Monday, December 13, 2010

A Rededication Of A Myth For My Love

The Taj Mahal shows its beauty in white marble for anyone who cares to look. Four minarets guard the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, without whose love the Taj would never exist. When a rich man truly loves a woman, he will go to no material end to show that love to everyone. Shah Jahan commissioned the tomb, but made none of the sculpture, calligraphy, architecture, or any other art in this greatest romantic edifice.

Not everyone can afford white marble domes, and inlaid poems stretching into acres of poetry for the most special woman in the world. This is me: Shah Jahan left enough room in his symbol of love for the rest of us, too. I cannot make a White Taj for Sarah; I can only make a watery reflection that looks black at dusk. I will not measure my poetry for her in acres, but in lines, stanzas, cantos, and perhaps eventually, reams. I cannot keep Sarah's spirit beside me in stone; I can only write and love her for as long as she chooses to stay next to me and look into the Black Taj together. These are not the first words I've written to her, but these are the first words of my dusk reflection, the first public drop of water in a language we can both understand, and the first dedication of our Black Taj.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

So I took Another Look At The Pacquiao-Margarito fight

This fight should have been stopped after the ninth round. It's a frightful beating, and the officials should not have forced Pacquiao to carry Margarito. That said, they might have punished Margarito for wearing plaster of paris in his gloves. I don't disagree with punishing Margarito, but it should have been in prison, not the ring. Pacquiao looked amazing; he would be Floyd Mayweather Jr.'s toughest opponent since a prime Castillo.

Sunday, November 14, 2010


I'm keeping kosher. The wait between meat and dairy is insufferable. Right now, I'm looking at a cheesecake. I want some, but it's not quite time yet.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

I Was At The Rally

The crowd of liberals at the Stewart rally were much nicer than the crowd of liberals I encounter at poetry slams and readings. No one threatened me with violence; it was ok. I only found the timing suspicious. After taking over in 2008, the mouthpieces of the Left talked only about national mandates and how with a majority in the legislature and the presidency they could pass any legislation without veto and without participation from the Right. Now that Democrats and the powers-that-be are headed into a potentially tough election, the mouthpieces of the Left only want to talk compromise. I prefer compromise, but promoting that compromise should have come a long time ago without any threat of losing incumbency. Work together, folks, and maybe we can stop the two-year cycle of extremism, and get some work done.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Rally to Restore Sanity At The Next Steelers and Ravens Game

Ben Rapelisberger gets a reduced suspension instead of prison time that everyone else would serve. Six guys can't go into an alley where one guy winds up dead, and no one faces punishment. They're just ball players, folks. If someone wants to rally to "Restore Sanity," how about we start with boycotting overpaid professional athletes, or at least holding them accountable for their criminal actions. The next 70 thousand Steelers, and Ravens fans with tickets are a good group to start the outrage. I won't hold my breath.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Ok, everybody, save a purple shirt for October 20th

Bullying is in the news a lot, and often against homosexuals or those perceived to be homosexuals. Those of you who know me know that is unacceptable to me. If you don't, check out the link above. This sort of thing must stop. A friend of mine named Ryan Cassata let me know about a day to remember the youths who took their own lives in despair, and oppose the bullying and abuse of young, school-aged homosexuals. I'm wearing purple on that day, and so should everyone else. I would love to see a sea of purple outside on the 20th of October.

If you're having trouble endorsing homosexuality for religious reasons, don't think of October 20th as a way to endorse the practice, think of it as a way to endorse good will, and show that God's love is not just for you, your congregation, or your Church. God's love is for everyone, and we don't get to make the decision to take that away. Every homosexual is a child of God just as much as I am. I'm not going to shut anyone out of Christ or salvation because of largely blind prejudices: that kind of thinking and speech just discourages people from seeking Christ later, when everything depends on accepting Christ as the savior. Hateful words and cruel seclusion are counter-productive and wrong far more than any love between two men or two women. God does the judging; we just spread his word and his light to as many souls as possible.

Wear purple on October 20th. It's not about prejudice; it's about peace.

Saturday, October 09, 2010

Diaz vs Noons II

If you liked Diaz vs. Noon in the rematch, which I did, watch more boxing, which I do. Neither fighter can wrestle, and without the takedowns, Diaz' jiu-jitsu is worthless. It was a good fight, worthy of TV. I like both fighters as MMA artists, and respect them for putting on a boxing match. That said, their boxing abilities are not up to world-champion boxing.

I had Noons winning three rounds to two, despite pulling for Diaz the whole time. Diaz gets the nod. I disagree.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010


Jay Hepner, my dear friend and coach, is dead. Knowledge is power; I know because I was there. I love you, Hep. We'll meet at the pearly gates some day. I know it.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Jake Rossen is a Clown

Jake Rossen is a clown. James Toney didn't get his obvious pugilistic dementia from boxing not being a "real fight." Where is the top-shelf MMA fighters volunteering to trade hands with the best boxers under boxing rules? Don Frye stepped into a K1 kickboxing ring with Jerome LeBanner. That didn't turn out so well for Don Frye, former UFC tournament champion.

