Smoked Up Wordy Back Pain

Can’t eat my words, not now,
Can’t and there’s a reason I’m sure.
Can’t get you out of my head,
And there is a reason why, must be.
If it’s your perfume, you’d know,
And if it were your ways, I’d tell you so.
But I can’t forget you now,
Your too much engrained in my head,
And all I’ve got is this,
That there’s you and me tonight.
All I got is this,
That there’s you and me tonight.
If easier things have been done,
I’d know it.
If there were easier things to do,
I’d show it,
But I can’t lose sight of you now,
And perhaps its all for the best,
But what I’ve got here is a pain in my soul,
Cause it’s been waiting for the smoke to rise.

Cranberry

Living lies, lieing in bed, cranberry said,
the rose girl said,
cranberry said, we’d end up in bed,
We’d end up in bed, speaking non languages,
lips moving to beats and rhythms
that were majestically and pretty,
lips quivering and baking in the suns of our imagination,
breaking the tithes of church Sunday mornings we’d go to when we were kids,
Breaking the tithes and eating the postres that were imaginably soft in our bellies,
With the goo of melted sugar,
“corn sugar sweet dick trip top rickity split,” cranberry said,
And we’d dance in the moonlight were her exact words,
watching porch lights talk to each other, and crickets light up the grass with song;
It was in cranberries own words, and she saw it coming cause of her ways,
The ones which keep her in the know, you know how she can be,
Cranberry.

TV Viewer

Apparently the media conglomerates of the telephone and cable empires are trying to constrict the interet services to American users. A Bill passed in August of 2005 to charge different fees for different users of the internet; companies we all use online would have to pay doubly the fees they already have to pay the infrastructure companies. Likewise, they have failed to restructure this infrastructure to fiber optic cables, as had been agreed with the state in forms of tax breaks and rate hikes which we have all been paying. I saw all this on the Bill Moyers show on PBS tonight.

Ironically I had seen Citizen Kane just today. Allegories which rang to me was that of the robber barons like Rockerfeller or the extortionism of Tony Soprano. In any case, the authors, lobbyists, and senators interviewed provided an interesting sight of the internet battle; the battle of neutrality or of equal carrier. Whether Citizen Kane or Tony Soprano, it seems that the flight of media is toward the internet, as most know already. But it is this flight where the constriction of values of diversity and fairness are in possibility.

Fortune is a Victory

The game is on. Probably enough fun for a night.
Here in San Antonio; it doesn't seem anyone
would miss it. The Spurs are all over TV. Commercials,
and public service announcements. They're part
of the culture of this town. And here everything is a
bit like the enthusiasm of a Spurs game. Grateful and
exhuberant.

The iguana today. I cast it in a mold of wire mesh, and
plastered it; the first coat today. Here I wonder what the
excitement of opening the boxes meant. What was the
mixed pleasure of turning out a project on the first day
the supplies came in.

Nap. Stilling myself in the darkness, I defyed the doctor's
orders and tried to rest my body. She won't give me sedatives,
but I know I'll burn out in this excitable state. Mostly I know
I'll burn out others around me as well. I've got to try and
close my eyes again.

House arrest. The wintry weather is freezing everything
and craving attention. The city has been all but paralyzed
is what I keep hearing on reports here on television. I wonder,
what will it take to be a part of the freedom of those who are
more fortunate than me.

Sandy Beaches

Off the shores of tropical region,
on the sands of exotic beaches,
the sea looks out into the earth,
and sees white people touring.

In an engagement of winter time shares,
they are encumbered with the art of leisure,
and wonder is he with them, a replacement.

The woman and her mother,
the boy and his grandfather.

Wonder what languages are they speaking,
on frosty morning like these here, while the
sun shows them what summer here is like.

They speak, no doubt, in their American.
Being American, and foreign. They feigned
what it must be like to be an immigrant
from a wealthy family to another port;
insensibly perhaps feeling good that an
empathy can be drawn for the immigrants
from other places to other places to places.

In America, there is a cold front moving in
with a lot of rain and ice. The sea watches us
from the air tonight, watches us from the ground.

