Posts Tagged ‘unreality’

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On the Road to Lake Mahaka – 1986 – A semi true story

1986, June, my friends, John “Hawk” and Francis, decided to take a trip, our first road trip on our own, no fathers, no mothers, just us and the open road, heading to Lake Mahaka out in the wilderness.

17 and full of life, men on a journey to find themselves, the call of the wild.

We howled as we packed our clean underwear and such into the back of the truck.

“Do you have enough sandwiches?” my mom asked, as all moms do.

“We don’t need sandwiches! We are going to live off the land!!” I said, thumping my chest and grunting.

“I’ve put some sandwiches in the truck for you!” she said, sighing and then laughing softly.

I sighed.

We took off towards the horizon, our eyes filled with ideas of mountain men tales; fishing for the big trout in the lake, sweet raspberries for dessert.

“Did anyone bring a tent?”Hawk said as we were passing mile marker 75.

No one had.

“We won’t need a tent! We are rugged men!!” I said, grunting, a manly grunt.

Mile marker 85, the horrid sound of a police siren.

I pulled over.

“Boys, do you realize how fast you were going?” the officer said as he stood by the window.

“Uh, no officer…”

He sighed.

“I’m going to give you a warning, this time, but slow it down! You boys going fishing?” he said, looking in the back of the truck.

“We’re on a trip, rugged mountain men!!” we all said, grunting.

The officer smiled.

“Be careful out there boys, don’t die!!” he laughed and headed back to his police car.

We wouldn’t die!! We were men, manly men, hair on our chests, a few hairs on our chins.

We even had beer in the color; five cans!

Mile marker 95.

“I have to pee!! Pull over!” Francis whined.

“No! Hold out!” I growled.

“I can’t!!”

I sighed and pulled over.

And before I stopped, we heard a psst.

“Flat!” Hawk growled.

No spare.

Our luck was going down hill.

15 miles to nearest gas station and a phone.

We flipped a coin to see who would hike back to the station.

Hawk lost.

“Shit!”

A few hours later, a truck drove by and stopped.

“Uh…” Hawk hopped out, “My dad has a tire but it going to take him awhile to get here….”

“How long?”

“Not till tomorrow morning!”

We were still 75 miles from our camp site.

“Are we real men yet?” Francis almost cried.

“Shaddup!”

Two of us hunkered down in the front seat of the truck, the sleeping bags gathered about us as we tried to fall asleep in an awkward position.

Francis won the back of the truck, in the bed.

2 am his won turn into a loss.

Thunder storm, 3 hours, he shivered in the shower, soaked to the bone.

“Next time, I’ll sleep under the truck!” he growled in the morning, trying to shaking himself dry, failing miserably.

A few minutes later, Hawk’s dad showed.

“How are the real men doing?” he almost laughed.

We almost cried.

Tired changed.

“What do you wanna do?” I asked the other two.

“GO HOME!!” they shouted in unison.

We were on our way home without debate!!!

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Mad men dream of electronic sheep, dancers in cold rooms making up medicines for the war raging on inside their minds.

“Take your pills! We are watching you!” they say, smiles, braided hair, crisp white smocks, mocking us who now sit on the edge of our beds and color our legs with the blood of our own demise.

Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine, I am living for my sins, trapped in a shell, thrown into a dark corner, giving the daily bread but no wine, no butter, just bread, the water spilled on the floor, drowning the city of the dust, the damned, the world outside.

They try to reach me, understand, but they cannot.  We cannot understand that which we cannot experience first hand, we cannot get inside your mind, even if you want to let us, we stand outside, in the cold, wind blowing, the dreamless sleep taunting us with peeks inside but not revealing.

The medications are just to appease your need to believe we are helping you help yourself.

“Take this! Take this!” the mocking bird mocks and cries out. “If you don’t, there’s always THE TREATMENT!”

Treatments this, treatment that, give up, give in, lose all hope that this is it.

Writing in a little black book; dreams,  poems, thoughts from a mad man, all going down into the journal, to be read at a later day, judgement day?

Madness, madness, boil and toiled, wish wash, leaning over the edge, peering over, to see what the eye can see, and the mind loses grip and falls head over heels to a demise, to a fate worst than death, death being a relief.

Shame.

The buzzards feed on broken dreams, souls burning bright against a crimson sky.

The nightmares never end, they just go into hiding when the day light breaks, to once again march into sight when the sun sets and the pillow calms.

Medication comes at 8.  And then again at 2.  The nurses smile, hand the cups off, in some religious ceremony, smiles again as the throat moves up and down.

Check.

All gone.

Night time, second dose, helps to sleep, to calm the nerves.

