Things I have learned throughout my life as a blogger — Advice to the future

Things I have learned throughout my life as a blogger — Advice to the future  or How I learned to love myself in the modern age of Dance

A Look inside a Human Machine by Jason Giecek Human at Large

01/21/2019 – Louisville, Kentucky

I started blogging in 2008 on a site called Open.Salon, it was a fun time activity I began after working at a casino ran by the mob (Or Caesars and later Horseshoe) as an IT worker, breaking computers with a hammer or TNT as they wouldn’t reboot properly.

It was a good time to be alive.

I wrote about the crazy thoughts that poured into my skull and out of my fingers at 3 AM, a thing I still practice today except I don’t stay up that late, usually curling up into a ball in my bed at around 1:30 in the AM, still late for some.

Truthfully honest, I’ve been writing for a lot longer than 2008, I actually been writing my entire life, but, very rarely sharing my tomes, except for one girl I knew back in the third grade.

She laughed at me and that’s when I found out, women are cruel witches put on this planet to make men sad and miserable at their “Short comings!”

I kid.

Some were put on this planet to just run men over in their cars.

Moving on.

I discovered early on that in writing, sad depressive pieces sell better.

Not exactly sure why, maybe people like to read about people having more issues than them.

Happy love stories make them think their lives aren’t as good as the writer’s and it makes them sad whereas, they read a sad story, poetry, etc. and they’re like, “At least I’m not that guy!”

It’s like sad movies, sometimes we just need a good cry, get all the pain out of the system.

I will admit, most of my poetry is sad, depression filled words, from a deep dark place that is called me.

Sometimes when I write such things, I’m in happy land, but just picking at old wounds scabbed up.

For some reasons, we as humans like to pick at scabs, open up old wounds, bring up old memories, things that haunt us as we sleep, dream of old loves, loves that never were, etc. etc.

I really suck at letting go.

I think I get that feature from my mother’s side of the gene pool.

Along with me worrying about things I cannot change.

About the little things.

The big deals usually roll off of my back, becoming fertilizer for my writings, there sitting in some chair at 3 am.

Actually, the little things become good fertilizer as well.

I think everything can be used to grow the imagination, except the news, the news sucks!

Nobody likes to read about current events, unless, it’s a spoof of current events.

People love reading funny things about like Senators and Congressmen and sexy governors in lingerie.

The governor’s name?

Steve.

Anyways, that’s about it, I write to keep from going insane. Well, more insane.

Okay, I write to keep from wandering the streets and get in trouble with the law.

Good night and have a better tomorrow…

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KILLING YOURSELF – a poem

Killing yourself,
You don’t need a big knife,
But self defeat,
Is the purpose of the game.

Walking,
Into the deep end,
Hold your breathe,
Till the end,
Can’t see the bottom,
Till you hit it.

What is love,
But misery?
What is happening,
With this disease?
Standing on the corner,
Waiting for,
The life,
To be defeated,
To be blown to pieces,
Cutting yourself,
To see if you still,
Bleed.

Standing in the darkness,
The thoughts begin to breed,
To cease,
To sleep,
To give up,
To not feel,
That misery,
Where can we go?
What can we do?

Do you know,
That misery,
In a company?
Reach up and give up.

Heaven is,
Nothing but,
Giving up,
Falling down!

A letter to mend a broken heart – a poem

Break these chains,
That imprison me to that past,
To see your face,
To hear your name,
I cannot drop that pain.

I cry,
Every moment,
Even in a lost dream,
People say I should move on,
Mend this broken heart,
That time will mend it,
But I don’t think it will.

I found a letter you wrote,
It said you’d love me forever,
And forever, it seemed,
Was but a moment,
Mere seconds in the scheme of things,
Nothing stops the pain,
Even time,
I guess I’m just a lost soul,
I hope you will find this letter,
And it makes you realize,
How much you meant to me!

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO A JUNKIE – A work of fiction

The world according to a junkie

Chapter one

The Part where I die

There I was, sitting in a club, 2079, people were around me, dancing, talking, blowing their mind, witness to the beginning of the end, razor blades slices up and down their arms.

“Polish fag!” A woman came screaming out from the bathroom, chasing some guy out into the street.

That’s how it was.

Nothing to see.

Move along.

Some shitty band played “disco is dying” up on stage.

I was dying, one second a time.

The screaming lady came back in, sat down next to me.

First time I met her, back when I first got here, to this city, I knew there was something different about her from the other ladies working the joint.

She was a guy, I could tell by her hands.

And the cock sticking out from under her short dress.

“You got any shit?” She asked, smiling.

“Up at my place…”

We both stood, leaving the place, for my dump up the street.

Cheryl was her name, a forty dollar whore, “lady” of the night.

But for some “candy” she was yours for a few hours.

