TEARS

Sometimes,

Crying,

We see through the blur of our own tears

Or that of Others, 

A CLEARER vision of our Selves

And Humanity. 

Sometimes,

We are moved to tears

By something we hear

A song

Something Said

Something we see

We read

Beautiful 

Or horrible

A piece of art for a moment

A piece of reality in a moment

In a moment we witness

We FEEL 

A deeper 

CLEARER vision of our Selves

And humanity

Through the blur of our own tears

Or that of others.

Sometimes crying,

Or seeing

Hearing 

The tears of others

We feel those tears inside us

A rain of pain

And joy 

Inside us.

Inside us

Through the burred veil of tears

We see our humanity

And that of Others,

Magnified

Clarified 

Enhanced 

FELT

Deeper 

Stronger

Than anything we or another can do 

Or Feel

As Humans. 

It humbles us

And in the humbling joy pain of that rain of tears inside,

We are better

Greater, 

People for it. 

STICKS

This afternoon as it was about to rain, I got this brilliant idea to get a STICK for my bird. I had cut a limb off of a tree a few weeks ago and that limb was like an animal carcass ready for the feast! Cut off a bit here and there and use it for… THE BIRD!

I did some rough measurements of about a half body length and got A STICK. I a nice rough with bark STICK with a few short branches on it. I placed it over the bird cage on top of some other sticks. I watched as the bird stood off swinging in a window. I moved away and the bird bobbed and craned it’s neck. Big new thing for it! A BIG STICK! Sure enough the bird flew up on the cage, hopped over some other sticks and investigated the new big stick. Part of it as thick as half my wrist. Ahhhh true joy! A stick to play with. Chew on and run around on! I sweetened the deal by putting a smear of peanut butter on the thick part it seemed to fear. Ahhhhh true love! PEANUT BUTTER TO DIG OUT OF BARK POCKETS! 

I was thinking about that stick and bird tonight. I have spent probably near $200 on various toys and things for that bird. Bird stuff. Fancy ropes and ladders. Toys with bells and bangles.  Of all that expensive stuff that I got for the bird, what does it like the most?

STICKS!

Sticks I cut and use as perches. Bird loves to play and chew on them. Good for toenails and beak. NATURAL stuff. Did not cost a thing! 

It reminds me of how when I was a kid… the best toys were….

STICKS.

Nothing store bought.

Nothing as advertised.

STICKS that the IMAGINATION can turn into magical things. Guns. Swords! Anything held by an actor in a science fiction or fantasy film! A STICK could be formed with the imagination to be something great! Something like nobody else could see but once you told them what it was and made the right noises… it was real to you!

I have it I see it but nobody else can see the worth and wonder of it but I got this… STICK!  Didn’t cost a thing except a cut with a jack knife making it personalized. Like a bird chewing on a stick 😉

Birds are eternal children playing with sticks. Outside, living in a stick world of play and survival. 

I wonder… so selfishly… did trees evolve for birds… and kids?

Before They Decide To Start A War

Those who wish to start wars

Before they start them from their desks

need to listen to the inglorious horror stories of the veterans

Those veterans 

Those amputees

Those doctors in military psych wards that treat people with PTSD.

They need to go to morgue and smell the dead

They need to be immersed in images of those shattered 

Torn

Eviscerated 

Decapitated 

Tortured to death.

They need to experience all this

And know a small fraction of what war is…

And then they need to be taken to some barren place bereft of all life comforts

And beaten for days

Then brought back to life

Then maybe … feeling their scars for life

They can sit painfully

Horrified at a desk

And decide if men and women should be sent to be crippled 

And die.

Hopefully,

If they have an ounce of humanity and empathy left in them,

They will weep as never before

As they make that horrible decision. 

If they do not and cannot,

THEY should be the one’s to die in that moment. 

