The organized systems of the past,
become the random numbers of the future.

The sun is shining,
The bees are buzzing,
The laps of water gently break against the shoreline,
And for once all three dogs are gentle and still.

Time marches ever forward,
Collapsing the waveform of our reality,
Testing our love,
But never breaking it.

After 11 years you'd think I would have learned something.
I'm not sure that I have.
When Love is perfect in the beginning,
Doesn't it stand to reason it would be perfect in the end?

And yet, the end is neither nigh nor seen,
For when perfection begins and ends,
What could possibly be in the middle,
If not a more perfect perfection realized?

Our Love may be perfect,
Never boring,
Always changing,
Yet unyielding.

11 years ago we made a decision,
That forever changed our lives,
For the better,
As today I'm only jelly and you are clearly my peanut butter.

A match made in heaven?
A match made on Earth?
Nay.
A match made for our souls.

Soulmates and soulmatages.
Beebros and beebees.
Our little family, the best one,
Is a microcosm of the Universe trying to understand itself.

So what have I learned all this time?
That I have never learned to love you.
I just do.
So far and for now and probably forever.

Happy 11 years my love.
Will you for to be continued to be married to me?

You won't get to where you're going,
if you don't actually go.

History,
    is more about the time it was written,
    than the time it was written abart.

Your Love,
        extends,
beyond generations.

Drives
Entropy

An infinity passes,
and it's only been,
seven minutes,
forty two seconds.

An infinity passes,
and it's only been,
seven minutes,
forty two seconds.

Doing time with my spouse,
feels like climbing a mountain.

Y'know, there are many forms of prayer,
Some out loud,
Some in the form of a poem.

Still, the tears in your heart are enough.

If I were before the judgement seat of God, this is what I would say:

"The conception of my kid,
at the time that it did,
was not intended,
but I'm glad that it did."

A force has awoken me today, and I feel again.
In a drunken stupor, I pour my heart out,
expecting it to be devoured again.

And yet I commit,
the only thing I have to give,
time and time again.

What this brings to me I may never know,
but I expect it to take me and my mind to a lower place,
the voice beckons from behind the screen,
because it means so much to me.

I forsake all that I know,
in the hopes that the fire within me rings true,
to be trodden in the future I never knew,
the voice speaks from behind the screen.

The day's conclusion is never done,
even when sleep takes me on the morrow,
forever it beckons to me untrue,
why I should listen, I never knew.

Friends of old comfort me,
saying, "your voice is heard,"
but after the lights dim and the noise shuts out,
my own mind yells at me "get out."

This rhyme I speak is never meant to be,
a rhyme proper, but we'll see.
Yet it is my voice I speak this day true,
never to be found again, until this day is through.

Epilepsy. Bipolar.

The words that we speak.

Shear words into our hearts, unfolding before our eyes. Both engrain a fear of desperation that speaks louder than words.

It isn't so bad when you understand them. Almost one and the same, unpredictable in their paths.

One has it, the other doesn't. The path that we both share, both unrequited. Like love. Still, like love.

We share.

Uncontrollable actions bloom forth from seizure to mood episode, blossoming forth an understanding that surpasses understanding to those to don't experience it.

And all that is needed is love. And understanding.

We share in that we both yearn for a world that understands our actions, never to be trusted from within. The pain. The uncertainty.

Are the same to those from the outside. "Oh, she has seizures." "Oh, he's depressed." The words we hear. "You're unreliable." "You're too much for me to handle."

The shame.

We deal with that which we cannot speak, yet we understand beyond words that comprehend. The path laden before us untrodden yet familiar. We push forward because we must.

And we'll do so again.

Together we'll conquer both or be consumed, unyielding to the torrent from within. Because we must.

We must.

Push forward.

That is the only way.

We are what we are not.

I have a question burning:

. . . . What's the point of living?

My heart is pounding
I'm heavy breathing
My blood is boiling
My face is melting
My hair is pulling
My skin is itching
My nails are hurting
My eyes are clouding
My mouth is drying
My mind is waning
My voice is wailing
My hands are cracking
My stomach is churning
My strength is failing
My care is mortifying
My existence is joking
My work is freezing
My delusions are multiplying
My thoughts are racing
My life is dying
My hopes are groaning
My dreams are poaching
My will power is cooking
My mind's eye is glossing
My mood's-a-changing
No cylinders are firing
My desire is diving
The cycle is beginning
My peace is nuking
Beauty is crumbling
Life's code is encrypting
. . . . No key for decrypting
The way out is blinding
And I'm feeling
. . . . The top of the ceiling
. . . . No more flooring
. . . . Left falling, none for catching
I'm wasting
I'm choking
I'm running
The demons are searching
Me they're consuming
Me they're chewing
Me they're spitting
Me they're crushing
. . . . Causing
. . . . A raining
. . . . Hellfire reckoning
They want me deadening
Me they're taunting
Poking me, torturing
My debt not paying
. . . . It's me they're charging
No recourse, left standing
Consciousness is maddening
My enemies looming
. . . . Gleaning my soul, they're feeding
They're biting
I'm left crying
Hope is fleeting
Friends are fleeing
. . . . This nutcase entertaining
I'm stopping
Left looking
No one is caring
. . . . To grace my being
They see me fading
Cast into the void, they're jeering
Strangers are laughing
There's more I could be saying

