Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homelesss Poet in New York (Excerpt #5)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK
By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

 

OFFENSIVE BODY ODORS

 

Oh, you don’t want to smell a funky "Skeksy!"

“Skeksy” is a word I use to refer to a run-down-homeless person as oppose to the regular homeless individual, doing their best to get by. More on that later, when we get to the chapter "Levels of Homelessness."

Let me put it like this, if they were to drop a bunch of funky “Skeksies” out of a C-130 over Afghanistan, Al-Qaeda, the Taliban, and the whole lot of them would simply throw up their arms and surrender. 

The war would be over. Period and amen!

The truth of the matter is there is no reason whatsoever that your homelessness has to be associated with offensive odors. There are restrooms a plenty in which you can tidy up. As soon as I found out where a few local churches were that provided showers and a clean set of clothing, I made a bee-line over to them, and got my shower on. In fact, unless I had told you I was homeless, you would never know, unless you had some kind of “homeless meter” on you or something.

You know, the homeless people you encounter in the public restrooms, steady washing themselves up in the sink, to the ire of everyone around. These are the better ones of the bunch. At least they’re trying to keep up with their daily hygiene. The ones who don’t see freshening themselves up, well, that’s a different story all together. These are the “Skeksies” that chase people away with the most battering stench imaginable.

Notice that horrendous tang around homeless people? 

You’d never guess it’s their feet. Yep. That’s right. What you’re smelling is the odor of their long-over-due and unkempt feet. The feet of the homeless are first to go, because they are constantly on them. They hardly have the opportunity to take off their shoes and socks, and give their poor brogans a breather.

The other smell is coming from a long neglected to wash ass. Writing this part of the memoir brings me much vexation, in that there is no reason on God’s earth anyone should put aside the upkeep of their own backside. However, this is another of the offensive odors emanating from the bodies of the homeless "Skeksies," who just don’t give a clean, coyote-well, you know the rest-about the upkeep of their person.

I know you won’t let this happen to you.

This underscores the importance of keeping good maintenance of your feet, and your backside out here. Do not wear your socks for more than two days in a row! Wash your feet everyday and give the poor doggies a little breath of fresh air, as often as you can. Who cares what others think about you when they see you airing out your flippers? Trust me, they rather see you doing that than endure the oppressive muzzle torture of offensive smelling feet.

The Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #4)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK
By Daniel Canada c.2010

                                                            

HUMAN CONTACT



We all know the story about Robinson Crusoe being stranded on a lonely island.  Being homeless can be the same way if you have no one to communicate with and bounce your thoughts off. You’d be surprised to know how many homeless persons I’ve seen hit the streets as normal people and gradually, over the course of time, turn into complete, blithering, lunatics.

 

The problem with the whole damned thing is that most individuals separated themselves from society and took to the streets, because of some lack of understanding with former friends, loved ones, and relatives in the first place. So, while they’re out here on the streets, there are very little-if any-telephone calls, or contact with the very ones they use to have commerce with on a daily basis. As a result they eventually go bunkers.

So, how did I avoid this fate? Good question.

Let me tell you it wasn’t easy. So I joined something. You too can join something as well, be it a local church or synagogue, or ashram; it doesn't really matter. If you’re not so religiously inclined, join a local volunteer group, like Police Benevolent Association, or Kiwanis Club. There are plenty of them out there. I being a poet of some notoriety, have found a way to busy myself, traveling the poetry circuit, and doing my poetry thing. On the poetry circuit, I met a lot of people of like mind, and made plenty of contacts to…well…communicate with.

There’s seems to be something psychologically advantageous about the exchange of ideas between two people. Be creative, as I was. Find a companion, even if it’s just a "friend for a day," that you met in a soup kitchen, for Christ sake. Fortunately for me I had a homeless friend, Hobobob, who actually hit the streets the same time that I did. Our companionship provided a major bulwark of psychological support, and kept us from going over the edge. Regrettably, everyone is not so blessed, and weren't successful enough in persuading former friends and relative to "rough it out," and join them in their new life on the streets.

 

Ok. I'm being facetious. 

The other option is to begin creating faux friends, or mentally dredging up family members, old friends, and enemies, then launching into a full tirade, or dialogue with these.

I'm sure you've seen this lot before, and don’t want to join them. So follow my advice and do as I did. Roll your sleeves up and take the time to do some enthusiastic volunteer work at any organization you like.

 

If you do, you will find many a wayfarer, like yourself, and may be able to take refuge in up building banter with a kindred soul to two.