Or so they say, they say it so much, they almost believe it, their sale pitch.

9:45.  AM or PM? It does not matter, time stops when you enter that door.   The art time comes, it seems they want us to draw, pretty pictures, of sun rises, sun sets, a dog killing its owner with a baseball bat.

“THAT is not appropiate!” the nurses, the doctors screech.  The family is here. They are shaking their head.

“The sun is not a killing machine!!”  my sister says, we can see the tears in her eyes.

I lower my head.  In worlds now gone, the sun is a killer, blazed in firey heat, millions of worlds, now erased, gone, destroyed by its hands.

Chemical imbalance.  Mindless.  Wandering through broken streets, glass thrown here, there and everywhere, to cut the traveler deep.

“If this does not stop, we will have to go to drastic measures!” the director, eyes deep, suit black like midnight, throws out at me and my family standing there.

Drastic measures, cutting skin, opening the soul, to bleed out the insanity, it would seem, though no one ever came back right from that drastic measure.

“Cold baths! Shock!” old man said from his rocking chair. “They cut your brain out and feed it to the crows!” he laughed.  I smiled.  Years ago, many years, old man was a saint, a college professor some say.

Now, he was just an old coot, rocking in his rocking chair, scar across his face where the doctors gave him the cure.

Laughter, the children laugh, it is a good thing to laugh, but laugh too much, and they call you mad.

Mission one was sent out from the dying Earth, to discover a way to rebuild life in its own image, its own thought.  We never thought they would return but we gave it hope, a breath into the voids of space, into time, to return someday when we were gone, destroyed by our own self, ripped, burned, raped, and scattered to the four winds.

But society would not die,
Would not give in,
This was our destiny, to never give up, to live,
A godless society built on the decay of the old givings, the old hopes, the old dreams, rebuilt on shaky grounds.

Hopes, dreams, children born, lived, birthed their own, to wander off into their own disease.

The adventure began, was followed, then ended and told by the millions of masses who continued their own adventure.

Walking towards the Devil,
Lights out, middle of the day,
Looking for the speed,
One hand out,
The other in the pocket,
Looking for something,
Finding nothing,
Reaching out,
Care for less, care full, kicking up the screen.

Death looks, find, creeps along,
Death comes, finds, creeps in,
Destroys, rebuilds, destroys again.

Mission one to ground control…

Go ahead Mission One…..

Ready to blow up the world, can I proceed?

Proceed!

Night time turned into day,
One minute, we’re sane,
The next, we’re walking along the edge, with a bottle of gin….

Greased.

Insanity bottled and sold as sanity,
Rage,
Trade,
Souls for dollars in a game played on TV.

Worship at the fountain of despair,
Religion based on the stock market,
Bought and sold for a $1.95 a pound,
Sometimes more, if the markets gone!

Politics,
Bottled for less at the Five and Dime,
Straight up jacked.

Congress called a session,
Wants their brains back,
That fell out of their ass last night to a song by Elton John.

Let the bodies hide where they may,
Not rot on the floor,
Freshly cleaned and mopped last night by a woman named Steve.

Can’t take much more,
Nothing wrong with me,
I just need something to kill the brain,
To the senility of the world, focused on the shi…

Stuff,
Jammed into a box, filled with the pains,
The diseases,
The end is near…

Can’t see through these eyes,
The world as it was meant to be,
Nothing left but a dark void,
Seemingly never ending,
To the end we go…

Journey onward, marching towards the goal,
Worship when we can, call God collect,
They are behind us,
Something is in front of us,
We are matched…

 

Note –  I wrote this on May 28th, 2010 and felt like I needed to post something tonight.  

Been a long last few days, so much stuff happening; good people getting sick and the evil people(aka ME!!) are doing alright! What’s up with that?

Not sure. 

I believe God is back to being bored, nothing good on TV.  I mean, when I get bored, I listen to some Marilyn Manson but guessing God decides to play with his children very roughly!

Damn you Father who art in Heaven, knock it off!

HEROIN CLUB: A WORK OF FICTION

Here is where the world would die.

And where it all began, a tight little place, dark, mood lit for those who wished such thing, not to be seen much less be heard, somewhere on the edge, a place of madness on acid, dancing in a dreary rain that fell against their sweaty faces sometimes in the late hours, cleaning the streets and the walls of the blood and sweat that sat there for weeks, staining it a crimson red and puke yellow on a really bad day.

I remember the first time, seeing it, that place. A club that had no name though the locals, pro and against, called it The Club Heroin.

