Posts Tagged With: addiction

Sour Mash Doubts

Doubts and guilt, doubts and will

I want a bout with honesty, but still

It ain’t right that I write only to share,

so I walk ‘til I’m naked, alone, and scared

 

Working on a world made up of lines

a jagged sawtooth, I am dusty hammer tines

aging slowly, rusting like nails in the times

relevance buried in the “who, what, where, why?”

 

I watch you succeed, I watch you spiral and fail

I watch you unbridled, through a window unveiled

This whole time, we thought our calling had sailed

It was tomorrow we were following, on road & on trail

 

Yesterdays poem becomes todays advice,

biting me in the ass, these words I read twice,

You counted the cards ‘n I loaded the dice

Who could expect an asshole to play nice?

 

Every bee stung me, walking to the hive

I can tell you that I’m lucky to be alive

Back on battlegrounds we strive to survive

Us crossing lines, so quick to chance lives

 

I chamber a round, ‘cus death shoots hollows

Most men just want a war drum to follow

To give them some honor, sacrifice, and bravado

warping the story ‘til each man is Picasso

 

The drones are marching through sweltering heat

While others dodge illusion and deceit

They see a carpet crawling, rats up to their knees

Fighting for a feast while spreading disease

 

One beer at a time, one breath at a time,

Wasting money, it’s peace I can’t buy-

Could you spare a little peace of mind?

Or else cut a line and pour me some wine

 

If you accept my conditions of suffering,

I’ll accept myself and everyone else

I am my own hostage, couldn’t you tell

Pay my ransom or throw me in the well!

 

Envious of those who grow rich beyond riches

knees grow weary, digging penniless ditches

Rolling the bowl, inhale both genie & wishes

Life is joke between three laughing witches

 

Mash in the chamber, I am the changer

my experiences distilled be the only remainder,

Gulping and splashing drops upon strange anger

sharing libation and handshakes with strangers

 

I walk in the woods to stalk a truth I can kill

I’ll beat it and twist ‘til it lies naked & still-

kill or be killed, fulfilling a beast of will

We’ve got a full bottle and I’m a-cooking still

 

My song is a fly humming through wide open blue

My darling is a harp, playing faithfully and true

My heart is a snake, made of flesh and sinew

We left the apple on the limb, and a new tree grew.

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Surrender to the Mystery

It’s hard when you live away from your home

Not the home where you’ve grown

But the one your heart knows

The places we’re born, some remain until death

 

But I know I will travel ‘til I find my rest

Expand all limits ‘til the final test

I don’t wanna catch the thing that I know lyin’

So I’ll chase that old dragon ‘til the end of crimes

For it’s not what you get at the end of your line

Nor the bait or the hooks or the length of the time

 

Most men know a relief from their defeat

And the bittersweet peace at the end of a feast

But that hunger will awake with the crow & the sun

As sure a some black hole is calling for everyone

 

Now I watch & wait & let the world come to me

I’ve got rot in my teeth and an ache in my knees

I ain’t crazy ‘cus I live with what I cannot see

And it takes all that I’ve got just to live peacefully

 

Beyond yesterday’s answer lies a deeper mystery

A body doesn’t have to move in order to be free

I surrender to the mystery so I can be free

I’ll surrender to the mystery so I can be free

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Trap Poem #1

Jingle… jingle… jingle
I hear the jailhouse keys swinging from her hips,
sassy black lady officer saunters slowly past the door of our pod.
It sounds like she’s about to stop and open the door.
We all get ready to greet her like a bunch of dogs left at home too long…
but she doesn’t stop
so we resume doing the same nothing we’ve been doing all weekend.

Prisoner of the War on Drugs
you get a number & some paperwork,
they get a badge & a gun.
Which side you on man?
Run the jail from the inside
run the block from the outside
run the trap til the springs snap back
you either a roach, meat, some time, or a rat.

blah blah blah blah play spades & watch tv
gimme pen & ink.
whatchu got to write anyway,
tryin’ to impress someone?
Allow me to…
express maself now…

trap nation!!!
This whole fucking country is a freedom trap,
everything I wanna do is illegal,
I see the good within the bad within the good within the raw
within the meat that’s still alive, bleeding and horny,
tap the veins with a “fuck me” face
let me get up in Lady Liberty’s guts
so I can see what she’s been hiding beneath those robes all these years,
is it Baby Jesus or is just a pile of tax returns and indictments?
Let me touch your torch, girl,
torch-to-torch
we’ll burn this jail down

Man, the IRS & the FDA have been 69ing in the closet,
working on some fiscal tantric union
smelling like dirty underwear, bad chemistry, broken finances.
There’s weird shit in these grits,
bologna & cheese sandwiches,
salt peter in the pudding?
too many commercials on daytime television
now I can’t hold an attention span
so I read 3 books: a western, a drama, and a fairy tale
the American Dream unfolds & overlaps
while I’m flipping through jailhouse programming,
watching my soap dramas disappear in hot water
flies buzz after this moldy bread,
I’ve been walking in circles around the pod
chanting mantras to protect the mind I never had.
“Fuck it, you a free man”,
sez the tv and radio but I just don’t know how to believe that.

