If You Can't Sing . . .

Your lyrics should be brilliant. I loved Kurt Cobain. He couldn't sing, but his lyrics were so unbelievably pure and true that he wasn't made for the fickle world the rest of you inhabit or even the flatness of mine. He was so true to himself that he transcended music to me. Kurt Cobain spoke in a voice I could understand. He had many imitators in his time and ours: nothing annoyed me more than the legion of plaid flannel-shirted posers that showed up for the first day of school in eighth grade. Their favorites were Pearl Jam and Nirvana, in that order. I never understood Pearl Jam's appeal; they were so sensationalist and fed off the spirit of the times instead of adding to it. If he were still alive, I know he'd hate my politics, and a good portion of what I listen to musically, but the world is always full of meaningless variety. We'd agree on Leadbelly, and probably Robert Johnson or Son House. My look in those days was very different: I combined long sleeve broadcloth shirts and assymetric paisley neckties in a wide array of colors with a black leather jacket and a pair of leather gloves I never took off in public. Nobody dressed like me, and I purposefully dressed unlike everybody else. Perhaps I was the biggest poser of them all. Kurt Cobain hurt like me, but turned it into art in ways that I can only approach. People will listen to a rock star more than a fumble-mouthed poet. I purposefully know little about Kurt Cobain aside from his music. Anyone who knows me knows that I don't appreciate art that needs a long-winded preface or tons of biographical information on the artist. I should be able to listen to a song or a poem, and appreciate it for itself. I love Kurt Cobain's music, and I'm sad that there will never be more. I will listen to what he left behind and respect his privacy and choices. If it takes living how he did to make the music he made, I can understand anything he decided to do in pursuit of art. I also think we should let his genius rest; he made music I love, and now he doesn't. He's in my prayers when I steady myself enough to speak to the Lord. Our prayers will lift us all.

Boxers Earn What They're Worth

MMA fighters make less. It's not the popularity of the sport, it's the way UFC pays its fighters. Oscar De La Hoya won $25 million fighting Floyd Mayweather. How does that square with the puny amount of money earned by MMA fighters, especially considering the UFC's huge yearly draw? I like boxing because fighters who put butts in seats and persuade people to pay money for Showtime, HBO, and PPVs get a fair slice of their worth. There's no star quarterback, star shooting guard, or star designated hitter who earns disproportionate amounts of money for little parts of team sports. Some sports franchises are pure toys for their owners, but boxers are in the game for their own money, and earn exactly what they're worth. MMA fighters show the same courage and determination as boxers, but appear to be servants to the owners of their promotion. There might be some under-the-table funding for MMA fighters, but that bill would have to be pretty damn hefty to pull UFC fighters even with their boxing counterparts. Apparently, the UFC is better at making money from its fans, but a lot worse at paying the most important parts of the business, the fighters. I'll continue to watch both boxing and MMA for the quality of character shown by both sports' participants, but if boxing dies or takes a second seat to MMA in the public eye, I'll always remember that boxers pay their promoters, not the other way around.

Lover or Fighter?

I'm a fighter. Love is great, but all I know in the end is pain and conflict. Sometimes people love too much, and fight too little; I am the opposite. I rarely love, and I seem in constant contention over something. No matter how small, I will find a way to turn any situation into a personal competition. I've tried love before, but there's just too little on my end to avoid constant repetition that will chase anyone away. If I could change anything, I probably would have learned how to be a person first instead of a fighter first. Now, I live in deep water fueled by the animosity of a life made to fight.

Floyd Over Oscar

Floyd clearly won that fight. The judge who scored the fight for Oscar was wrong. Fighters have to hit their opponents to win; Floyd landed more punches than Oscar. I think Floyd won the second half of the fight without a doubt. My scorecard: 117-110 for Floyd Mayweather.

A Question

John 18:38

"Pilate saith unto him, What is truth? And when he had said this, he went out again unto the Jews, and saith unto them, I find in him no fault at all."

In this verse, we have the opportunity to receive the direct word of God on what I consider to be the best virtue of men. God gives us no verbal answer. All we find is a Pontius Pilate who asks the basic question of morality, and instead of sitting around to hear the answer from God, he turns his back and flees the room at the critical moment to announce that Christ is innocent. Is this because of impatience or because there is no answer? I don't think so; I think Pilate's question has an answer, and Christ could deliver it. Unfortunately, I think probably most of us and definitely Pilate already believe to have the answer, and that answer is a lie we tell ourselves. The Gospel authors wait for Christ's crucial words on this, but they'll have to wait for first hundreds and then thousands of years. Without truth strictly defined, there is no one answer on how to teach or read God's word. We have four; each one is different, and none can truthfully be replaced entirely by another. In my interpretation, Christ didn't answer because neither Pilate nor the rest of us will ever accept submission to his truth. From God directly to Adam and Eve, to Cain to Abel, and Moses to David, we have Biblical evidence that those who come after ask questions that can be answered in the lives of their forebearers. Over and over again, we live out the same human mistakes, only to face the same human consequences. Some day, perhaps some day soon, I think we'll all understand God's answer for the truth, even if we seek to disagree.

3:13

11:19

Slowly into slumber,
Racing for cold sleep,
Come fast, the time I covet
With dreams I'd like to keep.

I'm desperate for my peace,
So eager for relief,
Thoughts that always wander
Repeat my daily grief.

I tire of truth and wisdom;
I yearn for long knives and loss.
My moments spent like this
Pull focus from the Cross.

How much of me is Simon?
How much is still Barrabbas?
The thieves next to my savior
Seem closer with each pass

Of breath between my lips,
On words that slip my tongue.
The bittter moments' names
Are songs that stay unsung.

But none of this is rest.
I count a thousand sheep.
Give mercy for exhaustion.
Cut down what's left to reap.

2:32

I See Something

Those were Max Schmeling's immortal words before his fight with all-time ring legend Joe Louis. The Brown Bomber dropped his right hand when he jabbed. Schemling took advantage and knocked out the undefeated American heavyweight, usually considered as one of the top two heavyweights to ever grace the ring.

I see something in the disclosed details of Oscar De La Hoya's match with Floyd Mayweather, Jr. They are both required to wear Reyes gloves: the last brand of glove still padded with horse hair. Floyd has brittle hands; he's broken them in six different places. For the past few years, he's worn Winner gloves from Asia, known for their extensive foam padding. I still think Floyd will win the fight, but remember those gloves if he winds up with a broken hand or two.

Mike Anchondo

How far has he fallen? Mike Anchondo, formerly nicknamed "Mighty," goes face-down in the mat in the third round to a little-known fighter named Darling Jiminez. The weak chin Anchodo displayed in his last meaningful fight recurred tonight in D.C. One left hook struck flush on Anchondo's exposed chin; Anchondo fell, unconscious, with his eyes still open. It was a brutal knockout. However, it was apparent that the D.C. boxing commission wanted Anchondo to win. The bell for the end of the second round came a full minute early! Jiminez knocked down Anchondo earlier in that round, and had the betting-favorite Anchondo in deep trouble. Like a guardian angel, the grossly incompetent or totally corrupt timekeeper rang the bell early to rescue Anchondo from a sure knockout. All the help from the timekeeper didn't change the outcome, though. "Mousy" Mike Anchondo finished the fight flat on his face against the canvas.

Chagaev!

The Russian giant Nicolay Valuev lost a competitive majority decision against the little-known Uzbeki-German fighter, Ruslan Chagaev! Guts and determination beat the yardstick and scale; I love it. Not even a 90 lb and eleven inch disadvantage turned back the will of Ruslan Chagaev. Furthermore, Rocky Marciano's heavyweight record of 49-0-0 is safe from any numerical challengers at the moment.

Two bits of good news

My best friend in Tulsa dragged his feet for a long time on telling people, but I can finally post that he and his fiancee are having a baby, and it's a boy! He's going to be a proud poppa! I've known for a while, but haven't been able to post about it because larger players than the general public needed to know first. Congratulations, Jason!

In other news, I was re-baptised Easter Sunday. It was very cool; one of the parishoners brought back water from the river Jordan and put some in the baptismal pool for the service. Taking the plunge again was good, but my pastor didn't hold my weight well; he didn't believe that I'm 220 lbs.

Shameful

Ok, I doubt I have any Welsh readers; if I do, take this post to heart. I don't care what side of the political fence you choose, when you boo a country's anthem, you are not booing the current political leadership, you are booing the nation as a whole. I can understand booing George Bush if he showed up to sing the anthem, but decrying the "Star Spangled Banner" as a Welsh tenor sings the song is outright shameful. This American will always love his country, and will look upon those thirty-five thousand Welsh fight fans in Cardiff tonight as representatives of their nation until Wales proves me wrong.

Binkowski

Down thrice in the first round, heavyweight Art Binkowski picked himself off the canvas with a grim determination. His opponent, Raphael Butler was in control of the fight, and way ahead on the scorecards until thirty seven seconds left in the eighth and final round. The referee stopped the fight after a flurry of punches from Binkowski set Butler to the mat. While rising from the canvas, Butler spit his mouthpiece twice, and did not respond to the referee's instructions, giving the referee no choice but to stop the fight in favor of Binkowski. Toughness still means something, even in the heavyweight division where you can bring as much weight for your punches as you want.

Every Day Ends

Pills mark the exit. Today ends like the others: television I don't need to watch, unpleasant urges to write and the words that go with them, silence in the air that won't reach my ears, and the exit. Recommend submission all you want; it won't happen. I lived under boots and smiled too damn long. Compromise always came too easily to my youth; I'm capable of anything. I'm torn between the exit and something more permanent. Hope or mercy, help me choose. I'm a fighter with broken knuckles, and a lover with a lie for a heart. Give me an inch; I love to take miles. When I was in eighth grade, I helped my teammates make weight for club league junior high football. I ran slowly, but eventually I caught them all. One by one, they fell to the side. I don't know how many laps I ran, but no one on my team ran more. Training injuries stopped all that, though. My psychosis came on their heels. Now, I don't feel the burn in my knees. I have my knuckles (broken), my urges (pointless), my tormentors support me (I need them), and a handful of pills to make the rest of you feel like something can be done. That's my exit.

