Depression-spell Meditation

Give me the time to sit and think on how amazing and discouraging life honestly is.
Life, the coin.  I feel the 50/50 probabilities in each moment I am conscious.
What comes to mind is the deep dark chthonic cave I throughly desire to retreat to in order to hide from my wicked mind.  That way I can rest fully and adequately.  When can I return to the top half of the mandala and fight the dragon and her little beasts with my full strength and skill.
To prove to them all I can live hard and fight hard.
The Voices tell me:
No one in the world gets what they want and that is beautiful, 
Everybody dies frustrated and sad and that is beautiful. 

My personal Tara keeps me positive and content in the stupor life is.
Without her, I cannot work well with others.
discover with the beauty found in the mud ridden filth of this world.
Reside within the beauty and solely learn to cope with the rest.





Reference to They Might Be Giants as the Voices

The Pipe Dream

To live out in th' hudo*
Away from the hustle and bustle of the city.
That's where my body and soul can be at peace.

Even if I get stained with grit and stinged with sweat,
It will be real living and my body will need it.

To live out on th' mountainside,
Away from people and their vanity.
To work long days fielding and climbing,
That's where I need to stay.



*Hudo is countryside in Mongolian

Birdhouse in your Soul

I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

I have a secret to tell
From my electrical well
It's a simple message and I'm leaving out the whistles and bells
So the room must listen to me
Filibuster vigilantly
My name is blue canary one note* spelled l-i-t-e
My story's infinite
Like the Longines Symphonette it doesn't rest

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am

There's a picture opposite me
Of my primitive ancestry
Which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free
Though I respect that a lot
I'd be fired if that were my job
After killing Jason off and countless screaming Argonauts
Bluebird of friendliness
Like guardian angels its always near

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

(and while you're at it
Keep the nightlight on inside the
Birdhouse in your soul)

Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch (and while you're at it)
Who watches over you (keep the nightlight on inside the)
Make a little birdhouse in your soul (birdhouse in your soul)

Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch (and while you're at it)
Who watches over you (keep the nightlight on inside the)
Make a little birdhouse in your soul (birdhouse in your soul)

Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

Suggesta-pervia

Let's learn English
Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
My teacher good.
He come from America.
He likes me lots and I think he good teacher.
He plays music for class and comfy chairs are.
Let us rest sometimes and waits when we are ready for learning.
He's good and nice teacher.
He let me come to him home and we talked English and we played games.
It was fun.

Desert/Dessert (Memory Poem)

Flat barren desolation before me,
Alone at last at the location of droughts and snake bites.
Take in the serenity.
Cherish it.
Love it.
Very good, until I catch the loneliness bug and start a conversation with a cactus
Or a chuckwalla lizard.
That's the sign of un-sanity and dehydration.
Didn't you bring the water? 
Damn!  Wrong spelling.
I guess just keep moving till you collapse and die.
I'm sure your body will be taken care of properly
And with respect for the dead.
Most people fear those incorrectly buried-
That's how ghosts and ghouls are born.

The World of Men never seem to learn fully-like myself-
Since many mistakes are constantly redone.
Maybe they don't.
I just like to compare myself to everything,
Being vain does that to you.
You just keep moving.
Each time I stop, it takes more and more energy to move on again;
Be that with women, poetry, school, or looking for a job.
I just get tired way to easily,
Frighteningly easily,
But the voice of reason tells me, "You must keep going on and move constantly".
So I will,
Even though my wrist is killing me and my eyes are drooping.
I'll still move on and suffer as the stoic.
That's my life,
Or at least how I believe it to be.

And then I double, triple, and quadruple check my grammar
Because I can't remember how to use a ; correctly anymore.
Or what a dangling participle is.
I toss and turn in bed over trifles:
How to get the picture up with no wire,
How to masturbate without my roommate finding out.
But thinkings as of these is the cause of brain fry.
I can't work properly with a burnt and warped mind,
But all I do is reminisce on the on the
Dumb and Serendipitous events of my life and jot them down,
Thinking I'll be the Kafka of the 21st Century.
Or the next David Kirby who thinks of himself as the new Keats.
What does that make me then?
And that's my erroneous and sporadic writing style.
Keeps going on and on and on and on and going on and on
Annoyingly continuous and ridiculously never ending.
It's a way to write poems according to Mr. Kirby.
And now I've written to the point of I might as well just keep going.
Unfortunately, I've been hypnotized to fall asleep by the sounds of trains.

The Vigil/Pittard Hybrid

I've always felt torn between the two extremities. My father's side of the family is extremely republican and right minded, while my mother's family is all about the arts and intellectual superiority of the individual.

I unfortunately have swings of both sides embedded deep within me. At times I will be totally ignorant and apathetic about a subject and mission while other times I am incredibly creative, artistic, and in love with the world of art, literature, myth, and religion

I for some reason cannot be one or the other, but part of each spectrum.

