Pot Helps pt. 35

Full of yourself or full of shit, what’s the difference? You tell me, humor me, explain the phenomenon of how I’m the crazy one for knowing how to feel or for even knowing how to spell the word ‘real’. I’m real, and in the company of Americans I taste nothing but migraine on my tongue and the breath of war is all I have to feel or have known to feel and I can’t let it go because it’s all mine; my time on the wheel, all mine. I figure that a good amount of time spent in this chair will suffice, will draw a tighter close on the blinds, will give me a winter night that not even you can try to climb because I’m inside and I’m know for sure I’m better, faster, smarter, stronger than that image of you that you try so desperately to punctuate as you write. Best stay away from me when you got your bullhorn speaking because you know damn well that I easily decipher your codes, I know how to break into your petty home, and I know how you fear and refuse to spell the word ‘alone’. Made my bones on pouring my mom’s whiskey down the drain and you pretend to call yourself a man, from here to shame, too bad, in the company of so many Americans and fluorescent lights and I have to tell myself so many times a minute that it’s not so bad: it’s all right, it’s all right, it's all right. Like I was my own support system from the beginning of this rhyme and it’s a constant struggle against my own awareness of the fact that I’m being ass-wiped across time and that it means the everything of all of everything and it doesn’t mean fucking shit all at the same time. As if your life was nothing but a .gif of your shitty job and your shitty leisure time and I have learned freedom: how to color and step outside of those lines, because I am all mine.

Pot Helps pt. 34

Crash! the smallest hint
Bang! the million scents
I’ve had a hard heart hearing
Where the old men were screaming
an apolitical nightmare of death
and memory
The way that some children can be

The way we all end up losing to see
It’s all over
How many more moments of early afternoon sunsets
can there be before it’s all over?
As I come all over;
as I be, as I am,
all over you.

It’s hard to pull out when you’re in
like a million radios singing
like a million frequencies traveling
come in,
come in.
It’s hard to pull out when you’re about to come
like a billion copies of me on the run,
just come,
just come,
just come.

Pot Helps pt. 33

I sip on wine and I chug on beer,
I puff on weed and I nibble on ears,
your ears.
Hear me dear?
Hear me coming am I coming through clear?
The shit we say and the bullshit we hear.
Oh dear,
looking at me like I was made entirely from negative fear.
Backing up your rear,
hearing the roars of tomorrow.
So much sorrow,
as we live we borrow
a
little more.
Hearing you like I wasn't lying I swear I was just trying not to snore.
I mine for life like death was my most prized ore,
and all I need is just a little more,
just a little more,
just a little more;
the sweetest of all sap.
Inside of my closed eyelids like time slows down and I’m just taking a cosmic nap.
I live in your lap.
I live in finger-plucked chords and the white noise of the ceiling fan.
I live within catacombs I built in my head and it’s about as dark as I can.
Because I can.
I can.

Pot Helps pt. 32

I travel by whale fin,
million dollar lips.
I travel and I go into tailspins,
them billion dollar hips,
billion dollar bullshit.
Milly Midwestern as we Vanilli fake this,
this American life.
All open mouths haunting, chasing me with your lies,
suicide
suicide
suicide

Watch me break all of my hand breaking down their face,
watch me get full on emptiness in my usual way.
Watch me walk away,
watch me walk away.
Watch me be one of the collectively forgotten and ignored 18 on any typical day.
Like today: someone help me,
somebody has got to pay,
some have to burn so the rest of us can stay high all day;
and where does that leave you?
who the fuck do I gut if the traitor is you?
How do I keep my blood pumping red if you fill me with blue?
will you?
will you?
will you?
or will you add a different color from the palette to your paintbrush,
if I give you a chance to start anew?

I travel by my own two feet,
a million miles underneath.
I travel and I leave.
Leaving nothing but a little heat,
and even that retreats.
Razor blade dreaming as we pretend to enjoy this,
this American life.
All open mouths haunting, chasing me with your lies,
suicide
suicide
suicide

Pot Helps pt. 31

Listen up to my fucking mouth when I got something to say
When your eyes have somewhere to be placed
When I drive,
Away.

When I shed rubber from my tires all on this road
Living like I’m never alone
Harassing your body,
Super, super stoned.

Feeling my connection to this world plucked and vibrate like a tether
With your eyes providing the weather
Learning how to be,
Forever.

Sure as hell going to carpet-bomb your skin with my hands
All day talking about blah-blah and making plans
Making me shake,
Goddamn.

Making me shake all over this crust of this here planet
Pump me full of pills and just tell me to stand it
Don't care if it was a freak accident: If I’m dead,
I've always planned it.

Weed > War

I've lost another veteran friend to overdose/suspected suicide yesterday. His name was Matt, he was a great fucking dude who got lost, or rather ABANDONED by two separate bullshit elements of this inside-out fucking society we live in that perpetuates itself by the deaths of those who can't keep up.

First: My buddy Matt did not receive an honorable discharge from the military. It's not because he spit in an officers face or sexually assaulted someone. Nor did he embezzle a large amount of money or anything actually destructive like that. My buddy Matt got kicked out of the army because he was smoking pot. And he was kicked out something like a few months before he was supposed to get out. Wow. Anyone wanna guess why my buddy Matt was smoking pot? I'll help you out if you don't seem to give a fuck. He was smoking pot to sleep, to eat, to smile, to laugh, to have a brain; all the typical 'pillars of logic' reasoning as to why anyone who suffers from PTSD, anxiety and depression would choose to consume Marijuana. I mean, we don't need to get all caught up in the factual or empirical evidence as to why marijuana is a much safer alternative to pounding your head out with alcohol or learning to get in touch with your inner fat zombie via SSRI's. With my very own personal experience regarding the situation (you know, the greatest conflict of my adult life) in mind, I would be willing to bet the actual physical existence of my penis on the fact that I am absolutely right about marijuana with regards to mental health issues.

But this is a two part issue, and because my buddy Matt didn't receive an honorable discharge he did not qualify for any veteran's benefits.

Wow. Fucking bummer, right? My buddy goes to war like the rest of us, sees fucked up shit all for the sake of a lie (that no one gives a fuck about), comes home, and in an attempt to get his head around it he smokes a little grass and now he can't get benefits. A fucking joint. Listen to what I'm saying: he smoked a little weed to get his head around the fact that this organization that sold him on 'Honor, Integrity' and a myriad of other hypocrisies lied to him straight to his face (not to mention his mother's face) and sent him to be a medic in a chaotic deployment of death and destruction and when he couldn't sleep or enjoy any element of his life he smoked some weed. Fuck.

Anyone ever heard about weed being more dangerous than war? I'm waiting for someone to bet the physical existence of their penis on the fact that weed is worse than war.

Second: Matt was kicked out of the army so he did not have the support of the VA to help him with his problems and he had to rely on his family to get him some help (counseling and such). Instead of having the VA to fall back on he had to seek help in the private sector. I don't know all the details, but what I do know is that he was seeing a private doctor with his mother's help and they gave him a prescription for 90 Xanax which he took too many of yesterday and died.

