Reading A Book Alone In The Redwood Forrest, a poem

Reading a book alone in the Redwood Forrest

On the observational scale,

I do sit here in the redwoods in lotus pose,

with a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

on a stack of logs next to me.

What is the catch?

Is that but the paranoid disillusionment

of the redneck hippies near by

just now learning that they aren’t the real rebels?

They are not heroes,

They can only dream of being such.

The true meaning of center,

of the power of human capability,

If only imagined,

that is all we are,

Then that is the best

and the worst

of our imaginations.

A Step Over Me, a socialist poem about the unhoused

Yes here I am!

I know you can see me.

How else will you get into the coffee shop?

You’ll have to step over me.

A lump or a mound of garbage,

To you that is what I appear to be.

I know that’s how little I am to you.

I know that’s why you step over me.

I am in fact treated like garbage.

Thrown out and unwanted, even in public space.

But what is one to do

when they have no home, job, or place?

My rags are an eye sore,

I’m no fool you see.

There was a time when I to

would have been the one to step over me.

1/17/2019

Rebels Lead The March of History (a poem)

Rebels Lead The March of History!

Do not forget,

It was the rebels who brought forth our days!

And do not forget,

the people who learned,

But got little praise.

Stupid is a condition,

Ignorance a choice,

So stop the idiotic voice.

So cheers to the rebels,

Who died for our better days!

And peace to those who lost the fight,

And lost it going insane.

They had no stake,

No burden unless they choose,

So it is no wonder

Why the rebels never lose.Nationalists

All Be So Pleased In Rebel Faith

All so pleased be me

Of muse and pleased

be faith that bore

no fruit.

And yet you cannot trust

my words,

you cannot do so for under

the tenses this rebellion is

what shall be true to fight for

honest right

and honest rank.

Truth in honest and

faith fought for the good work.

Faith that did indeed bare

fruit and bare it beautifully.

Beautiful,

and radiant

in faith.

What good is a broken man?

What an era to be alive.

Yet how can one call living with no dignity living?

Crawling on knees to get to a safe place to release your bowels,

Begging from mercy from an overweight class traitor with shit aim

Only to get 6 bullets in the back.

For a cell phone.

Can it be called it living to beg for help?

Only to be denied it?

Only to be killed for it?

Only to be mocked for it?

Can it be called living?

So many men,

And even more hurt women,

All because therapy is either too expensive,

So we put the burden on the femmes.

Therapy,

Too expensive,

Or not manly enough.

Wouldn’t want weakness, or tenderness to show,

No,

That’s how you end up with six bullets in the back apparently,

And lose your ability to walk,

Think,

Or breath.

That and skin of deeper tint which will act as hate’s magnet,

For what good is a broken man?

What good is fear?

What good is pain?

What good is a broken man?

And who can love something that is broken.

Rambling About Depression in the Dark

I sit here writing this in the dark because it’s 5am and my ceiling’s light bulb just burnt out. The darkness is fitting though. It is fitting to write about one’s depression in the dark.

Mental illness is a funny thing, the slightest thing can trigger the worst of episodes. What is even worse is that when big things happen it can make the worst episodes even worse.

I will not go into excessive detail, my business is my own, but I have screwed up a few times in the last few months. No more than any other human has I think, but the list is growing. I am only human after all. I always view life’s mistakes or failures as lessons learned to be used for the future. To demand perfection of oneself is toxic and to pretend you will never make mistakes or accidentally hurt people’s feelings is just moronic. To think you will never err is to err.

But it still keeps me awake thinking about the lines I have crossed, the bridges I have burned, the damage I have done. I have heard of a psychological phenomenon called “negativity bias” which exists within us all, perhaps that is all this is. Perhaps this is just my brain choosing to remember the bad days instead of the good ones, the fuck ups instead of the successes, I honestly don’t know what the hell is going on in this organ in my skull.

Mental illness comes down to two things, our environment and what it triggers in our brain chemistry. What is “my environment”? Well I take a global perspective, I am no nationalist. The world is my home, but one reality is that I live in America 2018 which is enough of an environment to make even the perkiest yoga instructor get into goth.

Ramblings, all of these are just ramblings in the dark with no beginning, middle, or end. I’m wondering if I should even post this, if it wouldn’t be better to save it and come back to it when my head is clear. No, no, I must write and share it now, as is, I want people to know what it’s like to fight off the voices in your head that tell you to kill yourself. I want people to know what it feels like to be mad at yourself when something isn’t even your fault and to hate yourself when you know it is.

I want people to know what it is like to sit in the darkness.

Yet, oddly enough, I also do not want people to wallow in despair nor pity me. People with depression don’t need or want pity, they need support, they need patience. In due time I will go to the hardware store and get a lightbulb and I will have light again. My depression is not as simple of a fix, but I still feel the metaphor is there. The darkness is never a permanent situation, it never has been and never will be, and I tell myself that over and over again, until the light comes back on.

This is what it is like to sit in the darkness.