Born- Again
 Orphan














Poetry and miscellaneous writings of
Rev. Wyrdsli
Born-Again Orphan 
©2002  Rev. Wyrdsli


	Also by Rev. Wyrdsli:
The Sacred Magick of the Lizard of Oz
Blues for Ebenezer
It takes a Camel to cross the Abyss
Salamander Enki and other tails of Evolution
A Separate Heresy: Being further conversations with the Lizard of Oz


Rev. Wyrdsli
Lizard of Oz Books & Tapes
P.O. Box 991
Clearwater, Fl. 33757

Table of Contents

Born-Again Orphan
At least
Another morning
Silver Lining
She and I
Embrace the Dark
Fat Redneck Whore
If I were a Woman
Prowl Modus Operandi
The boy and his lawnmower
Caught in a traffic jam on the way to Y'bor City
The Girl on the Greyhound Bus 
A friend  in Manhattan
Sick, dark and delicious
Invocation of my Phantom Lover
World, you tried to kick my ass...
It's a wedding announcement
Why do you call yourself Reverend?
Taliban Daleks
The Girlfriend Rant
I have to make excuses
The meaning of it all
She was addiction
If "Harry Potter" was real
As the world burns
New Year Eve's day
Alley Cat
The smoking love gun
My Precious
Accidental Road trip		
Joseph Campbell on Loss
I remember Andrea
Dwight Humphries: A Eulogy
About the Poet


"Sick, dark and delicious" "World, you tried to kick my ass..." "Why do you call yourself Reverend?" "Taliban Daleks" and "Dwight Humphries: A Eulogy" originally appeared as posts on the Amongst Kindred site.

"Dwight Humphries: A Eulogy" also appeared on The Georgia Writer's site

	Wyrdsli is thanked in the acknowledgments of Vodou Visions, Sallie's (Glassman) latest published work, so say what you will. Anybody who has her approval and Wylde Bill's approval is cool with me. Everyone has the right to speak their minds, but Wyrdsli knows his shit, and is a credit to us all.
			- Alyssa Ward Franklin



	Alyssa, this one's for you...........

Born-Again Orphan

I am alone again, like a born-again orphan
Like a fallen leaf wondering if 
it'll be blown away or raked up
Like a rouge tear absorbed into the 
sea of sorrow
Like a losing lottery ticket
Like a forgotten twinge of pain
Like a passing thought 
lost on the highway of forgotten dreams
I have wandered dead-end roads
and paths of wisdom grown over with weeds
In the end, at the end of endless days
We are alone to face ourselves with naked reflection
My smile is forced and unnatural
The bags under my eyes 
have never been unpacked
My hands are cut, scraped and bruised 
from fighting inner demons
My head aches from pounding my head against the wall in frustration
and
I am alone again, 
like a born-again Orphan



At least....

I am feeling ancient more and more.
Ancient, obscene, unspeakable
Am I ignored, or worse, abhorred?
A whore in a coffee shop
A Yankee in Redneck lands
Stranded in a strange land
Too old for the girls in the coffee shop,
still too young for the Florida personals.
I am clearly undecided if I have ever 
been more nowhere.
At least I'm not in Alabama.



Another  morning,

driving in the dark.
A crowd of cars move from light to light
A discarded cigarette butt traces an 
orange flash and bounces off the street.
I miss the morning cigarette, but not the
heavy pain in my chest that results.
I'm getting used to this ritual - 
The morning drive in the dark to get to work by 7 am.
Silver Lining

I don't want to scare you, or make you 
uncomfortable
I know I probably come on too strong
But I wanted to thank you 
for being the silver lining 
For bringing Sunshine to this dark knight
For being a beautiful distraction 
from an ugly year
For diluting the pain I've live lived lately
mitigating the misery
For letting me hold you
For letting me kiss you
And more than anything else,
Thank you for your beautiful friendship
that I hope you let me treasure for a long time


She and I 

She is young and lovely, 
I am old and nasty
She is sweet and innocent,
I am mean and corrupt
She is warm and inviting,
I am cold & distant
She is cheerful & positive
I am angry & negative
She is a people person,
I am a misanthrope and sociopath
She is full of promise and potential
I am full of piss and vinegar.
I should be happy 
she's willing to be my friend