Could this have happened if he were under the care of the VA? Of course, but the VA wouldn't have been the one handing him the pills. See, at the VA they are trained to deal with patients who are two and a half times more likely to commit suicide than regular citizens. Let me repeat that so you have to read it again: two and a half times more likely to commit suicide than regular citizens. So at the VA they wouldn't just drop a half ton of benzodiazepines into your lap and expect you to take care of yourself, because they understand the risks involved.

But in the world of for-profit health care, who gives a fuck right?

So in the end my buddy Matt is dead because of these two backwards, destructive, illogical, repressive and highly evil elements of our culture: the fucking psychotic, psychotic, psychotic, PSYCHOTIC notion that war is more acceptable than personal drug use and a health care system that exists solely for profit instead of the well being of its participants.

Bullshit.

-For Matt, miss ya buddy.
(fyrp!)

Pot Helps pt. 30 (Pot Helps)

Torture. Being in one place and constantly wanting to move, hating it, feeling it way too much and feeling like maybe I should just stand up for another second but that doesn’t help and if I sip another bit of this hot tea I may burn myself again forcing one more neuron to explode. Explode. When you really let yourself go to feel, you also have to take on a few burdens which seem unlikely but if you knew anything about protons and electrons you know you can’t have your cake and eat it too. Just eat, it keeps you alive but over time the free radicals created in the chemical process eventually kill you. They kill you. Imagine that, get your head around it. To live you must die. To live you must ingest food that sustains you but in the end, the years of chemically breaking down proteins and all that shit kills you, causes you to age, deteriorate; not too mention if you spent a good number of years like I have eating the processed garbage they serve here at most places in my wonderful country that I, me and many others have had the privilege of growing up in but not understanding, then shit. Like every shit you ever took was just another leaf falling from your tree, as if I could cut you in half and count your rings, the number of times you stuffed some pile of calories in your face and went to sleep.

Because where I’m at here I’m just keeping track of the rhythm. Doing some counting, it helps. For every time I nod to the rhythm there is a moment when I don’t. Because I can’t. I can’t be in two places in once and if you figure that simple thing out you got yourself a one-way ticket to pure love.

There is simplicity in the road and I can’t really make you see it. It’s down there where the sky is overcast with a 10 am gray, and our passing moves the leaves, a morning’s awakening that wasn’t too hard, a bit of matted hair and the day begins with a damn good shit and a hot shower and a kiss on the cheek.

Love. Where we were when we felt that we were already there, before and now. Like sea turtles to the ocean. Like wildfires. Like a good long moment in the sun with both eyes closed. Like falling. Like dreaming.

Like breathing. Like trying to tell yourself that if you just breathe a bit and try to calm yourself down then it will work magic like it does for a headache but as soon as you sit it down and start breathing you are all like, ‘Okay holy fuck I can’t sit here’ and then you get up thinking that, okay maybe if I move in to the next room I can find something to do to take my mind off things and then as soon as you’re there you are all like, “Okay, fuck this” and it’s almost as if you are stuck between planes, inter-dimensional, like you are a 3-D movie without the glasses on, a living ghost, and man you want nothing more than to just be kicked straight in your stupid clam fucking face and be put out for a week or two, break all that shit, you don’t give a fuck, it’s gotta be better than having the total sum of your existence making you feel like the trapped air in one giant case of subcutaneous emphysema. Fucking torture.

And I need a liberation that will piece me back to place. Something to take the tensioned chaos back to outer space, where I can and will make my own place, where I’m just a mosaic constellation vision of my former face and constantly revisited by the tears of my childhood from when I first heard the phrase:

‘Dear God, make me a bird, so I can fly far, far away.’

Pot Helps pt. 29

Trying to touch the sky
every time
feeling up with hands
and feeling fine
feeling myself dying and at the same time
being alive
feeling, well, alright
feeling like I want to buy you
a sandwich and a sprite
is that okay or even just like
close to being a little alright?
listen to me smile
cant you feel me, like
being so, like
fucking right?
you know, with me wanting to be
everyone's light
my falsetto tenderness that only when I lay down in the weather and leaves of fall
I can provide
help me hide
help me gut these fucking traitors tonight
help me chase em all down and teach em the law of fire
the law of Nof
the law of getting you off
the law of leaving dust and not caring about it all
leaving you sore
the law of mystery eyes and minor chords
always wanting more
the way I can touch you with my vocal cords
and how you can't even help but to be all like standing up and shivering talking about how
it makes you love me
that much more.

Pot Helps pt. 28

I have to breath in and out
in and out
in and out
doubt
climbing like I could see the sky
and I always see your hand held out
help me out
help me down
help me turn this car around
cause I need to make it go fast
make it go forward
need to force our cells to feel the g-forces
cars, not horses
with four wheels in motion
body pillow emotions like a sprawling dark ocean
or like the oil in the gulf
howling like a wolf
because of this iron grip
oh please
don't let go of this hand or even let it slip
or add to my fucking doubt
forcing me to sit down
and breath
in/out
in/out
in/out

Pot Helps pt. 27

I left it in the South
where down there everyone is an open mouth
And I wouldn’t have had to feel this way up to and including now,
no, now
If my tires weren't going ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round
to the inside sound,
and the outside sights,
To the way we can’t help how we are all always bathed in light, even at night
and
Out here on those American highways with names that always end in a zero or five
I was adding miles, subtracting time,
feeling finally alive for once in a lifetime,
feeling like I could have screamed your name to stop time,
and live in four-bar measures that do nothing but repeat your eyes.

Because I don’t need shit, as long as I got my weed and my wine,
you fucking goons might as well be dying the way you live your lives
Always on the try, reach, achieve,
never on the do.
Always on the ‘this is what they say I am’
and not the ‘who am I, who are you?’
And I’m not about to label all the things that make me down and out,
war, family, friendship, money and doubt,
Not going to gather and organize my pouts.
Not going to stop and listen so you can tell me what life is all about,
because I’m the ugly mouth, the afterlife scout,
the one your mothers should have but didn’t know how to warn you about.
the one who pays no attention to the mongering, stuffing, spitting, open mouths,
the one who says:
When death comes, I’m out.

Pot Helps pt. 26

Perhaps you noticed I don't just go along, to go along
I feel its wrong
I feel it the same way that I feel songs
the way I feel what's wrong
like a perfect ass in a thong, hid beneath sweatpants
I could rant,
I could rave,
I could make you dance
I could make you wonder about the stars in the sky and what happens when you die
I could make you dance
But I don't give a fuck about that,
only about that big ole butt in them sweatpants
oh man
making me go "oh man"
like I just made a mess in my pants
What the fuck
and who the fuck
and where the fuck do I get some peace?
Can I get some non-attention from beasts?
Thinkin' I want to cancel my body's lease.
And I will.
I've lost all possibility of thrills
you wouldn't even know what it's like at all
until,
out of the periphery you see that big ole butt in them sweatpants
and you can't even lift your head,
let alone dance.

Pot Helps pt. 25

Mom?