MMA championship matches go 25 minutes. MMA non-championship matches go 15 minutes. The shortest fight without a knockout in professional boxing goes twelve minutes. Boxers fight for 30 minutes or more on a regular basis. Now Jake Rossen wants to claim how football players spend more time in danger than MMA fighters, despite wearing helmets. Mr. Rossen shouldn't bash on James Toney, who won 72 boxing matches with more knockouts than Evander Holyfield has wins.

I like MMA; it's fun to watch, but it's not even close to the dangers of boxing. If an MMA fighter is knocked down in a round, nobody cares; he can even easily win the round. If a boxer is knocked down, he has ten seconds to collect himself, stand back up, and keep fighting. Quitting is only allowed for quitters and ex-boxers; MMA endorses quitting, even from strikes, not just from potentially maiming joint locks. Furthermore, the knocked down fighter automatically wins the round, and the equivalent of losing another round. Knockdowns are devastating on the score cards and on the fighters. Boxers go through hell to not only win rounds, but to stay on their feet and not lose another from being knocked down. Also, one must consider the options for MMA fighters: if you're in trouble in the cage, you can clinch indefinitely or take your opponent down, and rest right on top of him for minutes at a time. Boxers have three options: go down voluntarily and lose two rounds, Clinch for a few seconds before your opponent can wail on you again, or just take more punches.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Jake Rossen Is Still An Idiot

Comment From The Amber Eye
Jake, MMA is a dangerous sport. Greg Jackson coaches fighters on how to win without deliberately risking grievous injury. Fighters shouldn't be compelled to take unnecessary risks with their bodies for applause. Victory is the goal of MMA, boxing, and any other combat sport, not appealing to your bloodlust.

JakeRossen: If self-preservation is your primary character trait, MMA is absolutely the worst job title you could ever choose. That, and volcano inspector.

JakeRossen: I do not expect fighters to risk their necks unnecessarily, but I do expect them to make an aggressive effort to win, not hunt and peck for scorekeepers.

When will this man figure out that he's neither funny nor knowledgeable?

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

The Big C

This is a terrible show, absolutely horrible. Why am I watching this crap? If any of these characters approach reality, I will happily share my Void with no one. The show is named after Cathy, so I'll use her name. The rest of the characters shouldn't have names, so I'll just invent names that seem appropriate. Fat Student is the only one with insight. The whole show should be about her. "Fat Student Rules the World" would be much more interesting than this television product that's wasting my time more than this blog. Asshole Neighbor is better than her neighbors, but once again, this character has to share a stage with Cathy. Cuckolded Husband By the End of this Episode deserves better, but he will have it soon enough. The handsome Englishman gets a different name: Thor! Thor is awful, but will get some every night for the rest of his life. To be honest, if this show transferred itself from the land of the lost also called Showtime and placed itself next door, I hope Cathy lives for a long time so she can realize how stupid she is in five years. There is a fate worse than death: living this show. Eighteen months is too short a time for Cathy to know how stupid her choices are. Thor knows, but he would. Fat Student is compelling. Her show would be better. Yep, Cuckolded Husband by the End of this Episode lived up to his name. Married is married, folks. I hate art so much after watching this show I don't even want to watch Dexter now. I think I'll go read Equus again, and think up a musical version.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Anthony Peterson

He let me down late Saturday night. I picked him to win; he lost, but that's not how he let me down. I always thought of him as a good fighter with good in-ring skills good enough to compete within the rules of boxing. On Saturday night, he landed about twelve significant low blows on his opponent, resulting in Anthony Peterson's first loss as a professional, and his first disqualification. Some low blows are more destructive to their implementors' chances of winning, because the referee will take points away from fighters who land punches on the hip. Anthony Peterson repeatedly lifted the cup of his opponent into the abdomen with uppercuts. Those kinds of punches can kill careers, like Riddick Bowe at the hands of Andrew Golota. There is no room in boxing for punches like that, and I will not be cheering Anthony Peterson ever again.

Saturday, September 04, 2010

End of An Era

A good friend of mine is headed off to grad school! I wish him well, and I hope he continues to pursue excellence in the next phase of his life. He'll do well in whatever he decides to do; of this I am sure. Good luck David!

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

So a Friend of Mine Posted a Bad Joke

McGarver's bad joke

Comic books are a load of fun. In my youth, before comics priced themselves out of my entertainment threshold, I liked Green Arrow and Green Lantern over on DC Comics. Usually, the comics I like aren't serious and deal with fantasy, fiction, and crude parallels to our world when they feel the need to be serious.

My favorite moment in comics doesn't involve super-heroes battling unbelievable super-villains, though. It's three panels that bring some issues surrounding comic books forward in a way anyone could understand. Making the same comment as a joke in Archie Comics, expecting a laugh would be terrible.

My favorite moment in comic books

Check out moment #44. It's poignant. The rest of the crossover wasn't as good as those three panels.