While snowbirds roost within Mexican walls

passing the mailing district line

No juice.
The little plastic containers,
With peel off foil.
The surroundings rounded by the
Sounds of unison,
Telling on me that I did it again.
Drank a juice.
And shouldn’t have.
I see in their voices disappointments,
Faces nameless, except for loudspeakers,
And doctors and clergy, and henchmen,
All asking aloud off little note papers.
Names like Bob Dylan, Harry Henderson,
And Heinz Ketchup. All crazy names,
Laughing no more when I get to drink
Little sips of their laughter, silenced,
By their lies to me, telling truths which
Lied to them, and failed to make sense
Of their world. Not for them, or when
I was on the road, waiting for the time
To come when I was acceptable to return.
Which I was never

(in the asylum)

Paranoiac

Must leave, get out,
Can’t stand it here anymore,
The voice of reason has tripled,
Duplicity gone,
And now to protect, and serve,
For what,
If not the thoughts running,
And exasperated,
Running, and craving,
Running and running,
A stop for nobody,
A stop for nothing.
Here, air, all wrong,
And stopped nothing,
I feel, damnit, feel…
Secured falsely into abyssmal
Solitude.
And here, nothing is what it seems,
An empty page, an empty thought
A full one, a full of shit.
Here, pride has been shredded to
Pissing someone off for a loaf,
Pissing someone off to get air,
Pissing someone of to get space.
There, the same questions,
The same ennui,
The same threats.
Grief risen from ashes,
Phoenix a hashed out bird.
The hallucinogens taking control
The years dopamine and neuroepinene
Transmitters; shot too much in to darkness.
Which is a blank white page.
Not the kind of knights,
The kind of papier machae
The kind of dark bright lights,
Cold hostile and taking over
Dreams that could have been
The seething rocks,
The meddling cooks,
The rising stars,
The aged beef.
Candy bars,
Are the only ones who talk,
And now seems like never,
Slipping back sliding back,
And I wonder starry eyed still,
Younger than stupidity cleared
What will be my absence of truth
What will be my absence of truth
For being ingested, digested, and diverted,
For being wholly unacceptable, too damned
Brown
To want to be anything but the priss rich whites
The powerful and gratefully hungry.
What damned pleasure is there in hearing
Cocks,
Rain,
sea breezes,
If not one time is meaningful,
Beyond the paranoia,
Of wishing for more
And wanting more,
And trapping my mind in the
Impossibly formal theory of being.
Waiting, I am exploding, timelessly,
The inheritance of my existence;
Lame, drunk on grief, and crying.
Wondering only, that time has slipped,
Off her tunic, and I am waiting to see.
I am waiting to see, mad as her, for
Anyone to light her eyes, her face, her body.
Remembering that I am thrashed by a society,
Thrashed by a law, thrashed by a state, and
Formed into little dumplings for anyone to
Meander a laugh into, bite and smile idiotically.
The grief is of the stolen heart
The lies are from everyone,
The defense is slow, perhaps, but steady,
And your love wanes in it’s nocturnes
Wanes in it’s timeliness, wanes in it’s ferocity.
Because the cold bright lights are coming,
They will inspect everything,
And who am I leaving to become,
Looking into my head, the cold bright lights are watching,
And who have I been
Looking into the bright cold lights of darkness,
There’s money to pass me by,
But not for me she says,
Not for me he says,
Not for me she says.
Powder whites, keeping me wanting to become
A busboy, a talent less junkie, a wino
But the potential is here, and the squelching of this
Spark
Is damnably unpardonable; as perhaps is a fool’s
Understanding of his love.