Yes

Mom, I need you to use better punctuation with me please. Prove to me you want to be here.

Ok.

Mom?

Yes?

That is better.

Why am I here?

I brought you here.

Why?

Because I miss you.

Oh, well-

And because I hear this song 'Hunger Strike' and I think of things like the early 90's, your time, our time, when we lived in the cabin over summer and fashion was the way it was back then and I was a stupid ball of flesh and you would rock the stereo all day and the Van Morrison and Black Crowes stopped up in there in my brain somewhere back then and dropped off a little beacon that activates when I hear them again and it causes me to think of things like....like..., I guess it's just nostalgia.

That was a long time ago.

I know. But it isn't really, because I swear when the ringing timbre of a guitar or vocal melody punctures me in a way I feel for certain that I can look into and around and I can feel it around me somewhere like I'm in a chair blindfolded and it's some freshly cut, open orange being waved around my head in orbit and I know it's there for certain because it just is, because it's there, but the problem is I want to take a grand carnivorous bite out of all of it and to finally feel it all at once the death and the life OF IT ALL and the pure nasolacrimal emotion OF IT ALL, the pure, pineal orgasm of it and I just can't and the best I can get is one fleeting citrus whiff of it all around me and it's just too much sometimes because it's almost a huge letdown if not for it coming around again and again and teasing me and sucking me in to ponder and waste time wondering about it thinking about isolating things like death and such and getting all fucking confused about it and guessing myself up and down a fucking wall and the worst part is when I do get a good whiff of that citrus, light-filled emotion my first reaction is that I should write about it.

Wait a minute,-

But when I go to write it all down it's not there because it's like, how do you digest a whiff of something?

Hmm.

I have no idea what I'm doing.

Is any of this real?

Unfortunately no. You are dead and I'm trying to fill voids with poetry and musings. And dialogue about how I ressurected you, on page, in order to find out what you know about what it is that drives me nuts day after day and what forces me to do the poetry and musings and dialogue.

Hmm

And if I can't even breathe enough life into to give you punctuation then what the fuck can I even do anyways?

You can die

I can write.

Pot Helps pt. 24 (When the Lights Go Off)

There he stood next to the vehicle while she laid against the passenger window, soaking up the last remaining minutes of sleep she were allowed before her turn at the wheel.

As he gave her more time, moving to the rear of the vehicle to open and remove one of the remaining plastic 10-gallon gasoline containers from the blanketed trunk and use it to top off the gas tank which has fallen to half-full since the last stop taken to rest the car and to empty bowels.

She's awake, smoking one of her last remaining cigarettes, standing next to him as he stretches his hamstrings on the shoulder of the road, she complaining to no end about her level of energy and him having to maintain all levels of awareness and tidiness since their departure for the both of them, for the most part, as a look of disgust crosses his map as he faces opposite to her in order to stretch his lower back, the pain of which has no desire to depart.

As he worries about what may happen having her behind the wheel as he tries to sleep off a 12-hour long straight drive, going over what could be very dangerous scenarios involving him the sleeping passenger and her the soft, potential victim to whomever decides to make her one.

Deciding instead to instruct her to sleep some more, appearing as the noble gentleman looking for a place to stop so 'we can both get some quality rest together in the tent,' as he contemplate what challenges lie ahead in the grey, unpromising future heading towards the mountains of the northwest.

Not totally understanding the events leading to the packing of the thirty-aught-six, whatever food possible, clothing, blankets and gasoline for a trip out west, other than something about the Straight of Hormuz, oil price linked to the American Dollar and what he heard to be called the inevitable collapse of the world economy.

A lot of friends have died because of recent world events that he didn't fully understand.

And yet here she sleeps, unshaken and still acting entitled as if this were all just a slight hiccup in her destiny of leisure and critiquing leisure.

As he watched his former love oversleep, and his faith in love boil away and bubble over into something more resembling a total desire to prove his survivability.

Rendering that which he controlled, the vehicle and their futures, to turn down a side road in order to find a place suitable for the vehicle and them to rest, out of sight from the larger roads in case some sort of marauding crew decides to pirate their gas and food.

New lives of which they have had no contact or knowledge of the events in the outside world for the last 6 days, spent in hiatus at the cabin waiting for his family which never showed, worrying about complacency, and deciding to round up the post-apoc materials gathered there the previous year by his veteran father, a wonderful man of outdoor nature who had no fear of coming death and taught his children the same, taking the goods that at the time had more worth than any offshore account, strapping into the vehicle and riding off west almost exactly 13 hours ago, heading for a land with an even more sporadic population density than that of the lonely Minnesota cabin frequented by his aging father in previously known peaceful home front years.

As he took another turn, off the side road, onto a gravel crop-access road formerly used by farmers, the kind with the two dirt paths for tires with grass in the middle, finding a quiet spot hidden among a jut of trees seemingly planted years ago to separate the farmer's fields and turning off the vehicle, awakening her.

As she immediately opened the door to smoke another cigarette, probably assuming they had driven for another few hours instead of twenty minutes.

And he, deciding then and there that he could most certainly drive another two or maybe at least 4 hours away from where he was going to leave this nuisance, here on the ground, increasing his share of the remaining food supply by two, having no concrete plan but at least having conviction, like a cold front that's already here, moving about the trees pretending as if he was looking for something useful as she succumbed to her own laziness yet again and sat on the hood of the car finishing her cigarette and remaining silent, as he presents from the brush of the jut of trees with one thick branch, approaching the car, keeping his head down to maintain the notion of tiredness, raising his head slowly to ask her if she could reach in the vehicle and grab a lighter out of his jacket, waiting for her to do so and positioning himself opposite the passenger side car door which she was using to enter the vehicle, she turning around with a lighter in her hand as he timed the swing of the tree branch perfectly, striking her head with a precision that will have to be counted as damn good timing and luck, most likely hard to come by in these post-whatever times, hearing simultaneously a thud and a cracking sound, as she flop to the ground next to the vehicle, which was now clicking as it cooled off, as he brought the branch up and down upon her head several more times, feeling both rage and compassion, wanting her dead quickly to limit any chance for pain, or confusion and hatred towards him, her former lover, feeling burned, feeling hate, wondering what America really was, or is, as the money in his wallet began to take on its previous value from the week prior and his lights came back on at home.

Pot Helps pt. 23

During seven years past of a war that left more marks on my heart than my skin it tanned and movies made of such inaccuracies, marginalizing experiences; as far as I’m concerned it’s all total crap, taking me out of context yet one more time and again if only because you can’t encompass my context what with that culture injected tiny little brain and how it is that I can be alive and well here on one total American summer Sunday with yet to receive a phone call from my disenchanted disenfranchised disemboweled family that squirt me out like they couldn’t even see like a little bit into the future and yet here I am alive and well even after one dead rotting dog stuffed with explosives was meant to kill me and I knew very well then that day hoping to go home for two weeks of rest and relaxation to those people and yet I wonder what sort of disemboweled phrases would come out of the mouths of those people who decided they wanted me until I was around like I was some sort of appetizer that they thought maybe sounded like a good idea until it showed up in front of their faces and they really could smell it now and what it brought with it and here I am about to be more than accomplished than the whole fucking lot of you and you can’t even smell the nuclear war yet what a fucking shame on you as I trip slowly towards the past reclaiming all that’s mine like this face this body this mind this planet all of this time.