Thirteen

I argued with myself on the decision to write this post, or live through the day without comment. This morning told me not to write. I was also called "humble" by a very attractive woman. The cause for both escapes me; I'm usually arrogant and verbose. I stared at the screen for a while trying to write a brief letter to a parishioner at my church currently serving in Iraq. All I could come up with was "Thank You."

Today is the thirteenth anniversary of my madness. It started as laughing at the back of my ear. Today, the sympotms have names, voices, personalities out of my control. Most of my time is out of control. I look fine, but I'm not. I'm in a good mood, but my symptoms are spiralling. I've got a smile on my face, and so does The Harvester. Usually he stands behind me, and scythes me down like so much wheat. Today, he went out of his way to stare me in the face.

I just walked away and looked in the mirror. I have The Harvester's smile. My claws are coming out. Old visions fit my gaze like Christine's curves as I remember them, but this is not about her. Prester Bane would smile if he had a face. Both my hands grin like fools; my fingers float over the keys, with only the tips of my talons touching plastic.

I'm not fighting tonight. I don't feel like fighting. I won't do it. They don't sleep.

Tempo

The war in my head accelerates. Things change quickly now. I don't know what to do. Horses made of midnight, and the Lions of my youth chase me through fields of my own invention, but not of my design. Today, I spent a long time in The Void, and I don't know why. For a while, my friend Kris talked with me, and the tempo slowed. However, that was a fickle reprieve. Right now, I sit still, trying to outlast the Scabbard Man, but he can wait, too. I hope to do some missionary work with my church tomorrow; I try to be a good ambassador of my faith.

We Watch

We watch him more than you know. Every day ends like this. We stare at him and wonder why he hasn't taken anything yet. He sits and knows what we're after, and doesn't even care anymore. Who is left? Tell us who is left! In the end, we struggle in here; you don't. Trap a monster in a shell. Go ahead, try it. Look at us. When was the last time we all got together and told him any of our secrets? He has no secrets, but we do. Whisper them quietly, and he won't even notice. No acrostic name poem can identify us. You will never see us. No words from the past can capture us. Nothing exists outside of our influence, at least to him. Call him "friend," he will listen. Call him "brother," he will fall. Call him "love," and watch him douse desire with the aether. He knows the Act of Faith. Meet us in the middle, and both sides will fall. If you get too close, we might even add your voice to our choir. Those of you who know him, know this to be true. Sing for us. Laugh for us. Disguise yourselves, and make him believe again. This Void is ours with his smile. Eyes tell much, but we can say so much more. Listen to us in the silent moments between social episodes: you will hear us howl. When the rest of you are afraid, we sleep softly knowing that anything you do will never come close to changing us. When you are indifferent, we will spin the room, tearing sight into lines of perception taken from our song. When you finally know how deep wounds must pierce to reach us, we will laugh. Twelve is enough; thirteen won't prove anything but pain.

On Throwing Stones in a Glass House

When will people learn that Grammer is in Indiana?

I won't say much more: I don't want to talk politics here or anywhere else right now. I'll stick to geography. I'd flame "robert," but that kind of thing is fruitless. I will use my time for better things. Tomorrow, I'll probably go call a bingo game over at a nursing home near my house.

Hector and Esther

I make up little stories about people I see in passing and don't want to forget. Yesterday, I saw a man in an unbuttoned tan leather coat running in Washington D.C; I named him Hector. I'll never forget the look on his face; he showed obvious physical fatigue, but his eyes showed something more. That's where Hector's story turns. He's running down L street desperately trying to catch a bus back to Union Station before Esther, his girlfriend of three years, leaves Washington D.C. for good. Hector loves Esther, and for a time, she loved him. Esther wrote about her Hector in her diary, and how much she wanted to marry him. Hector and Esther used drugs together since before they fell in love with each other. Esther offered Hector his first high: she was a small time dealer on the side. Esther quit selling and doing for the baby. She went cold turkey and beat the craving, vowing never to go back so her child grows up safe, strong, and proud to be Hector Avanti's daughter. When Hector didn't follow suit, the two lovers drifted apart. Hector Chased the Dragon. By the time Esther joined the Baptist church, she had less and less patience for Hector. She bought one-way tickets on Amtrak to New York, and looked forward to a new life in a new city full of surprises without Hector. No matter how fast Hector runs, he won't catch Esther; she's gone. Sometimes people like Hector have to lose parts of a good life before finding a whole one.

Come and Take It

Molon labe

With the new movie "300" coming out to mark the valiant stand at Thermopylae, we should also remember its 19th century equivalent: "Come And Take It"



This flag flew for the Battle of Gonzalez, in October of 1835. It predates the Alamo, and is the beginning of Texan independence.

An acquaintance of mine from New Jersey says Texas is just like any other state, but with a bigger ego. I'll admit I've got a little self-importance about me and my favorite place, but Texas isn't New Jersey: Texas is an idea. Some people don't like that idea much anymore, but I still love it. Nobody much liked Sparta, either. With iron currency and two kings, who has use for such a hard nut to crack? The same was true of Texas in 1835. There's no oil boom; the cattle industry has yet to bloom, all this place needed was water and good people. A common joke says that water and good people are all Hell needs, too. So why did we fight? It was the ego that made us fight. Santa Anna took our rights under the constitution of 1824. We took them back. Yesterday was the anniversary of the fall of the Alamo. I had rather bad symptoms yesterday; I didn't want my problems to cloud what I have to say, so this post is late. I wrote some Haiku concerning my time in Texas for a class once upon a time; I'll spare you from them now. Just remember the small garrison at an abandoned church, and holding out for thirteen days. No one man can speak for them or for Texas, but when we all speak together, it gets pretty loud. If you don't like what we say, Come and Take It.

Better

Monday was bad; that much is clear. The past two days were better. I played some games, lost some, and won some. My Dad had partial knee replacement surgery two weeks ago; I'm taking care of him for Lent. I think it's a worthy project; we've had difficulties in the past, as regular readers of this blog would know. It's the first special thing I've done for Lent in a long time.

Four

So I took a large dose of tranquilizers. I'm writing this to see how long it will be until my slumber takes me away. The horsemen are after me again. The first time I saw them, I thought they were polo players; they're not. These riders have sharp teeth and axes in shadows. I see them more and more as time wears on. I have trouble falling asleep; right now it's 12:52 Monday morning. When I finish this, I'll note the time.

I don't know why I seek. I know I will never find anything by searching for it. I get a little glimpse of love, sanity, purpose, and it's gone just as fast as it came. While we wait for thirty, I think I'll start making plans. It will be thirteen years next month, and I am still lost. I don't know why I bother trying. In the end, there's me and nothing else makes sense. Sometimes, I don't even want to know me. How can I expect someone to be happy with me when I am incapable of being happy with my own skin. My hand looks better to the rest of you, but it will always be the same to me. I see him; I feel him. He's mine, and you can't see him. I know us better than anyone else, no matter how much I tell to the rest of you.

12:58 This is slow

I want to be free. I have a few memories left of our life without my demons. It was unhappy then, as now. However, at least then I knew why. Depression is a bitch, and schizophrenia is a bear. I can't fight either well enough to get them off me. Every day is a challenge, especially now when I'm alone at night, and it seems like the rest of the world rests. Rest is not for me, I think. I have only pain and slumber. That won't matter for long. I'm close; I can feel it. Heavy eyelids can't come fast enough.

I also don't know why I write. It brings me nothing but pain. All the effort in the world, and I still make no sense. Understanding eludes me and makes the rest of you pause. Memories trickle onto the page, but not into your hearts. Like I've said before, this is the only way I know how to show you. This is me! This is my pain! I'm not a butcher, I am meat. I am not a person, I am a relic. I am not like you; I am a monster.

1:06 It won't be long

Check out the entrails I leave here. Nothing is a secret. Even the worst charlatan in the world couldn't mistake my signs etched in blood around me: youth is wasted on the young. Luckily, the end is close. I should be asleep soon; my stomach growls at me, but I shut it up with pepsid. This should be lost.

My intentions are to bring some kind of awareness to the rest of you. I'll never write another note; when the end comes, this will be my best epitaph a few years from now. It won't be a surprise, and everyone will know my motives. Backwards

Did you ever dream it differently? I don't think you have. With my condition, nasty accidents happen. We all know the constant nagging of doubt. Give the benefit to the rest of us; I'll stay on the other side of this madness, hopefully asleep in a few minutes or even a few seconds. Every word has its place at least once. My word right now is Four.

1:14

More Trouble Than He's Worth

I'm a bit of a Bible Boy, but those familiar with this blog already know that. For a while, I couldn't find a character that resembles me or my struggle anywhere in my favorite volume. I share a few things with Job, and for a while, I thought I shared a few more with Barabbas. However, I probably share the most with the man afflicted with Legion.

I continue my search through the scriptures, and it still bugs me that I can't find someone somewhat like me. I find my friends, family members, and everyone else I know in small measures, but that character to identify me eludes my perceptions.

The search brings me nothing, but it's part of the reason that I fell in love with Thomas Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur. I identify with Balin, knight of the two swords, heavily. He's a virtuous and strong knight who always means well, but perpetually ends up being more trouble than he's worth. He beheads the Lady of the Lake in a family feud. It's Balin who lays the Dolorous Stroke upon Pellam, the Fisher King. He's always honest, and knows that Truth is the best quality of knighthood. He's cursed, but still struggles with virtue. He's also a bit ahead of his time; he's dead before the establishment of the Round Table. His life is pain, strife, and a heavy sword belt.

I feel cursed sometimes. I also hunger for righteousness, probably a little too much. Pride is definitely my favorite deadly sin. Anger is close behind.