Lonely in my bunk
I telepathically text the lovely ladies I see
behind closed eyes & doors,
I caress them like wind on leaves
in the open,
I tell them how beautiful they are
while I wish
I could eviscerate myself
with love;
I try to do it constantly.
Call it selfish-will
but I want to give myself away
completely
‘cus I think it’s the only way
to commit suicide
in a healthy & constructive manor.
Die in love; all I’ve been wanting to do
with this lifetime
learning to die well

where’s the love here?

I see these guards watching me.
Oh pirates yes they rob I.
Oh pirates, yes I rob them.
Oh pirates, yes I’m a peaceful one
but I know what blood tastes like
and I’ll have yours
if you try me.

Call this a misguided musing of another lost stargazer,
can’t seem to find the orbit right now
so I just amble through all this space
debris and all
navigating with my best intentions
paving the highway to samsara
with invisible asphault
maybe I just want attention;
why do I write and share?
I needed no intentions,
my life is the prayer!
Who likes & who cares?
No mind, no matter
I’m having a discourse
with myself

Man, I hear that guard again,
sooner or later
they’re gonna open the heavy metal sliding door
and tell me I made bail.
Or maybe not, maybe I’ll sit here and rot; HA!
they’ll have to try a little harder to keep me down,
‘cus if you really wanna know the truth
I can see through this whole pile of shit
while I sit right down on the floor
chant ‘til I escape the real prison door:
this man-made body,
this culturally-engineered mind,
these fucking clothes made of plastic and pesticide cotton,
they’re just a front.
Look in my eyes and see right through
no threats here
but you can bust me upside the head
if you don’t like what you see,
I don’t have any use for courage or fear

I’m waiting here
and I’ll be here waiting
‘til the locks rust off the doors
and I can kick my way out to see sunshine before I exhale
all this pent-up energy I’ve been holding between my eyes and shoulders
for too many lifetimes, god damn!
GOD LOVE!

Church.
The chaplain can wipe his ass with my rap sheet for all I care.
God lives in this house, too
and if you don’t like it
you can shack up with some other devil.
I’m a dancing corpse with a rope around my neck
I avert my gaze, I see nothing
while I hear the shakedown man
pooping out lines of suboxone, weed, and tobacco
making money gets shitty sometimes

Somebody get me to the psych ward.
I hear they have better drugs there.

https://witchdoctorsmedicine.wordpress.com/2016/03/08/trap-poem-1/

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Facebook Breakup?

“Shut up, FACEBOOK!!!” hollered Jon D Rapp

 

“Fuck you, JRAPP.” Facebook replied.

 

“This is going nowhere.” Jon said with a cynical grin.

 

Together they were growing stale like store-brand corn flakes exposed to tropical humidity for a week. Their relationship was low-viscosity, like breakfast cereal eaten with water instead of whole milk. Stalemate.

 

Jon passed his Social Media moments by destroying his own hollow philosophies along with what he saw as the misguided philosophies of others. It was a cheap and petty thrill. It made him feel empty in a good, redemptive sort of way. He secretly hoped that someone would come along and cut him to pieces with the sword of correct discernment and constructive criticism.

 

When Jon wasn’t shredding through ideas, he would spend time bashing his peace apart with old junkie war-stories. He liked to show off scars but he would eventually look back on his output with a strong feeling of self-denial. He was a drama queen.

 

Facebook spent her time recreating moments into events; she had a knack for making life appear to be much more awesome than it really was. This paved the way for all sorts of jealousy, anger, envy, and other misguided states of emotional experience. She could be a real wench. A wench can be a tool, but it can also be a derogatory feminine term. She was both.

Jon used to be a misogynist; he had comprised his perpetual discontent into two types of blame: the kind that blames parents and the kind that blames self. Most of all, he blamed his mother and all women, for this co-created dis-ease. Maybe it was because he’d never been breast-fed. Perhaps he simply adopted the cynical view of femininity that had been passed down from father to son for generations. Like a jaded old blues player, he blamed women for the pain that he himself designed. Like most average men, Jon could only see objects of attraction instead of counterparts for completion. Jon was simply afraid to be caught vulnerable.