Pot Helps pt. 22

Could you ever have had to believe where it was when I was not just a victim but here I am and I can keep going don't you feel like daring me you don't even know me you thought you knew me you didn't know that I could climb up on second story ledges and run on my feet a lot faster than you and you were like holy shit how the fuck did he get so fast on his feet and I've got a majority of my body weight right here, HERE, in my thighs and man I would not want to be some unknowing corner-crosser meeting the full force here of my right leg, the business end of it, because I could probably collapse a few chests or so like when I imagine how uneven it would be for me to fight like your girlfriend or something because really I'm not a violent person or anything but man I can't help to size people up most of the time and what really kills me is to think of things I would never want to happen for REAL except if it was like in some sort of matrix virtual reality world where I could fight a roomful of punks of 12 years of age without having to be the most hated man in America after someone had found out I was picking kids up by their feet and swinging them like how an Olympic athlete would do the hammer throw only because when I thought of it at home by myself I literally L.aughed O.ut L.oud at the whole concept and that's what I do I think of these awkwardly violent yet funny things to keep me from getting violent on myself because one of my very last vestiges of peace is when I'm filling up my water glass and I have a real good hearty 'HA!' out loud to the empty apartment and, myself.

Hate Mail pt. 1 (pilot)

-------- Original Message --------
Subject: what are you fukcing stupid?
Date: 27 Jul 2010 22:31:08
From: Bill Bilhou
To: frank

You dumb drab fucking shithead goon. You are nothing more than a mustached Guido fuck with a potbelly under a pro wrestling t shirt that just screams ‘please will someone please butt fuck me with a fire hydrant?’ If it weren’t for this stupid fucking ankle bracelet and the fact that my sister thinks she likes you and your bogus hair lip sweaty face bullshit I would be over there in a fucking hummingbird’s heartbeat to rip your kidneys out with my grandma’s favorite oven mitts. Next time you drive by this house go ahead and give me that canine smile and see how long it takes before someone has to call an ambulance in order to take you to the hospital so all the experienced ER staff there can stand around wondering how exactly it is you have a manhole cover where your guts used to be. Try me motherfucker.

Pot Helps pt. 21

You only say you can't imagine pure nothing because you can imagine everything but you don't and the worst part is you don't even realize you can imagine everything in the first place because we just follow the ball which causes us to be broken down and forget things that we once felt like all those pins in needles in our legs when we were a bit new at the game and also thought that we could see through objects that were up close when we couldn't understand right then and there the power of having two forward eyes for viewing.

Because I've been to places where I shoplifted to get a girl and places where I couldn't suck the air into my lungs fast enough and I've drank more glasses of water than I've had mornings where I woke up with a positive attitude and that don't mean a fucking thing except that I have a bit more appreciation for when a bona fide positive attitude comes around or at least that is the excuse I give so people will get off my fucking back because I couldn't even tell you where I stop or if I already have.

So I'm going to do what I do best is make a to-do list and cross some things off and get to put the cap on my pen for one more day so I can stand up not without a stiffness in my back but in a better attitude with which to receive it as I finally make my first trip of the day outside only to cross [5. Exercise] off my list as I run past the small gathering outside that one fucking restaurant and one of the patrons applauds what he believes to be rocks in my backpack as I run, carrying myself and the extra weight up on back towards my lovely hole I found for myself here near our small but suitable coast, carved out of a dying empire, constantly brainstorming gun-laden plans for defending myself against what seems to be an eventual mudslide towards economic collapse and the regrettable military style reactions that everyone should but doesn't and only me a handful of my paisanos worry about.

As I sit here wearing the loose cyan pants worn by our father on the night of your birth in a hospital, as I slept unknowingly in my basement catacomb at a ripe and shaky 13 years of age, the same shaky age at which you find yourself now, these pants littered with lounged days and depressed sighs, piss stains from a lazily shaken dick and depleted cups of tea and water, the same pants I took with me on one return trip to a desert country I could have lived without seeing again and which I could only imagine what immensities and possibilities regarding which you may or may not be curious to think about concerning me and the life you have come to realize is quite unlike what you ever may have even imagined before. And for some reason I’m sorry.

Because I will say here what I will most likely say many times hereafter about how I feel most like some sort of burnt out nerve ending, sent to occupy an earthly mass like a pinpoint between the dynamics of palm-faced, shaking-head fantods and smoke billowing apathy and to come up with no sum short of that I’m just a bit tired and could use a coma or something to recharge because I’m running on low and I’m fucking sick of having to keep my droopy, exhausted gaze upon convincing myself to keep this earthly mass for like a week or two more and to do so I have to imagine a not too distant futures filled with hand to mouth survival and basic righteousness of which I will shine like a motherfucking supernova because then it really will be a level playing field unlike what you were born into and accept without question or curiosity and I seem to have a nuclear powered radar for and am just fucking sick of having to absorb the suffering you choose not to see because you allowed your culture to turn off your radar for you.

And all the while I'm oh so nasolacrimal-ly sorry.

Pot Helps pt. 20

I refuse with grace the corrupt philter from your RGB eyes
I despise
Naifs and Fops, all of whom counter my cries
and they often win
with few syllables
rejecting any notion of peace or goodwill as sin
and too voluble
but I am unshaken,
a cosmopolite of deaths and awakenings,
sometimes stuck,
the dynamic is amazing,
because I maintain a Chthonic mind full of both peace and hating.
so patiently waiting, smelling the view
a summer day's clarity which might prove to be too good to be true,
to change the brainwashing message you send with your three eyes:
the Red, Green and Blue.

Pot Helps pt. 19

YOU KNOW WHAT
HOW ABOUT FUCK YOU
HOW ABOUT YOU HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE
WHAT WITH YOUR BANDANNAS AND SHADES AND BROWN BOTTLED SOCIAL LUBRICANT GLUE,
FUCK YOU
AND CONDESCENDING TO ME WHILE YOU'RE THE ONE WITH CAPRI PANTS ON
I COULDN'T HELP BUT JUGGLE MY LAUGHTER WITH A PUNCH OF YOUR FACE,
OR YOUR MOTHER'S FACE THAT I ALWAYS JUST RECENTLY CAME ON
CAUSE I DON'T DROP BOMBS
I CARPET BOMB
I GET INSIDE YOUR HEAD AND STAB YOUR THOUGHTS WITH SHIT-TIPPED SPEARS
LIKE THE UNDEFEATED VIETCONG
ASKING ME WHAT'S WRONG
LIKE YOU NEED SOME SORT OF AN EXPLANATION
I SEE DEBT SLAVERY SO CLEAR WE MIGHT AS WELL BE ON THE MOTHERFUCKING PLANTATION
WE GOT A LITTLE RAIN AND YOU COULDN'T HAVE WAITED
TO PUT US ON PAR WITH THOSE POOR DEAD HAITIANS
TWISTED FUCKING RELATIONS IN THE YEAR TWENTY TEN
AND YOU'RE AT IT AGAIN
LIVING FOR THOSE ADVERTISING MESSAGES JAMMED ALL THE WAY DOWN IN YOUR HEAD
AND YOU DO WHAT THEY TELL YOU TO DO NOW THEN AND NEXT
FEAR DEATH
OR ANYTHING THAT CAUSES YOU TO SLOW DOWN HOW YOU SPEND
BECAUSE IT'S ALL FUCKING MADE UP
LIKE THE WORDS THAT COME FROM THE LAVA OF MY GUT
AND THE INFLATED THINGS YOU'LL PROBABLY WANT TO SAY
AFTER YOU HEAR ABOUT MY WRIST
THAT GOT CUT

so get fucked.