If I were a Woman

If I were a woman, I would wake up and dread the make-up ritual.
It would make me mad every time thinking that this was just part of the whole female thing.
I would probably resent that men are physically stronger than women and tend to use that to their advantage when all reason has been exhausted
In fact, I think if I were a woman, 
I'd turn to other women for my love.
I love the softness of girls
Men always have the upper hand so you never know if you can trust them.
If I were a woman, it would irritate me that it's simply accepted that woman make 71 cents for the dollar a man makes.
If I were a woman, I would be saddened and outraged when I saw how many of my sisters had to rear children on their own.
I would be shocked at the way some countries mutilate a little girls' genitals to "prevent rape"
It would hurt my feelings to know that in some places in the world they use sonograms to determine the sex of a foetus so they
can abort the females
It would aggravate me that woman are still considered property in many parts of the world. I would be glad to be an American, but I would still be one pissed off bitch
I would probably tend to disturb men in general. I would probably believe in the male conspiracy. 
Sadly, as a man, I know that it's not so much conspiracy as a tendency for men to be taught not to take women seriously anyway. I would be one pissed off bitch.
If I were a woman I would be disturbed by people like Rush Limbaugh 
It would make me mad that he compared woman looking for equal treatment to Nazi's
If I were a woman, I would live in rage. It's hard enough to watch it as a man. I would be one pissed off bitch.
Because Mama taught me well.
She taught me about the rule of thumb.
How that used to be how big a stick could be and a man still wouldn't get in trouble for hitting his wife with it.
If I were a woman, I wouldn't sleep with you on the fist date.
I wouldn't let you cum in my mouth
I wouldn't let you fuck me in the ass
And I wouldn't have to spend my whole life..
hating myself



Prowl Modus Operandi

Here I go again,
patrolling through pubs to find someone,
almost anyone, almost anyone.
I am in prowl modus operandi
I am alone with the scream of loneliness and testosterone
I am Viagra incarnate
I am the dangerous animal seeking 
the wise wound
I am Venus in Scorpio, 
the lover bearing the scared lance,
like desire's deadly dagger.
But I am the artist and her skin 
will be my canvas,
her pleasure my art.
Paint pink upon pink.
I will brush, gently stroking  her skin,
barely touch where nerve ending congregate.
Let the chi flow, let Kundalini slither slowly
Write love notes with my tongue on her lips,
neck, breasts, nipples, belly, her secret garden where tulips grow.
Paint pink upon pink, 
sign my name in cunnilingus

I have played this game and played this game and played this game.
The worst failure is to fall in love.
The word of sin is restriction.
 I ache for sensation
I am in prowl modus operandi
I am the animal seeking the wise wound
I am alone with the scream of testosterone



The  boy and his lawnmower

The boy
    and his lawnmower
had been outside
    trying
to mow the grass
    but the machine
quit
    working
another boy said he'd bring his
    lawn mover
but, he said
    he would have
to mow the lawn.
    so they did.
And eventually I paid them
    even though
they missed a spot.



Caught in a traffic jam 
	on the way to Y'bor City 

Lightning flashes harmlessly over Tampa Bay
	while I drive on the bridge
from Clearwater to Tampa
Clouds illuminated partially in flashes
over the water framed by Florida civilization
I have been here almost a year
	a year of frustration, loss and regret
I have, unfortunately, no one to blame but myself
	for being stupid enough to come
Yet, here is a night of mild promise
	heading to Y'bor City to see Jazz make love to poetry

I am calm despite being caught in a traffic jam
	wondering if the Jethro Tull from the Convertible
is tape, CD or the radio.
If I'm not careful, I may make a home in the Redneck Riviera.



The Girl on the Greyhound Bus 
(who's name I didn't get)

She has the striking features of a European Princess. 
The body of an athlete. 	
The bearing of a model
	She dresses like a collage student, baggy jeans, the current fashion - a pity, she probably has shapely legs.
	Her top hangs by thin flanges,
fits her elegant torso just so.
	The tiny wire in her nose glints 
when the sun catches it
	She must be smart...
She's reading a book by a former Israeli Prime Minister I didn't know had been published.
	Now she sleeps with focused serenity,
her head resting on a Teddy bear. 
And I eat cookies while I write about herA friend  in Manhattan