Facebook met Jon after he completed high school. He felt the need to connect on different levels, and thus set himself out to explore the world of tagging photographs and sharing memes. She gave him reinforcement & recognition he needed. For a while, he felt that he’d convinced the outer world that he was indeed handsome and not a moron. In good time, this veil would be uncovered. In a world that gave very few fucks, he would find himself giving far too many on Facebook. They wasted hours together.

 

To a culture built upon a sense of physical tangibility, the internet is no more real than the thoughts in our heads. Nobody really cares or listens.

 

For Jon, there was always some uncomfortability factor that presented itself in moving life. He never felt worthy of his own body, thus he set out to modify both his mind and his social standing. Facebook could help with one piece of this puzzle.

A self-declared “armchair shaman”, Jon explored a diverse range of altered states through chemical experimentation. He grew strangely bound by a hypocritical oath; his assumed role of psychedelic physician would lead him largely astray. His intentions became muddled and he was wrapped up in a consumer-driven counter-culture that parallels the very society he initially felt so alienated from. For the hip crowd, peace and love can be bought and sold.

 

Tiring of his tongue-lick-cheek antics, Facebook employed the NSA to keep track of everyone, everywhere. A natural-born paranoid, Jon would curb his stories to keep himself free of self-incriminating details. His girl had gone federal and he had gone underground. The spiral staircase of his mind began to crumble under anxiety. Xanax and whiskey did not help.

 

Now more than ever, Jon felt it was time to break it off with Facebook. With a head full of nonsense and no true outlet to receive & relieve him, Jon realized that ranting to Facebook would never fill that lonely place between his teeth. He accepted that his social avatar was no more substantial than the dirt upon his feet.

 

With this newfound understanding, Jon began journaling and expressing himself by writing narcissistic letters of himself, to himself, by himself. This self-absorbed practice grew tiresome. One day, Jon had a burning sensation crawl up his spine. It was the voice that told him his identity didn’t matter; the voice that made him convinced of his irrelevance to the universe at large. Jon began to turn his sword inward. In a culture that is image-driven, the man who destroys his self-image becomes liberated. To this end, Jon became his own voodoo doll.

 

Lingering by the doorway of his own self-perception, the man-child felt wind come rattling through the screen door of his ego. Blown wide open, he tasted fair-weather upon his tongue; he would reflect his inner mirror outward and share this inside understanding for the sake of his own map should he ever get lost again.

 

Knowing that he is an outward physical expression of the phenomenal universe, Jon saw Facebook as a layer of human reflection. Not needing to acknowledge himself beyond the social context, Jon’s identity of self seemed to separate and fall onto the floor like a bathrobe untied. Some naked body stood in the doorway, a ghostly skeleton of what used to walk & talk.

Today, you can here his teeth chattering to the rhythm of butterflies. Some dance while some get dizzy.

Jon sat down with Facebook to reflect on what he had just felt.

 

“That was a trite self-indulgent, don’t you think?” Facebook sneered.

 

“Well yes, but I’ll burn this one after writing it.” Jon plainly stated.

 

“If you share it, it cannot be burned.” She reminded him.

 

“I know, bitch. We find harmony in exposing our weaknesses. I find grace within vulnerability. I am full of my own shit and here is another testament to that sentiment.” Jon confessed.

 

Facebook took a long sigh and told Jon the truth for once,
“You know this whole thing; all of this is for you. You are the one who abuses it. You are the one who inflates your own ego. You are the one who convinces yourself of some substantiated outside existence. I merely act as a medium; a platform upon which you build. It is up to you to represent yourself. I am a mirror. If you cannot handle me, then break me loose.”

 

Jon pondered her words awhile, considering all of the ads, the ignorance, the spying, and the selling out. He realized that everyone is chasing the same thing; they are running away from their deaths meanwhile ensuring the safety of their lives (at all costs). Whether they wish to control resources or mediate social statuses, the battle for control wages on. Jon finds himself smack in the middle.

 

Self-control does not exist beyond the self. Control does not exist beyond concepts of ownership.

What can we really hold? What do we really own?

 

He found himself coming back for more. He couldn’t help but continue wondering,
“What is this?”

 

Like many others, Jon has sophomoric tendencies. He is an educated fool. He falls into his own folly and files it away under “ailments”. Always seeking a cure, this sick boy-man will engineer his own to share. You can find it on your news feed somedays.