Pot Helps pt. 18 (Sun-Soaked)

It's when I'm mid-west’d and sun-soaked, just going through the motions, when I can hear as clear as the shore water is after the sun breaks from the clouds and shines its justice through the murky brown, children's laughter, soon to be stifled children's laughter, my very own two half-cousins’ laughter and when I lay in a loft, dreaming of revelatory goodness and of grandparent's hugs and familial respect I let go of one more optimistic inflated balloon and peek out of the window nestled in a triangle to watch it soar. I am in here. Like when I was one part of one hundred thousand, a cog dipped in khaki clothing, crammed into a chartered jet to hear an intercommunication system used with disenchantment to praise the zeitgeist of military action with the power of magnetic coils and pulses of either light or electricity, pulses that inform us we are to feel proud; that the mileage-laden attendants of such a voyage towards perhaps certain death have informed me that they are at the first and very least grateful for our eventual ascension to becoming ghosts of uncertain death in the name of a now two-hundred-plus year old emptiness known as freedom, but if you were like me and translated what was coming out of those electric-powered magnetic coils you would hear: ‘I'm just glad it isn't me.’ Like when it's what might as well be one hundred thousand years later and I'm sun-soaked in the back of a car listening to, but not absorbing, constipated appraisals of my survival made to sound empathetic if only to put on a costume and act a certain way, the same approach they take to parenting when they do their best to assemble psyches for the purpose of willfully joining slavery, what with their contrasting use of negative and positive reinforcement that now justifies with perversion their stifling of the children's laughter, the only damn thing those kids have left.

Pot Helps pt. 17

Because I slouch in this chair
horribly positioned,
horribly sweaty,
hoping for inspiration
and never getting any.
Devouring pages but feeling no sustenance,
hopelessness.
Missing my mother but never showing it,
blatant.
Like when they told me that blood was red but I found out it wasn't
and could I even begin to tell you,
the real you,
what it means to me to be experienced in American war,
graduated with honors in horror,
what it means to understand the complexities of our helplessness
and the pragmatic, willful submission to our lords.
And it allows you to ask me,
why my blood isn't a lighter shade of red,
because it's darkened
with pollution when it visits my horror-filled head.

Pot Helps pt. 16 (Things are ok as of now)

There's a spot that
might
not be there anymore tonight
where
I was reading this afternoon and
where gravity,
and my earthly mass,
made a trampled spot in the grass
where I was reading and basking and
where the smell of the waves and coast
made me think about other forms of being
like death,
maybe you call it being a ghost,
and sometimes my breath
is rapid and indicative
of someone in a life mess
but as much as I fret and pull my hair
I'm not really there
nor do I care
because one day I'll get to be a ghost,
just a memory,
like that trampled mass
of grass
I left down there near the coast.

Pot Helps pt. 15

People that say 'I love you' out loud don't really mean it at all because,
they just want other people to hear it!

Because true love is in the eyeballs. It's in sweat.
it's in those moments you almost died!

And those moments you dance with yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
simply because there are no other suitable partners!

America is one big ole giant house with 2 1/2 bathrooms for one person,
and the notion that no insects, birds or rodents are allowed to share the same space!

America is calling yourself an artist because you want to emulate the notoriety
of previous artists, and definitely not the
one thing that made them artists in the first place: suffering in the real world!

America is watching those who like to call themselves artists get notoriety because
their only artistic talent was to inflate their worth. Tragedies are always the best stories!

And those moments when you want to cut yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
don't forget that you are my only suitable partner!

Because true love is what made me my mother's son, what made me an artist:
the moments I was suffering in the real world!

People that say 'I love you' out loud don't really mean it at all because,
they just want you to say it back to them!

Pot Helps pt. 14

What is it where, in the death pleasure of my life mess
Like the finest bleached white couldn't make me feel new or clean
The best,
know how to be cruel and choose to not know it, it seems.

What's just an acronym to you is a bit more to me than just GAD or PTSD
Until you're juggling with whether or not to be a Felo de se
Don't talk to me,
because sometimes I feel like there are a million of me in my way.

You know I'm the most qualified to whisper in your ear
Because I'm no stranger to bullets, bombs and guns
Eschatological fears,
I just won't be finished loving you until I'm done.

One of these days I'm going to get me some lasting peace
Until then it's all I've ever known; square peg/round hole.
The deceased,
know more about life than you could ever know.

Pot Helps pt. 13

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Pot Helps pt. 12 (Summer Heat)

I've assembled quite a collection of music over the years
but it's not enough
I must compete.
With your coloring outside of the lines that drives me wild with
apathy and timidity.
Earth quaking my 200lbs of meat.
Like when I'm suffering from acute acataphasia in
my computer chair.
Because there's a world out there.
Like when my tires pound the street.
and there's heat
and life
and
a desire to care.

I've wished secretly that we were kids again
if it weren't enough
but I must compete.
With the spectra I can and cannot see, so I feel
valid and complete.
The stinging anxiety of an apocalypse dream.
Like when I'm all nasolacrimal thinking about
that Iraqi sunshine.
Because someday I too will have to die.
Like I wanted to when I was your bel esprit.
and there was heat
and life
and
my open eyes.

Pot Helps pt. 11

"After he followed me around the corner and then inside the entrance I knew it was going to be him. It was just perfect because he was exactly the type of person I wanted to do this to. He wasn't really following me but I was just making careful decisions and going the way that I hoped he was heading because I wanted to size him up first and at this point I'm just really hoping he makes his way up that first flight of stairs because if he does that then I know exactly where he's going.

"So I make my way to the top of the bi-level open staircase and just watch him casually like I'm out of breath as he actually takes a minute to either catch his breath and pretend to check his phone or just check his phone.

"During this time I'm getting really anxious because I don't have much time left, on a small scale and large scale, and I want to do this before the air of the act's necessity takes off.

"So I'm sitting up there thinking 'He's not coming up.. he's waiting for someone down here... maybe he doesn't really know his way around..,' etc. And then he makes a quick phone call and I'm brainstorming on what other violent acts I could commit but of course anything short of what I planned would feel like some huge appeasement to this world, this life, this disease, etc.