I wasn’t gay, far from it, but all the girls, with cunts, all wanted more and later, as we laid in my stained bed, we would talk, about nothing.

It felt like a relationship.

“You ever think about…” Cheryl said, placing her head on my chest.

I could feel her cock near my leg, just there.

I shrugged.

“Future never comes, like someone else I know!” I laughed.

She pushed off from my chest, flicking my nipples with her hot red painted finger nails, laughing.

“I will come boy, I will come!”

I felt her hands wrap around my cock, beginning to stroke it back to full erection.

When I awoke, Cheryl, like always, was gone, back to her life uptown.

I once passed her in that life, straight man, working at a bank, as a teller.

“Hello sir, how can I help you today?” He smiled.

“Hi Jim!” I said reading his name tag, almost laughing.

It was an awkward moment, one I wouldn’t live down, three days later, my place.

“Don’t you EVER call me by my Slave name!” She growled at me.

“Jim?” I almost laughed, tears in my eyes.

“Yea! My mother, the bitch, named me that, after my grandfather, the same cock fucker who molested me from the time I was 11 years old till I sliced his dick off when I was 14 and ran away, to this place!”

I never called her Jim again.

SOME GAVE ALL – a poem

We were standing at the wall,
When the world began to fall,
Where was the outrage,
When they died,
Those heroes,
With no lines,
In a song,
Just blood on the wall,
A name in a sheet,
Those heroes,
No names,
Not even a memory.

Here,
In this place,
We would fall,
To rot there,
Our souls lost,
Not even worth a mention,
Except that they gave all.

Their souls,
Wander that field,
Now a memory,
Of that battle,
A small ripple,
Somewhere in faraway time,
Couldn’t happen now,
The young think,
As did those youths back then,
The war to end all wars,
To be followed by another war,
To be followed…

To end all wars,
Peace,
Is it a reality?

MIDNIGHT STROLL THROUGH THE MIND – a poem

A MIDNIGHT STROLL THROUGH THE MIND

Walking through the midnight,
A travel through the mind,
Regrets,
Dreams left behind,
A misery of time,
Left in places,
Pieces of my mind,
Left behind with my soul,
Like angel wings,
Broken and laid to rest,
In the ground,
A forgotten soul,
Looking for a place to sleep,
To be giving some peace,
To go places,
That I should not go,
Places that were mistakes,
But they were mistakes,
I made,
My way.

Traveling down,
A Midnight hour,
A broken lane,
A broken fate,
A broken faith,
Lost in a dream,
Lost in sleep,
Reality gone away,
To some other place,
Good bye,
Good night,
To that place,
Where dreams lie low,
To never awake again!

MAN WHO KILLED HIMSELF GETS 50 YEARS IN PRISON – I really suck at writing titles

Louisville, KY — October 11th, 2018

I’ll freely admit, I really suck at writing titles, I mean, I’m just horrible at it.

I feel that some folks on this here Internet thingy are good at writing “Click bait” worthy titles but are also horrible at writing really bad “worthy” titles.

Click bait is when someone places a title such as MAN WHO KILLS HIMSELF GETS 50 YEARS IN JAIL in an attempt to lure someone into “Clicking” the article and instead of getting the gory details, they get like a recipe for a really good chocolate cake.

Or jack poo!

Basically today, you’re getting jack poo!!

Sorry!!

Usually on this blog, I share my poetry, but today, I’m just not feeling that “poetry” or really even that “Writable” in the serious sense of the word.

Again, my apologies.

I was inspired to write this blog today by some titles on this very site, WordPress.com.

MAN WHO SHOT HIMSELF, SENTENCED TO PRISON TODAY reads one.

I didn’t click on it because such stories just do not interest me.

Sometimes, as I cruise the YouTube, I’ll find the urge to click on an obvious attempt at “Click Bait”, sex sells as they say in the moving picture show business and man, am I disappointed.

It just some kid playing a video game and talking like a 12 year old kid would know about life.

Unless you were a singer in a 1950s boy band who had to grow up fast before he was 12 years old, you don’t know life.

Hell, I don’t know life, and I’m 47.

I sit here in my living room, with my lap top on my lap, and I write like I know stuff.

I know enough to get out of bed without plowing face first into the wall.

That’s it, and sometimes, I’ll admit, I don’t even get that right.

Face first.

Into the wall!!

EEK!!!

So anyways, that’s my blog for today!!!

Good night and have a better tomorrow!!

(I’ll try to do better than!!!)

We shall all dance with the dead – Fiction

Now let us dance with the dead,
Wear our masks,
Till we cannot stand,
Our feet will bleed,
Our souls will cry out,
But in the end,
We shall all dance with the dead….AMEN!!!!

Can you see me standing there, alone, by the fire?