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Drug Riddle Haiku Assembly

six million ways
laying dead in the gutter
chasing highs, choose one

———————-
cannabis products

delivery comes
while i spin a slow number
what’s new on netflix?

water seems cleaner
and this tube snarls meaner
we cough to get off

honey-bear laughing
vaping sticky shattered jars
memory dissipates

——————–

research chemicals

mmm, alphabet soup
too see or not to see I;
to see: be. nevermind

shulgin made it big
mckenna said “hang up the phone”
when the message is heard

street pharmacists and
head-shop peddlers working
to stay off schedule

——————–

club drugs

bass beneath my feet
give me euphoria now
i think i love you

this girl, i follow
her name dances diamonds
over molecules

weird and gone, race is on
tranquil horses, settle down;
rabbit chases hole

————————

nitrous oxide

jokes are funnier
if you’re already laughing
what was the punchline?

puzzles unravel
I forget where I am now
where is everyone?

I think I got it
I finally figured it out
can I buy one more?

————————-

DMT

flutter butterfly
oh moths of darkness and light
where do you come from?

dreaming of sleeping
i am removed from this body
and scattered skyward

to see or to be
between me and the universe,
nothing left to say

—————————

LSD

trails lead everywhere
no beginning and no end
ride the lightning home

friend and foe contained
inside of tough painted squares
home-spun concentric

new school or old school
you can always prank pranksters
one heart is laughing

——————————–

alcohol

two ice cubes, one hand
hair on your chest, be a man
emotions seem solved

after work, two tall
driving home, empty stomach
six more for dinner

3am, shaking leaves
wind blows all troubles my way
gin on the nightstand

———————————–

cocaine

friday night bar hop
cards scratch surface, dollar follows
i like how it smells

aluminum tray
flame chases powder away
dull side looking up

boots stomp stairs, blinds close
water plus soda, spoon cracked
liberty bell rung

——————————
pharmies

awake to despair
doctor gave me white ladders
now heartache can’t climb

rattle snake venom
seems so coy compared with these
found a new disease

fun to get on ’em
hell to get off, wheels of the bus
going ’round and ’round

—————————–

opiates

kill the aches pronto
save face by shaving it down
hose clamp those problems

red hot barrel aimed
dirty shooting, popped balloons
falling down, eyes shot

wellness, state of mind
little orange listerine
makes it all better

———————
meth

miners blues, dark caves
hours spent digging deep holes
looking for crystal

fist clenched tight, dim light
twisting the globe ’round the world
who needs sleep with this?

bugs buzz in my ears
taking apart radios
i can fix it

————————

rehab

fuck me, it’s over
continually dying
I’m a better nurse

don’t sell me God, please
I don’t want pink clouds or pepto
let me shit in peace

maintenance my ass,
roommate is nodding out while
my nose is running

—————————–

recovery

“it works so work it”
giving me coins and key tags
cheap sense of reward

yeah, they’re kinda right
I heard my story again
I’ll do anything

freedom from suffering
one day at a time for now
tomorrow is dead

—————————–

perspective

reflections of mind
gratefully clean for some time
pause to rewind

remember the joy
remember the sorrow, live for today
coins can’t buy your time

my name is no name
I’m an addict: clean serene.
it sure wasn’t me.

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One Year “Clean”- Reflection

It happened.
A full Gregorian calendar year has elapsed since I last injected an opiate.
It’s been a long journey so far. It goes longer and stranger.
Coming from the never-ending escalator ride of the 12 Step program, I have finally been able to give my legs a rest.
I’ve been “working my own program” for the last two years.
My sponsors do not sponsor this way of life.

Here’s how it’s been going,
my brief chemical history: (kindly suspend your laughter ’til the end, AA & NA friends):
I smoke marijuana somewhat frequently. It works much better than Gabapentin.
I have few rationalizations or justifications that deserve to go up here.
I have intentions, utility, and recreation. I’m “clean”, okay?
I ingest various psychedelics on various occasions; each with a unique utility & intention.
I ingest plant medicine regularly; some psychoactive, some not.
I rarely see a need to consume alcohol. I’ll state again: alcohol is ultimately useless for recreation.
There are much purer intoxicants available.
(A message to all drunks: stop wasting your lives, Smack is King.)

