IT TAKES A CAMEL
TO CROSS THE ABYSS
(and other meditations)
DEDICATION:
To Linda, who put up with more than anyone should be expected, and forgave me anyway.
CONTENTS
IT TAKES A CAMEL TO CROSS THE ABYSS
I was told a long time ago,
"It takes a camel to cross the Abyss"
I have to confess I'm always intrigued
by cryptic statements from people
that have just bummed a cigarette from me.
So I looked at him with that look
that demands an explanation.
He told me the source of that statement,
"Ah, of course." I thought. It was from our secret chief.
Whose name in unknown except to us,
and his legend is no where heard.
But his words ring with truth.
In ancient times,
when pilgrims went on their journeys
to find illumination, redemption and reconciliation
from their gods
whether they were on their way to
Jerusalem
Mecca or
Bagdad.
They would need to cross the desert.
It takes a camel to cross the desert.
The abyss is the spiritual desert of the soul
and likewise of the Universe.
And in the Kabbalah
the ancient Hebrew system of Mysticism,
They have a map of the Universe,
that is also a map of human consciousness.
It is called the Sephiroth or Tree of Life.
On it are twenty-two paths.
Each is named after one of the letters of the
Hebrew alphabet.
the path that goes straight through
the abyss is named after the letter Gimel.
Gimel literally means Camel.
So to cross the Abyss,
the spiritual desert,
one requires a Camel.
"True Ritual is as much action as word,
it is will." -Aleister Crowley.
Ritual can take many forms.
I was cleaning off my bookcase.
Birdshit, encrusted and stubborn, from a parrot long since gone,
but not forgotten.
"Man, don't get sentimental over birdshit."
Jesse told me so many months ago.
I like to think of cleaning as Karma Yoga.
That was Bil's joke one summer day so many years ago.
And it has been many years since I have spoken to him.
Karma means work.
That's what the joke is:
Cleaning up is Karma Yoga
because the cleaning
is like
cleaning the soul
or so it is said.
Karma Yoga.
And I am still cleaning up birdshit
off the bookcase
Karma,
I went to an all day seminar at
a certain coven,
and I heard them talk about karma,
karma this,
karma that,
incurring karma...
And I asked them:
"Do you know what 'Karma, means?"
They looked back at me stunned.
"Work" I told them.
"It comes from the Sanscrit KAM"
I guess I embarrassed them.
I felt cheated
that I had paid money
to people
that knew less
about Magick
than I did.
Is it bad Karma to embarrass Wiccans
by publically correcting them
on the use of the word "karma"?
And I am getting tired of scrubbing birdshit
that doesn't want to come off.
No one will see it where it is
It's not really hurting anything
and the finish is coming off the wood
where I have to scrub the most.
I think that was the problem I had
with Bil.
When the birdshit came off,
so did the thin veneer
that made him tolerable
as a human being
So despite the deep soul satisfaction
I'll achieve if and when I get
every last bit
of birdshit off this damn bookcase,
I'll forgo that moment of ultimate glory.
To get rid of the birdshit, you have to lose a lot of finish.
It is midnight,
a lone figures carries a box guitar where paved roads are
soon to come and sits down at the crossroads.
He is tired, hungry and lonely. He looks at the moon,
full and red.
If he talks to anyone now, he is talking to the moon.
"In this world, a black man ain't got much chance of gettin'
much of anywhere in life." He looks at his guitar he is holding
in strong hands with long spindly fingers.
"But if I could gain fame and fortune playing this guitar,
I'd sell my soul."
When his words have finished echoing into the night, he
hears a voice.
"Robert Johnson." He looks for the body the voice came from.
"Would you really sell your soul for fame and fortune?"
"Who is dat?" Robert begins to panic as he searches the
darkness of midnight at the crossroads.
"Now really Robert," the voice continues. "You come to the
crossroads at midnight and want to know who I am?"
"Is that you Devil?" Robert asked the night.
"I have many names Robert."
"Devil, can you give me fame and fortune for my soul?"
"Are you certain you want to do that?"
"You can have my soul Devil, my body needs the help now."
"Very well." agreed the Prince of Darkness.
"Give me your guitar so that I may tune it.
Robert." So Robert Johnson handed his box guitar to the Devil,
And the Devil tuned it.
It made a sound like Robert had never heard before.
And the Devil handed it back. "Now Robert," he continued
"Play the hell out of this guitar and fame and fortune will be yours.