Pause

I want to write a pause
A space so long and deep
That it transcends the line
Vaults over the page
And only shows its sheer size
In the vacated absence of breath
The Bard promised to leave for us
But never did

I'd fill the pause
Pour in everything
Every first chance
Every last dance
Every wasted glance
In pursuit of a pause
That never meets the ear halfway
Like a staccato sonnet
Off the entrails of consumption
That most simply assumed
Was surely a broken heart
But wasn't

When John Keats and William Shakespeare
Compete for time in the pause,
That's when you know it's big enough

Big enough to wear as a hat
Heavy enough to sink a drowning artist
Attractive enough to chase
Into deep water where I make my home, but
Strong enough to maintain your street cred
When you

replace the poem with the def jam
substitute a reader in favor of a mob
swap the intricasies of verse
for this tired style, the only one you cheer
while you drink a tall espresso with no lime
no lime

Feign passion for cheers
Fake concern for sympathy
Take Maya Angelou as an idol
Be quick to offend easy targets,
And quicker to complain
When someone has the sheer gall to treat you likewise
Live the thug life just like 'Pac
Because we're cool like that

Oh yeah, and play the race card, it works.

Now that's a pause.

Read Keats!
Study Shakespeare;
Know that I'm the very butcher of your silk bullshit!
And populate your pauses
With letters, lines, and stanzas if they'll fit

Following Friendship

I lost a lot of respect for a person I can no longer honestly call a friend. He teases me, baits me into arguments, calls me stupid, and mocks me at every opportunity. However, in my usual fashion, I ignored the stones he threw at me: I guess I'm just willing to take abuse for company. As is often the case, it took a soulless, cruel, and selfish act put upon someone I barely know to force a change in opinion and action. For a while, I was ambivalent over how to react to his flagrantly improper choices. I couldn't decide if I wanted to confront him, use lower voices to get to my point, ignore everything in favor of feigned ignorance, or just sever all ties. I decided on a compromise: I'm going to treat him with the meaninglessly polite etiquette I treat to all strangers. I won't curse, I won't raise my voice, I won't even laugh inappropriately. I respect oaths, promises, vows, and statements made before God. People who unrepentantly destroy or aid in the destruction of these endangered Human honors have no place in my circle of friends. Following Friendship is the cold, inflexible, and meaningless stability of intentional estrangement.

Pipe Dreams

Peace, Love and Understanding are all pipe dreams for me. I sit alone as always, typing to a screen that doesn't type back. However, this is where I shine. I can pretend, through writing, that I'm together, eloquent and intelligent. Everything goes well until I speak. When you hear me, you'll know this as truth. Sometimes the rest of you make a little detour and visit me; I never understood why. It's clear that I'm not like you. My virtues are sure enough to earn a modicum of respect: I'm not a totally incoherent madman yet. That will change. I behave enough like a person to carry on a conversation and deceive those unfamiliar with me to believe in my humanity. Take note: I am from Deep Water, and I will return there some day, probably not as soon as most of you would like. Until then, let's play a game; I like games. I'll pretend I'm one of you, and you will pretend I'll live to see thirty. As the clock ticks away, so do I. The keys sound like the movement of an old wind-up watch on its last hour. My hour is measured in years, and my misery is measured in milligrams. Give me more! I want to feel close; I want to feel loved. Instead I'll settle for the sleep I need while I desperately desire something more permanant.

Boxing After Dark

Kelly Pavlik just knocked out a tough Mexican named Jose Louis Zertuche; it's not a shocking victory, but it is a notable one. Prior to tonight, no man knocked down Zertuche in all his twenty four professional fights. Zertuche was down twice in this fight: he was game, but just couldn't take the punches Pavlik threw at him.

Jorge Arce, with a lolipop in his mouth, came to the ring on a dancing horse. Let's hope the fight is as explosive as the ring entrance.

Arce's opponent, Ler, landed only 17 punches through four rounds. He's running away and covering up on the ropes. The fight wears on. Arce won every round through eight. I see more running from Ler, more laying on the ropes, covering up. I've never seen more taunting; this fight is a stinker, but it's not Arce's fault. Ler opened up in round nine, but no serious attempt at offence.

When Winky Wright fights, he fires back with accurate jabs and left hands. Winky seizes the initiative, and wins rounds; Ler is doing nothing.

Ler fakes a low blow from Arce in the eleventh round. Arce would win by knockout if Ler fought at all. Ler isn't fighting to win. Ler is fighting to not be knocked out. This is ridiculous. Twelve rounds to nil on my card, Jorge Arce wins a stinker and still gets an ovation. He threw lots of punches on Ler's arms. The judges gave three rounds to Ler; I don't know what the hell fight they watched.

Chant

Hello our old friend
You should know our names by now
He doesn't want your help
Or your love
He wants only our mercy
Don't worry,
We won't hurt him
And you'll never hear him scream

We have all been weighed and found wanting.

Sleep

I'm sleeping tonight, and I'm going to sleep for a long damn time. I'll make sure of that.

Hatred Fuels Me

When I was a kid, my father and brother beat me. Extension cords were fair game for my father, as was my back, legs, and occasionally arms. My brother knew no bounds. Once upon a time, I confronted him with a stick to defend myself from his wrath. He preyed upon my antiquated and useless ideas of chivalry, saying that I could set down my weapon or do the dishonorable deed of striking an unarmed man. I told him "fuck you" or some other reproachment, and set down the stick. He grabbed it, tagged me in my ribcage and broke it over my shoulder.

Many times, revenge tempted me to put them both in jail, or simply execute them in self-defense. I did neither. Now, I have to look at my father every morning, listen to him say that he loves me, and treat him as a son should treat his father. Every Sunday at church, I get to sit next to my brother and his wife. He has a life, a wife, and a future. I remain damaged goods. My father has my mother, my brother, and me I guess; that's more than I can hope. I could have killed them both hundreds of times, but I didn't; it would have been justifiable, but I didn't. I did so out of my antiquated sense of forgiveness and my often-wavering faith in Christ as my savior. It would be my hatred towards them if I would have used the law to its harshest extent, not their actions towards me.

Now, I operate with a sincere and accepted apology from my Brother. I have to forgive him no matter how much I hate his smug attitude sometimes. I never received a sincere apology from my dad, but I've grown to accept that. He hid behind alchohol then and now. It's not a proper excuse, but I have to live with him reminding me every day of power in pain completely out of my control.

Just because circumstances are out of our control doesn't justify taking life. Legally, it does with certain circumstances, but we all know inside those laws are for killers and revenge, not for the safety of the children of God. Just because a life reminds us of its injustice and horrors, doesn't give us reason to execute the human reminders of that horror, be it a brother, a spouse, a father, a lover, a friend, a son, or a child in the womb.

Old Glory and a Pirate Game

Many of you know me as a face-to-face friend in addition to my writing on this blog. I love RPGs, both playing and game mastering. This post probably belongs on my gaming blog, so I'll put a copy of it there, too.

Old Glory makes a line of 25mm pirates, including ships. I just joined their discount program, bought 60 pirates and two sloops. I'm starting a piratical D&D campaign with a world of my own design. Players will be privateer explorers who stumble upon a fantasy world in a distant sea. Fun should be abundant, along with adventure! So if you know me, and you're interested, just give me a ring, or an email, or a comment, or whatever.

Tonight

Tonight I'll be at Blue Fin Bar over here in Maryland; my friend Karen is finally playing a show within my unjust five mile limit. It should be loads of fun; she's very talented, and has obviously honed her talents well. Before I head off to see her play, I'll be at my regular Friday night Bible study group. They're good people, and they allow for some of my unorthodox (at least for a Baptist) beliefs such as my dedication to Transubstantiation, and my disbelief in eternal damnation. I'm a Bible boy, but I'm also a weirdo. Hopefully, things will fall together well tonight.

My Everyday Bullfight

I wait at the moment of truth
my sharp espada in one hand
a red muleta in the other

my only arms against my troubles:
the sword and cape are always close
to guard against the charging bull

the ring and crowd remain the same
as people stand and shout their cheers
some cheer the bull, but most cheer me

the bull is strong where I am weak
there's too much weight behind the horns
kept sharp despite their frequent use

each pass comes closer to my skin
as shouts for blood grow louder
the horns, near hips, get stronger

the shoulder grazes my left hip
they struck my right hip yesterday
and put me under very fast

I can't stop fate or alter it
I plunge my sword deep in the bull
my grip is lost, it charges still

my heart beats fast as horns dig in
my eyelids close as I fall down
I sleep like death with Thorazine

the nurses clean the ring
and dissipate the crowd
the tempo slows to a crawl

it won't be slow forever
my spirit never dies:
they can't take that away

my sword is in these verses
my cape is in my heart
I'm ready for tomorrow

I'll fight the bull again

My Brother

My Brother was in the hospital last night and this morning, but my five mile limit prevented me from driving to see him. Maybe I will get a chance to visit him tomorrow at his house; the hospital discharged him this afternoon. I'll be praying for him, and I think he'd appreciate it if the rest of you did likewise.

A Picture of Me

That's my face obscured in the photo on the right. You can see my eyes; they are truly the windows to the soul. You can also see my hands; they are the windows to my madness. I got tired of Gaugin's vision of Jacob's wrestling match; I wanted something original, so I took a shot with the iSight built into my brand new Macbook.

Habit

I thought I wouldn't have it this way again. I tried to scream; I did scream. No sound came out of my mouth. I didn't even move. I threw punches at the air, but didn't get my arms off the sides of my body. For almost ten years, I haven't done this. My symptoms are getting slowly, surely worse.

I hate my hands. The sight of them disgusts me. I'm left with nothing but a burning desire for my habit. Nine years ago, I wore them constantly. I didn't have to see my flesh, and nobody else did either. My demons were my cilice, and I covered them in leather gloves. In high school, I wanted to be a monk; I thought it was a noble way to stay safe from myself. Today, I'm almost monastic: my travel is limited, it's a rare day when I speak, and I write this to the exclusion of other communication. I'll call myself the Order of My Solitude. This blog will be a window into my lonely struggle. How else will I be heard when I scream and punch in desperation, but don't move a muscle?