But I'm still left wondering:

. . . . What's the point of living?

A new year is come and you're still not gone.

I can feel you creeping up on me. You feed on my energy, yet, I cannot see you. I'm glad I can't see your face.

You smell like an old forgotten rot underneath a seam of doors hiding the old death of forgotten men. Your cousin looms, taunting me to acknowledge your presence.

You climb on my back--you've caught up to me.

I've tried running, it doesn't help. You live under my shadow; you're quiet like him too.

I can hear the smack of your lips graze across my consciousness, your breath--icy. You touch my eyes and they freeze without freezing. The hairs on the back of my head hurt because they stand on end amidst your frozen breath. You make your move and whisper icily into my ear,

. . . . You're nothing.

I almost agree.

. . . . No one loves you.

My wife does! And my daughter too!

. . . . No one wants to hear you speak.

Fine, I'll shut up. I look into a mirror to see my reflection staring back at me. My icy stare sends chills to my bones. Is that really me?

. . . . Yes, you're dead.

Sometimes I feel like it, yeah.

. . . . Nothing matters.

Finally, we agree on something.

. . . . It would be better if you just weren't here.

I begin to cry.

. . . . Remember your daughter, here's a picture.

She's so beautiful. I cry some more.

. . . . You will fail her.

. . . . You have failed her.

. . . . I will consume her.

. . . . You perpetuated this all on your own.

. . . . You're a fraud, seeking pity.

. . . . You're a sorry person, aren't you?

. . . . Feel that burning inside you? This is what happens when you let in the dark passenger.

. . . . I shall consume you, too.



. . . . --AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT.



Yes, it is my fault. Like the fault line in the earth's crust, my mind splits in twain.

The excitement ends when I've become drunk with madness, not seeing the light around me. I sleep a little, contemplating all that I convinced myself.

In the morning the sun is out, shining through the window. You're still sleeping though, dear dark passenger. I try not to wake you. I seek the sun hoping you will disappear and take your darkness with you, but you persevere, keeping your hands at the ready until I am vulnerable again, waiting to make my dance to the tune of hopelessness--always just, "one more time."

I am speaking to my future me.

You love your wife, Adyson.

I know when the demons come back with more force than the last time, this thought enters your mind:

"Divorce your wife, this is unhealthy."

The truth is, you're unhealthy. I know it's raw, but it's the truth. You are too consumed with yourself to even know the difference.

You see, at this close of 2017 you looked to your right and told her:

"I am happy."

See, you're happy because she's the only one you have that truly understands you. How do I know?

Take a good guess, I know you can do it.

I'm guessing there's a good chance that she's feeling exactly the same way, or worse.

You're taking a trip right now. You're stable tonight. Addy is stable tonight. You're driving to Keith's (or writing here on these pages mucking up your handwriting...) to be with your family and friends. Good friends. Going to get ****-faced and hoping to black out.

And you're blessed to have your soulmatage right next to you, smoking chillum **** and "Natural" American Spirit cigarettes, and sipping on Mtn Dew. It's 2:17am, and you're about to ride the Music Express because it is picking up speed. No sleep for you tonight.

Your mind is not clear. Next time you think to divorce your wife, hold onto that thought, because by doing so, you're giving yourself time. Time is key.

If you feel that you should divorce your wife when you're well enough to have a clear perspective, then maybe you should consider it.

Depression and mixed states will lie to you, insidiously, and without mercy. No mercy.

I'm willing to bet at this point, however, that when your demon is back to sleep, if only for a minute, you'll only have to  look to your left while in bed in order to cultivate your prior burning love for her.

For she loves you and you love her ... to death, even beyond your current living death. Rest assured, my good man, that it will end. Just give it time.

Take a break. Go to sleep. Turn off your life for a moment, it'll help. The decision to take your pills is up to you, but consider taking them, too. They will probably help.

Don't forget to hug your wife though.

Good night.