Too hot to sleep, I went out searching for some life and discovering it, settled against the black heart of the city, where weirdness mingled with corporate coke heads who were seeking out prostitutes. The chicks with dicks dancing with heterosexual deviants who didn’t know better but didn’t really care. High class society danced with the low lives in the darkest recesses of the club.

Evil wannabe doctors were on the side, selling us cocktails of DDT and ecstasy with just a right mixture of death to make us feel like we were alive. It could have been Drano, for all we knew, we just knew the high was grand when it hit our bodies, drove us to the scene and kept us there for awhile, until we crashed on the asphalt just outside.

There was a stage, right in front, high lighting some young punk band, playing to the crowd, too wound up from the drugs, booze and enough adrenaline to kill the sacrificial bull on the altar to notice that there was a police raid going on.

Francis was the man who started the whole scene back in 1970something, before it was cool to do such things.

Nobody knew his last name; he just went by Francis, Duke if you were part of the ‘in’ crowd, which was a motley crew of dope fiends, drag queens, some teenage prom queens who were thirty eight this last spring and a few folks who had issues that couldn’t be diagnosed by the real doctors at the hospital across the river.

When asked why he started the club by the many reporters who fished around for a story, Francis would smile that devilish smile he was known for and would shrug, stating something like, “I just wanted a place for my kind to hang out in, have some fun, you know…this place…”

No, I wasn’t part of that ‘in’ crowd, I was there with a friend who knew a friend who may have been part of the whole ‘cool’ crowd but we didn’t know just which one it was who gathered around Francis, talking about some midnight party last year where Cyndi Starlight, the last true drag queen on the planet Earth, by her own definition,  almost died of an overdose.

She was saved, revived by some macho jock wannabe, John Dean.

“Didn’t they elope?” Francis joked and everyone who was anybody laughed.

There I was, on the outside, looking in, nursing my Jack and coke, and sitting at the table, with my friend Marvin, his girlfriend Mabel and a member of the playing band who had decided to sit down with us.

“The freaks are sure out tonight!” he said, settling down in the chair, “Mind if I sit here?”

We didn’t mind.

Well Marvin and I didn’t.

Mabel huffed a bit of air out of her nose, looked at us like we had committed the ultimate sin and stormed out of the place.

“What’s up with her?” he said.

We shrugged.

We didn’t have an answer.

He told us his name was Scorn or something around there.

His real name was Sid. He had wanted to use that as his band name but everyone else disagreed as he wasn’t vicious enough to have a name as Sid.

He was too ‘Christian’.

So Scorn became Scorn.

He was what would become known as Straight Edge in the new modern world.

No booze, no drugs, a belief in Jesus or some shit as his true savior.

Maybe some pussy if he promised to marry her.

He played the scene to pass his beliefs into the system, hoping it would circulate into the stream and save the unclean souls of the world.

It didn’t.

Sid was shot dead two months after we met him by some skinhead who didn’t trust no “Jesus Freak” who looked like one of them “goddamn Jews!” and who thought Sid was trying to hit him up for some “Homosexual” action.

Skinheads were a strange group. They wanted everyone to believe they were hard core heterosexual but it was okay to get a blow job from a man, but not vice versa, that made you a “fag”.

And in their world, fags had to die.  And if they thought you were also a Jew, well, that just made the matter more definite, written down in something, maybe the Skinhead Bible.

There I was sitting too close to the scene that night, music was too loud to hear much going around, sweat dripped off the bodies of the few dancers pounding their feet into the concrete floor of the club, some pounding their chests with their fists.

Tribal beings, something flowing through their veins, knowing sooner rather than later, they’d be dead, in some alleyway somewhere.

Sid wasn’t on the stage that night, just there to hear some sounds and to pass around his brochures from the Church of the Almighty or something.

Sid approached the skinhead who pushed him away and said something like, “Fuck you fag!”

A split second later, the skinhead turned, gun in his hand, pulled the trigger and just as fast, Sid was dead, dying for somebody’s sin, maybe mine.

The Club lasted a few years after that but in some attempt to be a “bunch of preachy fuckers!” as Francis was quoted in the numerous news paper articles about him and his den of sin, a group or ten of ‘outraged’ parents and ex-crack head prom queens got together outside and protested the place as a public nuisance that should be shut and/or burned down, just to make sure.

The scene had been dying for awhile before these groups got into the picture.

Francis wasn’t feeling the vibe anymore.

His entourage had grown up and moved on themselves, not to be replaced, so the group dwindled down to a few hanger ons and they even finally quit and moved on to other places with better vibes.

The club, the building, whatever, was tore down to be replaced by a super mart of some sort.

To add to the story, Francis was found a few weeks later, dead of an overdose, in some Las Vegas hotel room.

His last true friend, heroin, had even turned on him.