If Mr. McGarvey put some characters together, and had them interacting as characters should, then I might deal with his list of reasons coming out of an unreliable character's mouth. I don't find Zippy the Pinhead funny, either. The same friend who shared McGarvey's joke put up some Zippy strips as humor. I don't take issue with them because it's Zippy the Pinhead, and I leave them alone. I like Watchmen as a satirical graphic novel, and I can appreciate the Comedian as a horrible example to follow while he deliberately points that very fact out to anyone he contacts. The Comedian is the type of character who can foil and dismiss other characters who are smarter than he is with a few well-placed verbal jabs, and if they object too loudly, bullets. The Comedian is his own damn pig, and it's no surprise when he says piggish things that remind readers of someone the reader knows. The Comedian reminds me of Don Frye, who is funny because he's a walking, talking Comedian, just like Watchmen.

These are funny because Don Frye knows his reputation, and can make a joke partially at his own expense sometimes:


Don Frye should expect people responding with hostility to what he says, but in the end, it's Don Frye's words that he said, not some nebulous group of people on the other side that never existed and never said anything on McGarvey's list. Right now, McGarvey's joke is a just stupid list of bullshit. I don't think it's funny at all. I'm glad nobody in my proximity read it. Aligning myself with that list would just roast my credibility as a person who believes reasonably in love between two men or two women.

Monday, August 23, 2010


I hate being alone. Unfortunately, that's what Monsters are. We're alone. We're not evil, bad, or even excessive, except in solitude. Some of you know me, others don't. The others are now Legion, but I suppose they always have been. I will spar with sleep for tonight, probably all night. This little thing of mine is out of control, but I've never truly been in sole possession of myself. Little whispers become a loud choir that sings with one voice: "You are alone, and you always will be." This monster remains unconquered, but a little further away from the rest of you with each sleepless night. I'm alone with my Monster, and neither of us can sleep.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Castillo vs Corrales I

It's on ESPN Classic at 8pm tonight! Everyone should watch; it's the best match I've seen.

Sunday, August 08, 2010

Many-Armed Knight

He's here now, so many arms, blades, and dark robes to color my insomnia.

Saturday, August 07, 2010

True Blood

I'm trying to watch this show. It's stupid as hell. Someone explain the appeal of this garbage to me.

Wednesday, August 04, 2010

Prop 8

Sometimes, important words must change meanings. Marriage, strictly defined, is a union between a man and woman. That definition needs to change. If a particular church won't marry a couple for whatever reason, just go to the courthouse, and have the state issue the license.

Wednesday, July 07, 2010


I can drive wherever I want now. Maryland removed the restriction on my license. I'm happy about it, but I shouldn't have been miserable and excluded from driving because of my schizophrenia. For a long time, they've chained me to my house. I still resent that tyranny.

Monday, June 28, 2010

I Can Only Run So Far

I punish my legs on my bicycle to distract myself from my problems, but I can only ride so fast, and I have only two legs. It takes a lot of pain to ignore the feel of The Many Armed Knight's breath on the back of my neck, or the towering Harvester above me. My claws are out, but they just feel right tonight. Maybe I'll take a walk like I used to, flee into the night. That flight never helped me except to be even more alone. This moment is awful, and I think I'll have many more like it in the future. Tomorrow looms before me, and I can't stop thinking about tonight.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

a child of doubt

a thousand dreams away
and thoughts are just as distant
The Lord once held me tight
but now, i sleep alone

a weird array of pictures
some real, and some imagined
i can't quite place them all
inside my scattered past

i don't know what's a dream
sometimes, I sleep too much.
so I can catch a glimpse
a little fleeting glance

of what was once so clear
so vivid, and so real
one dream is left alone
swimming in a thousand

more come every night
from what is here and now
a thousand dreams are wet
and some I hope are real

but most, i fear, are not

Ryan Cassata's Music is On My Links List, Others Are Off

I removed a couple friends' blogs because they haven't updated them in a long time. I added the myspace of a cool little dude I ran across on facebook, Ryan Cassata. I say little because he's short in stature, but he's tall on talent. Ryan has some good lyrics and some good songs, too. I like his music because it is confidently Ryan's; he's no parrot and neither needs nor uses a legion of lookalikes to be an artist. His sound is just good, honest music. If you listen, I think you'll agree.

Friday, June 04, 2010

Wednesday, June 02, 2010


I hope she forgot me. I put too much into my poems to take her out: it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the words, or The Word I chase like a questing beast. I'm taking apart my first house; it wasn't very good, and argued with the character that began as a woman, and ended up a sunrise. Now, it's past sunset, and I'm alone. I'd prefer someone be near me, but not her. She stopped being a person and became a muse before I saw her last. She stopped being a muse when my imagination replaced her with the next one, the one who woke the demon inside me that now won't sleep. If she doesn't find me, I'll be glad that I won't have to explain anything: my poems can be beautiful and nothing else. I stopped looking for her a long time ago: she's a memory and a name, and that's the way it should be.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Austin 2005, I miss it.


