The world is such a wonderful place.

Jamie hugged his savior for the evening close, breathing deeply the sweet scent of his cologne, hoping some may rub off on him. The weight of the man’s arm around his shoulders shielded the cold, the man’s voice warmed his heart. For this brief moment he was in another place. Human contact a catalyst to a dimension he often forgot existed.

Taken to Jersey, to his mother’s arms, 1985. Comfort, safety, and innocence in those years. Nigh forgotten times, dream-like times, memories of those times lined in a rainbowesk light. Food and warmth and love all in surplus, taken for granted. Where had it all gone?

The man’s arm slid down and away as he patted Jamie’s back; the retrospective shattered. As the man slid three dollars into Jamie’s hand the memories remained in the past, but the feelings from that era long past were fresh in heart. Warmth, love, overtook him. With perhaps a bit too much pace and yearning in his shaky voice, he spoke through the crisp winter air, “Thank you, if you see me ’round don’t be a stranga. Thank you, please, you my friend, you my friend man.” The man smiled at Jamie, he’d heard the sincerity; he reveled in it for a moment, tipped his hat, and walked away.

Jamie walked to the gas station and bought some hot chocolate and a 40 of OE, he pocketed some deli meat turkey too.  He’d figured out over the years that if he bought some things while he stole it usually turned out okay.  On his way out the Timex from the lost & found beeped midnight, he hurried back across the street to the abandoned motel shed where he’d stayed for months.   He burst in through the rusty hole in the back siding to be immediately enveloped by a sea of arms, embraces warm and snug; by his kids; by their love; by Thanksgiving.

Catalytic love,
Cataclysmic lives,
When they come together,
Everyone thrives.

The Story of Ray Sin Boe, Shirley, Lonnie, Thomas, AMLXIIIIIII, and Maryanne.

Pastel yellow shone from his coffee stained teeth and the gaudy overhead lamp alike. Love was in the air, a mist and a tide swept through the restaurant engulfing all whose hearts still kept rhythm with the clock. He smiled at a young girl, barely able to keep her wild disheveled gaze from his deepest part. Penetrating eyes all around, he felt them and he loved them and he despised them.

Voices and echoes consumed his mind, haunting any semblance of a thought and scaring it back to the recesses, to sanity. With the grace of an illiterate giant of old, he mumbled and shook with frustration, with guilt, with shame. Feeling suddenly and outrageously out of place was nothing new for him, it was part of him. Part of his condition. Today a loving condition, returned by none.

Dejected, he paid quietly and left the shady establishment, walking holding hands with pocket knives and gumballs. Pink gumballs from a shiny new machine on the corner of 9th and Wallace, they only ever had pink ones. The gumballs were for Shirley. The pocket knife was for him.

At Straight Avenue he stopped in to the cigar and coffee shop, bought the most expensive he could find, and continued on his way. The streetlights were his only beacon on this night, cars were empty and houses were burnt out. It had been a long week for the world, and for Ray Sin Boe it was no exception. He had had enough. He would give Shirley the gumballs and laugh as she tried to chew and the gum got stuck to her gums and she growled and panted in simultaneous frustration and delight; then he would carve a nice new name for himself in the stairwell. He would echo his new name for all to hear.

And no one will hear.  If they hear, no one will listen. It’s been 42 years, and tens of hundreds of names, and no one will listen.

The next morning was a fine morning.  Rain pattered hard down the aluminum siding of the shack, and the sun shone through the clouds and a mist arose and it was golden. He awoke to this beautiful sight and then fixed his glazed, sleepy eyes upon a stray mail piece that had landed upon his stoop. It was fresh, the ink had barely run, and it said Lonnie Sharp.

Lonnie Sharp was a psychotherapist and a card shark. He solved problems and made money and made problems and lost money. It’s what he did, and it was a rush and it was satisfying, he loved it. Nobody else loved him for it, but that didn’t matter to Lonnie.

And so a new man lived on, Lonnie Sin Boe. He was a caring man, this new Lonnie. He held the door open for strangers, and lit women’s cigarettes, and always practiced his manners in hopes that one day he may need to use them. Lonnie claimed to have met many fine people in his day, but never the one. He had no fortune to tell of, and his only stories were those of his past. He had no ambition except to be proper and a gentleman, and he had no one to share this selflessness with, except Shirley. She got a lot of pink gumballs.  It’s no surprise he never met the one.