 

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #3)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

                                                          By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

 

Before long the bills are stacking up. The rent or the mortgage becomes overdue.  You are robbing from Peter to pay Paul. To add insult to injury, your unemployment insurance ran out, or you were fired and never had any from the giddy-up. Suddenly the rug is pulled out from underneath you and your next option is your first night out on the streets. This is not exactly the scenario that I faced, but similar, in that I was in transition between jobs and got caught out in the middle, when the economy took a severe downturn.

Here's the deal on this situation, folks. Once you fall on your behind, you’ll probably find your friends and family members viewing you as a social pariah, and do their best to distance themselves from you, for fear of catching the financial "heebie jeebies." There’s just no room for a free loader in this day and age.

Now that the dye has been cast in the wool, you'll have to find somewhere else to rest your head; a daunting proposition you would think. To use my own circumstances as an illustration (especially since this is supposed to be my memoir), there were priorities that have to be met immediately. For one, I had to find a place to lay my head. I had to maintain a level of acceptable cleanliness. Also, I had to find ways to keep up my precious sanity, which was being constantly threatened by the gathering, depressing, storm clouds of abject poverty.

There was a lot on my plate at the time, especially during the first few days. But I took courage and managed to meet these pressing goals. I was not completely without resources. I used the tools and knowledge that I had before being turned out into the concrete wilderness. What is more, I will demonstrate to you how this was and can be done.

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York, will steer you through these seemingly turbulent times, by revealing how I successfully negotiated my way through the confusing maze of the jungle out there. To start off, I will discuss some of the things that were closely associated with my personal survival and shed a little light on the hither-to-unknown phenomenon of homelessness.

 

The Hobo Handbbok: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #2)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

By Daniel Canada a.k.a Obsidian c.2010

 

 

 

 

The Hobo Handbook exhibits what life on the streets is really like. I will familiarize you with the actual existence of those without domicile, and demonstrate what steps I took in order to survive the onslaught of the bare-ass-naked streets. What is more, I will introduce you to some of the most colorful and bizarre, real-life, characters you will ever meet; and no doubt, would otherwise never meet, unless I made their acquaintance to you in this book. These are truly the invisible people of the earth, folks that you've merely pass by on your way to work, or any given day of the week. 

Also, I will present the types of personalities and characterizations I had to take care not to unwittingly imitate, after spending a certain amount of time in the company of the dispossessed. The Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York, uses my personal experience to demonstrate how practicality helped me to survive and to keep my precious sanity, while navigating my way through the trials and perils of the streets; this was all with the goal of extracting myself from a state of homelessness and to once again find a place I can call home.

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

SURVIVAL AND THE HOMELESS

 

.

It doesn't matter what you've done in the past. All that matters is where you are in the present. You probably were working at a well paying job, in a respectable company, drawing six-figures. You might have been a manager or the supervisor of a cutting-edge, corporate team. Suddenly, there's an economic downturn and like Gilligan on "Gilligan's Island," you've been handed the short straw, and you're the one out of a job. Now you're forced to scrounge off your precious savings. At this point you reluctantly started dipping into your 401K plan, or Roth IRA. However, this still doesn't seem to cut the mustard.

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpts #1)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

 

 

 

 

By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

“Whoever said you can’t get back what you lost was a loser. You can get back whatever you lost. It just takes a little finesse.”

-Daniel Canada

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

INTRODUCTION

 

The economist John Kenneth Galbraith once said, “The only function of economic forecasting is to make astrology look respectable.”

 

 

 

 

The stock market is unstable and experiencing the mercurial vicissitudes of a roller coaster ride! Many hard-working middle class American's are losing their homes, due to the unprecedented collapse of major subprime lenders. Chief investment bankers and financial corporations are folding and laying off thousands of employees, who once had secure jobs. As a result, a lot of the former middle-class Americans are now facing the real possibility of losing their homes and having to contemplate life on the streets. 

If you found yourself suddenly unemployed, out of an income and thrust into a state of homelessness, what would you do to survive? The "Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York," is a memoir of my four years spent on the unforgiving and nightmarish streets of New York City.

It is my desire that this book can serve as a beacon of hope, which will help to illustrate that no matter how unpromising your situation in life may be, you can successfully navigate you way through the tangled maze of it, as I was able to do so in these concrete jungles. I hope my true-life story may serve as a guide to, and can demonstrate that with personal faith and perseverance, you can make your way out of even the most debilitating situations imaginable.

