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.