The dancers in the center
Drew everyone's attention:
New clothes, new beaus, new shoes
The perfect couples in their rounds.

But I saw plague attendants
Quarantined in crow suits.
To dance around carnations
With long masks made of velvet.

The Black Death doesn’t scare me;
I still want what they had:
A crow suit and a mask,
Your hand wrapped firm in mine.

I dreamt you every night.
We danced, and I knew how.
We talked across the distance,
And kissed each other gone.

I left alone as always
With dancers in my dreams,
An orchid in my hand,
And tears swelled in my eyelids.

I folded up the orchid
And dropped my bitter tears
Inside the Song of Songs
To this day I keep closed.

The orchid is long withered.
The dance is long forgotten.
The tears are grains of salt;
I wait for you no longer.

I still don't have a crow suit.
I never learned to dance.
Still now I know my love
Could never be so awkward

And silent
To still be.

Saturday, May 15, 2010


I attended a hand-fasting ceremony for my friends Boz and Nikki. They're great people as individuals, and I think they'll be even greater as a partnership. I read The Lord's Prayer, a bit of Ecclesiastes (4:9-12), and a sonnet of my own hand. I got more than a few compliments on the scripture I chose and the poem I wrote. The compliments were just what I needed to continue progress on my writing. I'll be submitting much work soon. Check out the sonnet, and tell me what to think of it:

Dear friends, lift glasses, hope and cheer!
We gather on this ides of May
From spring to spring with love today
To bind two friends we all hold dear.
They love and pledge, this much is clear:
One year, one day, together stay
With hands held fast this ancient way
In sentiment we all revere.

To Nikki, hold our friend Boz tight!
Rejoice your year and day together;
His motives are true in passion and reason.

To Boz! Dear friend, this moment is right
To pledge each other in far and foul weather,
For Love is true in every season.


Thursday, May 13, 2010

As for Me:

I'm blue. I don't know what the hell to do. Right now, I'm focused on attending a friend's handfasting, and playing in the 'Ard Boyz preliminary tournament on Sunday. Maybe by then, things will be a bit clearer. Recent days were more challenging than I wanted with my disease, but I always make it through. This time will be no different in many ways.

Jason and Kristyn

Two great friends wed on tuesday! They already have a little one between them named Colin, and decided to tie the knot. Jason is a great dad, and I'm sure he'll be a great husband. Congratulations, friends!

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

Couture’s Date with Toney

Couture’s Date with Toney

Posted using ShareThis

Yep, that's Jake Rossen. Why should we ignore a boxer knocking out a former world champion MMA striker for the first time in the MMA fighter's career? I can't think of a single good reason to, besides Jake Rossen being an idiot. This guy knows nothing about boxing, and precious little about MMA: Toney KO'ed Ruiz when they fought. It was later ruled a no contest because Toney tested positive for a banned substance. His doctor used steroids to heal James Toney's torn bicep.

Friday, April 16, 2010


Roethlisberger should be in jail, at least. Police had less evidence on Mike Tyson, but can't even manage to arrest this piece of crap. The NFL is not above the law. I'm sick of superstar athletes like Ray Lewis and Ben Roethlisberger getting away with horrible crimes because they put score objects in the score zone better than the average ball player. These guys are just ball players, nothing more.

Picks for Saturday


Pavlik over Martinez by KO in the 5th round

Bute over Miranda by Decision


Henderson over Shields by Decision

Lawal over Mousasi by KO in the first round

Aoki over Melendez by Submission in the 3rd round

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Berto vs. Quintana

Quintana will win by decision by outranging the Haitian. This pick is late in coming, but well before the opening bell.

Sunday, April 04, 2010

Rest In Peace

I'm going to write this a couple hours early. Kurt Cobain meant a lot to me; his end came just a week after the beginning of mine. He was beautiful and pure, too pure for us. I understand why he did what he did, but I still wish he didn't. Physical pain isn't good for people at all. Some will say it adds character; I disagree. Pain kills feelings. When I had my root canal without number as a four-year-old kid, I learned that lesson. I didn't cry, and I didn't pass out from the pain. My looming memory of that procedure is the smell of ozone as the drill struggled to dig further into my face. People respond differently to extreme pain. My friend Nick just takes it. I complain, but secretly love the challenge. Kurt Cobain didn't deal with it well; his music says it better than I ever could.

Haul out all your old Nirvana records, and listen closely. That guy spawned imitators and admirers throughout the nineties. He's a bit of an old hat for kids today, but he was important to me. He remains important in my memories. He's simultaneously the best memory of my youth and my worst. His music helped shape me, and lead me away from his own folly. I never smoked, drank, or did any drugs: the delicate parts of my soul I wanted to keep wanted relief from knuckles, the lash, and the emerging demons in my head. Drugs would have kept those parts numb, but would destroy me in the end. I built a prison in black leather to keep everything separate and stable. I planned everything as well as I could, but still wound up with a gun in my mouth. Fate saved me for something later, maybe this.