	When I first heard a plane had just hit the World trade center, I thought Gary Condut had it done to get the heat off of him. When the second plane hit, the funny was over.
When I heard that Manhattan was in chaos, I thought of Holly. She'd called me just the Saturday night before. She was back from seeing her mother. Sometimes you just have to get out of New York.
	I met her when she came to my open mikes at the Liquid Bean in Atlanta. She was a Catholic High School student with smooth skin and bright eyes fascinated with the Pagan, pot smoking poet. I'll never forget my first words to her. She was looking at my KFC dinner I was trying to get down before I started the show "Are you trying to steal my food? Get away from my food." She said later I was a breath of fresh air.
	When she told her mother about he Pagan, pot smoking poet, mother said that was too many p's.
	We dated, despite the difference in age that amounted to a pre-teenager and the reality that I was living with a woman that had just had another abortion because she didn't want me to resent her.
	It was a clandestine love I could never feel quite right about. It was born of darkness and deception, brutal betrayal in the name of young love. I tried to convince myself it was the Universe's way of forgiving me. I never believed that, as much as I wanted.
	One night when I got off work, she had been waiting for me. She asked me to marry her. This fling, her crush requited to painful ends had gone too far. I had to say no. Besides which, she was totally unpractical about it. Was she going to hide me in her suitcase when she went to college?
	"We'll just try it, and if it doesn't work out, we'll just get divorced" She said. That was her idea of a plan.
	When Holly called me the Saturday before America lost her national innocence, one of the things she asked me was why I didn't marry her when she asked. 
	"Well, you clearly hadn't thought it out all the way." I told her.
	 "What do you mean?" She asked. 
	"You don't use the word 'divorce' in a marriage proposal." What I didn't say (this time) was that it was bad enough I'd dated her while I was living with someone else. A marriage born of infidelity is cursed at the start. 
	But when the news came down how bad Manhattan was, I had visions of her being crushed by falling debris and wondering if she'd still be alive if I had married her. 
	I called her number, amazed that I even got through. I left a message for a machine that didn't sound like anyone's voice. I sent e-mail.
	Thankfully, she called the next day. I was never so glad to hear from that girl.
She teaches near the U.N. building, it had been evacuated. She'd had to walk home a lot longer than she was used to. She could see that the towers were no longer there. But she didn't know what happened until she got home.
	She was in good spirits, and waiting on food.  She had to end the conversation to answer the delivery person.
	It's been a strange love / hate thing we've had over the years, in and out of each other's lives. Now, I'm just glad she's still in the world.Sick, Dark and Delicious

Thou drivest me exquisite insane
blinding midnight, screaming in silence
phantom visitor, 
have I felt you or dreamed us?
Do you know how much you hallucinate
is dying to live?
Can I give you any answer but 
the one you want?



Invocation  of  my  Phantom  Lover

	She comes to me like a solid fantasy.
She is a welcome succubus, but I want more.
	As our energies intertwine like red and white roses in an astral garden, we nestle in tall grass and gazing at the stars, ancient and disinterested. 
	And we are watched by the Moon that always listens to feelings.
	Yet, I am still alone in an unmade waterbed. I adjust my weight, brush the hair from the eyes of my astral visitor and say:
	Come to me as a lover, I need you woman corporeal.
	Come to me as a woman so I can satisfy your body.
	The wind thinks I am dreaming, the fan blows an electric breeze. And I say to her:
	Come and be my woman and we will seek our healing.
	We can treat each others' wounds while rest on this road called life. This road is too short, too wide and empty to travel too much alone.
	Come to me in reality so we can live out this fantasy
	I blink, and she is gone. And I am left to wonder, for the moment,  for the night, and probably for a long time to come, if she was ever really there at all.



World, you tried to kick my ass, 
	and I kicked back.

Last night when I found out that I couldn't call Dwight again to see if he was okay. I had to go back and watch "Coffeehouse..." again. There is the most disquieting legacy of tragedy that has haunted it. Six weeks after I interviewed Deacon Lunchbox, he was killed in a wreck coming back from Pensacola Fl. One of my camera operators (and co-worker at Fellini's Pizza) was hit riding his bike home from work. When he was walking out of Grady hospital, he felt ill and went back. They looked again at his x-ray and THEN noticed he had a collapsed lung. I lost a woman that might've made the rest of my life a lot happier. I found out not much later that I'd been put under psychic attack by a member of the Black Lodge. The closest I got  got to a name was "John". It's always bothered me.
 
Kerry Thorley appears in "Coffeehouse". He died in 1998. Now Dwight has left the mortal coil. I've recently decided that a re-edit of "Coffeehouse..." will be my first large scale project when I have my Digital Video operation set up.
 
My friend and fellow poet Leslie Maryann Neal was here using the computer to work on her book. She listened to me while I reminisced over Dwight and Kerry. Other poets seem to be my best, if only, best friends.
 
I asked Kerry one time what kept him going. I really wanted to know. He told me 'the little things' in that voice that was rich with world weariness but flavored with hope. I was dissatisfied with the answer, but I understand it. Little things keep me going. 
 
Near where I live, a woman with cancer sits in her wheel chair at the mouth of a strip mall. She sits there begging for money. Saturday, it was raining and her umbrella was broken. I bought her a new one. Little things keep me going.
 