On my way to Anchorage for a New Years eve party soiree, I see the moon perched high behind a dark charcoal gray sea of sky smoke (there are no fires) and I wonder.

That when I asked my mother, "Mother, what is my talent? What can I do better than anyone else?"

She paused for a moment and said,

"Χρυσόστομος."

Mania. Everything was good when you were with me.

I felt normal. The chains bolted to my eyelids where magically gone, like the money in your bank account after a heavy, drunken, stupor & forthright gambling spree.

The spear in my side that your twin brother, depression, threw inside me was no longer twisting up my insides. Thank you.

This feels like a goodbye letter but I'm actually trying to hold on to you. You give me life. Your twin takes it away and he rash-burns my face in it.

I was accomplishing all the things; skipping from one stone to the next without feat. "Flutter your wings and dance," is your motto.

But like all good things, you drive me away, knowing that I'll see you again.

Try as I might, I remain faithful to you, but you commit adultery every week.

Sometimes you demand my time, even when I'm low. I cry for hours with your natural dichotomy, not because I can't decide--I can--but because you and your twin rip me apart in twain, changing my reality as sure as the rain falls in the Amazon.

The demons call out to me, whispering evil into my mind. I believe every evil thing when I am not armed with your brilliance. I lose that perspective, every time, and sometimes immediately.

Your twin brother and cousin visit me early in the morning right before bed time. If my doubts and fears are real, then my mind's eye is experiencing a real reality, and thus I am as I feel, like a plastic bag tumbling in the wind.

Yet, everyone reminds me that I am but a joke and a comic, one which not even you can trust.

The biggest asset I lose when you choose to cheat on me is your energy--that precious flow that bears my creative passion.

But now I am barren, an unfit conduit that is incapable of maintaining that flow. The demon upon me powerfully weaves its tapestry of sludge that encases my mind.

My mind, it's the only thing I have left. And yet, I can never trust it.

You've lied to me before and you'll lie to me in the future.

But for now, I'll have to make do with your half-truths.

Until next time.

Stability!
Not constantly in the torrent of your mind
do you find ease in the pulse of reality
where your fingers get a break from the heavy weight of your soul
hanging off a cliff at 20 below

My best friend!
Today we will get all the things done
and shown to be efficacious in life
only to climb up from the cliff
and then to bear witness to the depths below

My worst enemy!
In the mire of the pit I lay, motionless
molasses encases my mind and therefore my body also
no will power to fight that arduous fight
ready to end all that is and all that shall be

The ride!
On this roller coaster, I muster the energy,
somehow, made it through spell after spell
the grievance my own mind has against all that I am
which allows these words to boil a sweet tea

Poetry is for those who write it,
not for those who read it.

Music--
a heartbeat of
the infinite universe!

I. There exists only the Fractal.
II. The Fractal contains itself.
III. Everything else is derived.

Dear Beebabe,

I know you're not feeling well
The torrent of your own mind can become
The dagger that slices you and makes you frail
But it will end soon, then you'll hum
To find that you never really left home

And when that day arrives
I'll be by your side
And then you'll ask, where did I get these knives?
And then I'll say, they came from the wide
Hole in your mind

When you're recovered
You won't remember the day
That these knives did more than smothered
The bright flame that makes you sway
Your hips when you're feeling gay

The slits in your consciousness
Won't compare to the inner you
That resides in my blessedness
You will ask, why did you allow me to chew
On my beebro? Dear, you seem so renewed!

I'll reply, because even though
You're not my flesh and bone
You're own love for me saw me through
The weeks you sat on depression throne
I knew that one day you'll find your way home

That you never did leave.
I saw you through these hard times
Because I knew your mind would cleave
To see my own heart and soul chime
In the tune that makes you mine.

And mine you are
And shall never not be
Because you mean more to me
Than my very own bare
Heart, soul, and mind
Given solely to us, the beebro three

I'll hear you say, I'm soory
I didn't mean to make you woory
I guess I just choose my own folly
That bittersweet throne, golly!
I'll say, dear, miss molly

Tonight we take the trolley
Climb aboard, we'll go rolling
Through the hills to make you see fully
And not pretend we represent Fern Gully
And you'll see that depression is just a bully

That in the end, will never,
Ever,
Change the you inside

Live in your moment now.
Your mind will heal tomorrow.

But for today rest in the knowledge
That I've also been through the sludge

Today I just hope to be
The bright light for you

That you miraculously were for me.

With love and compassion,
Signed therein:

Me, your soulmatage.

