NATIONAL PRIDE AND THE BUILDING OF A DREAM SET ASIDE - Fiction?

A nation so divided even on the simpliest of simple ideas cannot stand for long.

Even this thought, those words, could be decreed as being traitous to that which is held holy, national pride.

National pride can be corrupted into hatred for those outside the defined box within that nation, to be placed in a defined enemy of the state because of the colors of your eyes.

Religion, its own dividing rod, can be used to hate, even when that religion is based on peace and love.

We, the people, divide ourselves based on point a, then, point b and on and on until we shatter into billions of shards, to cut, to bleed, those who come in our footstep, to further divide the future.l, into blight.

Instead of building a better future, we destroy it, wars, famine, disease, hatred.

Instead of building that path to a glorious future, we build walls, we shut our eyes and bathe in madness.

We create our own madness, letting our cups over run with it, killing in the name of Jesus, Amen!

We march.

Our children march.

And on and on, for that nation, which gave us our lives, we kill, we die, in hope that we are right.

No more death, we hope, that war to end all wars, but then, the next one comes, new ways to kill, each side thinking they are right, a national pride.

Is it wrong to have pride?

No, but how do we know which side, if either, is right?

My country is my country but there is so much more, out of our reaches, from our sight, we shall never see, unless we drop, some of that national pride.

Again, these words could be construed as traitous, to be executed by that mob who screams in national pride.

One world, one hope.

I know it is all a dream, a fantasy, but maybe someday, that dream could be realized.

Whispers in the wind: A POEM

WHISPERS IN THE WIND - A POEM

The way we were,
Like tattered pictures,
Thrown on the floor,
Memories,
It was, so apparently, so easy, according to.....
Memories,
Beautiful, some,
Others,
Too painful to remember,
We chose to forget,
Laughter,
We remember,
Those shining moments,
Drifting across the wall,
Projected,
Simple things,
Here,
Timeless memories,
Others easily forgotten,
Brought back by dreams,
Distant,
Only shadows,
Of fragments,
Tossed into the seas,
It would seem,
The misery,
Forgotten,
Brought back by passion lost,
Yesterday brought to tomorrow,
Whispers in the wind,
Memories,
How they change us,
Smiles on the photograph,
Tomorrow,
Is a better day,
To see the sun,
Blazing,
In a memory...

A letter to a true love - a love poem

A LETTER TO A TRUE LOVE - A LOVE POEM

You are my everything,
You are my desire,
My dear one,
My sweet embrace,
You are the one
That I run to in the rain.
I want to be with you,
Till the end of days.

I don't know
What the future holds,
But I do know this,
You are my life
You are my soul,
Without you,
I'd be nothing at all,
I would not know the feelings I know now,
I love you more than words can say,
I see your face and I begin to smile.

A true love,
In sense of the words,
I feel your kiss,
Your touch,
Even when you are not here,
I can still feel you next to me.

I love you,
More than life itself,
A better love could not be found,
Even if I tried,
I love you, my dearest one.
I will love you,
Till time depletes the skies.
Always and ever,
Till the end of time...

A TRIBUTE TO MY COUNTRY: A road trip through a life

A TRIBUTE TO MY COUNTRY: A road trip through a life

CHAPTER ONE: A return to my home town

Eyeless wonders in spanish towns, looking up at the stars while $85 hookers suck on pencil tops, scarred with aged knives, soulless wanderers in arid lands, finding nothing but truck stop coffee and pickled eggs.

Beer by the galons.

Gasoline cocktails, sitting by a pool, neon sign blinking, half off, EAT AT JOE'S.

We were driving down that highway, mile 185, when the bombs began to fall, only in our heads,Jackson was driving, 95.

"Shit!!" He cried slamming on the brakes, "we lost....that word....."

"Our minds?" I replied.

He nodded.

We had lost our mind, 1993, just out of college, one last trip to see ourselves drown, in toxins, 1953, a good year for such a disease.

Las Vegas was a sell out, Corporations trying to gain a buck ninety five for a spin around a tree.

Traps, roadside signs, SEE THE TWO HEADED SNAKE!!

BEARDED LADY, FIFTY CENTS!!