"And then he gets off the phone, flips it shut and makes his way towards the stairs and all my anxieties slip away and are replaced by good ole' stomach nerves, because at this point I know he's not making his way down any other hall then the one I had planned to use because he didn't have on one of those blue polo shirts that indicate you have business elsewhere besides the residential tower.

"And so I casually stroll to about 20ft inside the hallway so in case there were any random people that decided to show up at 11pm they would have 20ft of distance to skew their view of the perpetrator.

"Waiting there, I felt like De Niro from Godfather II, stalking Don Fanucci.

"So he comes around the corner and I'm dicking around with my shoes like I'm tying them and I'm realizing how stupid and cliché it is to pretend to tie your shoes as he makes it near me and gives me this fucking eye. This fucking look like 'who the fuck ties their shoes anymore..?' or some other 'I want to be alienated but somehow also be so-with-it, hippie, hipster, American, being anti-bourgeois but amazingly bourgeois in the process' fucking look which was all I needed to swallow my nerves and hop up.

"And then I watched his look of manufactured disgust turn to confusion and fear as I swept in like a stiff breeze on a Pacific coast cliff and snagged him up around his right shoulder and neck and turned him so his back was facing the eastern wall of the hallway, which was the side with the tinted windows facing the courtyard, and gave out a small little roar or yell or 'umph!' or something as I pushed him towards the window and as soon as I got some good footing, I launch this 'look at me, I have vinyls' fuck through the .5 inches of single paned window wall and send him crashing onto the grass courtyard on the other side. The glass was insanely loud and I knew I had to get out of there fast but first I made sure he wasn't cut anywhere that was real bad and could potentially kill him but thankfully he was all right minus the whole 'just got transported through glass' shock of it all.

"I was worried that the remaining shards on the lower half of the window would get him but what probably saved him was that he had jeans on, like every other one of the goons that dresses like this moron did, even though it was like fucking 102 that day in AZ.

"When I lived there a lot of people used to complain that that hallway was always too hot and cold and I knew it was because that glass was real thin, which is why I picked that particular place. And I'm sure if that fool could ever think of anything outside of his greasy head he would be thankful it wasn't double-paned.

"I couldn't have asked for anything better than that because I did it and got out of there and made it to my lawyer's bar just in time to sign my DNR."

Pot Helps pt. 10 ([some sort of] Edging)

Dear son,

I always just assumed it was just my own kind of, I dunno, weird obsession with savoring the best part. Like when I was a kid if I were at a restaurant with my family or something I would always save the favorite part of my meal for the end and everyone would be looking at me in my 7-14 year old body thinking I hated chicken or something because you know I would get [some sort of] a pasta thing with chicken in it or something like that and I would pick around the chicken because growing up I loved chicken a shitload and I had this almost problem with even enjoying the things I love because of that awful paradox of having the things you love physically in front of you along with the future enjoyment they bring and actually enjoying them which meant of course you no longer had the prospect of future enjoyment because they were no longer physically in front of you.

So I just figured it was proprietary to me because of the aforementioned chicken bullshit. And so during my 'sessions' I would get myself closer and closer and closer and every time I'd hold off, right at the last minute. I think the best way to describe it would be if you had [some sort of] physiological control of you're sneezing and you just kept tickling yourself and going to the point where you knew you had to get ready to shut your eyes because you're getting ready to do your thing and then stopping the whole process and starting from step one, the tickling.

At first the motivation was to just hold off on the best part until I eye-fucked and pseudo-fucked every single one of those nude women in that 1993 issue of Penthouse Magazine buried deep in the large Tupperware box that contained my father's hunting paraphernalia of which I had to return to the exact position that I found it in so I could pretend that I was still wholesome even though now later in life I realize that no matter how sneaky I was when borrowing and returning the 'hunting reading material' that my father already knew damn well that I was doing crazy, exploratory things to my body after he had gone to bed at night regardless of any evidence of tampering with his Tupperware box, because once you get to adulthood you realize all the clamor and self-righteousness about touching yourself is unwarranted because, fuck, everyone needs to get off and everybody does. Or should.

And I thought maybe I was doing some sort of damage to myself getting so close like that and then holding back like maybe I would mess up the wiring between my nut sack and my bladder but shit here it is now like almost ** years later and I still occasionally practice it and I'm all good. And also once I started having sex with actual girls I realized that holding off on the fireworks was a major part of the game in order to not look like you suck at your biologically commissioned ultimate life-task unless you were comfortably drunk or something, or you totally disrespected the girl and you could have your way with her ignorant pussy and the whole feeling superior thing would allow you the confidence to either hold off on the 'Junk Shot' or if you did it right away who gives a fuck because she's a dumb slut anyway, right?

And so the funniest part of all of this is that I could never for the life of me think of a word to describe this particular activity. I mean, sometimes I would just sit there befuddled and try to come up with [some sort of] a trendy or clever description of what I was doing and as much time as I spent on trying to come up with some title I was also trying to find out if there was already some well-known post-adolescent title that I just haven't heard yet and needed in my vocabulary.

It's crazy to realize the kind of personal nostalgic and historical significance of pretty much giving up on believing there is even a term for such sort of activity, and then having what turns out to be the best friend you've ever had in the worst and best times of your life telling you a story about this girl he knew who, when jacking off some dude, liked to stop right before the recipient of her hand job 'cycled out' or 'came his fucking bones out.' Whatever you want to call it.

He told me,
that she told him,
that she called it 'Edging.'

So way back somewhere around 2001-2005 I finally had a name for it, but now I was even more perplexed as to how this woman knew when to pull back from her hand job routine and maybe do something like slap the guy in the face or turn on any sort of CBS sitcom in order to stop him from releasing his cum-volcano. Like, was she good at it? She had to be, if she gave it a name. I couldn't even come up with a name for it and it's not like I was that great at 'edging' myself because sometimes I still slipped up and completed when it wasn't my intention of doing so.

So I'm sure the question that's burning inside of you right now is:

"Will practicing 'Edging' give me more 'stamina' in bed?"

The answer is: No.

All that stamina shit is in your head, and it's all about confidence, like I mentioned earlier. Having to think or not think about your ability to perform in bed with a sexual partner is just one of the many drawbacks of being a *FUCK,EAT,SLEEP* kind of creature that also has to manage these goddamn complex emotions and if you also have the burden of being one of these 'hyper-aware, where does it all and I fit' type of individuals, which you very well may be having my genes and all, well then you need to learn (and learn fucking fast) to get in touch with that *FUCK,EAT,SLEEP,AND CONQUER!* side of you so you can go about pounding ignorant pussy without automatically visualizing yourself as a sexual failure before you even get a chance to be reckless and talk dirty or spank an ass or two. Or 45.

Sincerely,
dad.

Pot Helps pt. 9

I guess what probably happens is that when it comes around it has some sort of electromagnetic pulse thing that diverts all my inspirational musings and other assorted bullshit into just those thoughts that some people label dark but I bet it's part of some larger worldly plan for myself that I can't see just yet or maybe I'm just hoping that that's what it is.