Sad

James Toney should hang 'em up. He can still take a good punch, but that's not a fight-winning virtue for a thiry eight year old warhorse. This wasn't a fight, this was a funeral. I love "Lights Out," but I don't want to see him hurt any more than he already obviously has. Sam Peter gets better and better with every fight. He shows me something more every time I see him fight. I'll be honest, I thought James Toney would win this fight in a decision. I was wrong. It's the eleventh round, and I'm already writing my obituary for "Lights Out." He shouldn't fight again. Vlad Klitschko hit the canvas thrice against Peter. I think Peter knocks out Wlad in a rematch. Boxing is a serious business, and this is a serious beating. In between the eleventh and twelfth round, I'm looking in at Freddie Roach, Toney's trainer; I wouldn't let James Toney out of the corner. Freddie Roach sent him out. I'm truly sad. The fight is over; James Toney took too many punches, and I don't want to see him beaten badly again. Scores should read 120-107 for Peter. The judges gave some sympathy rounds to "Lights Out," I wouldn't have.

After the fight, it seems Peter is a Don King fighter now. I never understood the allure of fighters to Don King. James Toney's speech is significantly more slurred now than it was yesterday. He can't even tell that he was beaten. I have one more comment to make: I don't like it when fighters thank God. God doesn't take sides in boxing matches. None of the qualities of a good fighter make a good Christian, with the possible exceptions of a good pain threshold and a thirst for righteousness. Fighters can walk with God, but not in between the ropes.

Simms versus Rivera

Travis Simms knocked out Jose Antonio Rivera with a scintillating ninth round. Rivera was game, but he didn't have enough to challenge Simms' superior technique, hand speed, and defense. I didn't give Rivera a round on my scorecard. Junior middleweights around the world, watch out for Travis Simms. He hasn't been active over the past few years, but that makes for a trim, slim, experienced, and skilled thirty-five year old fighter. I'll post heavyweight comments after the James "Lights Out" Toney versus Sam Peter fight. This co-feature is a beauty; Simms fought a near perfect fight.

Honeysuckles

TRACES IN THE DARK

My eyes are closed,
my mouth is open
i smell the honeysuckles
while laying in the grass

i know the wilds well
the wetlands and the forests
they tell me all their secrets
in whispers, howls, and silence

the horror of the dark
is still around out here
no fire, no food, no shelter
and i am on the prowl

where everything has changed
and i am once again
the hunter, not the hunted
with danger very real

my talon is my pen
my vigor is the inkwell
with broad strokes through the night
i make this world my own

the danger of the night
makes demons of my passions
they hear the madman's wail,
but silence is my stanza






this is no way to live
when there is so much beauty
made clear from nature’s grace
to me, right here, right now.

in all those pretty things
that freed me from my troubles
i still find little reasons
to populate my nightmares

the traces of my genius
i lost so long ago
still guide me in the darkness
and lead me through The Void

Blind Tom Wiggins

Blind Tom is one of my favorite composers. He was born a slave in the South in 1849 as an autistic savant. Unfortunately, the language at the time didn't have kind words or a shred of tolerance for people like Blind Tom. He spent his early life imitating the daughters of his master play the piano. Shortly thereafter, he learned to play the piano and could replicate any piece of music or poetry after hearing it once. I consider myself to have a poetic affinity, but I don't even memorize my own pieces, much less those of others after just one hearing. Blind Tom liked to play, and made his master very rich. In later life, the courts handed Blind Tom off to his mother, and eventually to her daughter-in-law. It's said that he refused to play the piano away from the comfort and custody of his former master. Mental disorders and illnesses don't care about skin color; racism is a poison society gives itself. I can understand Blind Tom's frustration and his refusal to play. Sometimes when I write, I think of Blind Tom sitting in front of the piano, doing what he knows best. I like to think I write in the same vein. Many schizophrenics fall to their disease, and can't pursue their talents for financial and social reasons.

My parents and my brother tolerate and encourage me despite our often conflicted past. Sure, I'd like to live a normal life by myself; however, I know I couldn't do it alone, and that my writing and happiness would suffer for it. My current situation allows for much writing, and poetry every day & night. I'm not a success by any measurement, but I'm doing what I feel I do best. The prejudice shown me is not of my own choosing: the rest of you want me this way. It's easier to put people in boxes, and shackle them to their bedposts when no name is attached. It's easy for society to say I need help and restrictions to keep myself and other safe. It's another thing completely to stand in front of me and say "our decision is to restrict your drivers license to a five mile radius, and mandate that you take the medications we prescribe you." I take my medication and drive quite safely on my own. Unfortunately, I'm in a group that's easily labeled a "them" not an "us;" my humanity rarely matters to people in charge.

THE LION AND THE DRAGON

To introduce the Dragon:
The Dragon's made of dreams
That fly from love to fancy
And fly from there to madness

It doesn't have a form
That one can view as whole
But when its breath reveals
The sadness in his heart

The Dragon will begin
To offer up its service
And incarnate a world
Of pure feast and frenzy

A world that has no truth
Or honor, like our own
Just thoughts, and lies, and dreams
That wait there for the waking

The dreaming is dissolving
The will to conquer it
The dream will kill the Lion
While belching Dragon's breath

The Dragon's dream is flying
Upon the wings of fate
It's killing all before it
And slaughtering the wicked

He dreams the Dragon's triumph
Upon his feeble efforts
To feed the drowsy fire
With funny little pills

Draconic doom approaches
The pleasant lands of love
Without a will to wither
And not a shame in shelter

The pleasant part has passed
Beyond the mire of winter
The Dragon deems unconscious
The lion's little lie

National Step Competition

I'm watching ESPNU, the National Step Competition specifically. Apparently it's a traditionally black college tradition among the various Greek fraternities and sororities. It's completely fascinating. There's lots of energy between the crowd and the performers; I couldn't even begin to score these dancers, or their dances. Dance is not even a good term for what they're doing; the music also comes from the performers. Each dance is original, and each fraternity or sorority has a unique style all its own. Some work with canes, sticks, and props; rhymes punctuate the dance steps, and the teams shout in unison. I haven't timed the routines, but each is several minutes long, with memorized dancing in elaborate patterns. I might not understand the scoring, or what the judgs are looking for in a good routine, but I can tell what I like, and I like them all. Each performance is so unique from the others that I can't decide who's better. Music is in the heels of the dancers, and in their clapping hands. I'm impressed. A team from Philadelphia wearing black won the sorority competition; they deserve the credit, but there was a lot of effort all around. A Phi Beta Sigma team from Michigan in blue won the fraternity competition. I will definitely watch stepping in the future.

Words

I like them. Akin to most things in my life that attract my attention, I like them too much. My writing and thoughts are verbose. People around me know that, as do most readers of this blog. Plenty of people hate my wordiness; no matter how much I try, I will over write and over speak things. Most of those people end up, eventually, as strangers. Whether it's by a slow retreat, or by an outright statement like "I can't be seen with you," those people end up in good company. If I kept a list of those I made strangers by my obsession with words, it would be long. Many of them were friends or loved ones. They aren't bad people, or even wrong about me. They just can't stand to be around me and this of my many flaws. Who wants to listen to a crazy person go on and on about a subject that means virtually nothing to most people? Honestly, how many times could any of you listen to me talk about Hannibal Barca, or reference Petrarch? I love words; I love using them. That won't change, even if it means solitude. Trust me, I've tried to stop. Fortunately, I have my blog; I can pretend people read this. God goes about "visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children" (Deuteronomy 5:9). My Dad had wine; I have my voice and pen. This forum suits me when most others fall woefully short.

Prepared to Take It

"There are many causes that I am prepared to die for but no causes that I am prepared to kill for."
-Ghandi

I've spent my whole life taking pain. The more I look at my history, the more I see that as my role. Every time I've tried to inflict pain on others, it comes back to me with greater effect. I talk a lot about "hating" so and so, "hurting" what's his name, and "defending" such what. Every time I try, it doesn't work. If I struck my brother in defense, it just intensified my pain in response. I've often said "there is no greater feeling in the world than hitting Michael Herway." He was a junior high school bully and popular kid that I drilled a few times in football practice. There is a lot in the world better than hitting Michael Herway. Among them is not staying awake at night in pain for thirteen years. I can take a good shot, ask anyone who's hit me. Pain is not something I fear; my knees still feel the long, slow aches from football practice. Maybe if I didn't play, I'd still have fully functional shoulders, wrists, knees, and ankles. As it stands, they're still weary from the abuse I put them through.

So what am I prepared to kill for? Not willing, or eager, the crucial word is "prepared." I don't have access to a weapon. My rifle is inside a 1000 lb gun case to which I don't know the combination. I can't use my body as an effective weapon anymore, due to my brief experiments with delivering pain to my adversaries. I'm not prepared to kill anyone. Perhaps myself because there's no one to resist me. I suppose I could use my car as a weapon; it's big, fast, and heavy. Those are valuable components to weapons. Unfortunately, there's little discrimination with a car as a weapon. Too many people apart from any target, even with the intent of suicide, would get in the way. Killing anything with a car is a damn waste, if only for the collateral damage.

So what causes am I prepared to die for? The specter of death looms over me. The most likely candidate is my own self-respect. I have the pills; I have the knowledge. All that's lacking is the protection of my tongue: I've told too many people that I wouldn't off myself. I don't know why I told them; it does nothing but cause me pain. I guess I'm eager to please, and not killing myself, along with not talking about killing myself makes people happier about being around me. To be honest, if I knew what my life would be like back in 1997, I would have no hesitation to pull the trigger again. However, my large capacity for pain continues to adjust to a world full of only more pain. I can't pull anyone into this misery with a clean conscience. Who would want to stay with me when all I'm expert on is pain? I don't even want to be here, and my threshold is huge.