Can you hear me call,
Your name,
Feel me?

I was standing, waiting, thinking about the future, what could have been, if it hadn’t been for circumstances beyond our control, misery loves company, they keep telling me at these therapy sessions.

“Would you, you know, if you could go back in time?” Philip the wacko from Baltimore asked, to the group.

We shook our heads.

I might.

But only if I could spend a few moment longer alone with you, in that hotel room, to kiss you one last time, never let the scent of you go, that feeling of you against my skin, which now seems to be lost in faded memories.

We shall see each other again,
Behind that black curtain,
They call death….

 

A REAL NICE BAR — FICTION (Beware: Naughty language included!)

We were in the Lair, that place where the Devil was too scared to enter.

The bartender wiped the bar down with a dirty rag, eyeing us with his one good eye, the other eye a fake, losing it to a knife fight in 1982.

“If’n ya can ask for it by name, we gots it, or we’s can gets it!” he growled at my friend who had the balls to ask what was good here.

A band, some lost boys and a girl, played up on stage, a few patrons gathered about near the stage, drunk, high, or just dead inside.

Security was a Smith and Wesson behind the bar.

“Fuck with me and we’ll be carting you outta the back with a bullet in ya head!! Don’t ask which head!!”

I ordered a beer with a whiskey chaser.

My friends took off running out the door; not their kind of place for fun and excitement.

I slid into the place naturally, becoming a wasted demon sitting at the bar.

Every so often some tourists would wander in; fooled into believing that this was a nice place fort martinis, but would end up dead outside, looking for their car, which was stolen by the local police.

“Impounded!” the gnarly officer would growl, handing them a ticket.  “See the judge next Tuesday!”

“But…”

“Ain’t no fucking but….” as he wandered off into the rain filled night, a ghost if anyone asked.

This was the kind of a place where people went to die; two beers, one whiskey, a bullet to the brain, or heroin, whichever came first, which usually was a whore with a knife to your throat.

A sweet dream; turned into a nightmare, as the walls began to melt, the acid hitting the brain like a baseball bat to the skull, scowling faces turning into wicked smiles, some of them wanted to use you, some of them wanted to be used by you, some of them want to abused by you, some of them wanted to be abused by you.

That song, playing inside my skull, ringing through the sky, a 40 million volt inside my mind, making me scream out, pushing my hands to my ears, a lady in a man’s body ground herself against me.

“You want good time?” she purred into my ear, licking at my lobe, biting it, pulling it, releasing it.

I should have ran, I should have got away, but there I was, another hit of unreality, seeping into my brain, to be pulled into the nightmare to the normal good folks who stumbled in by mistake.

This was my home; the bartender became my new best friend.

Some newly minted politician, defender to the oppressed, fighter against the wrong, would try and shut the place down but in the end, corruption would win either by bribe or a shot gun to the chest.

“Self righteous suicide, four gun shots to the chest, a dedicated suicide victim to the end!” the head lines read.

“He has so much to live for…”

Angels cried, tears falling as rain outside, washing away the blood from the sidewalk.

“Tragic!” the bartender giggled. “A true tragedy in the realm of Shakespearean feat!!”

And the drinks would flow once more.

 

SAD SONGS TO DO COCAINE TO – How you make me feel

I hate the way,
You make me feel,
On the Inside,
In that special place,
I hate the way,
I love you….

He was born dying.

When he goes, he’s going out in style, nothing too fancy, but it will be broadcasted on the evening news.

Johnny was sleeping; half past noon, life was passing him by and he didn’t give two cares in the world; he was dying too, only faster and with less style.

His mother had giving up on life; cancer, she took a bottle of sleeping pills with a Jack and coke chaser.

She was 52, looked like 92.

His father was never there; nobody knew where he was, just disappeared from the scene once he pulled out 26 years ago.

He closes his eyes,
Once against the pain,
Again against the rage,
To never see,
If he could,
He’d never awake,
To this accursed world,
One he never asked
To be born into…

Silence grew; creeping away from the room, to grow into the world, it was a calm day, slowly breathing; slower every minute, would this be the day he left this mortal realm?

He finally awoke; stirred, stared at the clock.

“Fucking life!” he growled.

The phone rang; boss calling.

“Hey man, you coming in?”

He sighed.

“Not suppose to, my day off…”

“Sarah called off; we need ya man, down two bodies and well, we need ya…”

Fuck….why did I answer the phone; thoughts to himself.

“I’ll be in, let me take a shower…”

That’s how it went, life was glorious, or so the TV set told him in commercials for retreats he couldn’t afford; maybe he should have robbed that bank, been less of a good citizen and went for himself.

He slammed a couple of pills; downed it with a beer.

“Man, today was suppose to be…a great day to be in Spain!”

He headed out; another day in Hell…