Two drinks out of a clown's skull, a miracle of science, fiction, realization you're dying one minute at a time, living a few seconds as the miles tick away.

The road kept going, cities, towns, little villages in desert suns, rage, lust, a cigarette in some cheap motel.

Use the swimming pool at your own risk, we don't have a life guard on duty.

Ain't that life?

Drown or swim.

Fail or suceed, still treading, the waves crashing in on us, not waving but drowning.

I have tried to drown my demons but they have learned to swim, maybe in college?

There, in the light of the silver moon, she sat, that vision of painted fece filled tub of garbage known as my hometown.

Saints died trying to bring civility here, this godless whore, as my mother called it, it wasn't her town but some shit town she drove into back in 1969.

She never left.

She said it was hers, a shitty drunk lover, but hers.

And hers alone.

I adopted it when she passed away.

She was buried in St. Ives Garden under a weeping tree, right next to father who died before I was three.

We stayed at the Fleabag Hotel, up the hill, crack head behind the counter gave us the key.

$69 a night, all the meth you could dream of, just two blocks down the street.

Nuns were handing out flyers, JESUS SAVES, in big bold letters.

"Do you need him?" They said, handing us one.

We shook our heads no and entered our room, decorated tastefully in 1973.

Dirty tub, smelling of bleach, as if in attempt to clean, the toilet black, moldy smell coming from the ceiling tiles, dried cum on the sheets from multiple drunken, stoned fucks.

Paintings of palm trees to brighten the smoke stained walls.

Walls thin, hearing the next room's activities.

RCA COLOR TV IN EVERY ROOM! FREE! reads the sign outside.

Three channels, all broken snow filled scenes, in color.

Black and white are colors, the lady at the desk says.

I laugh.

She's right.

We fall asleep, like babies, in a crack house on Arizona Street.

WANDERING THROUGH THE MIND: A Mother's misery

Wandering through the broken streets, late at night, 3 am.

We saw the minds, madness, imagery, blasted on the TV screens, drunken rants, now televised as great intelligent thoughts.

On a Friday afternoon, barely pass noon, came the awful news, the sounds of the room dulled to a roar.

There, she sat, before she fell, that paper, the telephone in her hand, her young boy, that little face child of hers, laid dead by a shooter's rage.

She did not cry, she did not utter a word, she died that day, there on that playground, down fifteen blocks.

Though her body remained, her soul, her life did leave, she was not the same after that fateful day.

ARE YOU OKAY? A random poem in memory.

ARE YOU OKAY? A random poem in memory

Mister, are you okay?
Little kid,
Standing on the street,
Silent night,
Oh what a night,
1978,
Bombs bursting in air.

She, that horror love story breakup tease, nightmares in clever monotone speech,
Candles burning in solemn refuge,
Seamless, scenes, cut out of Time magazine,
She lies in pale moonlight,
Pale skin,
Star brushed blue eyes,
Sacrifice,
Eight rows high,
First kiss at a ball game,
First blowjob at a swap meet.

Mind fuck,
A disease,
To find,
A bitter end,
Quickly released
Into the wild.

A warped sense of destiny on your knees,
Laughing at distorted images,
Projected on the screen.
Just finding myself,
On that road,
To misery,
To light,
To happiness,
To sorrow,
In memories.

Oh how I wish it was me,
Who made her smile,
That special day,
2003,
Vacations on the moon,
Love beyond that midnight sky,
Looking into heaven,
Plans of future,
Shattered.
Broken like glass,
Ripped apart,
Thrown to the winds,
Like seeds,
Dead upon arrival,
Dawn to days,
Back to evenings,
Squares trying to be hip,
Standing in the square,
Snorting coke off mirrors,
Dollar bills,
All alone in a flat,
You okay?

6 am,
Saturday mourn,
Licking old wounds,
With Jim Boom,
That cheap shit,
City dead,
Sleeping in a cardboard box,
Rejection letter,
Five minute read,
Too long.
So long.
Final notice,
Overdue,
Lettuce wilted,
Got it from a garbage can
From behind the Safeway store,
Same with the meat,
The world too.

So long,
Live well,
I shall see you,
There,
On the hallow streets,
Free,
Wind beneath your wings,
Making it, smiling,
Wave,
Then run away,
Fly away,
See the sea,
Dear John,
Goodbye....

