Suicide, the taking of what does not belong to oneself:

Why I Decided to Just Fucking Die

5

“Chemical imbalance” and Serotonin Syndrome

Taking certain medications, inadequate treatments for manic depression such as SSIDS (like Paxil, Zoloft, anything my editor will point out she can name) can make physical joy – without aide – that feeling of ‘not pain’ impossible. Simply, one cannot be pleasant, happy, have energy, only an intense and overwhelming and unending compulsions. I spend a weekend working on translating Russian tabloid magazines that gossip – the idiot’s rhapsody – about political matters whenever some hack journal/online thoughtless think-piece peddler comments about whoever is currently taking over the world and why we should kill the dragon. It’s whore work. It makes me feel sticky all over like the universe is stuck to me and won’t let go and it has my skin AHH AHAHAHAHA it’s not easy to deal with it. What are your options if you don’t want to murder yourself to stop – what? Compulsion towards wanting to write books, which I may get as far as 50-100k words into, before I’m FUCKING POOR I CAN’T EAT SO HERE’S A JOURNALIST IN RUSSIA WHO THINKS HE KNOWS SOME SHIT THAT WENT DOWN AT THE KREMLIM BETWEEN WALUGI AND you see? Click here for Top 5 Reasons Why you Shouldn’t Commit Suicide.

4

Your life does not belong to you.
Consider.
Did you pay for it?
Is the air not fucking free?
Look around and think. Listen to the silence, and yet? What’s that telling you? Click off now or you’ll regret this!
I’ve sinned, too; regret, regrets, the terrible things we do, to our lives and the lives of others. The wrongs I’ve done to others – slight lies, fabrications of any sort, stealing, fire setting, cat robbery, notebook theft, anything I do, it sits on me like ever-coagulating concrete that wraps and squeezes forever tighter but somehow doesn’t solidy or break. The compulsion must be to atone; I’m sorry I wanted to look as though I am better than I am; the cat was outside and you weren’t treating her right anyway; I’m a klepto impulsively and autistic; high functioning just means your condition leaves a footprint, a deep stinking pit of stink and shit. I’m sorry, I’m not as good as I would have anyone believe. But I am trying to be better than the person I am to atone for the person I was, through action and purpose and thought and action for my life does not belong to me.

3 When You’re Thrown Away and Can’t Understand Anything

I was adopted by two kind Southerners; a hardworking spinster who raised 5 kids – and adopted two more, my Brother Kyle and myself, and worked 6 days a week 12 hours a day and NEVER FUCKING RESTED A SECOND. My adoptive father was always ill, but he gave me everything when I got a home; I met another man who would have adopted me – who turned out to be married to a relative – and he kept in touch with me, encouraging me to write him letters. I sent him copies of Dr. Seuss, telling this man that I FUCKING WROTE GREEN EGGS AND HAM. Y [shame]

But he said they were great, keep it up young sir. And I did, and I said look at all these words I know; and I’d list everything I could make sense of, and he would encourage it greatly. He told my father, who bought a series of books – a poor man’s encyclopedia. This kind stranger, not related to me by any means, taught me how to convert my fear of silence into expression, and art. It showed me how to put together ideas and notions in ways I feel are sublime and beyond grasping, like the air that you grab when you’re falling and nothing’s there – but this is when nothing holds you. An inexpressibly beautiful and edifying sort of word mosaic. And I have never needed a penny since. I sold my first but when I was 19 and started selling essays to my friends who went to college as I went through uni; I did this full time. In my spare time I wrote and published 3 more novels, The Make Believe Ballroom, Dream of the Louse, Songs of Lalande, and then I found a site that you would let you make money from translation. What? How hard could that be?

Now I’m a whore and compulsive and suicidal become of that physical joy incapability earlier which becomes harder and harder to cope with without DRUGS. I’m sorry mama, I did my best;
Let the poor boy get some rest
get that boulder off his chest
Let him have his fucking death
Why does he want to die so bad?
Why is such a soft glass so sad
Can’t do what you love because the shit you love
Doesn’t sell enough because it’s poetry, enough!
No rhymes and silence please!
Get some work done on your book sir,
I’m trying!
Schizoprhenia in public?
Atonement is confession in the way you can best express it
And if I say goodbye this is how it’ll
be
the doorway through silence and moment of change
where the sea becomes land and the land reaches up
Grasping to be a mountain above
and the mountain itself reachers higher and yet
is only trying to be the sky itself.
And the sky stretches too into darkness to blue
Where smoke goes when it dissolves as rain tends to do.