That is who I am, the dualistic creature of two very dissimilar genetic parts

Love, Your Son

I talk to you only when I need something.

Did I give up on our relationship?

Why can’t it be like when I was younger?

Those were easier times.

Now I’ve grown a little,

And that screwed up everything.

Yet you still come back to me with 

Open arms and more love than before.

Why? I don’t deserve your love.

You still smother me with yourself anyway.

I locked you in a box and ran away.

Am I ashamed of you?  No, but stay away from me.

In the distance I hear your scratching 

And see your attempted escape back to me.

“Stay Away!” I yell.  “Don’t bother with me”

You still smother me with love.

Why do I resist?  
Teach me to accept and love you truthfully.

Love,

Your son

The Ole

He wakes with aches and pains, with no comfort.

As the slug moves, so does he, quiet and unearthy.

Moving his whole to the morning routine, wishing

To be in the Past, he sobs.

The soundless air is interrupted by television news—

The worst kind.  Ignoring the politics and plane crashes,

He imagines fields of sunflowers, green grass, and 

Large oak Trees for sitting and swinging;

Chasing lizards, with the sister, he laughs honestly.

He is most sincere at this mental moment.  

Then like death, he enters the depression-filled jail cell,

But instead of traditional cylinders, there is only the

Open Exit he cannot reach; he cannot move

He is strapped down and confined to the chair, 

Not mentally, emotionally.

Is there Hope?  Or do you believe in the finale?

Goodbye then.  Good luck to you in the next life.

I will remember and tell others of you.

When I Want to Retreat to the Past

When I want to retreat to the past, back into the ancient of days,

I think of my pagan grandfathers who lived the family life under a bower.

To go back into naked nature feels free;

where we live in Eden and Cain actually loves his neighbor,

and peace on earth is not a mad man’s philosophy.

I wish to go to the lea and take my right of passage test I strongly desire.

My state of becoming is almost complete.

Stay on target, no negativity.

The voice of a braggart tells me all good things must come to an end—Damn, I was so close to the center that time.

Now, prep for the drop of excitement; the greenness has lost its novice 

and will now grow wrinkles.

“Wave goodbye to the nice tree”, says dad smirking.

I am off to an isolated hotel room in the Bronx.

Here I am taught to live in fear of the unknown, a.k.a. the frantics 

who knocked down a monument of freedom.

Goodbye chthonic nature.  

Hello cunning industry creeping slowly to the center of the page.  

I see you brought your friends: hatred, discomfort, perversity, lust, exhaustion, speeding tickets, rebels, & weak aesthetics.  

Come on in and usurp my home.  Once you’re done, could you 

leave false motivation and apathy with me?  

Please?  They’re both so houseless and dependant on me, 

and I could really use a parasite for my brain.

Well, I lost it,

nothing to do but wait until the weekend for an erroneously acute rebirth.

Through your Father’s eyes

You come into the world, confused and bewildered.

Your father holds you up for the first time.

You grow to learn the good from the bad.

Growing and learning, he sees you.

As a young child he teaches you the ways of the world,

The differences, the conflicts, how refrigerators work.

He teaches, you learn

Growing and learning, he sees you.

Life goes on and you realize that your relationship

with your father is not how it was.

But he still watches over you.

Growing and learning, he sees you.

You grow to be a young man and move far away from him.

You think life is good now that you’re free.

But occasionally you feel incomplete.

Growing and learning, he still sees you.

He will always be with you,

Because if he did it right

Some of him will be in you

Growing and learning, he will always see you through his eyes.

Monday June 17, 2013

I hate the feeling of worthlessness.  

Most people don’t see how insignificant and worthless they really are.  They hide under masks: religion, vanity, fast food, and other fallacies of the world created by human kind.

Life is so misunderstood by all.  All the philosophies of the earth probably don’t come close to the Truth.

Immobility is the root of my depression.  Having no purpose and fear of failure prolongs the dark emotion.  

Life Un-Renewable T. Earl Pittard

LIFE UN-RENEWABLE by T. Earl Pittard

Somewhere along the course of living’s events,

There comes a chance to repent – even to ‘start again.’

Yet, items often can’t rearrange –

Discards of personal change –

Requires more drastic effort to rearrange;

‘Junk' put away for the facing of the current (even) arriving Day;

Still, sometimes facing that ‘crucible;’

There is Life Un-renewable for the price of simply moving on.

One Post (The Vinyl Picket Fence)

Fence from Toronto.
One post grounded for breaking.
Now I'm popular.

Once the first post is carefully shoved into the hole I made, I'll be on my way to popularity and fame.
All will oooh and aaah when the sight of my Canadian Fence catches their eye.
They chose right with advertising to a famed select few; the group I belong to.
Looking will be free, but pictures $7, and physical touching $15.
The neighbors will privately scream with envy and wives jogging past will request from their husbands to get the same--causing a humongous trifle in the domestic paradise.

