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.