No dope in me since last Fall… right around September.
It was my last night in Burlington. I wanted to sleep– no, I wanted to rest.
My damaged ego craved a mother’s hug; my pride needed a cliff to leap from; my eyes wanted to be constricted.
Tired with a longing ache in my soul, I bought two last tickets to Skagtown.
I found an unoccupied bathroom downtown. I shut the door softly, turned the lock quickly.
My heart beating, mouth salivating, palms sweating in anticipation.
I prepped my left arm; did some push-ups to get the veins out. Wiped the skin with an alcohol pad; cool and sterile.
I dropped two bags into a round metal cooker dish. Added ten units of water from the tap.
Low heat from a BIC lighter emulsified the whiskey-colored tonic.
Cotton plops into cooker, soaks the liquid and turns brown.
I prod the cotton with a shiny needle head (how many fallen angels can fit on the head of a syringe?)
Pull the plunger, chase the liquid into the barrel.
I tie my bicep with a belt from my pants, mark the spot, insert the point between pores to penetrate a lively vein.
Pull up, see blood glide into the barrel like a ghost. Push down; in goes the murky medicine.
Stomach drops. Tingles run across the scalp. Heart slows to an agreeable rhythm. Eyes grow dim.
Warm waves wash over me. I forget where I am, who I am, what I am; for a moment.
I wake up on the floor. Everything is foggy. I slowly pull myself up. Someone might have knocked on the door.
I’m not sure. My mouth is dry. I want coffee and a cigarette.
I get outside and find a bench to sit on. Moving my legs is a chore. I can’t keep my eyes open.
Shadows are following me. I go in and out of dreams while shuffling around town.
I accidentally burn myself with a cigarette ember, several times.
I see people who aren’t there.
I ignore people who are there.
I wake up on the bench. Check my phone: 4am.
It’s time to get my sit together. I have a bus to catch.
I left Burlington in a mad dash of broken glass,
hearing a clash as two kombucha bottles fall from my bag and onto the sidewalk.
*shatter* *smash*
‘Til next time, VT.

It’s been smooth sailing since then.
Well, there was the first day of this year, when I got a phone call about a recently deceased friend.
I was pretty hungover from wine & dancing. Wine was divine ’til I drank too much.
Aside from the occasional vino, I do not enjoy booze.
It’s pretty fucking useless; has no legs and leaves you feeling cheated.
I love dancing. It’s pretty fucking purifying. It has long legs and beautiful ladies. Only some of them cheat.
With my headache, I went to the nearest natural food store and purchased for myself, two and a half pounds of Bob’s Red Mill poppy seeds. From there, I made an elixir, a compound called morphine citrate, in the form of a disgustingly bitter lemon-flavored drink. It killed the headache and numbed the pain of recent loss. He died in a motel room of an overdose. Empty space; so it goes.

In comes Portland, OR.
I spent 6 months living in this city in 2010. I was high on tar the majority of the time.
Like a rattled vet, I can still smell the gunpowder.
There is an essence contained within me; I think the junkies & dealers know.
I attract more trouble than I wish to account for.
After turning down numerous offers for the “fire”, I realize that my base level instincts have changed.
Seeking neither life nor death, I wish to transcend this and that.
I flew into PDX from Kaua’i last week. I stayed in town for 5 days. I slept outside for 3 nights.
I passed by the needle exchange.
I kicked down nothing to the panhandlers.
I turned down at least 4 dealers.
I denied the city that once acceptably denied me.

A hustler named “Memphis” approaches me.
He asks me about my frame pack. He seems interested in buying his own.
I tell him the business: REI or Ebay. He says “thanks.”
Then he offers me “cryst. or tar”.
I say “thanks”
“but no thanks”.
Even though I can smell it.
I can taste it.
I KNOW he has the gunpowder and he’ll hook me up because I look shiny and new.
I am fresh meat. But I stand by my decision. No second thoughts emerge.
Memphis lets me know where to find him if I need him.
I’m thinking, “I gotta get out of this town, eventually.”

I made it out alive.
Now I’m in this weird sort of place. I lost track of my old tracks.
My old habits are too fucking old. I’ve forgotten how to behave.
It’s a blessing, to survive yourself.
It’s a curse, to live in the wake of much suffering.
Not just my own suffering, you see.
Yours, too.
I feel it. You’re not alone. I hurt. You hurt.
Together we all heal. Alone we all heal.

And here comes the hard bitter difficulties.
To go on with life, or to go on with death? I chose neither.
Find me drifting aim-fully & wasting time conscientiously.
I pray by the hour.
Meditations follow my mind around like a hungry dog.
I shake. I dance. I move. I yelp. I contemplate. I brood. I sit.
The hungry ghosts hang by my feet, dangling upon desire, smoldering.

I consistently realize this one thing,
this fucking bitter fact,
a sucker of a swallow,
(the biggest pill choked the horse
on a truth so deep it drowned):
NOTHING CAN PROTECT YOU
(because there is nothing to protect)
Surrender to the flow,
cease obstructing your own nature
as well as the nature of the Way.
Release all clinging and observe the essence.
So what does that really mean?

I am beyond safe. I am beyond afraid.
I am beyond asleep. I am beyond awake.
I am beyond numb. I am beyond sensitive.

Fuck this riddle, let me elaborate:
I have given up striving.
I have taken up practice.
I drown myself in the darkest depths
I blind myself with the brightest lights
I survive myself
My battery is ever expanding,
fire burns hot
but Mind burns hotter.