But when you are done, your soul is mine."
So Robert goes on and his long spindly fingers
play the hell out of that guitar.
He goes on to be one of the very first recorded blues players.
But his 'Devil may care' attitude catches up with him
and women and whiskey are his undoing.
It is night and Robert Johnson is playing a dive.
Between sets, he is talking to the owner's wife.
He likes her, she likes him, but her husband doesn't like what he sees.
So he puts rat poison in Robert Johnson'ss whiskey.
So Robert Johnson found himself in hell accusing the Devil.
"You cheated me Devil,"
"Not at all Robert, fate has simply played his trump card.
But you have died a martyr, a murdered man.
You will get another chance. You will still have fame and fortune beyond your wildest dreams.
This is how we will do it.
Not too much later, a son is born to a young sickly black woman.
She names him 'Johnney'. The father is fighting in the war, he is not there when the boy is born. But he returns and finds his son without a mother.
She never recovered from that last cold she had from leaving the hospital in winter. He renames the boy James Marshall Hendrix, a name with power and dignity.
"The night I was born,
Lord, I swear the moon turned a' fire red,
My poor mother cried out 'Lord, the Gypsy was right!'
and I seen her fall down right dead"
Jimi wanted to play the guitar from the time he was the youngest voodoo child.
When his father told him to sweep his room, he'd play that broom like a guitar with those long spindly fingers.
Jimi had such strong hands, he could bend bass strings all the
way. It was like he had some kind of unfair advantage.
Jimi was playing in bands from his early youth on.
Because he knew that a black man ain't got too much chance
of gettin to far in this world.
But he dreamed of seeing his name in lights.
Jimi played hard. Jimi played all the time. Jimi played with everybody.
Jimi even played with the army band when he was a paratrooper.
Jimi was in Vietnam, he knew what a machine gun sounded like.
One night an Englishman from this famous rock band
finds Jimi playing in some dive, and Jimi is "discovered".
Before long he gains fame and fortune for playing that guitar.
Jimi played hard. Jimi went all over the world.
Jimi made music so beautiful it makes people cry.
But there were lots of things Jimi didn't understand.
He didn't understand where some of his songs came from.
He didn't understand why he acted the way he did sometimes.
(goin' upside his woman's head)
He didn't always understand why for example
he needed to have someone test his drugs for him.
He forgot the rat poison in the whiskey,
but he remembered distrust.
He knew he was a Voodoo child,
he didn't know the half of it.
He thought he was possess by demons.
He really believed it.
He would talk about going to New Orleans
and having a root woman drive out his demons.
But, one Robert Johnson was all the demon he needed
to drive him the way he was.
One Robert Johnson Demon was all that was
required to drive him to music, women and sweet poison.
Jimi lived out one of history's most incredible lives
as the vehicle of Robert Johnson the Divine Horseman.
Because.....
Jimi played hard, but the Devil plays harder;
and he doesn't always play fair.
Happy Fuckin' Easter, Bunny Worshipers
I'm back and I'm mad as hell.
I don't even know where to start. (pause)
Okay, I know....
STOP KILLING PEOPLE IN MY NAME.
I stopped a crowd from stoning a adulterous woman.
Do you really think for a minute
I would sanction burning witches?
And I didn't die for anyone's sins,
I died to show the triumph of the spirit over matter.
I'm really disappointed that nuance was missed.
I've heard some people think the pope is a no-good cracker.
No comment.
I'm sick of the pompous papacy myself.
I told people to go into their closets and pray, not perform masses for CNN.
And those Televangelist, what a sorry lot.
You want to buy blessings from God? Send your money to charities.
Fuck a bunch of Jim, Tammy, Jimmy, Oral, Pat and Dr. Scott.
You may as well send your money to Zsa Zsa Gabor as any of them
for any of the good they will do.
None are so blind as those that won't see -
None are so enslaved as those that won't lift off their chains.
You people know what to do.
But some people just do what they want, even though they know what's right.
There once was a young man who met a girl and fell in love with her.
She was beautiful and he loved her dearly.
This was his will because she was his soul-mate.
But, he found himself tempted-and he was not strong in his will.
He was not true to his girl.
She loved him still. But eventually he could not bear to look at her for
the pain he had inflicted on her.
His will bent for the want. He betrayed his gut feeling
and his heart plunged into it. He never recovered.
YOU WANT TO LIVE A JUST LIFE?