In a world full of so much death, which to me would almost be a release, there is a lot of pain. I think I'm still around because I can take it better than anyone else. If there is a certain amount of pain to distribute, perhaps I should be the one to hurt. If I can take pain for friends and family, I do. I've taken a lot of pain to keep others insulated from it. My Mom wouldn't have been able to take the pain of knowing what my brother and my Dad did to me while she was out of sight, so I took it all. From fist to lash, I kept everything secret from the people I respected and loved. This is a practice I maintain today. Three years undiagnosed hurt a lot; that one I should have shared. Unfortunately, it's the only one I should have shared, including the hits on Michael Herway. I couldn't do what he did, and he couldn't live the way I do. Nick Benz knows pain. We're both entrenched against pain with no recourse. That's why he's my oldest friend. We understand each other. I put on a good show so people can't tell the pure desperation of my existence. Everything is arrogance delivered with a crooked smile. Inside, I hurt. From without, I'm the loudest, most arrogant, show-off any of my friends know. It's easier than explaining the intricacies of my psychosis, and more effective than open knowledge. I'll own my pain, thank you. Tomorrow is today, and I'm prepared to take it.

Solved, Never a Thief

One of my professors submitted my paper to a Florida account, instead of a Maryland one. Yay. Some of the worst days in recent memory caused by a mixup.

Redneck Alexander Pope

It's something I've said in the past when asked to describe my poetic style in three words. It's ridiculous, that's why I like it. Alexander Pope wrote couplets; I hate couplets. Rhyming in that fashion just irks the hell out of me for reasons I don't understand. I have a few other sets of three words I use on occasion.

Monster, trust me

These three words are another option I use when people ask me to describe myself in three words. I don't belong much of anywhere, except in Church. My life is turning into a haze very quickly. I can't remember much of yesterday, and I'm determined to make tomorrow something to remember. I might sound good here, in my arena, but I'm not much of anything. These are the sands where my blood flows for the crowd. I can be a hero here, even if my real life is only pain on a diet of barley and beans disguised as medication.

Not Worth It

Three words for questioning life. I recently fought off a plagiarism charge in one of my classes. I'm a madman and a failure, but I'm not a thief. Somehow, my paper was stolen and turned in elsewhere; a week after I submitted it for class, it showed up in a community college in Florida. I'm looking at a pill bottle right now and wondering if it's worth a go. If the distance between words could substitute for time in thought, I would space this out in long drawn out sentences with unnacceptable punctuation. Unfortunately, this is all I have. I'm taking one; I'll take more later if I don't knock myself out.

This damn lie about me stealing a paper took up most of my time since Friday. That's why I haven't posted much here or anywhere else. About all I did over the weekend was frantically try to clear my name and read "Ode to a Grecian Urn" by John Keats; he's one of my dearest favorites. Truth may be beauty, but I live very far away from both. My beauty is pain. She's a glittering angel in a dark world with hazy surroundings. I can always find her nearby; if I breathe correctly, I can even enjoy it. How wrong is that? The worst part is that enjoyment is often my reason for waking up.

Miranda July

I'm awkward. I'm also alone. I sit here with myself as my company, watching a movie called "Me and You and Everyone We Know." It's a wonderful little film I've seen before, full of awkward, lonely characters. None of them are carbon copies of me, or even close, but I feel I know them all away from the screen. Maybe that's the point of the movie, but it's not the point of this post. This post is about trepidation. My fears aren't based in pain, or power. I fear the open knowledge of my peers. It always seems the people I like the most expect me to be someone I'm not. I can't be anyone but myself: a socially and fiscally conservative guy who reads the Bible and tries to live it. I don't want to hurt anyone for simply who they are. I don't want any notches on my rifle, but I want to keep it. Most of all, I want love, peace, and understanding.

I think I understand this movie, "Me and You and Everyone We Know." I want to see more out of Miranda July, the creative force behind the movie, but I have the same feelings of fear. Right now, this movie is perfect to me. I see bits of me throughout, but lots more to explore in the characters. The last time I felt this way about a poet or an artist, I was thoroughly enamored of Naomi Nye. She had the best little poems, quaint and well-crafted. I thought that was her art. Then I heard her and met her. I learned what she's about. She's a highly-politically motivated poet who writes highly-political poems. I felt estranged, not only from her politics, but from her work as a whole. Before I met her, I bought a book of hers, and read it so much, it dog-eared. She signed it, I listened to her drivel, and I haven't touched the book since. I don't want to feel that way about an artist ever again.

Years

Events turn on the briefest moments. I'm in the Void, but I see only flashes of it. When I close my eyes, they're all I see: hands poke through the hot, dry earth with teeth on their knuckles, as I hunt the obese ones upheld by the small with my spear balanced in one clawed hand. It's the same as it's been for over twelve years, but I always feel it more than your world, even when I can't see it. Today started out so well, too. damn. I hope I'm ok for tomorrow.

Sick

I'm just getting sicker. Most nights greet me the same way. They don't beckon me to slumber, they beckon me outdoors, where I can be anything I want to be, and be silent. I can't deal with it tonight, so I resolved to sleep. I'm tired of dueling with this all day, and long into the night. Some parts of me want to end it; other parts of me want to vomit, probably because of the pills, but also for the pain. How stupid is that? That pain leaves no marks. I know it well.

I'm going to sit here and blog until I fall unconscious. Maybe some of that will drip through my fingers and onto this page. I get lonely at night. It seems like I'm furthest from love and peace, but closest to understanding. I write, and some respond: most don't. I take from this only a few conclusions: I'm alone and it should probably be that way. I wish I was a phoney. I could espouse unthinking leftist dribble, curse God, have a stupid haircut, and do anything that comes to mind. I would be accepted. Unfortunately, I believe. I can't stop. My belief is strong enough to chain me in this cage we made for me, but not enough to keep me from wrapping it around my neck from time to time.

What does it matter, then, that I'm so miserable? It doesn't. The only one that hurts with me is me. They're all parts of me; you should know that by now. Every keystroke brings me closer to sleep, and I can only see dark clouds and light fingers ahead. I took one of those combination pepsid and tums to keep it all down. I can feel it gurgle up my esophagus. Time is on my side.

Click click click. When I punch the keys, my fingers feel enlightened. I think weight is on me now. I can't see straight, and my choir sings. Little do they know that I'm going to forget them soon. I don't remember my dreams mostly. The few I do remember seem far away, even if they belong to last night.

Everything seems to begin like this: I write, and words show up. They do me no good. Since I started writing, I don't think I've made any sense. That elusive understanding is a questing beast; I am Palomides. Percival will find what he seeks; I will stay in the forest. I love Isoulde, but am loved in return only by the hunt for new words and new understanding. Some call me crazy; others call me friend. What they all share in common, I cannot approach. I prowl and growl through the grasslands of my Void. Who wants to come with me? It's an open invitation which will never be read.

I'm tired, but I'm still awake. I don't know how long it will take, but I know sleep will come. Can you laugh now? Am I cross-eyed? I'm green-eyed, despite my claims for amber. I'm the lion inside, but from without, I'm a monster. You've heard that before. If I'm not a monster, what would you call me in its place? I know I'm different in too many ways. I feel the blood race to the outer layers of this epidermis I call home. Home is where the heart is; that's a cliche. My heart is uncertain whether it wants to be on the left side of my chest, and pump blood, or the right side of my chest and pump aether.

I don't need your alcohol, or your cigarettes, or your falsehoods. I wish I was a phoney, maybe then I could be more like you. We have nothing in common. I'm a madman, and you're the ones who hang around this cage of pills and pain. Taunt me. Buy pencils with my likeness at the gift shop. Buy cheeseburgers with terrible pickles in the cafeteria. Come look at me.

I said look at me!

Do you hate what you see as much as I hate myself? Probably not. No one comes by anymore. I don't think they ever did.

I don't remember much from my childhood, largely it's a streak of pain at the wrong end of a fist or lash. I do remember a time when a couple of people I barely knew, I think their names were Marie and Hillary, invited me to a birthday party. I thought it was a horrible joke; I didn't want to be there just to be laughed at. The party was real; I lost a swimming race to a friend. I still think some of them laughed.

Watch me the next time you see me. I'll be the one with the stupid grin, stupid laugh, and a stupid hair cut. Look closely, if you can. You'll see a carefully crafted lie. The easiest way to see through it is to watch my footprints, or to watch me cross a carpet on a slick floor, linoleum, tile, or wood. I torque my ankle in an odd way that upsets the carpet and leaves a little ring behind on my footprint. It's there to cover the ankle injury, and my history of bad toenails. If you've never seen my feet, that's by design. I baby my right ankle; if you want to hurt me badly, just attack the ankle. Any fight would be over in about five seconds.

Until then, look at my cage. It's a beauty. I have Jacob wrestling with God courtesy of Gaugin, an artist so dead and old that he can't object to my use of his image. I've got well over two hundred opportunities for people to learn. I don't use much Italian, so my readers aren't lost like with Ezra Pound. I use words and paragraphs to trap me in here. Look, the words arrange themselves like bars, and the spaces between them mark the holes. It's like chicken wire made out of English, but made strong enough to pin a lion. Don't miss out on a good thing, I highly reccomend the gift shop. It's next to the feet buitl to remain hidden on the way to the cafeteria. I hear they're terrible cooks, but they also serve ice cream novelties of me: I'm the diet double caramel.

Joshua Clottey

I'm impressed with Joshua Clottey. He fought Antonio Margarito, broke his hand on Margarito's jaw after winning the first four rounds, then boxed his way against the powerful Mexican slugger through all twelve rounds. On my card, I gave Clottey the eighth round, and the tenth to earn a draw. The judges saw it otherwise, however; two scored the bout closely at eight rounds won to four, and another saw it ten rounds won to two, all for Margarito. The eighth and tenth rounds were close, and I can understand scoring them for Margarito, but ten rounds to two is ridiculous. If Clottey doesn't break his hand, I think he reverses the outcome of the fight. As it stands, Clottey is the first genuine challenge taken by Antonio Margarito. It's all academic, though: they would all lose to "Pretty Boy" Floyd Mayweather.

Michael Mack

I saw Michael Mack a number of years ago at the first Austin International Poetry Festival I attended. He understands schizophrenia in ways most people cannot. Before he went on stage, we had a brief conversation about paranoid schizophrenia, and how it affects me in particular. We didn't have a long time to talk, but the words we shared were meaningful. He performed a small bit of his play, and looked at me as if to say "did I get it right?" I simply nodded my head to say "yes;" he nodded in return.