Everything has worth - even a turd!

I walk the streets of a rich, artsy neighborhood.

Trust kids writing and painting, Ive moved up from my living under a tree days.

There's still homeless people, even though our President and his supporters say the job market is doing great.

I was homeless.

I had a job.

I was making 800 bucks.

Rent was 900.

So there I was, homeless.

I was still writing, drinking beer, as a way for sleep.

Everyone wonders why the homeless drink.

How else do you fall asleep when you're too scared to fall asleep?

I have a house now, a condo, but not because of anything our government has done or hasn't done.

I remember, everyone is 1 misstep from becoming a homeless reject.

People see you as trash when you are homeless.

No one is trash.

Everyone has worth.

Even a turd.

Everyone, even the rich, are one step away from being in that place, homeless.

To be screamed at, GET A JOB, even though you have one.

I wish people would remember, everyone has a worth.

Sweet dreams - a sleepless nighr poem

Into the dark night we go,
Soulless wonders wandering,
Aimlessly through fogs,
Of memories,
Dreams,
Lost passions,
Sleepless tossings,
Faces brought from past lusts,
Fucks,
Driven mad from bargain basement,
Trivets tossed aside,
As useless trash,
Battles of wit,
Without a wit to spare,
Spar nightmares,
Rusted armor knights,
Fleeing angel haired youths,
Into the sleepless night,
Pain,
Seeps into dust
Dreams, where are thou?

Maniac depressive thrusts,
Angels without wings,
Halos busted,
Random poets, 4am,
Cannot find the bed,
Cannot find the sleep,
Wind chimes chime,
Pleasantly,
With whispers from the night,
A howl to Mother Moon,
Police siren down the street.

Lovers quarrel,
Hush,
They'll hear us on the moon,
Faked love,
Simple warm kisses,
Lies in lust,
A quick fuck,
Before that good night,
Jumping on a train,
Good luck?

Jimmy, where are you now?
Dead,
Twenty Five years,
Ten months,
And 7 days.
Killed by
A bullet to the brain,
College freshman,
What did they say?
Depression?
What could they say?
No more,
No less,
What's a pill to do but repress?

Here I am,
You,
My golden boy,
The best,
Of the best,
Never age,
As I grow older,
Looking in the mirror,
Who is that old man?
I hear myself say,
Sleepless night,
Thoughts,
Memories,
Future things,
To hear those chimes,
To hear my own brain,
To wish for that sweet sleep,
To dream,
To dream,
To wish for that sweet embrace.

A LATE NIGHT RAMBLING - A RANDOM POEM

A LATE NIGHT RAMBLING - A RANDOM POEM

Sitting on the corner,
A dirty street,
Lies burned into the TV screen
Called the evening news.
Five shot dead;
Sad smiling face,
Children of the street,
Homeless,
Sad smiling bright face,
News man shuffles his white sheets of paper,
Two more dead,
Tragic,
Heroic deeds by someone's sister,
Brother,
Who knows,
On to the weather,
Sunshine in rich,
The poor get rain,
It seemingly is the rage

I decide to erase my brain,
Start over,
Reboot the ignorance,
Watch the moon explode into space,
Rejection, that word sprayed across my face,
Communists smoking marijuana, 1983,
Before the senile oafs we call Senators made it such a craze.
Corporate rape,
Rage,
Eating eggs off buttered toast,
Now, don't give a shit,
1998,
It all changes,
Does it?
Fuck it,
There's a train,
A train for change?
No one knows,
Nor do they care,
It's the new craze,
Jump on board,
Jump in front of.
Beating of the drum,
In rhythm with the brain,
Thump,
Thump,
Drum,
Dump.
Dumb
The pump don't work,
Somebody stole the handle,
The key use to be under that rock,
But damn if they didn't take that too!

When it pisses,
We call it rain,
OH happy day,
The flowers say,
It finally begins to,
What the shit is this?

Hero in the streets,
An angry fix there,
Walter killed himself,
A day before he turned 25.
A rainy day indeed,
The sheets,
Bloody and torn,
Ripped,
Riped?
Blood clinging to the wall,
Should have hanged himself,
Mother is in denial,
Father does not weep,
Sister ran away from home.
Can't sleep,
Too damn many waves,
Trains,
Screaming through my brain.