Or do I care? I don't know.

Because it's like when it's around I care and I don't care at the same time and I try and try to explain the benefits of apathy to someone because inside somewhere it's telling me that apathy is also hard work at the same time because you have to to be thinking about it or something and at the same time I'm confused as hell because when the cloud is around and I'm thinking about this stuff there are those moments where I'm all "I Get it!" and as soon as I have that emphatic exclamatory moment, I mean like the second I have it, I'm receding back into confusion and I have this like, economic cycle of thought because the instant I reach my 'peak' of awareness of whatever it is this cloud is trying to teach me, I'm already in a recession, then down to a trough and about 4-6 weeks later I get to another sort of 'peak' and I don't really know or I am not fully aware of whether or not I'm actually learning something with all these peaks of awareness, or what I think is awareness, or if I'm just getting more and more confused and maybe that's the cloud's purpose because of course it does give me those thoughts that of course I am not supposed to be talking about otherwise you may all get uncomfortable but it is something I think about often and don't really have anyone to talk about it with because they may get the impression that I am trying to hurt myself, which I'm not.

Well, I guess the biggest problem with the cloud, oh and you can't see this cloud, I guess it's just some weak absolute metaphor to call whatever it is that occurs every 4-6 weeks a 'cloud' because I bet as soon as I called it that you imagined a dark rain cloud. Please disregard that imagery and just imagine it as 'clouds of thought' or 'winds of thought.'

Right, well the biggest problem is probably in feeling completely genuine and at the same exact time feeling like I'm this worthless piece of non-inspirational cannon fodder and I'm thinking it wouldn't be so bad if I was just one day feeling like a P.O.S. and the next feeling genuine because then maybe I'd be better at discerning between what I produce as being 'genuine works' or 'expendable works mostly done for practice and if nothing else just to keep my brain in shape,' I guess. But see when that cloud is around, and again please try to abolish any imagery of rain clouds from your head when I refer to it as that and of course the coincidental hilarity of all this is that at this exact moment a storm front is moving in and I'm wondering if this is a part of my 'thought clouds' timing to enact a rain storm the minute I am trying to explain to you that these 'thought clouds' are not in fact rain clouds. Regardless, what sucks about it the most is that when those two conflicting beliefs about how confident I feel collide, the negative seems to have an even more profound impact because the 'feeling like I'm this worthless piece of non-inspirational cannon fodder' mood probably totally leaks into the 'feeling completely genuine' mood and makes me feel even more worthless because now I'm questioning whether or not those feelings of being genuine are actually genuine at all and it's not just my own stupid human chemicals moving around, and that maybe those chemicals are just some bullshit biological barrier from keeping every single person from being totally consumed by their 'thought clouds' and running a steak knife through their wrist to counter the hyper-awareness.

Again, no.

Pot Helps pt. 8

Bullshit,
Bullshit,
bullishit,
bulloishit,
bulloilshit,
oilshit,
oil.
Hypocritical, computer-screen-staring, alcoholic American;
Like chewing on tin foil.

Day: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,
11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19

,
20,21,22,23,24,25,26,27,28,29,
30,31,32,33,34,35,36,37,38,39,
Forty.*

This doesn't affect me, concern me, it's boring me.
Like when I'm thinking of my autonomy.
Like those dog v. cat ideologies.
Like when I'm mucking in my own gulf of oil and sweat,
Bring me death.
If you can,
Not some bogus 'Top Kill, Top Hat' method of suffocation,
(Who made the decision that labeled chaos as an aberration?)
I am all sensations.
And if you want to kill me fast and now,
You gotta stuff some dynamite or nuclear weapons in my hole and,
KAPLOW! Oh WOW!
No more 25,000 gallons-a-day of bullshit coming out of my mouth.



*They've had 40 days to blow up and collapse the well and have dragged us around by our limp-dick, post-Bush, post-Obama-is-just-a-Wall-Street-puppet, ponytail wearing, pussy-ass liberalism while proposing all these comical and elementary solutions to this spill, because all they see is MONEY spilling out of that well and the only methods they will EVEN CONSIDER are the methods that allow them to retrieve the oil. And while they dick around and shrug like they have no idea how to stop this they will provide a 24 hour live footage feed (a mile under the ocean's surface (with proper lighting)) of the catastrophe. Footage they use to do nothing more than what I perceive as spitting in our face as they act like they have no idea how to collapse a reservoir leak with demolitions, or how to ask someone else to do it for them.

Or maybe not?



some reading

Pot Helps pt. 7 (army friday)

0600hrs: 1st wake-up/re-sleep.
0610hrs: 2nd wake-up/re-sleep.
0615hrs: 3rd wake-up coupled with bathroom usage and 4 minutes of bed rest.
0620hrs: Depart room and make way to first formation.
0630hrs-0724hrs: Physical Training - Company 'Fun' Run.
0724-0735hrs: 'Bullshitting' with peers.
0735-0755hrs: CNN viewing/internet browsing while waiting for turn with bathroom.
0755-0812hrs: Bathroom (shower, empty colon, teeth maintenance, assurance of facial continuity, etc..)
0812-0845hrs: Dining Facility Breakfast
0845-0855hrs: Running around trying to find 2nd formation because we (my roommate/hetero-life mate and I) neglected to secure information regarding 2nd formation.
0855hrs-0913hrs: 2nd formation (AKA Taking fucking forever to be told information you have already known for just about the whole week OR information you don't even need to know while in a rectangle of people all standing with legs shoulder width apart and both hands thumb-clasped in the small of the back(aka lower back))
0914-0914hrs: Obligatory post-formation Nof joke.
0914-1126hrs: Pretending to do work.*
1126-1202hrs: Lunch (most likely not a DFAC meal considering it's only been like, what? 3 hours since you had that hearty pre-weekend breakfast and you might as well just make a sandwich from the groceries you got last weekend so you don't feel bad about buying food and not eating it).
1202-1248hrs: Counting the minutes until you have to return to work.
1250-1255hrs: Return to work.
1300hrs: Platoon leadership: 'Good News Everyone! We have nothing more to do for the day!'
1301hrs: Questions raised by platoon members about probability of 'getting out of work' early in response to information received addressing the lack of work available for the remainder of the work day.
1302hrs: Platoon leadership: 'Um, Just hold on one minute let me check with 1SG.'
1303-1303hrs: Obligatory Nof joke.
1303hrs - 1522hrs: Work-day purgatory-(the sitting around, rock-paper-scissors, cynical jokes, random bullshit tasks meant to give the idea that we DO have stuff to do, freecell on a laptop, text messaging and then finally being told 'Ok everyone, safety briefing is at 1600 so you can go but you must be back here by then. Matter of fact I want everyone back here at 1550 SHARP.')
1523hrs - 1545hrs: Might as well just go back to the room and enjoy the 67 degree air because we don't give a fuck we ain't paying the bills and it's humid as fuck here in GA.
1545-1615hrs: Waiting for this FUCKING FORMATION. LET'S GO.
1615 - 1644hrs: Do you realize we are standing in the sun as you go on, and on, and on, and on about the same fucking thing? - AKA Safety briefing.
1645hrs: Pick a cool song to blast on your radio while peeling out of the parking lot.
1645-1735hrs: Spontaneous game of FIFA04 with random barracks peer while wearing stripped down version of army uniform.
1735-1808hrs- Planning/Alcohol Purchasing.
1815hrs-1829hrs - Shower.
1830 - 0215hrs - Drunk. (There are too many non-significant and embarrassing events taking place during these hours that it isn't necessary to record them)
0215hrs - 0300hrs: Destruction of Exit Signs/Fire Extinguishers.
0300-?: Sleep.