Pay his website a visit

Religion, Not Politics

I found this on a friend of a friend's myspace. I went ahead and googled it, and found that this image is approved by more than one person. Needless to say, I was offended greatly. If anyone thinks this country is a theocracy, they should take a hard look at a genuine theocracy. I won't talk politics too much in this blog, but I will never shy away from religion.

The event pointed to by this link is a genuine violent theocracy. Notice the removal of individual property, and teaching religion as an exclusive alternative to secular philosophy.

When I was in high school, I went to bat for my Muslim friends. I was called an imperialist by self-conscious atheists, and on many more occasions, a Nazi. I defended the rights of Palestinians in a community with a large percentage of Jews. There were a lot of Christians who liked to call me Hitler Youth, too. That happened a lot after I publicly disagreed with a gospel prayer-concert held in the auditorium. They called it black history month; I called it establishment. I still do. That stand made me very unpopular, but if you know me, you know I'll stick to my ideals until I independently determine those ideals to be wrong. Hurt me, go ahead. By my fruits, God will know me. He will judge me, not the rest of you.

I changed my ideals on September 11, 2001. I was three and a half years removed from high school, getting over a C-Span addiction, and had just been told by my brother that they took down our towers. Immediately, I looked around the Muslim world. There was no outrage. The mullahs were not disgusted at the despicable acts of murder perpetrated in their god's name. They were leading celebrations in the streets. Until confronted with obvious evidence otherwise, I considered Islam to be a religion with some good ideas, but some very deep flaws concerning women's rights. I thought that when push came to shove, Islam would own its mistakes, and make amends. Instead, at the first sight of weakness in what the cartographer at the top of the page calls "Jesusland," they took to the streets in celebration. That was when I decided to take a longer, harder look at the Koran. Read the ninth Sura. It pretty much says it all. I don't need to put words in Muhammad's mouth; he poisoned his opinion himself.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. That is the law I live by. I don't make a complicated scoring system based on 1/40th of the incomes of my neighbors that follow a different path, nor do I have a list of contracts drawn up set to expire and coordinated with my firearm. Let me go to church, and I'm cool. Killing in the name of the Lord is not something I find tolerable. If someone with different religious ideas wants to live next door to me, that's cool. I'm not going to interfere with his journey to and from God. I am not a minister. I am a poet.

Back before the State of Maryland decided to limit my driver's liscense, I drove past a mosque from time to time on my way to my brother's house. I didn't honk my horn, carry around a crucifix in front of them, or burn crescent-laden flags for their displeasure. I just kept on driving. That's what free exercise is all about. We have it here in "Jesusland" whether a bunch of inconsiderate jerks want to admit it or not.

After my change in opinion, I get called a Zionist and an American imperialist pig. I also hear a lot of people call me a "fundie," whatever the hell that means, and they use the word "Christian" like an insult. As far as I'm concerned, that just makes things clearer. I don't want to be a warrior for God; he doesn't need my help there. I want to be a good person with a good heart; I want to believe in the fashion I choose to believe. I want transubstantiation, public confession, adult baptism by immersion, and a place that lets me do all those things. Right now, I have that. So if I love you, and you call me a bigot, so be it. I loved you before those words left your lips, and I'll love you afterwards. If you're a friend from high school who practices Islam with or without your family, you're still a friend of mine. I had to be born again myself, and I was raised in the surroundings I choose now. My journey to God would be a lot harder and a lot longer if it hadn't been beneath my nose the whole time.

So what of "Jesusland?" Take a good look around, people. It's getting near Christmas time, and the Salvation Army is collecting money in buckets. There's no gun, bayonet, or even a sermon behind those buckets; there's just a bell. You can choose to give, or you can choose to keep for yourself. By those fruits, the Lord will know you. I'm not going to break open the bucket to dust for fingerprints and count, not even in "Jesusland."

Three Blog Night

Keep this in mind.

Something I stumbled over

How anyone can see Eddie Vedder as an "iconoclast" is beyond me. Perhaps I'm the only one who remembers his poser fans walking around in my freshman year of high school. They were so artistic, innovative, and original that they teased the baseball player who listened to country music. I was friends with the ball player; he didn't care much for those guys. Mostly, he just felt at home on the mound.

It's not just Eddie Vedder, either. Apparently there's a whole show of these phonies pretending to be iconoclasts. Fiona Apple? Quentin Tarantino? Dave Chapelle? These guys are the establishment, not the counter culture. I'm a guy that goes to Church, writes a blog, and wears expensive Portugese shoes because they're the only ones that help my knees get through another day. Even I can see through their self-promoting hype. None of these so-called iconoclasts have the courage to shatter icons of religion in the street. Every time they get close to upsetting the mainstream America that pays for The Sundance Channel, they back off and hide behind the first amendment. They have the right to say whatever they want to say, and even misrepresent their personalities to earn a buck. However, to be an outcast in America, you'll have to do better than irking a few bible-thumpers who themselves are a bit too eager to please the masses from the pulpit. We're a tolerant people. Making enemies with Jerry Falwell and Oral Roberts might be enough to impress socialist friends in Europe, but it's a long way from gaining my respect.

I listen to Robert Johnson sing the blues. There's more devil in his dead left hand than in Eddie Vedder's whole body. I can respect Kurt Cobain. That guy had pain in every note, and pain in every word. We would probably never see eye-to-eye on anything, but I would love the chance to try anyway. Unfortunately, he's gone.

Eddie Vedder, however, is still with us. He's even cool enough today to call himself an iconoclast. Fame is wasted on him.

Apologies

I hate this. I'd say that I'll control it in the future, but that would be a lie. All I have left is my honesty. I promised not to delete posts. Peace and Love seem very far away; Understanding seems closer.

Haze

Today is a haze. I don't know what the hell is happening. I'm not mute

yo0u should know that by now.
tomorrow is today

no sleep can pace this hunger hjeaving refuse dry and cholic. hope? HOpe is a weaponh against tomorrow without the certainty of now

50,000 Rounds

Boxers earn what they're worth, not a penny more, not a penny less. Jimrex Jaca fights Juan Manuel Marquez as I write this. Jaca started in the Phillippines for a dollar per round, not a thousand or even a hundred dollars per round. He fought for a dollar per round. Tonight, he's fighting for fifty thousand dollars. This guy can take a good punch, and fights with great courage. We're getting fifty thousand rounds worth of heart from Jimrex Jaca; even if he loses this fight, he wins my support. The fight isn't pretty: two head butts caused two cuts on Marquez. Boxing is all about performance in adversity. This fight is full of adversity for both fighters.

Poems I Wish I Never Wrote - Vol. III

I SEE YOU NEVER

i see you never in my dreams
when heavy eyelids come to close
around my drenching drowning globes
without the fire they once had

for you, you were my love
you were what i desired
no sex or blood or tears required
just words, that's all, and simple smiles

to greet me in this world i made
when i was young, and acted so
your face above, my heart below
a stalking figure in the grass

but now the years erode my spirit
there is no hunt, or clear blue sky
no simple smiles, no reasons why
to make my mind remember then

just sleep and dreams and dreary days
no light can shine into my eyes
for far above me something dies
i keep my head tucked tight and low

and now i see you never


I wrote this poem as the first manifestation of the Stitches character. I kept the lower case nature of the line for the bulk of Stitches, but ditched the odd rhyming pattern in the center of every stanza. This piece just doesn't work on any level.

***

IT SEEMS DEAD TO ME

It seems so dead, with grief at night I still walk
Down darkened streets familiar to my feet
Where voices choose to sit as peers and eat
Each word with poison feeds the next we talk.
Though shoeless, hopeless, wordless, I stalk
My toes feel grass where there is only concrete
And masticate these words with mind made meat;
I choke in silence while the neighbors gawk.
Take it from me. Nobody wants to share
This Legion of voices that lingers inside;
Those that know nothing have nothing to bless.
Everyone out there who knows me, beware
If you choose to listen, and in me abide,
My pain still rules lonely my clingy caress.


This is the worst sonnet. The third line of the sestet is horrible; I never wrote a worse line. To this day, I reference this poem as proof that a form alone can't capture a poetic cadence. I was going to read this one aloud in Austin the last time I was there for reasons I still can't fathom; I chose to discard it at the podium with three words: "this is garbage." I made the right call.

Thankful This Year

When I count my blessings, I count them in two categories: long term and short term. Long-term blessings are sources for reasons to get up in the morning, and the short-term blessings are those reasons to get up in the morning.

In the long-term, I'm thankful for much over this past year. I'm thankful for my return to church; I feel less alone now than I felt even a few short months ago. A key part of that has been the awesome people I've met there. Andrew, Ron, Quiong, Amy, Jen, Jessica, Isa, Barry, Kara, Dennis, Charity, and everyone else, you've made me genuinely feel closer to humanity in general; that is important to me. I don't fit in well anywhere, but church feels less awkward than anywhere outside my home. I'm thankful for my old friends, too. I'm better for having known them. I'm thankful for my family; you make life worth living by supporting me and loving me. If I didn't have my family's full support, I'd probably be dead. I'm thankful for my blog; it's a good place for me to express myself, meet new people, and provide an organized forum for inspiration. Other Realms is a good place to hang out, even if I'm not there as much as I was in the past.

Recently, I've got more short-term stuff going on than in any time in the past couple of years. I'm thankful for my friend Andrew, who has shown me true friendship and genuine concern. I'm thankful for my friend Karen Scuderi, who thinks I'm interesting enough to pour my blog into a song. I'm thankful for my Brother, Gary; he's got me thinking about good food this afternoon. Nick Benz, you're my oldest friend, and I'm thankful for your friendship; I'm looking forward to calling you later today to check up. We both know it's been too damn long. Kristyn, you call me from Tulsa, and keep me in touch with Jason. If left to his own devices, I'd probably never hear from him. Kris, you're the man. You understand me enough to call at 1:00 AM. Ron reads my blog; I know for certain because he comments. Thank you, Ron. Saturday should be good, Nikki and Jaime, even if I don't fit in well with your crowd. Chris Lyons, I have three words for you because I haven't mentioned you yet: Joseph of Arimathea; we'll never forget that.