I don't think I'll ever forget him. I would love to have called him brother here, but that never happened. Maybe I'll catch up with him later, but for now, I just hope he has some peace, love, and understanding wherever his pain calls home.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

MMA is Aging

Is it just me, or are MMA matches losing variety? Lately, it's bad boxing, mediocre kicking to the legs, double leg takedowns, and guillotine chokes. Some guys are good at staying active by landing some arm punches and elbows while grappling. The guys who go for submissions seem to give up the edge on those arm punches and elbows for little benefit: any submission attempt stands a very low probability for success. Even BJ Penn, a grappling master, just boxes for most of his fights; he saves ground fighting for when his opponent is busted up and tired. James Toney signed with the UFC; I think he might bring a breath of fresh air into MMA. His opponents will have to take the fight to the ground, and work submissions. Anyone trying to exchange punches or knock "Lights Out" to the canvas will just end up losing in short order.

If you saw Arthur Abraham fight Andre Dirrell over the weekend, you saw a single punch against a helpless opponent damn near cause a fatality. I see them all the time in the UFC, though; most knockouts start out with a knockdown, followed by an uncontested punch to the face on a near unconscious opponent. That same punch is illegal in boxing because it ends lives. I'm still unconvinced that cage fighters punch anywhere near as hard as a champion puncher in the ring.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Arthur Abraham

He needs to be banned. That is a horrible, intentional foul. I'm beside myself. Bad judges are one thing, that was far beyond what should happen even in a boxing ring. Abraham was losing the fight, and damn near killed Andre Dirrell tonight by hitting a downed fighter. I'm disgusted.

Thursday, March 25, 2010


It's been 16 years. I'm no better now than I was in the beginning; I just know more about how to deceive the rest of you and myself into believing I'm well. No one likes this part of me, even if it's the only thing I want to share sometimes.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

The Future in Copper, not Gold

My father served in the military for twenty years, and his service is the only reason why I can get the medical support I need to survive. My medication costs over four thousand dollars a month retail. Watch health care reform from my view: there are very expensive ways to treat schizophrenia, and very cheap ones. In the end, I suspect that a government-controlled health care system will trim their expenses and mandate the inexpensive option. That means even more Tardive Dyskinesia for me, and a future filled with Haldol, which is cheap as dirt. It's the just good enough solution I get on a daily basis from Annapolis and the Democrats who run the statehouse. If the U.S. government does a better job than that, I'll eat some crow. Until then, I only ask the left to please let me be a part of the opposition without lectures on soul, fear, and greed. My life matters. My suffering matters. My opinion matters. I'm neither evil, nor wealthy; I'm just a very sick person who has seen the inside of health care. Quite honestly, I'm afraid for my future, and I don't trust Nancy Pelosi, Barack Obama, or their inevitable successors with the keys to my continued suffering. If the government mandates that I need to have crueler, harsher, less expensive treatment, I'm pulling the plug. I won't switch to Haldol, Thorazine, Prolixin, or any of the other cheap alternatives.

Monday, March 22, 2010

They Don't Sleep

I'm alone with daemons that don't sleep. Now they have me, so I cannot sleep, either. Things are a lot worse than I've been telling people; I'm lost. One hand is heavier than the other, and neither want the mailed fists I made for them; they yearn for something softer, but too elusive for a Monster like me. Monsters aren't evil, we are just not you or anything close. Even if I kept the secret again, these words will never amount to the love and care put into them. That is the Philosophy of the Monster.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Very Wrong, Pacquiao is the Champ

It's obvious that Manny Pacquiao learns a lot from Freddie Roach. Pacquiao's feet are as fast as his hands; his defense is much improved. This is not the same fighter that knocked Marquez down thrice in the first round, but couldn't finish. Manny's better now: he has a jab, a right hook, a monster left hand, and enough defense to get him through to his opponents. Well fought, Manny. Floyd beware, for this guy has a chance at you.

Friday, March 12, 2010

My Pick

I'm picking Clottey to win by KO in the 10th round. Pacquiao is a great lightweight; he's no welterweight.

Monday, March 08, 2010


Watch all seven if you have the time. No one should ever forget what this man and his peers did. This is the most ghastly thing I can remember seeing live or in video. He is cold. For some reason, twelve thousand per day is a reasonable body count for him, and he's indignant about reports of eighteen thousand. WWII didn't have to happen, and it sure as hell didn't have to be as messy in Europe as the Germans made it. They can't claim ignorance about the Gospel: every last German should have known better.

I wrote a comment to the video poster on the youtube website rebuffing Holocaust deniers. They know no shame.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Not Much Else

I reconnected with an ancient friend today, but not much else. The Many-Armed Knight crossed my path several times today, but I'm not letting on. Perhaps he will be gone in time for me to play some Warhammer tomorrow. I haven't played in a while, and I want to get back on the gaming table, if only to prove I still can. The space in here is small, sometimes. Tonight is that sometimes. Where there's The Many Armed Knight, Prester Bane is sure to be nearby, if only in terms of time. He has no face.