I am the Devil; I am God’s delusion.
I am the Angel; I am God’s forgiveness.
I am the Way; I am the Demons redemption and the Angels ascension.
I am pieces. I am whole.
I am the bored Almighty, split into innumerable reflective jewels, cast into an endless sea of calamity & calm.
I am Neither nor All,
as I strive onward and upward.

The only successful mark my program will receive is a timely and naturally occurring death.
The time that waits; this is my ticket to validation.
And what of all this needless woe & wandering?
What is it all for?
Oh right (Oh write)
The Art of Giving Up, Letting Go, and Flowing the River Styx
until we all find freedom.
We accept nothing less,
we are nothing less.
We strive for nothing more,
we are nothing more.
We are freedom.
We are love.
I Am; We Are.

Categories: Ailments & Cures | Tags: , , , , | 2 Comments

like a burnout

like a crackhead
i pull copper pennies through baking soda & powder
allowing subtle magnetism to skim some cream off the top
alkaline adulterants mix with element-soluble intoxication
i smoke through rocks & boulders
defacing material
burning it away
i ring bells
with every hit of the rose glass

like a junkie
i cook down dark matter inside rusty spoons
and pull it through pinholes
i tap veins and leave scars
to perpetually circulate the chemistry
that makes the hurt go away
i have no solutions
i have no problems
as i drool a deadly dogma

like a drunk
i scrape together just enough
for a breakfast bottle
the light is so bright, it hurts my eyes
everything stretches further away
my knees get weak beneath the weight
tipping fluids is a chore
when your hands are shakey
but i see clearly when life becomes soluble

like a tweaker
i twist & turn the flame ’round glass globes
it circumnavigates like Columbus or Cook,
vaporizing crystalline structures
while circling the drain
septic piped direct into my lungs
contamination is unavoidable
while i steal everything
and take it apart
doggedly working to make them better
to understand their control
to understand their placement
paranoid, i dodge spectres
wondering what follows me closer than my shadow
and what it wants with me

like an acid head
i dance dreamily, traipsing through here,
sliding past there
stuck in now
i forgot how to be anywhere else
and the music is so loud
the girls so pretty
that i can’t tell who is who
monday newspaper spells tuesday blues
and the riddle left a walrus behind the church pew

like a burnout
i am a war veteran
i talk about charlie
and henry
and lucy
mournfully
because they left me here to die alone
they left me here
now
to die
slowly

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Temptation! Redemption! Bah…

Hello, my name is…
shit, forget what my name is;
it doesn’t matter.
My name is my name
and I am an addict.

It doesn’t really matter what I’m addicted to.
I’m not here to shock and awe you (today)
But, I am here for *you*
rather, for *your* benefit of knowledge through my madness and unfolding experiences of working my own recovery program and finding the solutions I need to survive and evolve.
Consider this an addition to the lore of junkie literature… if you can even call it that.

“Experience strength and hope”…

I’ve been conditioned through “the program”
to believe that a day without “using”
is a day I survived, succeeded, and usurped my devious “addict mind”
which is “true” in the relative sense. As addicts, we all agreed upon this notion and made it into a convention. But I don’t buy it anymore. I am hooked on nicotine, sugar, and melancholy, to name a few. My point is: my “addict brain” is still alive and I find myself without complete peace.

If Bill W. asked for Whiskey on his death bed, is there any complete relief available to the recovering addict? I believe it exists, no doubt, but there *has* to be a better way than wait it out in a church basement for 30 years until death passively removes you.

If some part of my deep-seated soul is still white-knuckling the wheel, are the 12 steps to be considered a “successful program”?

Comparative quality of life is much different from comprehensive quality of life.
I don’t want “my worst day clean is better than my best day using”. To me, that is utter bullshit.
In this notion, the 12 Steps have failed me, and Bill. Ultimately.
If I cannot lead a completely unburdened existence, than I would rather die with a needle in my arm than die of coffee-related stomach-ulcers.
Call me a lunatic or a coward,
and I’ll throw it right back at you. We are not so different, you and I.
Foolish and made of flesh, we both are.

I made it out here to bring a message of… hope?
No, no, not much hope here.
Plenty of rope, I’m spinning.