Whispers in the night,
Weeps,
Tears,
Bottles poured into mouth,
Vomit out the pain.
Senses dulled,
Removed from any sense of reality,
Shame that next day!

Cast out the demons,
The preacher preaches,
Rotten peaches,
Smelling like dead babies in a steaming jungle,
Screams in erotica,
Cast out visions of orgasmic death scenes
On that TV,
Mother lies,
Father lies,
Whole families lie in wait,
A crystal blank face,
Drink to kill that pain
To feel nothing but a breeze of a fly's wings.
Insanity?
Better to be insane
Than right with the sane mob,
Killing all the differences.

Sing,
To herald the light,
To banish that darkness,
Outside,
Scream,
End scene.
FADE TO BLACK

THE HOMELESS GUIDE TO LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN - Chapter one

 THE HOMELESS GUIDE TO LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN

Video - Johnny Cash - Hurt

Dedicated to open fields and open beers, and a girl we shall call Martha!

Note to the dear reader(s) - Back in the summer of 2017, I, your dear author, spent a little over a month homeless.

I was pretty damn lucky, had some friends who let me crash at their place when I first lost my dearly departed parents' house to the big bad wolf (or state, matters who tells the story - a long story deserving its own book and movie starring Tom Cruise as me!!!)

The windows were the air, the floor was the soft grass(weeds) under a roof of a large tree's branches covering my head in a place I called Camp Bob.

It was a good place to lay down a tarp on the ground, to lie there and stare up into the night sky, watching the stars do their dance as I drank a few beers I had bought from the grocery store I worked at as a cashier.

Yes, my dead reader, I had a job, it paid enough for a life of beer, chicken and donuts.

Luckily, this was in the summer, little rain and very few fellow "campers" (besides myself, there was not a soul at the small park I called home).

I was a king in a land of tall weeds and deranged geese who guarded me from the bogey man who lurked at 3 in the morning, howling wildly and snarling at my guardians.

I started a journal, as I sat at the steel picnic tables scattered through the area.

And maybe someday, I will try to finish this "guide" to not just the homeless life, but my life in general.

In this section of my life, I learned that even as a homeless grocery store cashier, I wasn't even close to the lowest pits of Hell, there were others worse off than me; families with small children wandering the streets looking for shelter, a bit of food.

Folks who mere weeks ago had a home, a roof over their head, like me, who had just hit a huge bump in the road.

There are resources out there for folks but there are many folks in that situation I found myself in and not enough resources to go around.

Contrary to popular belief, the land of milk and honey just doesn't have enough honey let alone milk so there are long, almost to infinity waiting lists.

I bought some food for people, I was lucky I could do that; give a shirt out of my backpack so a person would have something to wear; even helped a man find work and get back to higher ground before the flood of despair drowned him.

I guess things happen for a reason; today I found myself at a higher level, but I will always remember, we are all just one step away from falling from our place, to land under a tree.

Enjoy!

A NOTE FROM AUGUST 2ND, 2017 as written in the original "Black Book"

Dear reader, my loyal friend, it is August 2nd, a lovely Wednesday.

I was going to make this a diary of sort; daily musings of my life's little adventure but I slacked a bit.

Someday, I'll settle into my chair and type from memory the thoughts.

The first three chapters of this thing called the Homeless Life are jotted down as they happened, life in camp, the darkness my friend, my pen that sword to keep me sane.

I may end up and fill in the pieces later; such as meeting Jesus who was on a quest to find and retrieve his stolen guitar.

It was stolen in Utah from his broken down van.

It made its way to a pawn shop in Billings, Montana

Jesus sold water to dumb tourists to get the money to buy a bus ticket to the bus terminal in Butte, Montana where I got to meet him and to become a character in my book, a figure in my memories!

~CHAPTER ONE~

Dear reader,

You may be asking yourself,

"How do I become homeless? It sounds fun, like camping, except no mountain streams and the beer is warm!"

And boy would you be correct!!!

I am currently homeless.

I have a job but find myself without a roof.