1 When You Prepare for Death. (Suicide by strawberry)

I won’t do it… I cannot. You made a promise, you SHIT. And you’ve been trying to clown around, talking to yourself and shit.
Get back to the point.
Crazy, you see. “Take your pills, you’ll be better.” Walking but still dead is no way to live. You can access my finished novels in [link later] if you’d care and if I stop writing it’s not because I failed it’s because I was to week to keep the promise I made. If – i’m not, you shit don’t be melodramatic.
shame, that boy hears things, you know

Say what you will about the devil, he’s on time. God is that silence, that nothing that either embraces and takes or holds, as the air you grab when your dumb ass leans over to far and the point of no return destabilizes your internals. . I’m sorry I’ve done this to you. I did it for me, if it helps keep me breathing, then I hope you don’t feel like you’ve wasted your time reading. I confess that I’ve lied but oh Lord have I tried to make myself better before I died. But I can’t make it work with my work and exert the effort that I need in pain. The feeling can be best explained with something one might experience.

If you’re allergic to, say,
I grew up in a place where money goes a long way. For example, right now I live in a 3 bedroom house with a 28 ft x 24 ft bedroom, living room and fireplace, but everything is packed into one room, like a house in a cubby. A small, small world. But when you don’t need money, have to provide for a child, you have to stop doing drugs and get your shit together.

2 Trying not to Commit Suicide by Self Justification

I kept my son in good care, well-fed, writing books. Writing essays, working with friends, being fed by more talented friends with better credentials and kinder than I might not be in such a place; but the lesson of this kindness keeps me here. The people who bear, for the sake of what I say, the pain of my silence when I’m not hear to say anything more. I believe that people have a niche they can slide into, and outside of it the world does not fit them. It’s uncomfortable in skin that doesn’t fit you. But the air is free. And, I’d rather continue to reach, like the mountains do yearning ever to metamorphose into air, but I’ll remain, and let the waves erode me before I voluntarily let them knock me over.

Atonement means the metamorphosis of one, different person into another. A thief that is rehabilitated and gets into heaven at the finish line. I will never be such a sinner, nor sin in such ways again; not before my friends, for them – my garden, the world! – and God, you miserable silence, I’m not afraid of death. *Hits blunt.* Don’t fear silence, though; you can’t hear it when you’re dead. Embrace the air that’s there that grabs you back and takes you thought that hallway of metamorphosis… into nothing, through the glass walls of silence …
Check out my collections of poetry, Counterpane – years 21 – 29. And The Wheatfields East of Eden, my poems from age 5-21. You can get my short stories and novels and here all the shit’s on the same page if you give a fuck; and typos should remain in art like every one of a van Gogh smudge.

Also check out my story “Horton Hears a Who”.

1

Hospitalization and Recovery.

I’m fine and working on translations. Learning new language to help me facilitate more idiotic rhapsodies while I work on my upcoming book. If my editor will still have me.

Oh thank you all for coming and thank you for not leaving, he said to no one. Ah, I can always hear the silence speaking …

Improvising poetry, just for fun – 5 june 2019 – A Stranger’s Land

When the army’s came and took the North,
Yisrael fell first and things got worse;
Deported to Babel, in long caravans,
From the Hejaz to Iraq on scalding grains of sand;
The cream of the crop was taken and dropped
into a kingdom just to stop
A movement to replace their throne,
a king of their own who feared the Lord,
not some cretin with protection,
Under an empire’s wing, there’s plenty of room
for shade, for all,
to wither away with each custom, each Law,
until it is a story, then,
told b campfires now and then,
until the Exiled ones return;

As they set off in the night,
the caravan was lit up by the light
As God’s own house burned to the ground,
a book to praise the fires formed;
For if God is the Word and the Word was inscribed,
by fingers of fire on stone from the skies,
the Laws of Moses were inscribed.
When the stone cooled there emerged,
in the whirlwind unperturbed
proof a penatent voice is always heard,
if prophets less;
As people marched from Canaan on,
Nebudchenezzar from his throne,
Like Marduk’s rage to raze their homes.

A generation passed and some forgot,
the language of their home and thought,
it may have just been one of those tales,
an excuse for children for the pain life entails;
But haMashiokh King Koresh,
Anointed of the Lord, no less,
decreed that those who there remained
might return to their homes again.
And beneath the sky where stood
Solomon’s temple now, though bare,
as a mirage danced on the air –
it was as though a tiny hole had slipped into the world,
and looking through the eyes which saw
burnt into the land of all a new covenant and law.
The temple, yes, it would arise
from the ashes phoenix like
Vyohmer Elohim (so said the Lord)
And on he went, thus “yehi ohr”
And God said let there be light,
Vehi ohr, and the light returned –
Hallelujah, Adonai,
May your lost children learn,
To understand thy silence and not
seek out such words.