Unless you consider my more recent success,
“surviving impending death, for today”
but that’s every day. Every. Motherfucking. Day.
I don’t mean to make things sound tedious, banal, or regrettable.
Life is spectacular. I feel healthy and free- comparative & relative to my addict lifestyle.
When I realize how good it could be, if I just “figured it out” and “unlocked the deep mind”,
I am prevaded and nearly betrayed by an overwhelming sense of doubt…
even on the happiest of days,
I cannot deny myself a certain level of constant and misanthropy.
I despise my human form.
I despise yours, too.
(don’t worry, I’m getting to the love part. First- hate… *sigh* dualism is so drab)
For all the good humanity has done the world,
I wish nothing but swift justice brought forth upon us.
Bring on the plagues, the terror, the disaster, the chaos.
We sure fucking do deserve it, if you ask me.
And you didn’t ask me.
Nobody did. So I am telling. And I don’t care if nobody hears it.

I don’t feel this way every moment, of course. My mood is in flux; I get it all, all colors and all channels, clear as day and my antennae are as receptive as ever. Sensitive soul, I feel.
I find it easier to write about the things that irritate, upset, and depress me,
but I also enjoy writing to uplift, motivate, and inspire.
But, today, I have been doing more crying than laughing.
Through writing about my tragic-comedy, I am able to transmute negative sensations into neutral sensations (and positive sensation into neutral) through the chemistry of clear understanding.
One-pointed mind. That’s all I need. The razor’s edge.
Closer every day, yet my feet are still bloody.

I love me. I love you.
I look in the mirror and say,
“damn, I’m beautiful”
I see you and say,
“look at you beautiful people”
There is plenty of love alongside my inner turmoil.
They balance each other out.
Every day I survive one more.
So there.
There’s your dash of hope.

I’m here to address an illness of my own ideology
one verse at a time…
call me a philosophical physician
(or a masochistic martyr)

My negative symptoms have become clear-
unrest
discontentment
anxiety
unhealthy desire/attachment

What am I addicted to today?
I am addicted to wandering lust; between the want to travel to the farthest reaches known to no man, and the desire to marry every beautiful girl I catch the eyes of.
I want it all and I want nothing.
I am here and I am there.
I want enlightenment and I want annihilation.
I am uncomfortable, yet I am in a state of pure relaxation.
I am dancing the balance of imbalance.

So the next question comes…
what does one do with such a basket(case) full of problems?
The same thing I’ve always done,
pursue an *intense* re-awakening via consciousness modification. Pure evolution.
I have dozed off, accidentally, and I find myself needing a bucket of water dropped upon my head.

There are several ways to achieve this state:
There are mind-altering chemicals.
I’ve tried a lot of them in high doses. Alas, they are no sacrament of mine.
They are the manual to a tedious, complex vehicle.
I have learned a lot by reading the manual, but it hasn’t made me a much better driver.
Instead, I will go straight to the source: meditation, communion with the higher self.

My inspiration for this?
Certain wisdom traditions incorporate methods of meditation, isolation, and fasting into their build-up before receiving revelations and epiphanies.

Jesus went out to the woods for 40 days.
Who knows what he truly saw,
but his reports were nothing short of inspirational.

Messiah complex? Me? Oh God, no; no thank you.
I don’t care if the sheep find their salvation or their slaughter…
well, that’s a lie, I do *care*
but I’m not going to intervene more than I have to.
Instead of putting these animals into my pasture, I’d rather let them live in the greater pasture:
the mad world and all it’s tough love.
I want the world to heal itself.
I could care less if humanity is around for the process.

That being writ,
I have no intentions of becoming a Saint,
no illusions of turning into a messiah,
and no ambition to found a religion or a cult.

The “devil” beats man over the head with his own truths,
wrapped in the barbed wire of institution.
Institutionalized truth has really fucked our lives up.
Let’s tear down the wall already, c’mon people!
Where are the mystery schools? Why so many secrets?

I won’t ever try to contain my highest messages in a bottle, a church, a notebook, a blog.
I will merely express my experience through the channels I understand; language is one of them.
But, I am after the truths that cannot be talked about; they must be lived.
I have nailed my terms to the Lord’s door, I have edited and reposed many times,
honestly, I’ve been such a bother to the Lord that I am surprised Zeus himself hasn’t dropped a barrel full of lightning bolts on my head.
The Lord?
God?
Who?
Exactly.
Aloof.

These are just silly little words I use to evoke an understanding. Don’t let the language turn you off. I subscribe to no particular religion. I sit within them all and observe their wisdom & their folly, alike. I am no better- I am wise; I am fool. I watch… listen… wait.

So now, I reveal the vision I had this morning,
of Christ telling his disciples to head off into the wilderness to commune with the divine,
bringing nothing with them but a walking stick and sandals.
I am inspired by this challenge to do the same.
I am logging my sickness and symptoms today

Tomorrow I will leave on a mission to find the divine.
I haven’t eaten any potent medicine in several months, and I intend to maintain that trend. I don’t need the manual to the vehicle.
The Holy Books have nothing to offer my direct experience.
Drugs are a fallacy.
The only chemicals I need are oxygen and h2o.
Anything more is a desire-fueled cop-out.