1)Listen to your gut instinct
2) Don't bend your will to serve your wants
3) Remember the golden rule
IT'S THAT SIMPLE-
GO AND SIN NO MORE
Someone said to me recently,
"Wyrdsli, you're no Robin Williams."
Well Na-nu Na-nu, I guess not. But by the same token, Robin Williams
is no Rev. Wyrdsli.
I remember what the Deacon said, he said
"Be different and people will notice you."
I always thought poetry was about saying something
and making words Beautiful, now you have to be a showman too.
Well, fine, If I have to be a showman, tell me what you want,
cuz I can do it all...
I can be a poet,
I can be quiet and intense and threaten
to show you what anger fermented looks like when it's aged like
a fine wine.
I can say something and imply I'm saying something else.
I can get real pissed off and tell you what
I think about your McDonald land Masonic joke glorified
third World Country here.
I can vocalize in such a way as to Hypnotize
And recite to you stories of my collection of ex-wives.
I can cuss God dammit fuck shit.
I can get up here and just run my mouth about everyday life.
I've met this woman recently, I think she likes me more than I like her but that's okay, she's a nice girl with a bitchin' bod. She says she masturbates for a living, because she works in a shop where lingerie is modeled but never purchased. I even like her little man. She's a lovely girl for white trash.
I can even do the Gansta Rap.
Whitey bad Whitey bad
Kill whitey kill whitey.
Whitey bad Whitey bad
Kill whitey kill whitey
I can be a Poet. I can be sexy, take off my shirt and show you my broad, hairy chest, writhe like the plumed Serpent of Erotica. I can sing too.
"Come on, Come on and touch me babe,
can't you see that I am not afraid,
what was that promise that you made?"
I can pander to the lowest common Denominator.
"Oh Miss, I have a present here for you wrapped up with a bow.
Shall I shake it so you can guess what it is?
No no no, not until Christmas."
I can show you my Dark side in the Name of IAO, but that seems to scare people off
I can be a poet because I believe that I was put on this planet to make words sing
I can get loud and dramatic and recite nursery rhymes like:
"My name is Jack, and I'm coming to your town with a pocket full of Prophylactics and I mean to use them."
I can be a poet, I know all the tricks
I've heard it said that two heads are better than one.
I beg to differ.
If you mean than two people working together can achieve better work than one person thinking alone,sure.
But, I have two heads, and they are not necessarily better than one.
In fact they are very much of two minds.
Normally at odds with each other and sometimes positively at war with each other.
There is the big head that sits on my shoulders and does most of the work.
It's the head that has learned to read and write, add and subtract and operate machines like
typewriters, automobiles and dishwashers.
He thinks about poetry, politics and a thousand other things. This head deals with all the day
to day details one might call bullshit. This is the head that has stored knowledge, experience and has been the center of my consciousness.
But, Nature in her own sense of humor has given me another head, that virtually outranks the head on my shoulders, simply because it is in charge of perpetuating the species. This is the little head that hides between my legs and seeks to burrow into flesh tunnels.
The little head thinks about sex all the time. All he ever wants to do is get his satisfaction. It is paramount to anything else.
The conflict between the two is first felt in the mere presence of a female.
I'll meet a nice young lady, the little head wants to fuck her before he even knows her.
The Big head talks to her as a person
The little head wants to get her in bed
The Big head is altruistic and strives to be decent
The little head is full of indecent thoughts
The Big head struggles to maintain control as the little head sends committees of hormones with petitions to make the first move.
The Big head sees the big picture, that there is more to life than sex.
The little head disagrees, lips only sing when they cannot kiss he says. And the little head wants lips kissing him. Little head is not concerned with etiquette, protocol or much in the way of moral code.
The Big head has to do the thinking about the trouble that is likely to result if the little head
gets his way. The Big head must keep a leash on the packs of hormones running through his office,
and talk on the phone at the same time.
Now it is obvious which head should be in charge, and ultimately the big head makes the
decisions, but that damn little head just thinks so loud that It's hard not to hear some of it.
Two heads are better than one? I'm just not sure.
by The Vampire Lestat
(as told to Rev. Wyrdsli)
(with apologies to Clement C. Moore and Anne Rice)
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse
for I, the Vampire Lestat had drank all their blood.
The stockings were hung from the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
But, the children were nestled all dead in their beds,
No visions danced in their heads,
Because I, the Vampire Lestat had drank all their blood.