Today I went for orientation for my new job, wrote the eulogy for Dwight, sold the truck that's been an eyesore in my back yard and sent off checks for the bills. Yeah, I took the first offer that came my way. I don't feel bad about it. Getting rid of that truck was like squeezing out an infected splinter and the accompanying puss and blood. It feels good.
 
I found the folder with the poems Dwight would hand out at readings - he really was a poet's poet.
 
I did something else today I didn't think I could do anymore -I cried just a little. I thought I'd effectively shut down emotionally. Sometimes, I don't mind being wrong.
 
Tonight, I'm going to lay down, read some electronics, watch "Buffy" and Leslie may come back to work on her book some more.
Confession, can, be, good, for the soul.	
It's a wedding announcement,
she guesses
It's not very official looking
It's not on paper
It's got no flowers
She only mentions this two thirds of the way down the e-mail she sent her friends,
Friends, survivors and observers of the needle.
I think most of them are junkies, 
I've known many
There's a curious, warm philosophy that heroin seems to be conducive to.
Perhaps, I've just been fortunate to know the
more interesting and nicer junkies.

My pain is not assuaged because I hardly know her,
It's aggravated because I see the future too well.
I see bad things decrying,
The bride weds a man that the heavens condemn.
I see blood and destruction
No one's elation but one selfish man
No one's elation save for one selfish man.




Why  do  you  call  yourself  Reverend?

After the reading some psychic vampire 
got in my face for using 
the title Reverend. 
(This was after he tried to reduce
the concept of moral support 
to the actions of hormones.) 
I explained how I felt 
Atlanta needed a new spiritual leader 
after Deacon Lunchbox died. 
He just didn't get the joke.

Sometimes these vamps are just 
looking for a fight 
and I wouldn't give it to him 
except to tell him he made me sad 
because he has a Universal Life Church card 
he's not doing a thing with.
The world is awash in evil. 
I struggle to ponder if there is 
any ultimate reward 
for the efforts we make in Assiah. 
If god is an ego, 
why does this ego tolerate evil? 
If Satan rules the world, 
why bother to be decent? 
If the Universe is ruled by 
impersonal laws of metaphysics, 
why bother at all? 
Is there any scenario where I am 
a better person for helping to 
raise money for the Red Cross 
than bin Laden for declaring 
a holy war on America? 
The endlessly seductive aspect 
of the Occult is that unlike math, 
the answers to the problems 
aren't in the back of the book.
Hang in there dark one, 
morning will come soon 
and life can begin again
because tomorrow is gone, 
and if God is 
an impersonal set of metaphysical laws, 
forgotten.



The Girlfriend Rant
(in response to Leslie Maryan Neal's "Boyfriend Rant")

Keep your cat out of here, it bothers my lizards
Quit bitching about every little comment I make that you don't like, I don't like everything that comes out of your mouth either.
I'm not going to tell you everything I think, I could never get it all out
I'm not going to hang all over you every time you cry
I'm not going to apologize for being a male
I'm not going to take the blame for sexism
I don't care about your damn garden
I don't want to watch all of "Lonesome Dove"
I'm not going to listen to your girlfriends bitch about their boyfriends
And I sure don't want to hear about your pap smear, or how cold the gynecologist's instruments were.
And the next time you cry over something on T.V. , I'm slapping you into next week.
By the way, the underwear hanging in the shower should be dry by now 



I have to make excuses
 not to kill myself all the time, 
it takes a lot of energy
I am constantly reminded 
that the world is awash in evil
and I wonder all the time 
why I bother caring, so I often don't
I feel beat down, worn down,
	ready to quit
And I am so tempted to leave the world
	so I don't have to see them
Anymore.
	But the people I'll hurt, aren't the people I don't want to see.
	In the end, I am left with this mantra:
If I kill myself, they win
If I kill myself, they win
If I kill myself, they win 



The meaning of it all

	I am tired and tiring, I am worn to a frazzle and wearing thinner.
It seems I keep encountering conflicts devoid of redeeming intentions. I am left to meditate on the meaning, if any of it all.
	Humans have no need to fight over territory. What need is there to fight over crap?
	What is served when fighting just for the sake of conflict. I find myself thinking about the many aspects of evil. The symbolism of the Ying/Yang of the Tao may hold some answers.
	Not just that there is evil in good 	and vice versa But that evil can be the forerunner of good. For example, we can conceivable thank
Adolf Hitler for the U.N. And the Jews can thank him for Israel. Perhaps there are good aspects of evil.
	What after all, is real evil? Is real evil the harming and hindrance of innocents devoid of redeeming values and/or the practice of Psychic Vampirism. Which I have had to learn not to feed? So, what does it mean to be good?
	Is there as much strength in good as in evil? Is the strength of restraint real strength
or weakness? Why do I feel so good when I'm mean?