Tuesday, March 02, 2010


I regret it all. At least in my past, I had something pretty to write. Now I feed those close to me to an insatiable solitude. The result is not an act of love, or even of my own choice; it's just clearer to me now that I'll probably be alone forever, regardless of anything I think or do. In my past, when I called Obsession another name, at least I could feed verses to that solitude. Now, pretty words won't suffice. In the past few years, I've forgotten the reasons why I started writing poetry: it's a substitute for society. Sure, the words were "Love," "Red," "Blue," and "Christine," but the meanings were Solitude, Delusion, Deception, and Imagination. I lost those. Now, I'm left not with a delusion or elaborate psychosis to chronicle; my words were never as beautiful again. Perhaps the words I destroyed were the best; I often say they were my best, but truthfully, I've forgotten everything but the colors. I won't mention them; I'm trying to destroy them, too. I can't stand that beautiful lie any more. It's not like I ever touched Love anyway, at least as Solomon felt it. I also know I could still hold the original beauty in my words if I hadn't tried to join the rest of you. I had a taste of beauty and truth that mimicked John Keats. Now I can't forget or ignore that flavor of life, even if what I tasted was neither beauty nor truth, rather the sourest form of delusion and deception. The deception wasn't mine, but the delusions were.

Delusions continue to drive everything, even this. Every time I check the distance, my watery lair is deeper, and twice as lonely: silence confirms it. I've seen people adjust to society and float like a duck on the water. I am not a person; I am a monster from deep water, and that is where you'll find me. Floating is for the buoyant; my hope doesn't float, it sinks like a rock. Understand that my lair is not a fortress to keep you out; it's a prison to keep me in. I'll send a blog and an occasional poem to confirm my outside position, but circumstances stay the same. I'm left with Truth and the delusions to obscure it. Keats' urn was wrong for monsters, and always will be. Beauty is not Truth, nor Truth Beauty for my kin; Pain is Truth, and Truth Pain. When I'm wounded by truth, the deep tunnel to my Pain is opened through my heart. I can't fill it with poetry any more. I crumble under Colors, and struggle with Solomon to understand that I can't even fill it with bullets. There just aren't enough bullets.

I fear only that my solitude will follow me forever. Sleeping through the night in the arms of the Lord would be nice, but I don't wake up smiling, even if that's the way I start my slumber. I rise with punches at phantoms, and screaming protests denying my muteness. If I stayed with seven years of safety instead of risking six months on trying to be a person, I might hold on to beauty and a muse today. Unfortunately, I can't grip anything with my head in my hands trying to coax water from my eyes as a lubricant for my pain. My palms still grind my face.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

I Can't Read Lady Chatterley's Lover

I can't do it. I tried. I watched part of a movie, and found it so bad that I turned it off and looked up the text online. The book seems even worse than the movie. The movie at least had an attractive actress to play Connie instead of leaving her up to my imagination. I generally prefer my imagination, but not for her. 1928 must've been a lame year for lust, love, marriage, and everything in between. People don't shut off passion in the face of electronics, the internet, or anything else for that matter. If anything, the sex drive is supercharged by the extreme volume of anonymous sexual information and activity available to anyone with a computer. Porn has never been bigger than it is now, and people can download large amounts of nudity and sexual information, and save it for later using the same bodily motions in the same place they do their accounting. If you want a peep show, you just go out to a porn site, find five minutes alone, do the deed, then you can then go back to paying bills online and watching bad network sitcoms on hulu. On the internet, there's no red light district with thieves and thugs, no magazines to buy and hide, no adult bookstores where you avoid eye contact with anyone, and most importantly, no neighbors, deacons, preachers, nor priests to catch people in the act. Sex won't set us free from the tyranny of science; sex is the tyranny of science! I'm sure people can buy prostitutes who will come to your door without fanfare or suspicion. The lame part of this book is not the sex acts nor the lovelessness of Connie's marriage, the lame part is that I believe D.H. Lawrence actually thought sex can save people from themselves and their unused passions. Sex is a commodity that costs money. I will always hold that Love is priceless, but love isn't the point of Lady Chatterley's Lover; sex reigns supreme. Bedmates might force themselves into Love because that's what society expects, but Mellors was ploughing Lady Chatterley before they knew anything about each other except they had attachable body parts. Besides, Connie is just a another hole in the mattress for another male writer to misrepresent females in the name of Love.

If Love is to be the subject of art, the artist must be willing to accept and embrace the asymmetry of his profession. By necessity, he has to spend a long, long time making the art, selling it, and hoping the critics like it, then he has to change his act for the next art project. No one will spend as much time writing, painting, sculpting or even dancing back at any artist. If you write a truly magnificent poem in praise of love, the love object cannot return love in an equal measure to the poet. It's impossible. People barely have enough time to read poetry as is, no one will ever write back or praise the work in larger quantities than the 140 allowed characters on any tweeter message. Even two married poets will never write equally to each other. Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath were both successful writers, but were never popular at the same time, and critics grew to rightly observe Sylvia Plath as the superior artist. However, we should never be allowed to forget that women swooned over Ted Hughes and his verses first. One of my favorite poets in the english language is John Keats. Fanny Brawne never wrote back anything so beautiful as a John Keats poem. My favorite poet in any language, Petrarch, was the king of asymmetrical feelings. Laura didn't even know the guy, but he wrote her the most beautiful sonnets from anywhere, any time.