And Mama in her 'kerchief and Papa in his cap,
made a delicious midnight snack,
When I, the Vampire Lestat drank all their blood
Then outside in the sky, I detected,
Eight tiny reindeer with fat man connected
With a driver so juicy and thick,
I knew right away it must be St. Nick
More rapid than fast food those little dears came
The thought of their blood nearly drove me insane.
The scent of their flesh was almost alchemical
I would drink them down, drink them down all
On Dasher On Dancer On Prancer On Vixen
On Comet On Cupid On Donner On Blitzen,
to this list of deserts I did carefully listen
And presently, as if I had planned it
On the roof top the little hooves landed
Then, not knowing it was for the last time
Down the Chimney the big elf did climb
His clothes were so dirty, he looked like a bum
As he unpacked his bag with little John's drum
His eyes how they twinkled his dimples so succulent.
I knew this house would be his ultimate
I met my fat victim right by the tree
and the look on his face was a delight to me
The shock the fright the sheer incredulity
Oh thank you Anne Rice for my immortality
He stuttered he stammered he shook his head
He turned as white as me knowing he was soon dead
His mouth dropped to the floor like delicate china
for he knew this moment would be his final
I grabbed him and drank him and he shook like jelly.
It was better than eating at a North Pole deli
So I finished him off and discarded the corpse
I also took all the presents of course
Now hear me exclaim as I ride into night
A Vampire Christmas to all and to all a good fright
I have come from shame and sadness
I traverse the desert of the Abyss
I reside in loneliness and have barred myself in
I am the Unforgiven and
forgotten are my crimes
I am alone and many are my friends
I am the liar who is truthful to a fault
I am the Unforgiven who's wounds refuse to heal
I am the lover at war with myself
My prison cell is everywhere and forever is my sentence
I am haunted by the past
and the future is terrible to contemplate
I have sinned and in sinning betrayed even myself
for I broke promises to myself
I am loved by many, but I am hated by myself
I have been fiercely loved, but I am now alone
This one is the last straw
The more I drink to escape,
the harder it becomes to return to reality
But this is the last straw.
No, I didn't get in a fight.
That at least might be a sign of manhood
No, I didn't wake up with a wolverine
I didn't wake up in one of our proud city's
(where I'm told you can get a DUI without a car)
gutters, alleys or drunk tank
And I don't mind the hangovers too bad
I mean, if it's not about self-destruction,
what is it all about?
But this time I crossed the line
where self-disgust becomes intolerable.
I started drinking on an empty stomach about two-ish
The words are already hard to bear
At five-thirty, they closed down my stage.
So I went to the shop where
the red-headed girl I have a crush on works.
I must have been a sight,
white body pain, green hair, shirt open to my navel, reeking of beer.
"Would you like to take your break now?"
Her manager asked her. She agreed and we went outside.
Lucky me, she agreed to meet me after work
Stupid me, I passed out at six, stood her up at seven and woke up at midnight.
Thinking "Wasn't I supposed to do something?"
Slowly, my beer soaked brain recalled in horror
"Man I fucked up good this time."
I went out needing food hoping against better judgement I might see her somewhere- so I could apologize.
I drank no more and I plan no more to drink
This time is the last straw.
Now I wait with that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach for the moment of reckoning.
Will she accept my apology or is she as disgusted with me as I am with myself?
One thing of which I am sure, if and when that moment comes, I will be sober, after that may be a different story.
I made a sigil today
Y'see someone told me,
oh I know that some people will say anything,
and believe me I know people that will say incredible things.
I think that's maybe why I know them and listen to them.
You see someone told me that the ultimate secret to magic
was to perform the rituals when the Moon is conjunct Venus.
The Moon and Venus are conjunct today.
It doesn't happen everyday.
So I got myself in the mood with strange drug.
I took a sheet of paper and made the sigil out of a phrase of my wish.
I omitted the duplicate letters and re-arranged them by size and placement.
I cannot tell you what it was because that would dissipate the energy and compromise the spell. Do you remember how I told you that the candles on the birthday cake are like ancient candle burning magick?
But, I did not ask for fame, money or sex.
But the power of sex did I invoke to consecrate this sigil.
The power of sex is incredible. It's much stronger than the bloody sacrifice
and does not suffer from diminishing returns.
Sex is the number one force that the oppressors work to defeat.
So naked I kneeled on my futon bed where I have lain alone of late.
Solitude can be a good thing, I may hang with it awhile.
