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