never dreamed we’d play in bands together, live together and become so close. I couldn’t imagine that this tall skinny guy in eyeliner with long full black hair that wears frilly shirts and leather pants would become my inspiration turning me on to writers I never heard of like Jean Genet, punk bands like Television and even foreign films like Goddard. A new world sparked from this unusual friendship.

His visions, which I once thought were bullshit, unfolded in front of me. Light and dark. We talked of these things. We talked for hours about the here and now as well. Our emotions and desires. Exposing each deep secret we’ve ever had through the years.

We hung out at coffee shops in our 30s like 2 art school kids to meet artists and people to inspire us especially the girls. Then we discussed our love for them. The women. The art girls. Frantically, desperately seeking our soul mates from any hot young artist girl.

I helped him discover that he was just as superficial at times as the rest of us the way he brought the artist and serious poet out in me.

I could go on and on and I probably will about stories and adventures of the man I call friend and mean it. Keep reading. As much as I miss him, I know he is part of me and will stay here.


Chasing Angel’s Wings (for Marcus RIP)

November 10, 2011

 

Visions I could never comprehend spill from his head

Inconceivable trauma most could not endure.

A mystic. A Shaman. A muse. A showman. A pure genius.

Lost soul. Strong soul. Sensitive soul.

Mind so open it hurts.

Christ like at times.

Judas other times.

Power untamed and loose.

Touches the wings of angels we can only dream of.

Sees and hears things out of reach for us laymen.

Superstar. Rock Star.

Once in a while I caught a glimpse of the man deep inside.

He was me. I- Him.

He called me the Jolly Joker and learned to laugh with me through our adventures in life. Our adventures beyond.

I showed him that he is everyone, that he is he and he showed me I am no one, that I am me.

Self centered yet so generous and giving until it hurt him at times.

Screams for help and no one hears him. Not really.

Self-medication and sedation from the evil that followed him.

For a moment he feels normal. As normal as a visionary can feel.

He chases the Angel’s wings and the demons abandon his soul


The Deadly Secret

November 4, 2011

 

The Deadly Secret

 

I’ve heard that term so many times.  never thought it would apply to me. It did.

 

I had trouble breathing 4 -6 months ago.

 

Months went by and my left arm went back and forth from slight pain to numbness sometimes. My chest was occasionally tight. My breath was short and became shorter every few days. My little secret. My deadly secret.

 

Deadly secret.

 

I mentioned it briefly to a couple people but I wrote it off as a panic attack or being out of shape and they agreed. No big deal. I took extra anxiety medications. It sort of went away. I tried to convince myself it went away. I’m too young to have a heart condition, right? So I kept my deadly little secret.

 

I went back to my cigarette smoking, too much coffee drinking and over eating bad foods. Ate, drank and smoked as much as I wanted for a few months ignoring the arm pain and shortness of breath.

 

My deadly secret was about to surface. It started off like most days. I woke up in the morning and had my usual several cups of coffee, an energy drink and as many cigarettes as I could smoke. No breakfast for this guy.

 

After a long urination, my breathing became difficult. I assumed it was anxiety or another panic attack so I took my anxiety meds and was stupid enough to light a cigarette. I’m always stupid enough to light a cigarette.

 

I had to put the cigarette out before it was finished. This went against one of the rules of my smoking rulebook. Rule 3: Never put out a cigarette before it is finished. You can see how serious this was getting that I broke a smoking rule.

 

I decided to go the hospital. My roommate was home and asleep because it was Labor Day.  I didn’t want to bother him. I packed a bag and wandered to my car. It got worse. I tried to get in my car and couldn’t make it. I stumbled back in the house.

 

I tried to wake up my roommate but didn’t have the energy to do much more than knock and slightly shout his name. No answer.

 

I called 911. I couldn’t breathe and figured an ambulance can get me oxygen faster than driving to the hospital. I searched for a small paper bag to use to breathe in and out of. All I could find was a paper grocery bag. I used it until the medics arrived.

 

The medics arrived within 5 minutes or so. Luckily the hospital was close by. I was put on oxygen right away and wheeled away into the ambulance by 3 or 4 medics. It was so nice to breathe.

 

I spent 6 hours or so in the emergency room and was diagnosed with bronchitis and discharged. There was a huge note on the release forms that said “DO NOT SMOKE” so of course I smoked while I called my roommate for a ride home.

 

It was hot and humid when I got home and I had trouble breathing. Our air conditioner was broken so I called my mom and asked if I could sleep there. I packed my over night bag etc and settled in at my mom’s.