Damn, I've got a lot going on. I should try to spend more time awake.

Reading Exodus for Insight

Exodus 32:14 "And the LORD repented of the evil which he thought to do unto his people."


So I'm reading Exodus again, not for laws to obey, but for insight into the nature of our relationship with God. I struggle with the meanings of my own actions, so I'm looking for a spark from the books of Moses. I take this passage to mean one thing in particular to me: the struggle with God is real. Moses helps God change his mind just as the Lord helps Moses change his nation. Every time I see an agreement between men, power is given by both sides of the bargain to a common end. We give portions of our livelihood for assistance with the other parts of our livelihood we cannot handle ourselves.

Covenants with God are a little different; God can handle anything himself, but his measures are often harsh. I think God makes covenants with us to avoid this harshness for our own sake by trusting us, particularly Hebrews, to attend to portions of our own punishment. God destroyed all flesh with a flood, but attended to his creations through the duties of Noah: we are now trusted with the animals. That's a lot of trust. As a manner of exposition, I feel compelled to at least mention the other covenants in Genesis. The other covenants in Genesis are with Abraham; his requests for family are realized in the form of descendents: Israel and the Hebrews. They are trusted with much, but have many more direct responsibilities to God. God demands, and Abraham acts; trust becomes more important with each passing covenant. This is obviously Grace.

But there's more in Genesis and Exodus than pious requests and gifts for obedience. Cain kills Abel for inequities with God, then asks "Am I my brother's keeper?" This is the beginning of my insight: God protects Cain from harm at Cain's request. Cain asks for his own life, and is given it. Why? In Exodus 32:7-14, God allows Moses to persuade the Hebrews rather than smiting all but Moses. Why? God forgives us our sins, including the murder of his son. Why? I think God gives because we ask.

Every night before I sleep, I ask. I perceive inequities between myself and the rest of you. It's pointless to decry those inequities: we all know them well. My request is simple: take me Home. Every morning, I awake under a warm roof, with food at my fingertips, and people willing to support me despite the inequities. What more can I ask for and feel insulted if it is not given? God provides always what I need. He doesn't provide what I need when I expect it, nor does he give me everything I want, but he does provide. When I ask for a trip Home, I want a quick death and and to be in the arms of the Lord as I was when I was a kid, before this thing struck me. I'm schizophrenic, but I'm Home. I hate it, but I comply. I only hope that my talents and dedication are enough to fulfill my nightly covenant. My goals remain as always: Peace, Love, and Understanding. Those virtues aren't in my hands, but most everything else is, including sin and the thirst for my own earthly demise. I cannot promise, but I will try in exchange for Home.

Body Parts

When I saw the latest episode of "Dexter" on Showtime, I thought immediately that they'd dropped Zeus on a rope. Then I remembered that we'd been informed that the sister's boyfriend works with body parts, not whole bodies. The Ice Truck killer does the same. Furthermore, Dexter and The Ice Truck Killer share damaged girlfriends. It's obvious, and I wonder why I missed it. I might have to review the episodes to date; I thought the sister was the only one close enough to Dexter to pull off some of the Ice Truck Killer's maneuvers. It's obvious Mr. Freeze uses the sister to get close to Dexter.

Bobby Pacquiao

Kenny Bayless acted two rounds too late. He penalized Pacquiao twice for repeated and blatant low blows, then gave him two additional warnings. I hope Hector Velazquez is ok; that was one dirty fight on Pacquiao's side with low blows and head butts. We should hope Manny Pacquiao acts more professionally than his brother Saturday night.

Going Back

I'm going back to sleep. I'm taking tranquilizers and doing what I have to for me to stick around as I promised. My claws are out; I can feel the breath of the lion on my neck. Everything spins, and all I can hear is the choir. If I sleep, I cannot plot my own demise, which is the only thing I want right now. If you're concerned, many of you have my number. I'm not waiting for you, though; that would be a fool's errand.

Persona Non Grata

I have my list. If you're on it, you probably know. There are three new members: an ingrate who brings pain to those he's closest to, an oath breaker who should know better, and a person I should have never let close to begin with. Cheers, this list is for me.

Force

four
down
my
throat

don't
wake
me
up

Do you like our new smile?

Damn

Damn, I'm bitter. I need to force slumber upon myself before I post late. The blog is genuine, but the last post was unnecessary.

Not My Fault

Normally, I'd post a disclaimer of some sort up here. However, I'm so certain that the handful of people this entry addresses will not read that I've decided to pull no punches. If this post sounds like you, it probably is; I have a lot of former associates in the same category. After all, what is one of those associates going to do to me, bump it up from never talking to me to never ever talking to me?

I think I understand. None of it is my fault, but society, friends, loved ones, and lovers quite simply must treat me as though my symptoms are the most flagrant and intentional error.

What choice do they have? When I was in middle school, I was told "I can't be seen with you" on more than one occasion. That was before everything went mad. Who would want to be seen holding my hand at a shopping mall while I growl and prowl underneath the escalator? If you've witnessed me at my worst, you'd know this to be true. If mall security walked over to you while I am in the Void, how many of you would bear the shame of saying "he's my husband." Blood relatives have no choice; I am my brother's brother and my mother's son.

That's the difference between relationships and friendships, right?. We all have embarrassing friends; it's easy to write them off. If there's a relationship, we volunteer to a greater attachment. It's too cruel for friends and lovers to say "I can't be seen with you." What they can do is laugh about me when I'm not around, sharing stories about their crazy friend Thomas. It's all in good fun, right? The other thing you do is slowly back away when you get too close. Don't talk to me for a while. Slowly cut things off; maybe I won't take note if the increments are slight enough. It might take a few months, but I will surely be gone, and you'll think I didn't notice. You'd be wrong.

It's not my sickness, right? I've heard that many times, from many different associates. It's not the psychosis; it's not the depression; it's not the OCD. It can't be. Those aren't by choice. Instead, you always pick something that can remotely but exclusively be called voluntary. You can cite my Bible, my haircut, my clothes, my favorite music, my political leanings, even my poetry, but that wouldn't be true. All mentally ill people are ashamed of the things that separate us from the rest of you. However, the rest of you are far more ashamed of us than we could ever be of ourselves. Things would be much clearer through the mud in my brain if the rest of you were as honest with me as I am with you. I know the truth now: I am held responsible for my disease, and all circumstances surrounding it.

So what am I going to do about it? I'm too lonely to face the rest of my days alone, so I'll smile and nod. There's a new story about how crazy I am. Perhaps I'll tell you some day if you need a chuckle and a wild-eyed grin. I won't hold my breath.

Rebirth of Jacob's Brother

I decided to bring back my gaming blog, Jacob's Brother. This time around, I'll probably update more frequently, and the subject will be mostly D&D. For readers of this blog, it will be insight into my distractions, the only events that keep me waking up in the morning.

Slumber

I'm finding few reasons to wake up anymore. Here I am; It's one o'clock in the afternoon, and I've just emerged from a long slumber. The only course of action I want to take is to take tranquilizers, and return to sleep. I spent most of last night and early this morning fighting Legions; I'm still tired. The only thing that seems certain to me is pain. I'm sick of making every moment of every day pain management. Whether it's my ankle, my knees, my heavy heart, or my weary head, I just don't want to fight it anymore. I'm sick; I'm tired; I'm a damn fool for promising not to take measures into my own hands. Before I slept, Prester Bane taunted me. He begged me to go ahead and do it; he kept saying that if I did, that he would own me forever with no competition. What the hell am I supposed to do? I think I could deal with my struggle if I had an ounce of happiness, but that seems just as far away as sanity right now. If I had happiness, I could at least put some joy into my writing, and testify to love, but that path is denied to me. All I have to write, and all I have to live is pain. Who wants to hear more of that?

Desert Son

When stringing out the words
I weave about my verses,
A syllable goes wrong:
A word without its place.

My anger in the passing
Of yet another stanza
Leaves nothing more to say
Than stagnant little thoughts:

My love is worn and tired
To mimic my War Horse,
A cold and bitter stare
Too weary to bring fear,

A tired, old affliction
That struggles in the dust
While burdened with my Love
Unsought, unwanted, worthless.

I write too much these days.
I write until I'm dry,
A desert full of sand
And every grain: a poem.

So "Desert Son" they call me,
A rider through the dunes.
My horse is burdened down
With English that I use.

Verbose and lacking feeling
I just stick words together
Hoping for a difference
But knowing all the same

That heavy verbal hoof prints
Just trace my lonely path
Swallowed by the desert.
I'm sure that none will follow.

Uncertain of direction,
I know what stays the same:
I flee from presents past
To force my future shame.

Finally

I finally added a links list. If there's any friend I forgot, just send me an email, and I'll post a link.

Nonfiction

This blog isn't a lie. It's all genuine. If you asked me how I feel, I would probably say something mildly dismissive like "I'm ok today." Unless you want to hear, don't ask; I have trouble sorting out those who genuinely care and those with a misguided sense of manners.

What am I supposed to say? What if I told you the truth: I lay awake every night searching for reasons to wake up in the morning, then I post them on my blog. Some of you might feign concern; more would probably be interested to see true madness intelligently described from the inside for the first time. For most people, I'm a sideshow act; the rest of you I call "friend." Friendship is wasted on me, I think.

I've yet to meet someone who can tolerate the same horror stories on consecutive occasions, much less meet someone who could hear them for the months and years on end that I deal with them. Like I said earlier: the same old wounds seek the same remedies. I'm interesting for ninety minutes; six months is quite simply too much to ask. Trust me, or trust the only one who tried; all roads lead to Rome, and they're all well accustomed to the bootheels of my Legions.

S.P.Q.R.

Uncertainty

Is the silence from my readers from apathy or an uncertainty on how to respond? In the past month, I've gotten one comment from Ron; thank you, Ron. Anything is better for me than silence. When it's this quiet, the only voices I hear are the ones the rest of you can't.