In my old house
there seemed an old spirit
or maybe a mischievous mouse

I use to lay
in my old room at night
tired of the preceding day

The house would speak
tales of bomp, crattles, and creak
and here's what it had to say

"Womp, boop, dat,
flush, whoosh, and crack"
late at night the house would say

"Thud, crick, snap, whip,
Bang, Bang, Bang, blip"
laying on my bed this trip

And in the morn
when the old blinds were torn
here's what the old house had to say

"Pop, pop, pop, pop,
slam, nick, split, lop"
the old house continued to say

"Whack, ding, bump, splat,
hack, ping, thwump, flap"
wondering what made it sound this way

And through the noon
and into the night
my old house chatted all day

As I lay here thinking
I get the sinking feeling
that I'll start making it say

"Go to sleep and good night,
don't let the bed bugs bite,
I'll always have something to say"

Nothing tries a person more
than the fire of their own soul.

O Bowl, how I love thee
Thou art wonderful,
        O Fruit of the tree.
Thou hast been finest friend
        to me,
   a friend to be
for unto eternity.

We feel your struggle,
We know your pain.
Without Twisted Mermaid,
What is there to gain?

So take this token,
A red beauty fontaine.
Fly high as a kite,
And pilot your own airplane.

Name her now,
Do not be afraid.
Don't worry, our brother,
She'll never replace Mermaid.

I know what you,
and I know how you,
and sometimes I think I know why you,
but in the end I hope to know who you.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

They say the road to hell,
is paved with good intentions,
like the cherry tree split in two dimensions.

Here comes a rain storm,
so we'll see,
how that Great Man, begins to flee.

Uncle Sam says, I want you.
You want me to die,
in a battle of crude oil and some glue?

**** that ****, I begin to cry,
all the while they begin to fly,
to the other side of the desert.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

The children speak to their families now,
Why mom, why dad?
Must I despise that towel head?

Yes dear, they softly speak,
they hit us first so now we freak,
the **** out, and glass em, til they speak.

No more.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

Freedom and democracy, Uncle Sam cries,
Don't let their tyrrany make you shy,
stand up for your right to live and lie.

Terrorists they call them,
Oh, that much is true. True, true,
So that gives us the right to prosecute.

Those that resist.

Are terrorists themselves, says the NDAA,
let's incarcerate them without a trial today,
off to GTMO, on you go.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

You can take that to the bank he says,
that ebony clad man, dressed to please,
denies himself and his liberty.

They are armed with nucular weapons,
that balding man spits,
and down we go into the pit.

Of Hell-fire and brimstone.

Is what they preach,
to the masses, let's wash their brains in bleach!
You like it that way, modern Bushido man.

You slave, you sheep, you ignorant twip.

It's okay. I don't blame you,
most of what I have to say,
falls on deaf ears anyway.

Always live for the future,
but never in anticipation for it.

Is
Entropy

In the mixing bowl
thou hast perfected praise.
Conforming to your mould,
your flaky crust begins to rise.

Steamy and buttery out of the oven,
you make my life chill,
when the morsel of butter enters the
    blueberry canyon
to have its fill

Chemically inducing nirvana,
a world in the eye of God,
blueberry bursts of epic epicness
down my throat you trod.

In my stomach you swim, my friend.
"It is not good for muffin to be alone,"
pop goes the cherry muffin to join you,
and in swims a blueberry clone.

Nom nom nom.

The citizens all around the world
    have eyes that look like crystals.
Everyone is actually born with the same eye colour.
The same eye colour is blue.
Everyone knows that eye colours change.
Every time people grow up,
    they start to change their eye colour.

I stare out of my cubicle window
to see a sheet of solid water
creeping, building, cragging, steeping

I come to, from out a merry winterland
and feel the urge to write a poem
about a scene worth painting.

My magnificent mundane.
Tedious tasking and chores galore!
Unappreciated.
And disregarded as un-glamorous duty.
But there is something to be learned in folding loads of laundry.
Patience.
Satisfaction through servitude.
Attention to detail.
And most importantly... attention to Love.

A panicked red flash
Flying from a loud rude crowd.
Bustling, beating, branded brutes
Do not make mother proud.

Quickened feet through cedars. Ferns.
The chase is on. Her time's undone.
For when the master of her castle wakes,
She'll be there for the taking by One.

Fields of music
And caverns of light,
Fill me with
A void of night.

"Crumb Control to Captain Munchie:
Any sign of foreign debris?"

"Negative. We've got Berry Crackles to the East,
Marshmallows to the West,
Graham Crackers at your six.
No imminent danger at this time.
Will inform upon foreign sugar filled morsel encounter.
Over!"

A canvas of possibility,
colored magnificently for the occasion,
yet inevitably disposable.
Though my life be short,
I witness the Joy of my purpose.
And they love me for it.