12.27.2020

Hello.

I’m remembering and sharing my earliest thoughts of suicidal tendency and attempt, in the hope that someone else can benefit from them.

The earliest memory was of me taking twine and tying it to the closet pole to form a loose to hang myself — at the age of 8.

I had refused to eat my eggplants that was part of the evening meal, and sent to my room until I ate them, and because I was an obstinate, stubborn child.

Of course, the eggplants got colder and even more unedibal to me.

I got as far as the loose tightening around my neck, but finally stepping back in fear.

But earlier that month, my parents were informed by my best friend’s parents that I kissed my best friend in their backyard. But that was a lie told by my best friend, (And Samuel, I have long forgiven you, and I hope you have found your way).

My parents did nothing to me, did not talk to me about the incident, or council me on the matter of sex and gender. But as I lay on the living room floor watching Saturday cartoons, feeling their eyes at my back, imagining their own fears and disappointment with me, their eldest son.

I never liked eggplants, but the kissing incident happened weeks before.

And at the age of eight, I didn’t make the connection.

So parents, unless you are KGB agents on a sleeper mission, council your children about sex, and love them no matter what.

Hard Roads to Hoe, a poem.

Three times in my life,
someone has tried to mug me,
only once did they take my money….

In ’88 I met an old friend from
elementary school,
whom after gaining my trust,
relieved of my wallet and
money, and ripping my favorite
black turtle neck.

I called the police who made
a report,
then promptly did nothing.

Years later at night
I walked those same streets,
trying to pick up dates.

But after hours of walking,
no dates
my legs cold wearing
my daisy dukes.
I came home cold and
lonely.

There used to be more gay bars,
but over the years they
closed them all,
making the neighborhoods
pretty.

Now, most gay folks
live outside of their
closets,
but the gay bars have moved
to the suburbs,
where few black people go.

I don’t miss that wallet or cash,
but I miss my bars and all
my friends whom have passed
from the plague.

But there’s no orgies….

Living alone,
I
want the touch of a
man.

But the bars are all closed,
or filled with old men
just having a drink.

They are filled qith married
couples, and no one trusts
a stranger: covid
makes everyone hide.

But are there orgies,
where everyone is certified
covid free?

I mean, just a few guys
horny and willing to
play.

But the only orgies
are in my sex
starved mind.

I never knew….a poem

Detroit,
where everyone was
econocally free
and the towers
stood proud and
free,

Where people could
work for themselves
to express their
passions,
and such worries
a silly sitcom.

Racism didn’t exist
and healthcare was
free.

HIV wasn’t heard of
because it was
cured in
the 70’s like
Polio in the 50’s.

I visited the moon
twice:
on business and
when I was
passing through
to visit a far off
colony.

The economics so
good,
that war was
old
fashioned
and the Earth is
too busy exploring
everything from
sex to fusion.

A golden green
world….

….through divine eyes…., a poem.

So, which is it?

The chicken or the egg?
Before you can observe it,
what is the state of a molecule?

Goddess knows, (or if you want, God),
She sits back and watches not
the molecule but humans
to see actions and reactions.

I know not what She sees,
I only knows She watches me,
watches us,
to see if She made us right.

I know however,
that we shouldn’t act
from our fears,
and that sometimes we barrow
Her glasses….

Enemy?

At the age 12,
I ws told by my
best friend
that I was the
antichrist.

This frightened me,
!nd made me laugh.

Frightened,
that I was evil,
and would go hell.

But I laughed,
I did several things.

Me the antichrist?
Shoot!
I couldn’t even
defend myself
against the neighborhood
bullies
the Heislers,
who made me run.

And my soul
and spirit my own….

….free….

11.19.2020

Been wondering how to help a certain fog slowly boiling in a pot of water.

When I look at the fog, it’s eyes are glazed and far off, and it appears its consciousness is not at home.

I’m the fog, along with 7.8 billion other fogs.

We work, (some of us), we starve, (again, some of us), some of us depriving other fogs of their civil rights, even their lives.

If anyone is being observant, watching trends, and places of cold and ice turns green and warm with filthy rising oceans, likely see whats coming.

However, I’m afraid I’m inadequate to the task of being a good poet or the canary in the mines.

My message?:

None of this shit is sustainable and the angle of our collapse has gone perpendicular.

But then, what else I’m going to do?

Continue writing, in the hope that I can wake up some frogs….

Beware of the food you eat….

I love

old fashioned donuts,

in a hate (love) relationship with cigarettes.

I don’t eat three
squares a day,
nor Walk nearly enough.

In arrogance,
I’m the mightiest sorcerers and
in humility so little I cannot
see

me

from eye of the
Milky Way,
It’s sight so fine,

seeing everything.

But what I see
disturbs me….

our values watered
down and dreams

made without worth.

Our science and
media knows everything
and
nothing.

But who am I to
say?

Among 7.8 billion….

Quality, poem

To die in bed
at a hundred….

…is it better even
though you really never
lived?

sleeping behind a bush
in Balboa Park or
behind a bush
on University?

Is having never fought a battle good?

Pampered Princes talking Wall Street or
suburbanites being cool not serving
while waving the flag.

….is it better when you become
a cucumber
layin’ there
since you
were 62 only to die by 90,
and all you can do is poop?

I think about death constantly,
But only mindful of living.

I will walk
into the woods,
after I’m
done….