I'm probably the world's biggest idiot on Love; I've said it before and I'll say it again. However, if Love is exactly as D.H. Lawrence describes it, count me out: I'll keep vainly writing my asymmetrically appreciated love poems for now. I saved bad poetry in the past for its foolish sentimental value, and I've burned plenty beautiful and precious poems, some of my finest in fact, simply because writing more of them together just felt like a lie to myself and everyone else. I could have finished, and it would have been beautiful, but some foolish asymmetry is just too extreme, even for me.

Monday, February 01, 2010

Pink's Ode

I sat down to write a pedestrian update to this blog just to stay busy. To my surprise, I came across video of Pink's performance tonight, and as usual, I can't keep away from reading the garbage. Usually, I'd just chase demons or write something while masquerading as Hannibal, but tonight, I'll make an exception to elaborate my views on art and religion in the context of Pink's amazing performance at the Grammy awards.

To be honest, I'm a Christian, but I don't condone the brandishing of Religion as a weapon by anyone else but God; he holds the sword, not me. I also read the Bible, Petrarch, and Sylvia Plath often enough to know that not all art sings the praises of the Lord. I absolutely love art, and I pursue an understanding of it with a passion equalling, and sometimes eclipsing my devotion to my religion. Just because someone can dig up a Bible verse to serve selfish purposes doesn't make him a prophet, a presbyter, or a holy judge. Much art is about very human challenges, suffering, or just the problematic individual struggle we all face, regardless of our faiths. Every daydream or object of study is a trade-off between one experience or another. Once person cannot know everything there is to know about being human. If a believer denies himself access or audience to any art that isn't also worship, that believer severs himself from a large and passionate section of human experience. Some do sever themselves in that fashion, mostly Catholic priests and Monks, but others as well. I'm not strong enough in my faith or even my body to abandon learning my craft; I need art, both in my life and the lives of others, to truly live. Good art makes me want to wake up the next morning just to observe some more. Pink's performance tonight was great art, and Pink deserves every chance in life to better herself without derision from the typical stone-throwers living, working, playing, and even worshipping in a glass house.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Shocked and Encouraged

I put my head in the ground a lot when it comes to politics, current events, and anything that's not my life or muse. This is what I see when I look up, especially around other poets. I was in the audience when David Word recited that thing in 2005 down in Austin at the Austin International Poetry Festival. They all cheered a standing ovation. I was there; I saw the whole thing. I saw a roomful of poets cheer mass murder by burning. I can take a boatload of pain in many different forms, but there's nothing else like fire. Everyone in that audience exploded in joy but me. If someone else in Austin heard his words, and felt like I still do about them, that person was silent or hiding. I didn't hide, but sometimes, I wish I did. I asked a few people why they support the poem and the poet, and got no straight answers. I even asked David Word; true to his poem, he wouldn't put himself on either side of the knife that convinced a crowded plane to fly into the Pentagon. However, he would turn some of us into glass or ash if it just meant pushing a button, and he got to decide the casualties. Earlier that evening, I recited "Old Gan" to the exact same audience. I wrote "Old Gan" to center around war, aggression, and forgetting why people fight when very understandable, even agreeable petty disputes become treason, betrayal, and needless death in pursuit of pride. He didn't understand the point of my poem. I made a blunt statement the next evening.

Imagine my shock when I saw this. I'm not going to declare myself in any journalist or politician's cheering section, but I'm not with David Word or direct lies to garner popular support for a re-election bid. Thunderous applause should draw suspicion: no one fixes a mortal flaw in one speech, especially when that speech crosses swords with earlier words from the same mouth. The audience of poets in Austin proved one thing to me: Poetry wrote itself into irrelevancy. I don't know what upset me more, that poets could respond so approvingly to David Word's writing, or the certainty that I'd have to convince those same people to read, understand, and appreciate mine. Perhaps some day, my vote will agree with the winner of an election: it's only happened once, and I'll let my audience guess which one for now. I'm determined to submit some more poems out for publication by the end of February: maybe things are different now than in 2005.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Then and Now

I changed a lot since then. My disease is under control, but still causes me misery. With more sanity comes better writing, which is my current joy. My goals are more simple now than then: peace, love, and understanding drive me. I'm in a comfortable place both mentally and physically, and instead of devoting myself to more madness, I devote myself to continued recovery. Life is a lot better now.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Prepared to Take It, revisited

A thread of comments starting in 2006 requires me to answer in more than 4000 characters. The post is passable, but the comments are more telling.