I touched myself because my penis is my friend.
Always make friends with yourself down there.
Evil is an intent and not an object or organ.
The sigil sat between my knees and I stared at it.
But I also thought of lovely ladies to inflame my wand.
I thought of those that had come and gone. I thought of ones I want.
I thought of one I hardly know, but I know she lives upstairs.
But most of all I thought of one that I wished could be with me there right then,
because I knew she'd want this for me.
All the time the sigil sat between my knees.
All this time the sigil sat waiting for my penis.
This technique goes back to A. O. Spare.
He wasn't a rock star.
He never made a record.
He made amazing art.
He died in obscure poverty, he is the unsung hero of Chaos Magick.
The purpose is to energize personalize and focus your desire,
let's hope it's in concert with your will.
And this time I think mine was, but I still can't tell you what it is.
Concentrate on the desire. while you masturbate. So the orgasm can crystalize the fire.
And the body fluids seal the deal
That's the theory and in ritual you must believe in what you are doing.
Second guess about it afterwards, or forget about it altogether.
But in the ritual, you must believe in what you are doing.
Then as the orgasm approached my mind wandered to my mother.
How sad I thought that I should start life as an unwanted pregnancy
and now be a bargaining tool in my parents' divorce settlement.
I let this thought dissipate like ripples on the calm water
when a pebble has been dropped in.
Fame, money and sex also crossed my mind, but the aim of meditation is to let these passing thoughts pass and be done.
The sigil must command the center of attention and concentration.
Then when I knew the ejaculation was imminent, I aimed my penis at the page with my encrypted desire.
I shot and shot, but kept jerking off til I could shoot no more.
The feeling of elation was more than I expected. More indeed than normal masturbation.
There's a feeling of accomplishment with a well done ritual, this was that feeling.
But I was not finished, the sigil needs spit and blood as well, so I drooled upon the page.
Last and most difficult was to give it blood.
I knew that if I got up and broke the circle before the blood was on, I compromised the spell.
So I bit at cuticle and squeezed like hell.
I signed my initial in blood.
And oh yes, it is a gruesome thing to behold to uninitiated eyes.
But I believe I may find my desire, in concert with my will.
In a dark room where I have little but atmosphere and magick,
I place the candles and the incense burner
in strategic places
And I begin to meditate on the Goddess
and how she may appear to me
so we can make love.
If she is Venus
her love is the light
If she is Aphrodite
I will worship her
If she is Diana
I will make love in moonlight
If she is Eve
She shall forgive the serpent
If she is Nuit
I will love the night time sky
If she is Gaia
I will love my mother earth
If she is Babalon
she will show me the strength of lust
If she is Sophia
she is the virgin and whore
If she is Mary
she is the holy slut
If she is Isis
She is the mother of all mothers
If she is Helen of Troy
she is human
If she is Hester Pryne
for just a glimpse of her
scarlet hair
I will fill the air with sound
If she is Kali
I will gladly die in her arms
I'm broke,
so I thought, what the hell
I'll sell this old electric
that I don't play that much
not like I use it
that much
really
at all.
So I figure that the $50. I
thought
I could get for it
would be real helpful
more so certainly than this
piece of shit
guitar that I really
don't
really play.
So I got that huge ugly
emerald Tank
I pass off as a safe
motor vehicle
to carry that
piece of shit guitar
to that cheesy looking Pawn Shop
on Ponce de Leon
y'know the one that's had a
Grand Opening
going on for a year now.
I brought it in and
told them I would not refuse
any reasonable offer.
"$5 without even looking at it."
One of them said, I should've walked out then.
but no, greed led me on to
expose that guitar to
that pawn shop worker
and all they could offer me was $30.
Well that was bad enough
But I made the mistake of telling him
I had paid $100.
He asked me if I got
a hundred dollars
worth of playing out of it.
I guess it just pissed me off
beyond what I thought were by now
some pretty extensive limits
of patience with human ugliness.
I guess you could say I used some
bad words
I guess you could say I didn't try to understand him better.
I guess you could say I stormed out in the flash of a man insane
oh well,
but what a wonderful study in self empowerment.