Dying Gods

I just read that Rick Ocasek, the one-time leader of The Cars, a rock group of my youth, has died, age 75. There is often a chill that runs through me reading about such deaths as his. I remember him only as a young man just as I remember so MANY entertainers, rock musicians of my youth as young men and women. In their prime and then…I read of their deaths. So many it seems. It makes me feel MY age. A reminder of MY mortality of how they were the big kids living the wild dream when I was a wild kid. Now they are old and dying out but still young in my mind and their music I sometimes listen to. I sometimes wonder, while listening to song from my youth, “Is that singer still alive? What of the others that were in that band?” THEIR dying is a chilling reminder of, “your next!” Just as there were warnings when I was young, when rockers died from their excesses and hedonistic life styles. Warnings I often ignored but warnings that scared me. “Don’t stay on THIS path. Quit that shit you been doing or you will end-up like them but without the glory.


At times, seeing yet another rocker death or some actor or actress’s notice of death, I feel I am getting closer to that fate. The Reaper is reminding me in headlines and obituaries of my time is getting closer. It is a selfish taunting

.
I recall my parents noting people THEY grew up being entertained by, dying out. There became fewer and fewer of THEM as they got older and a morbid fascination reading the obituaries of THEIR gods.
My gods are often fat, grey haired or bald now. Some still trying to be rock and pop stars. The actors finding less work or not work for A list celebrities. Then they too are found dead. Cancer today took the life of…
Etc.


I look around and see the life I am living. Shake my head and keep pushing to live clean and despite the cynicism of some in that I will die of something some time, I am TRYING to live longer than so many of the gods of my youth. At the same time I wonder if the old gods are lonely. Almost forgotten but hanging on.
Like me like WE.


We all hanging on and watching the Idols go from Billboard magazine front page to… back page obituaries in the main stream news.

Identity


Sometimes I forget my Identity
NOT my NAME
But who and what I truly am in this life.

It is an identity I learned
I realized long ago.
An identity I often tried to reject
to cut it from my skin 
and burn that bleeding parchment in fire. 

It is an identity I remember
that Awakens me
That is ME
fully ALIVE INSIDE
shining inside,
a light seen through my wilderness
I reach for
embrace
pull it around and feel it’s comfort
it’s often insecurity 
but who I truly AM,
My Identity…

It is an old comfortable pair of shoes I can never throw out
something, 
in the realities of life I shy from
I fear from 
then it comes for me from inside
rising like a fog
a new skin
my original spiritual Face
and for a while
I am so ALIVE
Being who I truly AM in life
But so few can see
Or I am too shy to let see
a man of visions
that grew from a terrified lonely child
a man of visions,
that took that fear and loneliness
and created 
found
his own IDENTITY
so often a secret to myself
forgotten
so often never witnessed by those 
and the world around me.

Bent, Not Broken

Today at work I had a moment in which I felt and remembered how many bullies I have known. In the factory. In the office of the factory. At home. My father. Others in my family that want to push me down and humiliate me. Bosses that often threatened to fire me for… stupid shit that never mattered beyond a moment. A moment of POWER they felt they had over me to push me down. 

I bent, 

Over and over I bent and at times the pressure of the bullies made me weep. 

But I always pulled myself together and rose up again.

I was never fired.

I bent

I put on my mask 

I put away my rage that could have killed

them and me. 

I was the only kid in my family my father gave beatings to. The other kids have no idea what that was like. They have no idea what it was to be the hated child as my father died, hating me in some part of his fading self. 

I have come to see that I am stronger than the bullies 

Because I do not choose to BE like them.

To beat someone down with my wealth

To beat someone down because I can make them jobless. 

To beat someone down because of some SICK joy at being able to do so.

I am and have been better than that

Better than all those that beat me down

but did not destroy me.

I am better because…

I chose to use them

as reflections

as images, 

OF HOW NOT TO BE.

Sometimes I find myself yelling at my bird for doing some thing of mischief

Then I laugh and treat it kindly

Because I am not THAT person 

To the smallest 

the weakest 

the most innocent 

as I may have been,

No,

I am better than that

I am stronger

I can reach in 

reach out

with KINDNESS

FORGIVENESS

EMPATHY

COMPASSION

And in my strongest moments, 

unlike 

and opposite all those that tried to

and did

beat me down….

I can reach out with LOVE

and in THAT,

And am stronger than them all. 