I'm a paranoid schizophrenic; the paranoia and social awkwardness are inevitable. There is one person in the world who understands paranoid schizophrenia from the outside beyond the largely speculative medication and milligrams; his name is Michael Mack. I've written of him elsewhere on this blog. No one else comes close. Just remember that if you walk next to a homeless person, about 40% will be completely out of your realm of understanding. It's closer to 70% in DC for reasons no one understands.

I'll let you and the rest of the world in on a few things I don't talk about much: the Beast and the Night. I used to prowl in silence. At the time, stealthy, quiet movements were more effective at satisfying my urges than prayer is now. The Night was my mistress and the Beast was my first wife. To me, darkness and the anonymity of cold, primal suffering made more sense than anything the rest of you tried to teach me in school. When I prowled, I was the Hairy Beast: I had talons, a mane, strong muscles, and a sense of smell like an animal. I could smell fear without fear smelling me. Imagine the great cat nearby. He's silent, smooth, and you'll never know he's there unless he wants you to know. That was me in my mind. I travelled with the Beast in the Night, and no one knew I was there. That was empowering and cathartic to me. I didn't share.

Reality was a bit different. I was still stealthy: no one knew I prowled the night unless I wanted them to. However, I was no cat. Imagine six feet and 155 pounds of white flesh hiding in the woods at night, naked. Men can be quiet and unnoticed, too, but we use completely different movements. That's before I got so damn fat; Zyprexa is a foul pill. From those times, I learned a lot; a ditch is the second worse place I've ever woken up. The worst was in the branches of a familiar tree. That tree died.

That was my life. The Night was my normal. School was something I did because I had to. I made up a character, and played the part. He was arrogant, more than a bit mean, and very unpredictable. I had to be something believable, and sustainable. No one could know about the Night.

I judge things harshly because I was judged harshly. I grew up with lashes, fists, and the complete inability to stop anyone from handling me physically: skinny, weak, and slow are not assets to a boy. Harsh and aggressive are my models. Pain is my standard: I just don't know anything else outside Church, the Bible, and Christ, and I know precious little softness from those. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stranger, and I am with the strange.

One of the strangest things about me in high school was my uniform. If everything looks like it belongs on a person, people will believe the misdirection. I wore the gloves and jacket to keep the aether inside. The barriers weren't there to keep people out. My gloves, jacket, and hat were there to keep my monster inside. The whole thing wasn't a fortress; it was a prison. Trust me, you don't want to be inside that prison, or even visit.

As for High School, I was torn, very ambivalent towards my classmates, until I heard about the senior banquet. I got wind that I'd be elected "Biggest Spaz" and "Most likely to start a fight." People asked my act constantly to go to that event, knowing full well that my presence was there was solely for their amusement, and to be humiliated. Needless to say, I played along. I didn't go; people got their chance to laugh at my act, and I had one more Night to spend outside with the Beast. That was after my diagnosis. I was hiding my continued prowling and weapon from the doctors and therapists. I suppose that was funny to them.

You're a far better athlete than I was. There was absolutely no competition. I thought I gave you something to remember, but obviously I did not. That was my idea of revenge. Revenge is stupid. Now, I have a much different view on things. If I'm out to hurt someone, I don't let them know. If someone needs to physically hurt, the hurt will come from behind, without warning, and will give no one a chance to reciprocate. Then, and only then, would I let someone know whom the incision, laceration, concussion, gouge, or choke came from. Needless to say, I'm not in prison, so I feel very little reason to hurt anyone.

So now I write down my thoughts, so I can keep a few for when I'm lonely. I get lonely a lot, for obvious reasons. My best friends are in this thread of comments: they're my peers and equals. Nick is still immune to pain of all types. I still have a lot to learn from him. Bean, Jason as I know him, is still the most guarded guy I know. His fiancee told me once that we love each other more than any two other men who aren't gay. Personally, I think I love the guy more because many gay people are understandably extremely bitter and suspicious because of the ubiquitous horrible treatment their life choices receive at the hands of society. Kris is my dearest friend, despite the distance. I miss the hell out of that guy, and I love him, too. I still bother him on a regular basis; he's an incredibly good person.

I vastly prefer you to the original anonymous in this thread; at least you sign your name. I hate the craven cowardice of drive-by verbal criticism with no return address.

Sunday, January 03, 2010


My brother and I saw PBR this afternoon in Baltimore. I almost got into two arguments on the street, too. One of the PBR protesters decided to harass me for about a 40 foot walk right before I entered the arena. I didn't even make eye contact; it was bizarre. The protesters left during the show. Not even one of them stuck around to stick flyers in the faces of fans leaving the arena. Gary, my brother, and I had different reasons for disliking the protesters: I'll elaborate on mine, but not his. Pain, struggle, adversity, danger, and fear are all parts of the human experience; for me, courage is the antidote in sports and in life. I love boxing because I think it shows courage best in sport. If I'm willing to see a person fight and struggle through real violence and real injury in the ring, why would I be bothered with a bovine athlete instead of a human? Tell me what you think.