 She was addiction
(edited by Cynthia Childress)

In Al-anon they told me 
you can't change people, 
can't fix people, 
they have to 
make that decision themselves.
She was like a Martini to me, 
mesmerizing deadly and socially
acceptable. Hot and sharp going down, 
filling me with a warm glow inside. 
She dropped my inhibition with a wink. 
I came closer, judgment clouded  
as the room disappeared.  She mesmerized me
from the smell of her smile, 
sparkling and seductive.
Beautiful poison, I lived for her
nightly death.  Found myself inspired
controversially to take ecstasy trips 
and spend time with kids
drank her in to let her consume me
from the inside out over and over
she beat me in the head, twisting my
guts. I was as useless as pissed on carpet
every bloody hangover morning.
She must be lethal, I thought, but I drank on, 
couldn't get enough.  We crawled together through gutters 
joined in mutual ruin. 
She loved the bottle first, 
but I loved her just the same.
It's been six months since I kicked her, 
and still I crave her, 
in my rasping heart    
thirsty veins    
dry liver.
She can go to the supermarket by whatever street she lives on,
or to a corner store, or straight to a liquor pusher and get her fix.
I cannot buy her from the bartender's top shelf,
replace her liquor with another glass bottle.
I am looking for an anecdote 
pretending there is enough of me undamaged
left to love. 
Pretending I can be relevant, 
that I'm still a man,
but I would try again (going numb) with her; 
next time I'll rise above the circumstances, 
and
oh, shit.  
I am drunk 
on a new favorite, Scotch
bought by a stranger who says:
"It's not your fault, she made her own decision."

If "Harry Potter" was real

I haven't read a word of any 
Harry Potter book.
I'm not seduced by the candy coated fairy tales
J.K.  Rowlings has given us.
I've been in the real Mystery Schools.
They're not mysterious and beautiful castles in alternate dimensions.
They're dilapidated houses in ghetto neighborhoods.
We didn't wave wands and watch feathers float,
We performed ancient and modern rituals in dark rooms lit by candles and filled with incense smoke.
And if it didn't drive us insane, we might see results - from seemingly unrelated avenues.
I did go to see the movie.
 I kept wondering: 
"Where's the drug-taking, 
the group sex and 
listening to Led Zeppelin records backwards? 
It was so unrealistic
"Harry!" I wanted to shout. 
In fact, I think I did shout
"Hermione is so hot for you! 
Fuck the shit out of her!"
If Harry Potter was real....
he'd smoke a fattie, say the Lord's prayer backwards, Put on Jimmy Page's soundtrack for "Lucifer Rising" the boot leg version of course, tie up Harmie and fuck her hard, 
over and over until she had visions 
of the 8th aether
Professor Snape would make a play for her,
and she'd do it.
Harry and Snape would develop bad blood over her.
Eventually, Scully and Mulder 
would go looking for him...
They question him over the 
missing skulls from the graveyard
Harry makes them forget why they came.
And shares a smoke with the cigarette smoking man



As the World Burns

I'm an actor in a soap Opera,
it's called "As the World Burns"
I play Jake
Jake gets off work where he's been eyeing 
the east Indian a few rows over, so exotic.
...just because she's married, doesn't mean...
He drive to the Mall where 
he's going to meet with Marilyn,
the new love of his life.
While he waits, he works on a card for his
once prospective mail-order bride.
He struggles with his Russian Cyrillic letters.
Marilyn arrives and they walk hand in hand.
She confesses that Saturday nights declarations of love were drunken ravings.
Jake admits he's been in contact with
Marilyn's former lesbian lover, Holly.
Marilyn gives him an icy stare and tells him to get the hell away from her.
He pleads with her to reconsider.
His pleas fall on enraged 
and unsympathetic ears.
Jake drives home, heartbroken and confused.
He goes to Radio Shack to buy a replacement battery for his watch 
that quit working Saturday night
He arrives to realize that a tool belt is missing
Slobodon had been a thorn in Jake's back side. He is abusive, manipulative and nasty.
Frustrated, enraged, tired and heartbroken,
Jake fixes his watch with available tools, sends some choice e-mails and goes to bed with a tin mug of wine on his bed side table.
When he wakes, he goes to check the e-mail. 
He realizes his computer 
has been online all night
He sees that Allyson has tried to contact him
on Instant Messenger.
Allyson is the poet-witch he's been courting online despite her quasi-marriage to an old friend of Jake's he's long since ceased liking or trusting.
Shakespear said:
"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
The tragedy here is that fiction is fact, 
the thin line between the two 
grows greyer everyday
What I wonder is how much of my lines 
I am improvising and 
how much is written somewhere
 I don't see but only read.
Will they tell me back stage?
Or just send me back 
on the road 
to do another show, 
in another town,
another production of 
"As the World Burns"?