 

I had one more cigarette and tried to sleep. The symptoms all came back and my heart hurt this time. My mom drove me back to the hospital and after hours in the emergency room I was admitted with a heart attack and I was to have triple bypass heart surgery asap.  I did.

 

This all could have been avoided if I didn’t keep such deadly secrets.

 

 

 

 


Another Day

August 7, 2011

I figured I’d post this old comic strip I did that still sums things up sometimes.


Conversations with Scar Tissue Past

July 20, 2011

Scar tissue expands every day on my wounded mind.

Sometimes I feel nothing. Denial? Remission?

Sometimes I feel everything. Projection? Frustration? Anxiety?

Scar tissues spreads and strengthens me and weakens me.

Sometimes my past will pop up and surprise me.

“Hey how ya doin?”

“Great. How are you?” *Stutter and shake*

Chocolate shake. Fuck you. I want vanilla. I always want vanilla.

“Livin the dream” *Shimmy, shimmy shakes*

Shimmy my ass. You’re dream must be simple. You must be simple. Fuck your shimmy, shimmy and your Goddamn shake.

“Oh. That’s great I guess.”  *Reelin and rockin*

Ahh.. that’s better. Reeling and rockin… Not living or dying just kind of rockin.

“Yeah man. I am so filled with gratitude for my wonderful life.” *proud statement loosing confidence*

“Yeah? Me too. What are you so grateful about?” *Twisting and shouting*

“I woke up today. The sun is shining. I have love. I have friends.” *it goes on and on and on and . . .yeah*

Doubt and reconsideration of this fool standing before me. Too evasive. Too general. Hides the scars and pain and the past. Denies it.

“Are you grateful you took a shit?’ *sarcastic laughter held in*

“Wha. . ?” *confused by ninja verbal dance moves*

“Are you grateful you found a dollar to buy some food?” *humility or self righteousness (can’t tell)*

The past faded away as I questioned and hustled and even disco ducked..

Hope or hopeless. Doesn’t matter if I remain in motion. Mental motion. . .Keep going and no matter the scars or the past or the pain, the spirit is well. Always is if I tap into it. Do the twist. Shake it out baby. Shake, rattle and roll.

You know how it is, Rockin and rollin and what not.

You cna live your dream. I’m living my life. It’s worth every scar.


Writing

July 9, 2011

Writing. I write even when I’m not writing. I have so many stories, ideas, blogs and books written in my head and a small portion of them are half or a quarter written on paper. Not paper. In Word documents. Unfinished thoughts, ideas, blogs, stories and novels. A writer writes all of the time. I used t write the way I thought and spoke. Now I speak and think the way I write. Sometimes my actual thoughts and spoken words use correct grammar and syntax more so than when I write.

 

Not everyone is a writer but everyone has a story worth writing. Everyone could be a writer. I believe everyone should write. Don’t be afraid. It’s just putting words in front of each other. Write what is on your mind. Write what happened. There are no rules. Some say that there are rules and a proper way to write. Blah.. Fuck grammar, syntax, spelling, punctuation and big words. If you can’t be creative then don’t. Just say it.

 

We all have live a rich life. Not always happy. Not always miserable but something worth writing about. Some of us struggle with day to day living and survival and it’s worth writing about. Some of us are happy and enjoy life with occasional struggles worth writing about. Right?

 

A lot of my friend send me poetry and prose that the usually keep to themselves and sometimes even hide away. These pieces of writings are some of the best I’ve ever read. I’ve published a few on my wordpress site and they even got more readers than I get. So much

 

Of all of the arts I’ve tried and even excelled at, writing is my favorite. Something about seeing what’s in my mind on paper or on a document or blog makes me happy and fulfilled no matter how bad I feel or what the topic is. I have this innate desire to share my thoughts and feelings as often as possible online and I enjoy positive and negative feedback. I am self-absorbed and like to be in charge. Writing is perfect for my ego. It satisfies my need for instant gratification. It’s one thing I can do without depending on other people. Complete control.

 

Whenever I get involved with projects whether it’s art, music or business partnerships I am the only one that has my heart in it and the others tend to fade out. They have their own dreams and lives to live. I can’t expect people to blindly follow my dreams and goals. So I write. I write. I write.

 

I may never be a best selling novelist or celebrated poet but I have people that read what I write. People like you. You must want to red what I have to say of you wouldn’t be reading this now. I guess there’s the partnership. There is also the completion of my writing. Once you read it my writing becomes more than just self indulgent self absorbed ramblings It is a complete work of art.

 

I thank you for that. I thank you for making me who I am today; A writer.


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