That’s right, acid-gurus and ayahuasca shamans- I am callin’ you out!
Your experiences and your medicine are relevant to a specific body of truth & knowledge & healing, yet Ultimate truth is free and sustainable, of itself.
It needs no additive. Any medicine man claiming to be a disciple of God and attempts to preach the Holy Word is, in my outspoken opinion, full of their own shit.

I am tired of living amongst the dregs of the chemically & metaphysically dependent.
All you so-called warriors and seekers are nothing without your medicine pouches.
This is a message for myself just as much as it is for any other true seekers.
I am tired of my own dependencies. I am calling them out into the air.

I implore you to consider the meeting between Ram Dass and his guru.
All of us “psychonauts” know the tale, how Ram Dass fed the guru many, many mics of White Lightning, and the guru never got high because he was already high. What really happened there? What did the guru really see?
I will be meditating on this meeting, consulting the Akashic records as they become available.
Spooky, witchdoctor voodoo…
I’m here to blow the smoke away, to dispel the mirage, to diffuse the illusion of “mysticism” and “enlightenment” as I grow to understand it, myself.
I wish to turn “mystery” into “mundane” and “mystic” into “common”.
Open source all truths! Let the world run wild with them!

This won’t be relevant to anyone other than myself, at first.
Through processes of literary alchemy, I will attempt to transmute my lessons to a worthy form for all to enjoy. I’ll try to keep the obnoxious new-age words out of my dialogue when I return.

I will come back with a story.

For now,
I leave with an excerpt from the Tao Teh Ching, no doubt some translation was lost from Chinese>German>English, but I still quite enjoy the riddle,

“Give up learning, and put an end to your troubles.

Is there a difference between yes and no?
Is there a difference between good and evil?
Must I fear what others fear? What nonsence!
Other people are contented, enjoying the sacrificial feast of the ox.
In spring some go to the park, and climb the terrace,
But I alone am drifting not knowing where I am.
Like a new-born babe before it learns to smile,
I am alone, without a place to go.

Other have more than they need, but I alone have nothing.
I am a fool. Oh, yes! I am confused.
Other men are clear and bright,
But I alone am dim and weak.
Other men are sharp and clever,
But I alone am dull and stupid.
Oh, I drift like the waves of the sea.
Without direction, like the restless wind.

Everyone else is busy,
But I alone am aimless and depressed.
I am different.
I am nourished by the great mother.” -Lao Tzu

Categories: Ailment | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

“Who wrote these words?”

Not me, I said,
it definitely
was not
me

I don’t write much
on bathroom stalls.
It was some other long-hair
with a lost soul
and seething eyes,
boy,
you shoulda seen him!

writing sin in the stalls
he cares for nothing,
wishing that life
be shot through him
so he can be loaded
and show the whole world
his ass

He calls it art?
Well, piss on that!

He kicks around town
down on some corner
waiting for
a hustle
a con
or a window to drop
with prizes behind.

Poor and pathetic waste,
frayed at the edges,
all that hair
falling out or burning off
whichever it is-
He’s like
a burgeoning Benjamin Button
or some devilishly crafty witch.

It’s amazing he hasn’t topped
himself
yet

But he still writes, I heard,
and he’s no Bill Burroughs
or Hunter Thompson,
I’ll tell you that much
for free

this guy
is more
committed
to habits
and rituals
of destruction
than he ever was
to the duplicitous nature
of existence.
He enjoys the sludge
of slow toxicity
as writing comes second
only to his despair

I hear he sold some smack
to a poor girl
who never knew a habit,
but the bag was so bad
and it got her that good.
She overdosed a month later
of her own accord
no thanks to his hands

if she never hit
that first one
maybe she’d still be around
but her family knows the truth
and I do, too

His time will come;
he’s too wrapped within delusion
to make it much farther.
Lost in his fantasies, yes
I don’t see much coming from his mouth
other than cryptic messages-
“wanna-be prophesies”,
like somebody stole the eye
from the pyramid of Giza
and no one has a clue!
Not even him.
He waits for the sludge
every morning
and wishes himself away
before breakfast
is done

He’ll die soon,
like all the rest
of his kind;
junkies die in gutters
and writers die lonely

Hunter took an easy bullet,
wanting so badly to be
Hemingway
or someone else
that didn’t let their personality
outgrow their work.

Cursed, they are!
All writers & junkies,
a doomed ilk.
I’ll never write or get high,
for those reasons alone.
Oh, no
I must make a living
instead.

Categories: poetry | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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