I was young at the time
and this is lives a gone by
But I will never forget the day
They came to take my mother to the fire
They say she was a witch,
I don't know about that
'for I was just a child
when they came to take my mother to the fire
The neighbor said she put a curse on him
and made his cattle die
I know of no such thing
I only know she cried,
When they came to take her to the fire
I know she worked with herbs,
as a mid wife she was respected
But her healing was used as evidence
against her
When they came to take her to the fire
They took her to the jail
shaved her body of all its hair
I know this because she was bare
When they took her to the fire
God, they said, won't suffer a witch to live
just as we should not kill
But murder is what they committed
when they took my mother to the fire
They said they did it in Jesus's name
he didn't say a thing
I only know there was no love
When they took my mother to the fire
Now comes The Religious Right
like a modern Cotton Mather
With his mandate for culture cleansing
using God to justify genocide
Just be sure to put up a fight
when they come to take your mother to the fire
I ran amok with a metaphor
Pitched a foul ball the whole nine yards
Followed bread crumbs like greased lightning, devoured their significance
I've got an angel in the wood pile
I dropped the ball at half-time with a double or nothing handicap.
I had to break some eggs to bring home the bacon
There's plenty of fish in the sea, so I set my snares
Threw caution as far as I could spit
I remember the Alamo to forget a woman
I am a thespian trapped in a man's body
I carry my albatross along hoof prints in the sand because I heard the flickering shadows
I am restless in lethergy
I am alarmed by serenity
You can't mix oil and water like fire and rain or like water for Chocolate
I slept like a thief in the night
Birds of a feather have fine lives
Sunlight dawns like a dying man needs blood
Soothe me to violence, Comfort me to rage
love me just to break my heart
Make love to me in the battlefields of rhetoric
I am dead like birdsong at morning
I will return like warm butter
Chickens always come home to sixes and sevens
Jeepers, Creepers, I just got back from a Broadway Show
The candle light is deafening
THE CUTE RED-HEAD IN THE JEWELRY SHOP
I wanted to have coffee with you to tell you,
You see I worry a lot about things
(even when street logic demands there is no immediate threat to my life or well being....)
that I've done something wrong,
that I've said something wrong,
that I've somehow screwed up where I don't even really realize.
And I can get set off so easily sometimes...
That's why I want to tell you that I'm concerned that I may have done something to hurt you unintentionally.
You see, someone you saw me with saw how you looked at me,
It was a "what's his deal?" look, I'm told.
My deal? In twenty words or less? Let's see:
My last two girlfriends dumped me. I know I should just chill by myself for a while. But loneliness scares me and I love the company of woman. (well, 28 words or less)
I have been a little too quick getting serious with someone when I was on the rebound. I don't have too many regrets there all in all. But I think now it's vital I find peace with myself.
But I am interested in you and at the very least I would like to get to know you better as a friend.
It finally struck me the other day that I know as little about you as you do of I.
That's why I wanted to have coffee with you.
So we could talk without distractions, for a change.
It's a moment tattooed on my heart
in shocking black,
Elijah's wife Samantha told me he'd been keeping time with some girl.
She gestured out the window and pronounced the name that made my stomach bottom out.
"Grace."
"Oh," she stopped, seeing the look on my face."Are you fucking her?"
"I was last week." the truth dribbled out of my mouth before
I could think to say something more, well, smart. And she understood how I might equate the sex with the affection I felt for her other woman.
"Yeah well," she continued "he fucked her last night and this morning"
I couldn't help but wonder how she had such current information.
"He's got all his Nurse with Wound records over there at her house."
What an odd way to gauge commitment. But you would have to know how Elijah loves his Nurse with Wound records. Then Samantha asked me that stupid question that she shouldn't have: "Is she pretty?"
I paused, still not having the presence of mind to generate a decent lie,
I said the very worst thing I could've
"Yes, but her real beauty is within."
It was then that she pointed out what an inappropriate answer that was.
I weakly tried to defend myself by wishing out loud I could lie.
It was a pathetic pretense, but I was too stunned to give her the words she wanted to hear.
"Sorry," she said "I'm just being a jealous bitch."
I stared out the window from the booth we sat in at the Point,
and wondered when they would ever get around to taking all those damn shoes
down from the power lines.
It was many unhappy months after that when a mutual friend
filled me in on how the story ended, Grace had officially blown me off long ago.
"You were there, weren't you? At that party?" He asked me in honest disbelief.
I replied I wasn't and knew nothing about what had happened because I just couldn't ask either of them.
He describe for me a scene where he sat with Grace on the front porch of some house where there was a party.
She was devastated, Elijah was still planning on reuniting with Samantha,
and Grace, my favorite girl was just sex.
"Where does that leave me?" she asked Don.