New Year's  Eve day

I'm hanging in a diner,
waiting for my clothes to drip dry
next door
A raven haired doll came in
Just as I finish my Greek omelette
No wedding ring, 
but I've been fooled by that before
Do I have the nerve to say:
"Hell, my name is Geoff, and you are a doll,
married?"



Alley Cat

I found Alley Cat flowing down the road.
She is dark and mysterious.
She is lust alive

I took Alley Cat home with me.
I love the way she purrs
I love to pet the pussy cat
I love to give her love

You can't train an Alley Cat to 
jump through hoops
You can't tell her what to do.
You can't own an Alley Cat,
they come and go as they please.
All you can do is keep a bowl of milk
for when they return

No, Alley Cat is not my pet,
though I'd care for her all my life
Alley Cat, I wait for you.
And the red wine holds it's breath

			




The smoking love gun

I dropped you off not knowing
when I'd see you again.
Thank you for the best weekend of my life!
You are just too much fun.
I have never felt this way before.
Sometimes when I talk to you, I think I am talking with myself.
I have never felt what I feel with you.
My body retained the memory of yours for hours after I left.
The photo will last for years, depending on how they are preserved.
But my mind will retain the 
images of you 
forever. 
And my heart will hold memories 
for the rest of my life.
I am yours when you decide to claim me.
I will not be complete without you.
My body held the memory 
of yours for hours after we parted,
you, not looking back.


	
My Precious

Sing a song of innocence, 
and deep incestuous dreams
listen to my subterfuge, 
we shall fantasize duplicity

Conspire with me Clandestine Passion
I'll hold you down hard on the bed
Struggle against my leverage
This ugly affair is purest felicity

Groan with me like animals
I'll soak you with your love
Wallow in animalistic lust
breath shallow, pant with panic

Lie still and quiet in the afterglow
I'll tell you again how I love you
I will not stoop to the phrase soul-mate
Alley Cat, Alley Cat, my precious nymphomaniac



Accidental Road trip

I drove eight hours,
sat out a hail storm in a Burger King,
sipping coffee and staring at foreboding clouds,
"Two weeks" I kept thinking, "She must be going through hell."
I searched Memorial boulevard at night, declined the services of a street whore, but asked her help searching for the IAG, where I worked the door to raise money for your commissary,
slept two hours on a couch,
drove to Rice Street,
surrendered my driver's licence, 
put my jacket in a locker for twenty-five cents,
to see you.
You. 
You, in a county blue jump suit, beige plastic sandals, black nail polish chipping from your toes and no make-up. Still beautiful to me. 
You, 
behind two way glass, 
when I hoped I could hold you.
I wrote you,
told you I wanted to see you.
You must not have believed me.
"Who the fuck is coming to see me at nine in the morning?" You asked yourself as they escorted you from you cell.
When I saw you smile seeing me,
it all made sense.
To see you healthy, clean and unhurt.
To see the color of your eyes again.
To watch you peek at me from under Raven hair.
To make you laugh,
teasing you, 
you make a guy go through a lot for a second date.
It was all worth it:
the accidental Road trip,
the visit to my dead parrot's grave,
the poignant return to Little Five Points,
the search on dangerous streets at night,
the poor excuse for a nights sleep,
the mad dash,
dirty and harried
to the Fulton county jail,
to see you again,
and tell you
I love you.
			