YES! I have the most beautiful kingdom with this fence.
The most secure and private area; no one will know what happens on the inside
They will wonder and want the same thing.  To be safe within the home and no worries of petty burglary and theft.
The magic of the Vinyl Fence of the Great North protects and inspires beauty.
Love and respect the magic the Picket Fence creates.

Poem for May 6, 2013

Cell phone swindlers talk me up.
All they do is screw over the general public for a percentage.
They leave us with a ticking time bomb of hatred and regret.
I am the rube of all rubes,
The king of the chumps.
Giving me another reason to question my life and my choices.
I guess I'll just find a night flight to flee.

Loneliness and Hormones

My most passionate romantic entanglement began with loneliness and hormones,
but it ended with a loss of the horniness and the alone part stayed.
The proof of my ass hole-ness stained and stenched my whole self.
Baths and showers can't wash it away.

I wept like sandstone seeped with ocean amounts of water packed inside,
just waiting to break apart and crumble.


The world held up a mirror to me and all I saw was Fuck 'n Run
(even having my genitals set on fire didn't give me a full epiphany-- I began to ignore it more loudly as time did what it does best.  Luckily fires have a tendency to burn out with time).

I always saw it as the world is not with us, but I see now that we are not with the world.
And now I see that I have become the pre-wedding boyfriend.
Nothing ever stays with me because I don't let it,
deep down, I may not want it to.

Thoughts and Quotes

You are free, therefore you are lost is written on my bathroom wall

I receive only drips of the existential theory, but mostly the angst.

Shakespeare shares his wine with the transvestites and pagan gods,

But as soon as moon is bright and clear, the real sides of Venetians arise.

A Poem Found in my Corner of Cyberspace

How can you make me describe my green natural friend?

I don’t believe I can, but I’ll try—and I’ll use small words.

She’s real and grateful, and confident to the end,

She swims with the sea and flies with the blue sky birds.

She enjoys spontaneity yet plans the restrictions of the daily

I cannot explain why or why not.

I am the nervous wreck and the impartial mind compared to her

Leave me be, 

How I long for one day I will return to her and we will live 

As the real social norm has instructed us—marriage, pets, children, white picket fences.

Knowing myself only a little, the final act will be devastating on my soul

And the rain clouds will laugh in triumph during their mighty roar.

Set your mind at warp level 10

Have you ever lost your favorite pen,
then go on an excessive beer binge filled with rage and personality?
Then wake up in the fog of the mother of all hangovers,
forced to go to work where you are rushed to hurry up and wait.
And you never actually finish the job assigned to you,
just abandon it.
Then come back home to an empty room with no response
to your question you posed to the current love interest.
Depression, it's subjective and bores you to death with expenses.

Poem on February 24, 2013

Lost in the digital world again,
Blinded by cute smiles and curves.
I'm drawn in by the tractor beam,
No amount of self-control will stop it,

Unless you journey to the outdoor world
And see the physical creation of the Universal Creator.
Move your feet and see the beauty.

Poem for 10/10/12

I have no concentration on the things that matter.
I can't even read David Kirby poems without the technological distraction or impatience.
I've allowed the impatience to move into my mind, to loose my perspective and cause slow downfall.
I could blame it on ADD or just ignore it,
As I so often do.
But then it'll just come up and bite me on the ass when I least expect it.

Nothing will get done then,
Productivity down to zero,
And I will be the cause of worry to my family.

But there are moments I play a vinyl album to calm down my constant pase-ing,
And just listen to the pure unaltered songs of the Dead,
"There is a road, some lonesome highway...that is for my steps alone".
Why always alone?  Why can't I walk with someone I adore or admire?

My paths never seem to go anywhere.
Perhaps that's the reason why I go alone,
Seems much more stoic.

A Possible Rebellion

I'm trapped between the digital and the analogue world.
Stuck between them, more like it.
At times I fight the progression of technology by ignoring new fads, phones, and pads.
I fight the desire of making things easier, because sometimes
I like the old fashioned way--let nostalgia take over.

Each morning at the dawn (plus or minus),
The LED screens call out to me, to entrance me, and enslave me.
I fall into their grasp and die a small amount each day.

The worst are the days I don't swing the pendulum to the analogue side:
The side with printed text on paper cut from trees or making a meal over a fire stove.
The wise man said to me, "If you stare at a problem for long enough and you can figure it out"
(One should be able to anyway, not sure about the ones born after me).
Those days of staying on the bottom half, where I just lay in bed half the day
And eat as the farm pigs do: anything in my way.

Most of the time I must force myself to the hardworking side.
A voice tells me to force it until it becomes second nature,
Until it becomes the natural physical response to the digital world,
A possible rebellion.