I thought to myself how much she had asked me.
My heart broke just a little more.
I wonder sometimes how much it shows
A LETTER I'VE WRITTEN, NEVER MEANING TO SEND
I'll tell you why I'm afraid of you
Because you could hurt me and I would deserve it I can see it now
The last time I talked to my ex-wife and told her about how I got dumped on vacation, she said "It's your Karma"
Touche mon ami, encore si'vous plait. But that's what ex-wives are for.
If God meant it any other way we'd stay married.
But we don't and everything happens the way it must and for excellent reasons
that WE simply can't see from our linear perspective
It's my karma.
The first girl I ever had, my friend had his eye on her. But she started stroking my leg one night, so I fucked her.
My first real girlfriend, Girlfriend One, well I eventually broke up with her because she was being a bitch. She thought I should tell her I love her and mean it.
Then there was Girlfriend Two. She got pregnant. I'll never know for sure if it was mine, but I paid for the abortion. She already had a little girl. Now that kid is fourteen.
Then there was Girlfriend Three. We never had sex but we had some spectacular fights. There's karma for you there. the Universe offered me a virgin and I declined. That'll piss em off everytime.
Am I going off too much? isn't this what you wanted?
I know the universe was pissed off at me about Girlfriend Three because I spent the next few years alone as a member of a Satanic Cult.
All I can tell you about that is this: when you swim with sharks, you're bound to get bit, and don't be shocked when they eat you alive.
I retuned from New Orleans a broken loser. Joel turned me on to Girlfriend Four - we were street urchins together that lasted long enough to make me believe I was cursed.
Eventualy, I met Girlfriend Five. She went crazy on me, always was really. It was her idea to get Ebenezer. She came back from her vacation in Wellsville to find I'd been keeping company with this knockout redhead. Neither were real happy with me
The last night I visited Red, I missed the last MARTA train back downtown where I had a loft. Girlfriend Six ended up taking me home. That one night stand turned into an eight month relationship that I'm still not over.
I cheated on her, not just once. I believe the third time was the charm.
The night I confessed to the last one, she trashed my loft.
Ebenezer jumped from his perch in panic.
I set the bird back on his cage as the girl was curled on the floor crying,
crying out for her mother.
I let her go that night, and I never tried to get her back.
I couldn't stand that I kept hurting her & I didn't even really know why.
I couldn't face her anymore, let alone ask her to try to trust me anymore.
Now she has a husband and a child, two things she probably never would've had with me.
Then there was Girlfriend Seven. I tried to warn her. I told her I was a bad person. I told her I was a wreck, in therapy. As we say in New Age street-talk I was in a bad space. She fell in love with me and wanted to have my baby. Maybe just someone's baby. That didn't quite work out.
Our whole relation ship was in the shadow of the torch I still carried for Girlfriend Six. Which is a shame because in a lot of ways she was good for me.
I thinks that's why I call her my ex-wife.
The saddest irony is that my shrink asked me what it would take to forgive myself for Girlfriend Six.
I just guessed that it would take time.
She said that was a cop out. She said that what some people do is tell themselves they won't do it again.
So what do I do? Not only did I cheat on Girlfriend Sevem,
I had a full blown affair with a girl not even out of high school. I was lucky I wasn't arrested.
So Girlfriend Seven had her fill of me. The high school girl went off to college.
I spent the next Christmas alone. I tried to drown my sorrows. Ebenezer drowned in pneumonia.
My last relationship hardly seems real at all now. Like I was a toy discarded when old.
I only know she had the timing of an assassin when she dumped me.
"It's your Karma" Girlfriend Seven says. I sent her a card for Christmas.
I love you, but I know I have to let you go.
Like she cares.
Yeah, I deserve to be hurt, and you're just the one to do it.
I mean, I can just see it now.
I mean I can conjecture, based on my knowledge of
Murphy's metaphysical laws and past history that it will, and
perhaps only can, happen like this:
A) I finally get you to go out with me We go somewhere and do something. I am wildly intoxicated with you and you are mildly disturbed by my intoxication. And then there is the drinking and drug thing
B) You think you can be alone with me without being raped. Well, I might not rape you, but I'm sure to try something. Who's kidding who? I want you. You're just the perfect shape and size for me too.
And if you give into me and let me jab my poker into your wise wound, I will want more. I am almost sure of that.