* - AKA Shamming. Stay tuned for forthcoming piece regarding Sham.

Pot Helps pt. 6 (The Ocean)

I guess I'm real sick of opening this box and seeing that


fucking pair of brass knuckles you purchased outside of Orlando at the liquor store that sold bullshit Absinthe which you bought anyway for $49.95 and tasted like fucking JP-4 and the way


you successfully broke my Mom's ex-boyfriend's maxilla in two separate but equally painful places and also probably took out a good portion of his front and upper teeth specifically the


central and lateral incisors and maybe even the canines, the teeth you call your fangs, like we had used to pretend we were vampires when we were child-like in 2006 swimming the carpet with a head of acid and tossing a knife across


the room to each other and now all I do is sit around and cash checks and flip through my 12 various News and Weather stations that I acquired with the purchase of the ATT U-Verse U450 TV Package and I sit in this room attempting to not get mad at or involved with


the bullshit zeitgeist of which I submit myself to everyday like I'm sitting in some boat in the middle of the ocean of ping-ponging-American-political-pundit-scaremongering-bullshit and the boat purposefully has a tiny hole in it to allow at least a good part of the ocean(1) in over time so I have to reach

for my bucket and physically scoop and put the bullshit(2) back in the ocean(3) where it belongs and it's not just the ocean or the bucket or the boat but the whole thing of it all combined that I seem to like or fall into doing over and over easily and I'm sending these


brass knuckles back to you because I cleaned them and now I need you to pleasantly surprise me and break my face.



Footnotes:
1- (of bullshit)

2- (from the ocean)

3- (of bullshit)

Pot Helps pt. 5

A significant amount of my canary yellow, b12-enriched piss in your mouth...






































































































































































































































Who's laughing now?

Pot Helps pt. 3

"I got my complaint back from the Department of Creations and Existences."
"..."
"Remember? Filed that complaint way back in, well shit, 2005CE?"
"..."
"...I didn't even know they operated anymore. Guess so, they sent me this message!"
"..."
"..."
"..."
"This is my favorite part, listen...'We've received your LIFE complaint and have found that neither logical nor ethically suitable measures can be implemented to satisfy your grievance(s) OR the grievance(s) has/have been previously satisfied through the already all-known Amalgamation."
"..."
"They even sent me a pamphlet of information on the nano-life/cancer relationship! I don't think I've seen one of these since right before non-recorded time. Not a clue as to how long ago that was."
"..."
"I wrote in complaining that all human life was inherently fraudulent because, back then, some whatever hundreds or thousands or millions of years ago, being a human meant you were at the top of the food chain from birth, no matter what."
"..."
"But I suppose, that was indeed solved by the Amalgamation."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"I also filed another complaint the same time as the other one, jokingly asking for a bigger dick."
"..."
"This one just says..."We've received your ANATOMY complaint and have found that the grievance(s) has/have been previously satisfied through the already all-known Amalgamation."
"..."
"..heh"
"..."
"Hey, are you all right? You aren't talking much."

Pot Helps pt. 2

Oh lord hear me,
that I am the counterpoint of a 'juvenile' teen,
a raped and abused, left to die in the system that is supposed to rehabilitate me. Fiend
Fuck
U
C
K
Me
E.

Now let's take a moment to be perfectly honest,
what will you do without your post-apocalyptic,
uguggleeyy mouthed messiah,
your American-sponsored illegal war pariah,
the shotgun-seated free styling poetic beat crusher, birth-named Ryan?
A monster.
N-zero-F
'OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!!'
Mountains of evidence proving that you will not be able to halt my advance. Smokey breath.
I HAVE ALREADY DEATH.

Oh lord hear me,
that I am the reason black holes exist.
the only feasible answer the universe can produce to counter the fire my eyes emit.
I swallow star shit.

My domination: annealed.
Cant
A
N
T
Stop
T
O
P
Me
E.

Pot Helps pt. 1

What it is is that basket full of laundry,
two-day old outfit,
slept in lived in.
That consistent nagging persistent bullshit of the television's advertising bullhorn mouthpiece
and my pissed pants.
The stiff frozen putty feel of my lower back
and my crashed up mashed up teeth.
Shaking my head to the n-o-n-s-e-n-s-e;
spell it out with me:
n-o-n-s-e-n-s-e.
Aaahhh fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me.

What it is is that snow-raped muddy trash ground,
the last remnants of my baby fat still sticking around,
forever of sound,
wasting money wasting time wasting money wasting
time.
What you didn't create,
you shouldn't define.
So stop telling me about this American life of mine.
Got no time for money, business, religion, police, peace, bumper stickers or corporate crime,
just time.
Because what it is is a book I've yet to write,
a death I've yet to die;
meeting up with my past breaths in the sky,
gratefully living a terrifyingly naked and humble life.

Haiti

I am deathly poor with a seven point zero,
The bloody t-shirt I wear features hand me down American heroes,
I am barely a number, barely a zero.

Rubble, rubble everywhere, and not a drop to drink,
Most of you wouldn't even drink from my pre-earthquake sink.
The soft whispers of death, are louder than you think.

God must not love his Caribbean Roman Catholics,
Collapsing the west's poorest country, his illogical mathematics.
Meanwhile banks take record profits; capitalist antics.

The stench of the stench of bodies, and death lives.
A one year celebration on the Hudson, a whopping 155 lived,
And here in the Caribbean, 50,000+ graves we dig.

We interrupt this coverage, for politically charged ads,
And return to a solitary daughter lost in rubble, and one camera loving dad.
American lives are not worth more than those digging up bodies with Haitian hands.

I'm just dermis and calcium, feather on air,
An exoskeleton of concrete dust, I'm barely there,
The octogenarian of pain, lost the ability to care.

An eight hundred millionaire, arguing for a pathetic half hour,
While I'm rescued from darkness, claustrophobia and silence after 50+ hours.
There is no god, there is sorrow.

We must warn you of the intensity of these death filled images,
Keep that reality blindfold on your fat faced kids.
Our developed lives will never be like this, so don't think-of-it.

The deepest black hole in space has to compete with a mass grave.
Resorting to civil war medicine and the limbs that it takes.
Is this sympathy or apathy that I have made?

I can't imagine any future, in this recently quaked head,
In a world where abandoning god is easier than abandoning debt.
I know that without any god, I'll still receive peace in death.