Joseph Campbell on Loss

	Several years ago, Bill Moyers interviewed Joseph Campbel for a multi-part special called "The Power of Myth." One of the things Campbell said struck me, has always stuck with me, and now seems relavent again.
	He was on the subject of how life is full of loss. "Loss, loss, loss."
	Moyers asked him "So what's the answer?"
	"I will participate." Campbel said sitting up.
	"I will do the best I can?" Moyers asked trying to divine the nuances.
	Campbel Shrugged. "I will participate in this Great Opera." He leaves it at that, only adding that 'it really is a Great Opera."
	My own interpretation of the implications is that we continue to be in the world and be part of it as heros, villians, victims and martyrs as we see fit for no other or better  reason than to simply BE PART of the fantastic complex mosaic we know as our existence. It's a paradoxially simply and unsatisfying answer to the 'meaning of life' question.
	I think I've mentioned before that I once asked Kerry Thornley what kept him going. He aswer with a distant smile was 'the little things'. I suppose it's a matter of philisophical gymnastics if and how much Campbel and Thornley were saying the same thing.
	I think I got on this (again) after Alyssa's post about Egypt health. I don't think I'm alone in this group in that I've lost pets,  friends and possesions I valued, sometimes due to my own failures, sometimes due to the imcompetence and greed of others, sometimes out of simple bad luck. More than once, I've remembered Joseph Campbell sitting up and saying "I will participate in this Great Opera".   And as much as I've tried to pull some kind of  'sanctity of life' message out of it, it comes off more like good natured existentialism - I live because I'm here.
	I also know that I'm not alone in this group in that I've contemplated suicide.  I've been carrying an obscene burden of rage that I can only hope I'd leave behind with this mortal coil. I've recently heard (from a guy talking on a radio show who says he can communicate with the other side) that there's no penalty in the after life if you commit suicide. There shouldn't be either, any more penalty than there would be for walking out of a movie. And I think that makes for a useful parallel. (I'm not looking for pity here. This isn't about that.)
	It wasn't too long ago that I felt I'd painted myself into a corner with no way out. So, I found a quiet spot, under a tree on a piece of plywood by an abondoned boat. In one hand I held a quart bottle of beer, joint wedged between two fingers. In the other hand I held my .9mm.
	"I can't go on like this." I kept telling myself.  The plan was to fiish the beer and joint and then I'd be in a more relaxed mood to stick the business end in my mouth and knock out the medula whatever. I really wanted to kill myself. I really wanted to do it. I wanted the pain, the anger and the self-hatred to all come to an end. I wanted to walk out of the bad movie my life was playing.  But there is, for me, still always a struggle.
	I finally set the .9mm down for what almost seems like surrealist reasons: that I might actually have friends that would be hurt by my leaving, that my enemies would savor my suicide, that an uncertain future may actually hold pleasant surprises, that living well would be the best revenge against parents that have given me up for worthless garbage.
	What I found really odd when I finally gave in to living longer, was the feeling it gave me. It was like 'okay, I won't call in sick afterall, I'll go into work.'. I was so mad. I was mad at myself for 'doing the right thing'.
	Then, one of Florida's numerous lizards came out of hiding and climbed on a nearby fallen branch. He unfurled his red flap of skin under his chin, it's part of thier mating rituals. I had to wonder if it was his way of saying to me "I will participate, you should too."



I remember Andrea

	A friend of mine used to say I'd like her sister.
	"Cool, whatever." I said, never expecting it would happen. But friend brought her sister to town for a visit. Nice girl, laid back but colorful. So, we were smoking a joint in a dark corner of the Castle, and I blurted out:
	"You remind me of the first girl I ever dated."
	"I hope that's a good thing." Friend's sister said.
	"Sure, "
	Andrea and I used to hang out in the smoking court. She was a junior, I was a sophomore.  She was just a little taller than me. She was more street than me, but she was laid back and gentle. She was more street than me, but she had a heart of gold. 
	Andrea was not the prettiest girl in school. Her nose was a little on the big side, giving her a nasal but musical tone to her voice. I loved to listen to her talk Her face was just a little scarred, I think her soul was too. You could see it in the thousand yard stare in her gorgeous chocolate brown eyes that I could not get enough of. 
	She was at least part Greek, but she told me she was descended from Russian Gypsies.
	Andrea was not the smartest girl in school. She was more likely to have beer with her mother than do homework. Andrea was on the quiet side. She was laid back and moved slowly and deliberately with a haunting grace that fascinated me. She also had a very attractive figure.
	And I, the sheltered post-sixties hippie wannabe, I was clueless about the world, much less the one she lived in. Something terrible must have happened to her. I could sense it
even in my sheltered naivete, but I didn't yet have the tools to go there. And I was too scared to even ask her out until the night I ran into her with Curtis Beasley - an even bigger loser than me. I asked her the next day why she went out with him. He asked her, it was that simple.
	So, I took her to the movies. When I took her back to her house, she led me to the darkness of the back yard. I didn't get it. I didn't get that this was my chance for our first kiss. I blew it. The girl that fascinated me to near obsession waited for me to make a move I was too stupid and scared to go for. She finally sighed and went inside.
	Eventually, I went to college out of state and she got a job somewhere. I caught up with her again. But it was already too late. She was cold to me.
	But she will always be the first girl I ever dated. She will always be the exotic Greek girl that claimed to be from Russian Gypsies and dressed accordingly. The girl with the slightly large nose that gave her that resonate sound that I loved to hear, who's thousand yard stare in those chocolate brown eyes that fascinated me. Whose haunting grace and deliberately cautious eroticism hypnotized me. I emulated it, I absorbed it. I made it part of myself. I have carried it in my blood like an antibody all these years. 
	Andrea, I have never forgotten you. You have always been somewhere in the back of my mind.
	So when my friend's sister said "I hope that's a good thing", I said "Sure, loved her."
The next thing I knew, their designated driver said friend needed to go home. I gave friend's sister a quick peck on the cheek, wishing I'd kissed Andrea when I had the chance.
	