Lonnie did however meet a very young man named Thomas one day as he wheeled his grocery basket past the park. Thomas’s mom never liked him talking to strangers but Thomas wanted to make an exception because he thought he saw kindness in Lonnie’s eyes.  Lonnie was interested in Thomas and Thomas didn’t have any friends, it was a good relationship for both of them.  Thomas was 5. Lonnie gave Thomas all of Shirley’s gumballs that day, and so he had a friend. With this friend came new material, and new hope.  Thomas would tell Lonnie everything about his day at school and about how Lucille from the playground was a bully to him, but Thomas would comfort the child and tell him to look on the bright side since he was already 5 and he was still alive.  It was good.

Lonnie decided to tell everyone that Thomas was his long lost uncle, which made not a lick of sense to anyone but Lonnie, but no one knew Thomas was 5 and no one ever met Thomas so this was quite alright. Lonnie had a friend and someone to speak of to anyone that would listen. Shirley would listen and was very patient with Lonnie, who would haphazardly repeat the same story over and over, trying to find the right tone of voice, the right edge so as not to frighten away any potential with his awkward approach. For a long while, Shirley was the only one.

It would remain that way until, on the way to the cafe that Lonnie had been to a week ago as Ray, he was hit by a speeding taxi and broke his femur in three places and received a concussion. It was excruciatingly painful, and he remembered his name and much else when his life flashed before his eyes. Albert Murdock Lawson XIIIIIII, son of a wealthy hedge fund manager and a nurse, abandoned at age 3, homeless and developing an intensely unhealthy case of paranoid schizophrenia and multiple personality disorder since. Maryanne found him on the sidewalk, the taxi hadn’t stopped.  She smiled a wild toothy grin, her face was brazen and beautiful, and she was smitten from first glance into Albert Murdock’s eyes.

He told her everything, was an extraordinary gentleman for awhile, and they fell in love.

Amber

Sunrays leap through glimmering amber-speckled eyes,
Enchantingly beautiful, intricate, they’re infinite,
Reflected trees falling, dancing amidst your ridges,
Playfully exploring the magical landscape of Iris,
A forest in your eyes, late-Autumn-deep-brown,
I could explore for eternity your arbor,
Touching ever tree’s bark, as if to leave a mark,
While knowing the foolishness of such a thought,
Exploring anyway, enjoying the journey,
Sacred meadows and mountains, seared to my soul,
In amber.

Poetry reading: Amber

Trans

sucking it in spewing it out
come waves and words and love and chords
singing and believing can complete me
but that Past ghost he keeps on lying
he lies all day but I never know
you tell me he lies though

confused all day then all through the night
sleep and wake and shake with doubt
want to live free and live to see it all
patience drunk sways but i can’t see her
she’s about to fall and i can’t know
she can’t go oh no

life’s sweet candy coated in the bitter
frustration at not knowing His thoughts
trying anyway and failing forever
for eternity, feel your way around
blind as a man with no eyes
blind in faith and love and life

put fuel only on His fire
save none for your own desire
his fire will quell your desire
if you listen if you listen
his fire can quell desire
i’m full of desire

hours and crying and wiping the mind
surrender sweet in the early morn
taking everything in, spitting it out
fragmented vomited words stolen
stolen from everyone but me
from whom there’s nothing to steal

amalgamated love and thoughts and fears
living inside everyone else for 23 years
empty so empty except for this love
selfless love comes easy but shows hard
showings hard, it’s not who i was
i must fight who i was every minute
of every hour

for you
and for Him

On Obama and Socialism

Apparently there’s quite the internet buzz going on about this 2001 audiotape (transcript below) from Obama:

“If you look at the victories and failures of the civil rights movement and its litigation strategy in the court, I think where it succeeded was to invest formal rights in previously dispossessed people, so that now I would have the right to vote. I would now be able to sit at the lunch counter and order as long as I could pay for it, I’d be o.k. But, the Supreme Court never ventured into the issues of redistribution of wealth, and of more basic issues such as political and economic justice in society. To that extent, as radical as I think people try to characterize the Warren Court, it wasn’t that radical. It didn’t break free from the essential constraints that were placed by the founding fathers in the Constitution, at least as its been interpreted and Warren Court interpreted in the same way, that generally the Constitution is a charter of negative liberties. Says what the states can’t do to you. Says what the Federal government can’t do to you, but doesn’t say what the Federal government or State government must do on your behalf, and that hasn’t shifted and one of the, I think, tragedies of the civil rights movement was, um, because the civil rights movement became so court focused I think there was a tendency to lose track of the political and community organizing and activities on the ground that are able to put together the actual coalition of powers through which you bring about redistributive change. In some ways we still suffer from that.”

tl;dr: Obama is a socialist?

Wikipedia: Socialism refers to a broad set of economic theories of social organization advocating state or collective ownership and administration of the means of production and distribution of goods, and the creation of an egalitarian society.