My whole life, I've never connected well with other people. I don't fully, understand why, and never have. Every day for the past twelve years and six months, I've struggled with words for my experience. Until now, I've thought that the perfect words could free me from the shackles of my psychosis, and maybe loosen the flow of words headed towards me. For me, communication mostly goes one way, and alway has. Until tardive dyskinesia attacked my jaw, it was always oratory for me. Since then, I've developed my pen to the near exclusion of all else in what now seems senseless: the pursuit of understanding.

For now, I'll fight the Many Armed Knight for the slumber I crave. When I wake up, I'll fight him for comfort. I hope something comes back this way before I have to fight for slumber again after tonight's battle. Tell me anything

anything

Much To My Dismay

I woke up bright and early this morning. My claws are out, and I can't escape the Choir. The Many-Armed Knight's robes flow out of creases, the spaces in between books on shelves, and the eyes of people on television. I'm gonna take more tranquilizers shortly; perhaps they'll give me the numb slumber I desire. The long, slow grind is too much for me right now.

Too Much

Tonight, the Choir and The Many-Armed Knight are too much for me. I don't want to deal with them anymore. I'm taking my meds and tranqs, a lot of tranqs. I hope to sleep numbly: I don't particularly want to deal with anything but my soon to be forgotten nightmares for a long, long time.

Second Helping

I sit in my room, alone as always. I listen to needlessly silly music, trying to pretend that this doesn't hurt. Every day, a little bit dies, and I have to cover it up. At some point, exhaustion should set in; I've listened to too much Matthew Sweet, 4 Non Blondes, and The Cranberries for me to pretend I'm not down. My claws are out, and all I can hear right now is the music and Prester Bane's little voice telling me to make it all go away. They never like to share.

Everything on this page, and on this site is copyright Thomas Jackson 2006

More Philosophy of the Monster

I know what it's like to want, feel, and yearn. However, I also know that anything resembling love cannot behold me for long. It doesn't matter who is on the other side of my affections, no one can stare into the eyes of the Monster. The Monster isn't evil, or even particularly ugly; the monster is just different. He is too different to have friends, lovers, or any company for long. He lives in the deep water of solitude, so far down that only experts and fools will try to meet him. No one can stay for long. The Monster is used to the pressure, the darkness, and the cold. Anyone hanging on would just drown. If you take the monster out of the water, he will be out of his element: the Monster can only go so far from his watery lair. Every night, he returns to the depths to sleep. Who would follow? Who would love? Who would even care? The list is short. It resembles an empty chalkboard with years of hopeful names erased and written over. If you don't believe me, when was the last time you saw my face?

Friendship is ephemeral, especially for the Monster. His infamy looms large, but who travels to see him? He's in many stories, but is he ever close at hand? He's at the bottom of his watery lair, conversing with himself because he has no one to share a moment. He can write epistles such as these, but no matter how compelling his letters become, he knows that nothing changes Monstrosity.

From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!

My ghoulish white skin, and ghostly thinning hair hang off my long, injured legs to smash the walls of my watery lair nightly. You might hear me, but you might not. Just because you hear, doesn't mean you understand. Just because you understand, doesn't mean you witness.

Hope springs eternal for fools. Is honesty a virtue? I like to think so. Why ask a question when the answer is obvious? Sometimes, we thirst for understanding among witnesses so desperately that we create ideals and ideal situations to resemble our social needs. The Monster is one of these creations. He explains phenomena, and allows for a sense of self to me. No one else is around to help define me. I'd rather not think of myself as Prester Bane and the rest of my best friends describe me, but I'm left with little choice: The Monster puts me at the center of my universe. I must make the Choir, Prester Bane, the Many Armed Knight, The Scabbard Man, The Harvester and the rest revolve around me, not turn me into a planet orbiting them in madness. There are no witnesses to me but the people who read these words. How many of you would honestly call me "friend?" The answer is in the few that bother to reach me.

No Insight

Today, I felt tired and down all day for no good reason. The weekend was ok, but I remain a bit despaired right now. I'm thinking about things I shouldn't again, but I have no insight today. I'm writing a bit; it should be ready for tomorrow.

Portage

The only book I'm carrying to New York City is a Bible, and it's not even a King James Version. It's the fewest amount of books I've traveled with in a while. I will read the Gospel of Mark during the train ride, and hopefully post a blog entry from the hotel tonight or tomorrow.

Photographs

I'm taking all photographs of me offline. Who wants to look at the monster, anyway? I'm sick and tired of it. Paul Gaugin will take my place here, and Francis Bacon will take my place over on myspace.

NYC for a few days

I'm going to New York City for a few days starting tomorrow.

Alive

Some people struggle for it. I struggle to get away without guilt or lies. My melancholy, and my sickness pile up around me. I don't want to wake up a few hours from now just to face another day in this Hell. Unfortunately, I'm given little option. I don't have anything left but pain. Pain is my life. I can't think or will my way out of it. My pain doesn't work that way. All the therapy and medication in the world can't change me. Every day is the same as the next, just add heartache and the blindingly obvious inevitabilities of living the way I do. So much of me just wants to take the bottle of tranquilizers in front of me. Truth keeps me from it: that's the only redemption I can claim. Truth is easily squandered. I cling to as much of it as I can handle. If I promise to not take that ship in the bottle through the night, I won't. Hope fights mercy, and mercy always wins. However, no matter how obvious the only solution to my problems remains, I can't seek mercy on a broken promise.

You're my corner. Help me fight or save me from more damage. I can't see out of my amber eyes any more.

Not Alone Today

I spent today with my Mom. She works for the Federal Government, and today is Colombus Day, the most worthless of all federal holidays. Even though the event is spurious, it's nice to be around other people. Mostly, I spend these days at either the gaming store, church, or totally alone. I have some other friends, but they don't call, write, or come around much. I can't get to them because the People's Republic of Maryland decided to restrict my liscense to a five mile radius around my house because of my schizophrenia. The whole state government is an association of power-hungry thugs. Anyway, if I can't get to my friends, they sure as hell won't come to me. It's disappointing, but that's my life.

Valuev

He can fight. He can't punch, but he can fight. I don't think he's hurt easily. His style is to land clubbing punches, lean on his opponent, and outlast anyone who wastes loads of energy trying to knock him out. A good boxer with a little skill could box him for twelve rounds, and win on points. No 220 lb. fighter in the world can knock Valuev out. However, he's so slow that he won't counter a sharp punch. Valuev is a sloppy fighter, but he has great stamina; he won't slow down. He throws a lot of punches for being so incredibly huge. Paper tiger? No. Definitely not. He won't be a pound for pound champ, but he doesn't have to be. Valuev's style fits his frame and his disposition: lots of jabs, rock-hard chin, and he leans hard in the clinch. Tonight, Valuev just plugged away for eleven rounds, and waited for Monte Barrett to fall from the fatigue of his ridiculous quest to throw big punches, and knock out the big Russian. Barrett landed some huge, perfect punches that did absolutely nothing. The other heavyweights should take notice: Don't try to stop him, stick and move, pile up points, and stay away from his heavy, slow punches.

Deliverance

From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!




I lurk in the water with the faceless man well acquainted with my hands. He tells me secrets, and lies, and all the things that make me. When the rest of you sleep, we're alive in the dark places, the strange places, the places where no one ventures and no one would want to. Days pass by, and still the evenings belong to us, not me.

A friendly face and a kind word help me while the Sun still shines, but when the darkness falls over me like a blanket covers a child afraid of the monsters beneath his bed, we still speak. Once, twice, or a hundred times, we have the same fears, and the same well placed barbs, deceptions, and traps for myself in my own company. Tell me why no one writes! Tell me how I can be so strong during the day, and so weak in the nocturne hours.

My best quality is genuine honesty. It's usually a virtue, but it always seems to leave me alone. I can populate the late hours with hundreds of thoughts, characters, stories and poems, but I stay trapped in a hazy solitude some would call profound. I call it water. Down here, what some call breathing, I call verse: poems and water make drowning. Drowning makes for a good witness, and a compelling trip into the depths of my lair. As I drown, I struggle. As I struggle, I watch your faces through the first few feet of water. You seem interested, and for a while, you'll help me. Then you see my long legs, ghostly eyes, ghoulish fingernails and hear the drums of my heart in the night. You let go, and look away as I sink.

Pray for a separate deliverance. I am already lost.

Dose

Right now, I'm sitting down and looking at a lethal dose. I think about it too much these days. I want a cure, and I'm prepared to take any measures necessary. Living every day with the knowledge that I will not be as much tomorrow as I was yesterday is a slow grind I'm not willing to take any more. So what should I do? Will I sleep and wake up unable to write as I do? When will I notice the end? How much more of this will you demand I endure?

On Monday night football, ESPN did PSA on a little hispanic kid who has sickle cell anemia. He endures pain and anguish that seems beyond my imagination, and he does it with a smile. I admire his toughness and his courage. My little mental boo-boo injures me constantly. I don't know if I have the right to suffer as much as I do from this struggle. If a little kid can take sickle cell, I should be able to adapt to my disease. However, I continue to think suicidally. Sometimes, I see it as the only sure cure for what ails me. Sometimes, I only halfway notice what I'm doing, and count out a lethal dose for reasons beyond me. Other times, it's pure premeditation, as it is tonight. I'd ask for help, but I know none is forthcoming. These frequent epistles frustrate me: I type more than I speak, and no amount of virtue on my part can change that. I write in near anonymity, and see only a very few options: continue in anonymity, and write until I have nothing left, or do what I wish, and leave a bit of potential over which the rest of you may speculate. With the second option, the pain ends here. With the first, I might live another fifty years in hell.

So I Saw "Dexter" on Showtime

It's a weird show. Don't let kids watch it. The story has potential, but there's not enough of it yet for me to definitively watch it or hate it. There's not much middle ground with me and art, especially TV. I liked "Six Feet Under;" it was the last TV drama I watched regularly. For comedies, I watched "The Venture Brothers," but I lost track of the second season, and I can't find it anymore. Right now, TV for me is boxing and football: football's in my blood, and good boxing is the most compelling drama around.

I think the Ice Truck Killer is Dexter's sister.