Man is an animal

Cain invented murder by testing it out on Able.
Jehovah freed the children of Israel out of Egypt
and eventually they conquered Canaan,
making conquest a divine mission for god.
Yahweh gave divine mandate for battle, occupation, enslavement
and taking of wives under compulsion.
But when they displeased the lord, he would deliver them
to the hands of their enemies:
the pagans and the philistines.
King David, however, captured Jerusalem and made it
his capital.
The Crusaders freed the Holy land in God's name
The Spanish Inquisition and witch hunters everywhere believed they were fighting God's fight.
Explorers in early America believed God intended them to take the entire North American
continent.
Both sides of the American Civil war believed they needed God on their side
Suicide bombers believe they are earning a place in heaven
As if God would so micro manage.
As if God saw as any more than we see ants fight over dirt
Man is an animal who convinces himself he fights
in the name of god.
There is a spark of divinity,
but it has been taken wrong and used for the wrong things.
Man is an animal that thinks he's god because
he can create things of amazing technology.
He made the wheel, the printing press, the transistor
and the atom bomb.
He's developed medical technology that extends life beyond
natures design.
He builds ships that can fly in the air 
and even into the space he once gazed into with wonder
He's created weapons that can destroy the land and lives
that he has given us.
Man is an animal with delusions of Godhood, but there is a spark of divinity
Moses told us not to kill each other.
Jesus told us to love one another.
The message is a tough one to take, even Paul missed the point.
War is easy, it's easy to descend to base instincts.
Harder is the leap of faith to rise above the animal mind
that lives by sociopathic Darwinism.
How many people must die?
Man is an animal that thinks he's god.
How many deaths will it take before he knows that too many
people have died?





Dwight Humphries: A Eulogy

	I knew Dwight Humphries. I knew him for many years, I'm not even sure for how long. He was one of the commentators in my documentary "Coffeehouse: Atlanta's Underground Poets". He is responsible for one of my favorite quotes in "Coffeehouse...". In answer to ‘what makes poetry good?', he said "Good poetry makes an echo in the brain." He said that in his characteristic Southern drawl. To my Yankee sensibilities, the Southern drawl has never fit well with musings over philosophy, metaphysics and mythology. Somehow, Dwight made it work. It is to me, eerily appropriate that he and Howard Finster should go in the same season. I can help but picture them both in the after life for artists attending a sermon by Deacon Lunchbox.
	Dwight was an odd bird. He was missing the thumb on his right hand. I never got used to that, and I never asked him what happened to it. He'd curl the remaining fingers like a tentacle around the pipe he smoked. It was a spooky visage to witness. He wore that tweed hat most anytime I saw him. Dwight's delivery was flat monotone, eventually he took to distributing copies of the poems he read. I think he got tired of being told: "your stuff probably looks great on paper."
	He was eccentric, a gentleman and a poet's poet. Dwight didn't just turn a phrase, he could twist it like Celtic knot work, beautiful to view and painful to empathize with. In "Do not ask me", the poem he reads in "Coffeehouse...", he uses the phrase "mechanics of broken brains". No run of the mill poet wannabe could ever come up with that. And Dwight knew what he was talking about. He
 received disability for his mental illness.
	I'd been to his apartment a few times. It was sparsely furnished. He had a collection of CDs and homemade speed. He offered me some a few times. I never took him up on it.
	In an odd way, I think I was intimidated by him. Not just because of the missing thumb and his eccentric demeanor. But he was full of life and driven to live despite his self-destructive tendencies. He had a cocksure attitude and was not shy. Yet, as I said, he was a gentleman. He was rarely abusive to me.
	I think though that more than anything I am in awe over how he hung in there. As hard as he lived, I don't believe he wanted to die. I feel embarrassed for my self-pity and defeatist attitude. He has left me with inspiration to endure in spite of overwhelming slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. When I talked to him in the hospital about a month ago, we said he was going to pull it out again. He had me believe it too.
	Goodbye Dwight, I will miss you too. But I feel honored and lucky to have known you.
	Goodnight friend, and thanks for the memories.