Where the plot had been marked out,
the measurements and workmen found;
They’d give their Lord a chariot
a merkebah with flames, a jet,
that he could leave his solemn home,
Escape the holiest place to Roam,
to hear his people sing their songs
by the rivers of Babylon.

Oh! How can we sing for our Lord
In a Stranger’s land?
Oh moon, ye lesser light,
How light you, sometimes are we
In the longest nights while wakeful we toss
And turn and dwell on home, just there,

The rose garden and the vineyards
Bloom in absentia
To remind,
The whole of what we left behind.
Oh moon, you lantern for the lost
Beacon, guiding light that drew Nomads across
The tip of Iffrikiya into Ethiopia; from Nubia to Egypt and Anatolia;
Yerushalem and and the remains of the wall;
That’s the secret, that’s the key;
To stand before the winds and cry, Not me!
If you want me dead world,
You’ll have to kill me;
Obliterate each hint and footprint that told of our of exile,
A group of people all lonely, together but nowhere, silent but buzzing
Busy are the bumblebees that have that work or die for the Queen disease
Though it’s a farce and much to brief,
As Arjuna stood between two massing foes
As some strung bows and others horns
The battle call the blood, fair Morn,
Remind me of Tomorrow and it’s gift,
Is a distorted etch sketch of brief events
The cat in the marketplace, mew, and off,
To those who sang in exile by the Rivers of Babylon

How do we worship the Lord our God without a temple, speak!
His Ark and covenant were plucked beneath the dear Lord’s feet;
And as his temple crashed in flames
He whirled about, a word, a name
A judge and jury, an unending flame,
The holy fire that we’ve seen in the deeds of Elohim
Suggest that more than anything that he,
Thrived on awe and pageantry;
And never seemed to show a care
Of the most righteous whose constant faith,
Was an act of piety and aped;
So we rubbed our hands as insects may have done,
To summon the fire that puts to the pire
The seal of justice for the Cryer.

So the deeds and stories passed,
Treated with gloves and handled like glass
Out of fear that the God who loves,
Would give us no choice and let us be wrong?
Doubt not that God holds all things,
As all are Potencies,
And each effect within the set of space and time
We have
The carptender God can set off and plod
For some long needed repair;
Water oh Lord the fields that are dry,
And give not sight to the blind, not one,
But cure blindless, please let it be.
Give the world the courage to reject the ease of war
Over the challenge of peace;
And kneel knot before thy God unless he’s earned his keep.

So we sing a song of our Lord,
In a foreign land by the stream;
For God doesn’t dwell amid incense or tell,
The alphabet to aunts;
He must have greatly underestimated a bit or all of his creation
When this being who is divine asked us to take on faith despite
The questions formed inside a mind
The Pastor tells me God designed;
But I’ll sing for my people, instead;
For they are not of flame, and yet
They are potencies of God, we must,
See the magic in their touch,
Serve our fellows and in doing so serve God;
That we can be as the Mantis,
Purest in piety;
Who mindless folds his hands to pray
Unaware of the listening being, above
Who breathes life into new worlds
And makes sparrows out of mud.

So shine on us, you borrowed light,
Give comfort to us in the night,
As we skip the rocks along
The reflective rivers of Babylon
Which in their squiggly waving lines
Was disturbed by a hand divine
And draw with skill and dignity
The Sacred City was the lesser
Of that potency;
And if I do not make it past
The bridge to Jannah and am cast
Into the molent seas,
To live as one who does not yield,
Who leaves his share for gleaming ‘ere
And pays the Sacred Tax;
The coin was cold inside the bowl and rattled hollow
And who knows –
Who can? With human reason dare we ask,
What goes beyond the door and room,
With God’s footstool and his broom,
Where there the fire in its lair,
Radiates a sense of life through vibrations into time
A metronome which keeps the track
Of planets as they circle black.

If all is lost and I must die,
I will die praising Adonai.
And if the story was nothing but
Tales of tragedy and the worst of luck,
But amid the cries of those who died
Is the prayer living on,
A shadow that keeps walking though
The interference in appearance suggested the strength of soul;
It takes a ray of light some great great wealth of time,
30,000 years a photon for one ray to arrive
At the surface and once there reaches the Earth 8 minutes later,
And the light is only stopped,
When it accentuates our form
The sunlight came all this way only to be ignored.