Who needs a roof?

Or a bed?

Or a toilet or shower?

The world; oh dear lovely world, is your toilet.

Or, if you shy, there are always public restrooms.

Public restrooms are a god send to the homeless.

You need to take a poop.

They can also double as a makeshift wash station.

The dollar store is also a homeless person's best friend.

Every thing is one dollar.

You can easily pan handle a few bucks.

Tell people your car broke down and you need a new kidney or your children will die over in Iraq.

No, you don't need to have kids.

Adopt some.

Welcome to the world of being homeless.

I went to the dollar store and bought a cheap tarp for ground cover.

I learned quickly that the ground is cold and hard.

Icky bugs crawl on the ground.

At some point in your first days outside, you'll hit a point where you'll collapse, right there on the ground.

(Added note by the author - my collapse point was three days.  72 hours of no sleep, going to work for 8 hours a day as a cashier, made me into a delusional poet.)

You'll wake up with a worm crawling out of your nose.

Then, my friends, you'll care.

Nothing says "I'm f*cking homeless!!" than laying there at 2:30 in the morning fearing the boogeyman is out to get you.

Don't worry, there's nothing to worry about except being raped, murdered and/or being eaten.

Piece o cake! 

FOR MOTHER LAND: "We deeply regret to inform you." - A POEM

FOR MOTHER LAND: "We deeply regret to inform you..." - A POEM

A little girl is walking down the street,
A bitter memory,
Tomorrow shall be better,
Just wait and see,
But sadly,
Tomorrow,
It is said,
Never comes.

Into madness,
We saw ourselves go,
Propelled there by our might,
Our own will,
Our eyes held closed,
Against the blinding of the light,
Bombs bursting in air,
This was not heroics,
A good boys' gift to their motherland,
We were surviving,
Kill,
Or be kill,
No master plan to conquer the world,
But that which to survive another day,
To see our mothers,
Our fathers,
Our lovely wives,
Our children,
Who wish to grow up and become soldiers,
To fight for that great cause,
That cause,
How I wish I had not heard the bugle call.

If we were greater men,
To those at home,
Called lesser men,
We would have left,
Gone back to that safety,
We left behind,
To that simple life,
To our families,
Our homes,
To our lives,
So simple,
So easy,
Raise our children,
To see them have their own children

But alas,
We did not,

We went screaming,
FOR MOTHER LAND!!!
To our last breath,
Some of us,
Never opening their eyes again,
Not to see the rising of the sun,
To that new day,
To sip black coffee,
To feel the bite of a cold, clear day,
The warmth of that which we call love,
To keep us from the shivering winds.

There we stood,
Shivering in cold,
Our blood,
Rivers on the icy plains.
We heard the bombs,
Dive,
Cover,
Fire,
Kill,
Death to that enemy across the way,
His own mind screaming,
Run,
Far away,
To that which does not kill us,
To be alive,
Cowards,
Fake,
Not worth that patch sewed upon our shoulders,
Elite,
Defenders,
Those others,
We spit,
We fire,
We kill,
They return,
To kill,
To defend,
And we keep,
Still,
Pressed against the ground,
Our eyes mere slit,
Our hands,
Our fingers,
The deliverer of that sweet tool of death.

We marched forward,
Through the hurling of the rain,
The sleet,
Our hands,
Our bodies,
Dearly,
We did not speak,
We marched forward,
Our thoughts our own,
But we all thought the same,
How easily it would be,
To never have heard that call to arms.

We dare not say that mere thought,
To be a traitor,
To that great cause,
To not hear the trumpet blare,
To feel the pounding of the drums,
To know the brimming pride,
Of our elders as we passed by,
In parade,
"Off to war! To fight a glorious fight!"
They cheered,
They rallied,
We did not want to disappoint,
Even when we came back,
In a box,
Our flag,
Covering our vessels,
Their pride covered in tears.

"They died for us!"
The headlines would read,
"For us!"
"For the Mother Land!"
Mother tears,
Screams,
Pounding of their fist,
The news fresh in their ears,
A letter,
"We deeply regret to inform you..."

The war machine keeps rushing,
Never ending,
A new generation,
A new generation,
We deeply regret to inform you...