Whiner

I can’t breathe. I lost, again after years since last I asked.
I asked simply, why do you have so many relationships?
I get a laugh.
I await a response, but my burning desire is more to ask,
Why would you hit mom?
And the answer I get is that “I didn’t”
“I saw it” is said.
“I held her hands and defended myself” he says.
“if I would have hit her, I would have knocked out her teeth “
“I saw her fall down the stairs” I said.
“You never saw that, you’re hallucinating” is what I get.
This is what I get, for asking why.
“give me a chance to tell my side” he says.
Flustered, I have to leave the room.
Perhaps another long while.
I validated my concerns with my desire to correct my own relationships.
I asked because I want to have a healthful peaceful life.
I am angry that I am called hallucinatory.
I am angry and remember the times my father would tell mom she was hallucinating, telling lies, which I am sure she must have, as did he. I am sure because they tell themselves so many lies now.
I told him, “ why are you lying to yourself?”
That provoked the hallucinations comment.
Defensiveness, anger, empathy gone awry.
That’s what I get for following the ideal I set myself this morning of trying to have better communication with family members. I am an adult, much older, and I thought after reading a little bit of a self help book, the conversation could stay mild in temperament. It didn’t. I am afraid of losing my abode. I welcome it at current. I am a man, and can be expected to be treated as one. I am not hallucinating when I say I saw mom fall a flight of stairs, slapped, and pushed. I am not hallucinating when I say it hurts me to think about this right now again. I am not hallucinating when I say I want to ask, and know his heart without the friction, the upset, the anguish, the anger. I want to know how to welcome getting out of this feeling; and to relive the moments which comprise a happier time. My parents, in their gore, have forgone much of it, to remember instead for many years, the hatred they had for each other. I want to remember the love I felt for my brothers, for my sisters; and meanwhile I am expected to remember for them, the parents, what I was and where I was, and who I was, and what I saw as a child. I forget these things on a daily basis. But hallucinating, and being called hallucinatory the way his dead brother was called so, this I do not forget so easily. I want to , but with another glance from him, another glance from my grandmother, another reminder to take pills, and all is lost on us. All is lost on forgiveness. All is lost on forgetting and moving on. On trying on another holiday, another event, without the hallucinatory brother that we all get asking the inappropriate questions.
I’ve had dinner. I don’t want to talk to him anymore. I am alone here. I am pretending so much to be upset when I am not. I am frustrated and concerned. I am concerned that we are losing his communication. His ability to reason and ask logical questions. I see wita going before him. Forgetting what really happened, even as how she would tell me years ago, when I’d ask the same questions and get the same responses.
This day, like so many other lonely days, there is no place for me to go. Now, only, it is a crime if I walk beyond the premises. Before, it would be fear of medical treatments to shut me up, to keep me from escaping. From escaping the present, with memories built as I would dream them. Dreams of happiness carrying me along, until hell reached itself fully in front as real time. That I had gone astray and forgotten where I would be able to say I resided. Where I would be able to say I could stay the night, or a few, until I could get my feet on the ground.
Passing along these roads, I remember now why I keep leaving. Because words are sacred; and everything I can do to have some, everything I can do to have it tangible and real, can be disregarded with hostile remarks one heard as a child; triggering those feelings which is evident here now, evident then; of fear and remorse for having a life that seemed somehow defiled.
Psychological space is what the book said this would give. I maybe should have tried not to make small talk getting into the only question I really wanted to ask. What will he do to me now? I still see him as trying to be a father who is stern, and at other times pleasant. But I seek his approval still. I seek understanding, and I don’t get that always especially when I ask to come closer to his reality. Perhaps this I must let go to others.
I fear him possibly still, like a child who must have an approval, or rather the child who seeks not to be hit. The words are his belt. The coldness, the distance. The belt, the wood slabs are now his disassociation with me, and with you guys. This after so many years of his reflecting on his own life. I’m tired of holding on.
I respect him as a father, as a man. I must. I can’t accept anyone else but as a guide, a leader, a role model. But I don’t want to live here anymore and try to make him feel as if he is doing some favor to us through me. I can’t accept this role anymore. I’d rather be dead, and anywhere but here is quite acceptable to me right now. I feel my other relationships, the scant few I have left, failing miserably. I have lost many friends, and lose many more as time marches on. I am losing you to this struggle. The one to concede a point.
I am myself a failing father, and have the trend continuing through me. Hell escapes only little spurts for me. It’s not death I ask for, but access. Accessible and great guides. Accessible and healthful relationships. Accessible and helping souls, who in my own life find valor and kindness. In my own life find pride, and courage. I am not easy to submission, but neither do I feel I must yield to the roles that are assigned by fate, or destiny. I can fight them, perhaps needlessly, but I can fight them nonetheless. Where can I go from here?
The illustrious life of a secret agent; the closet freak in San Antonio, will be terminating soon. The germination of decision is upon me. I can attest to this, as with my own soul. If I am not held accountable to it, then damn me. What good are my language skills, the ability I have to communicate, if I am never to use them in meaningful ways? What good is it to be educated in speech, if when time comes, I have no one to understand me? What good is any of my education, any of my life experience, if in spurts of loneliness, I seek to find solace in knowing a mended fence; only to have it revealed as one that needs all the work in the world yet to repair it? Am I so greedy to want to employ that which I have; these abilities I am told I can use, if I try to use them for something which will grant me some satisfaction of peace?
I remember trying to live a dream, trying to keep it in. And this wedge of dissatisfaction, now it will be called, drove it away. I have been lost before, now I welcome it. The lost I have suffered has only diminished through the years. I am much older now, with more at stake, and more reason to try harder. But the sail in my ship is quite flat. The hell of my reality is real. I am a criminal at stake of a larger responsibility still. I am in a poverty I wish on nobody. I cannot fathom trying to leave, nor trying to stay. I have run completely out of options, other than to dull my senses again with pills, with the hopes of a better tomorrow, which won’t come without my senses dulled to the point of my becoming a total imbecile.
The happy go lucky imbecile, I could be called. Lenny in the end of the novel, Of Mice and Men. I could only provoke such love from someone; to put me peacefully outside of my own misery.
What good is it to communicate all this? With all my best intentions, with a world feeling closed in entirely.