(egalitarian: a political doctrine that holds that all people should be treated as equals and have the same political, economic, social, and civil rights.)
[we’re already 3/4ths the way there, and it’s pretty nice isn’t it? But I digress…)

I hate politics, so many people are saying ‘Obama this,’ ‘McCain that’ these days that I almost just don’t want to get involved. This is ridiculous though. Now, what Obama said in the 2001 interview actually reflects the goal of his current tax plan quite well in my opinion, but some redistribution of wealth is not equal to socialism. If Obama is elected, I’m almost positive no one reading this will even have to pay any extra taxes while he is in office. If by some wonder some person making more than $250,000 (or is it $200,000, I don’t know, whatever) is reading this, you will still have your own money to “make you happy” (ugh) and I guarantee that you absolutely will not die by helping out the less fortunate a little more. If anything, feel better about yourself.

If you’re not a proponent of welfare (or, insert any other form of redistribution of wealth), so be it. But please humor me: Even if 99 out of 100 people abuse welfare, could you be happy if one legitimate American was able to “make it” because of your marginal donation? That’s a terrible success rate if you do the numbers, but numbers really shouldn’t apply when we’re talking about human lives. What if, in an ideal world, you could meet that one legitimate person? Would you not feel a surge of pride? Would you not do it again?  Don’t kid yourself.

Don’t fall into the trap of thinking closed-mindedly, thinking that welfare equates only to homeless people stealing your money. Be a little more selfless, a little more creative, have an abstract thought or two, and be okay with the fact that the good you do doesn’t necessarily always come and pat you on the back afterward.

It’ll be good for you.

Socialist government has never really worked, the US is not going to become China (socialist market economy) anytime soon, that’s laughable. Obama is not a socialist, he has very clearly (as far as politicians go) laid out what he wants to do with this country in the debates, at no time did he ever say he wants to remove from America the idea of personal wealth and have it completely redistributed.   Completely redistributed so that everyone in the United States of America has the same “…economic…rights.” That’s a ridiculous exaggeration, wonder what’s next…

Related video on moral differences between liberals and conservatives (learn to think outside the box a bit): http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/jonathan_haidt_on_the_moral_mind.html

comments welcome. discussion’s good.

live, flow.

don’t you breathe or it’ll break,
whispy silk linens crossing,

and please don’t stare or it’ll run,
silhouette black cat stalking,

don’t give in, it’ll come,
glorious time will always come,

anger and love will always come,
time honored, the stable ones,

hey don’t stand, you know you’ll fall,
legs too weak from years of running,

but don’t you stay or you’ll cry,
sights so high after years of dreaming,

if you cry you can change,
expand your mind, leave fear behind,

if you want we can go,
leave behind the past and live,

flow.

golden baby

you want to be held, baby,
like mother holds child,
high, the golden boy esteem,
you want to be held,
just to escape.

you want to be loved baby,
love seeps, fills your holes,
your black soul – poison sapping,
you want to be loved,
to leave it all.

you want to be hurt baby,
hurt like in your dreams,
brutal, battered, alive and well,
you want to be hurt,
just to feel again.

you want to give up, baby,
you always give up,
think about yourself baby,
it’s time to grow up,
it’s time to grow up, babe,
it’s time to walk tall,
it’s no time to hide baby,
no time at all.

before the morning coffee

photonic glory comes through the sheets and turns the wheel, starting a fit of celluloscopic momentum.

a maladapting cobweb of ideas unfurls, imperfect and impervious all the same.

writhing and twisting and fighting, an indifferent consciousness halfwakens.

immediately, love, the giant synergistic organism, consummates; taking hold of the weak synaptic mirage and conquering mercily.

it relegates relunctantly as patience takes it by one giant sickly hand and walks it back to the depths, stepping softly and surely around the sticky, redundant, landscape so as to not impower the monster again.

reason takes over, hunger comes and goes, responsibility rears its head, passion next, then the coffee is ready.

solid and liquid, particulates and gases

shifting patterns curl ripple and swirl
dissociating coils, scrolls highlight the air,
no current can hide within its silky mist,
everything is made known and true,
break apart from the stream and float,
just drift, curtail flighty desires,
fluidity is your religion, normalcy your bane,
embrace your surroundings by default,
there is no choice, it is you and you are you,
only visible with the right backdrop,
light loses itself in you for hours or seconds,
whether we can see it or not,
you don’t ever stop, just gradually thin,
come thick from the spout into this world,
and drown willingly, drinking rich complexity,
you’re always there even as you leave everyone you’ve ever known.

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