Distant Storms

Sometimes

A distant thunderstorm 

Makes me wonder 

And imagine

IF above the clouds the ancient gods are warring

Or celestial beasts fighting

Or perhaps the artilleries of fallen armies

Roam the clouds 

Constantly fighting over and over

Battles long won and lost

Only remembered in history books

And broken clouds from ghost cannon fire. 

Perhaps the raging winds are the ghost voices of charging battling armies

Howling celestial beasts,

Or gods fighting and yelling in god speak. 

Idea Fishing Late At Night

I sit in the dark late night
Waiting
Casting my baited thought lines out into my subconscious
Into the darkness around me
Waiting 
For something to inside me
Or outside me in the dark beyond my vision
Waiting
For my open
Welcoming mind to connect
To suddenly SPARK!
Like a personal 
Big Bang
AN IDEA!

(Slowly reel it in kicking and screaming 
Pull it into the boat of my mind
Remove the bait and ….
Embrace it
Cuddle 
Feed it my attention
Nurture it
Empower it
And help it grow
A living thing growing 
Of words…

My God

(I am an atheist but this is what I would believe as any kind of god in my life)

This Is My God

When I feed my pet bird and give it comfort

I feel joy doing it.

It does nothing for me but exist as itself

The joy comes in that existence in my life

And the joy of giving to it and nurturing it.

That moment of “joy” is the only god I know.

When I talk with someone and we share something to smile and laugh about

A joyful moment

There is my god.

When I do a kindness to some person or thing without asking or expecting anything in return, 

There is my god

A spark of joy 

In giving 

In helping

In perhaps making another life better. 

When I set a bowl of water out for some creature of the night to quench it’s thirst,

KNOWING it will help something

I feel joy in that

There is my god.

When I spread some matter on my lawn that trees can use for food when decayed, 

I feel a small joy

A tiny spark

Knowing that that will have done some good.

When I pour water on the ground near some trees and know that the roots will suck it up

And help the tree

There is that spark again

Of joy in a moment knowing I helped another living thing. 

When I give ANYTHING unconditionally

Words and 

Actions

In positive nurturing ways

And feel no desire for anything in return

There is a small joy

A spark

There is MY god

When I ask what I can do for others 

And find an answer

Live an action, 

There is my prayer

And prayer answered

In selfless action

And a moment 

A spark of Joy INSIDE 

As my reward.

Gun Loving Kid At The Grocery Store

Today at the grocery store,I asked the kid bagging my groceries how old he was. 16 he said. The man checking me out laughed and said that at 16 he was firing Kalashnikovs! He was a Russian immigrant. It was part of his schooling long ago. The kid bagging the groceries said that he liked guns. He liked them A LOT. I felt quiet rage growing. I wanted to ask him if he had ever SEEN OR FELT what a bullet does to a body. Did he know the horror or being shot at? Of having a friend killed near you? Of being shot in the guts and knowing that bullet was going to bleed you out ? Did he know SHIT about violence? I am sure he did not. He was all talk and spoiled white boy USA. Yeah he loved guns. Turn one on him and would he go piss himself? I made a sarcastic comment about how the AK is a great machine for killing and that is all. Not good at any distance but good for splattering bullets around you at short range. Bitch boy spoiled brat of 16 would not know that. Not know the pain of a bullet wound. Not know the crippling of them. Not know the horror of it all. It’s all movies and video games hey kid?

Hey kid, you ever had bombs going off around you?

Ever seen a person blown to bits near you with their blood and body parts splattered on you? 

Not cool or cool? 

How fucking real!

Yeah and a barrage of artillery slamming you around no matter how deep you dig. Coming up for air all you can do is scream until your voice is gone. 

Pretty cool aye spoiled American brat?

Ever seen your family lined up and killed with an assault weapon?

Hey kid not cool or is it?

Reality is the most horrifying thing. 

But you grew up on violence – OTHERS dying and you only getting cramps from playing video games. 

Wow guns are so cool eh kid?

I never had any experience of it but I do not and will not glorify guns. They are machines made to KILL. Not for some bullshit thing like… target practice. Targets represent living things. It’s all about ending life. Hey kid, you like to end lives? How valuable is yours? Some other kid may point a gun your way and then what? Guns so fun then?