And then what? I keep after you, chasing you. And you, you have already tired of me. You thought if you gave in just once I'd lose intrest and leave you alone, but it won't happen like
that. I will pursue you and you will be disturbed by the weirdness that follows me like a black velvet cloud, by now you have felt it's rain. In your horror you find it will not wash out
And you will break my heart and I will deserve it.
PAGANS ROASTING ON AN OPEN FIRE
Pagans roasting on an open fire
The pope licks blood from his lips
Women are raped and tortured in jail
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
Faggots roasting in the open air
They are not in God's sight
These are the words from men of God
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
Moslems dying in Bosnia
NATO wants to call it quits
Endless are they killed in Jesus's name
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
Women crying because there is no one
to save them from the Catholic Church
Endless are they killed in Christ's name
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas
Breathe with me in innocence
kill me in degrees
Cast me away again,
So I can long for you
Kiss me as a loving friend
so I can feel your touch
Let me wonder where you are
I will scrub the streets for you
I long for you in abstinence
polish candle sticks with loneliness
My little sister, my heart and tongue
I am cleaning my temple for you
I will shower you with love poems
or worship you with silence
Whisper to me tender somethings
or tell me that you love me not
I mean to court you properly
should I ask permission from your Aunt?
We've been together before and before
Can't we try just one more time?
I swear I didn't mean to look at you
I really just came here to drink
It was a year ago today that I lost my best friend
So I'm trying not to feel
I swear I wasn't looking at you
I'm sure that's hard to believe
But I haven't washed up from last night's mistake
I really just came here to drink
This is Southern Comfort and Soda
I'm supposed to stay away from yeast
I swear I wasn't looking at you,
not in the least
I've given up on romance
I'm not hunting tonight
I've got a nagging pain to quiet
I really just came here to drink
So I will drink in Southern Comfort
I don't miss Northern winters
But my dreams are like castles made of sand,
that God and Man have put asunder
I went to your grave again today
I apologized that I had not been there
two days ago- the anniversary that I will observe but never celebrate.
I observed it come and go with quiet anguish, there are precious few I can turn to for comfort, fewer still I haven't already worn out.
Moss has grown on the God made stone that I placed to mark your final perch
I have no delusion that it is simple or easy to face this private grief of mine, but I fool myself you can
hear me. I fool myself you answer back. In desperate solitude I conjure you as a spirit bird upon my shoulder again giving me spirit kisses just as you did when you were flesh and beak.
I said it before, I said it again today. I will probably repeat this until the day that God in his
mercy brings the last curtain down on this comic tragedy.
"I'm so sorry Ebenezer, I'm so sorry I took you for granted.
I'm so sorry I didn't take better care of you. Oh God Ebenezer, I'm so sorry I let you die. You were the last good thing I had in my life. And I wish I could be with you, wherever you are, instead of here alone with the hole in my heart that nothing seems to fill.
I have suffered enough from your Goodwill Uncle Sam.
I sat for hours in the medical lobby full of indigents that I assume you've lumped me in with-
I get a similar treatment from the secret society that considers me a traitor- I suppose your opinion of me is little different
And it hurts my hand to write.
It strains my patience to be polite to indifferent doctors who must see me as one more in an endless stream of charity cases.
Oh I know there are some worse off than me. I saw the guy with the compound fracture. The laid-back doctor asked him if he could wipe that stuff off the exposed bone coming out of his chocolate skin.
I know there are some worse off than me.
And I can imaginee it looks like a cosmetic thing to the disinterested doctor who thinks I'm just another white nigger who'll just crawl back to the gutter I came from.
But I'm a poet, and it hurts my hand to write. So, if it can't be fixed, give me that in writing so I can attach it to my suicide note, so that anyone who cares will know- his art meant more than his life.
Since I left you...
I have continued to entertain your memory. In fact, I took her to the Stein Club one night, and she was irritated with me.
I have visited our dear friend that I love in a different way than you do, I understand you have warned her about me.
I have discovered a hole in my heart that nothing quite fills and you can only deepen.
I have missed that look of bemused shock I used to inspire on your elfin face. I miss the audience that you were.
I have stumbled like a blind man seeking the light after turning his back on sunshine.
I have been alone in a way that feels final.
I have had to remind myself why.
I have seen your other ex-lover and we have not discussed you.
I have been told that you were the best thing that ever happened to me by someone that never saw us together.
I have flirted with friends' girlfriends, had a fling here and there, and still feel empty.
I have missed you and missed you and missed you.