Newflash Concerning Future Obsidian Posts

Ok, folks. I would like to take out this time to thank you all  for following my blogs: "Obsidian the Mystic Takes New York." I appreciated all your comments and input as well. What I would like to announce is that I will be posting regular blog excerpts from my completed non-fiction book, titled: "Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York," for your perusal. I welcome comments and feedback from all of readers, as is always the case . Also, these excerpts will be posted on my sister blogs: "Time Square Shout Out" and "Shout Out at Ottos."  Subsequently, those of you who would like to check out the poetry and postings on these sites, as well, should feel free to do so. I will be visiting the site daily to respond. Bon appetite!

-Daniel Canada a.k.a. Obsidian

POETRY OF MY DREAMS...

Poetry of My Dreams
By Obsidian c. 2011



Burn me
Burn me
In the flames of
My fathers
Burn me
As I have burned in
The poetry of my dreams

Well, I was a 14 year old
Boy when my grandfather
Died I’s remember the fool
Of a boy wide eyed walking
Up to touch the cold grey
Lifeless flesh of my father’s
Father’s hand

His hand like stone cold
As igneous rock in a fancy
Coffin laying in repose while
A Baptist choir rose trembling
The old wooden ceiling timbers
In a Harlem church high above
No salvation just stone

Burn me
Burn me
In the flames of
My fathers
Burn me like the heathen
Kings of old
Of Africa like a Mandingo

Well, again I was a 32 year
Old Manchild with a Spanish
Wife forsaken to roam the enclosure
Of a funeral parlor in the city of
Albany, New York where
My mustached father lay
In silent repose

The husk of the shell
That he use to be resting
Flatchested a chest that use
To swell with Afro-Scottish
Pride I knew that was not
Him in that he was a proud
Mulatto quaint and quite
Ahead of his time, he said:
“burn me son, and sprinkle my ashes
In the Hudson River ‘cause on the Hudson
I was born in 1934 a little time
Before the Second World War
I hustled sailors and soldiers into
Brothels and gambling dens quit
School when I was 13 made more
Money than the goddamned teachers
made more money than all of them!”

Cancer took him out made
Him thin so we burned him
His ashes to mingle with the
Hudson River Sea

My grandfather was a Mason
He had 33 degrees donned
A greasy mechanic’s tool hunched
Under cars with names that no longer
Line the streets was a deacon in a
Chicken-eater’s church drank whiskey
And chased women while listening to
Scratchy records on 75s
Escaped the woods of Southern
Virginia to underground to the
Promise Lands of the North

And me? Well, I’m 46
and tired of the merry-go-round
A veteran of poetry scenes and of
The U.S.A. a veteran of the polemics
Of open mics
Shout Outs
Shut-the-fuck-ups and
Whatever one might call
The arts

I wore two wedding rings and
Scribbled several novels which
Couldn’t serve as toilet paper
Closed my eyes every time I
Fired a rifle in the infantry fell
Out of a helicopter before I
Even made it to Iraq forsook
My piano lessons to take up
The quill and become a poet
From the Bronx

So when the last verse
Escapes my tortured mouth
And my poetry rises to mix
With the sweeping winds

Burn me
Burn me
In the flames of
My fathers burn me like
The heathen kings of old
Of Africa like a Mandingo

And sprinkle my ashes in
The East River which commingles
With the Hudson River Jordan’s
Parting Sea let me confluence with
The council of my forefathers

Let me burn
like the poetry of my dreams

LET THE NUMBING BEGIN!!!...

THe nUmbIng fAcTory
By “Obisidan” c. 2011


Welcome 2 the numbing factory
Is the numbing factory the same as the dumbing factory?
Why ask such obvious and silly existential questions, my friend
Here-in the numbing factory the past and the present
Are all the same-& nobody’s got 2 know your name
Blue skies r always azure blue I got a pill for you
One is red & 1 is blue no matrix dreams
Just mattress screams for you

In the numbing factory
Rain falls on darkened city streets
Tadpole taxiS arrive to greet you
You got a destiny here
And in “The End” is everyone’s Inn
No vodka or booze gonna take you there
No flashing fare to pay

& Oh! You can stay as long as you like
No MTA fare hikes just melancholy azure skies
-in the numbing factory

The clank & clack of mechanical gears churns out
Fantasy Delight nAked bodies of W0meN &
MEn all night flat screens play out
Porn0-dreams for the uninhibited clergy’s paradise

A few pills & grey-goose martini’s
4 you,. My friend & there seems
2 be no “End” to the numbing factory’s spin
In this nUmBing Factory

Alright?

TO ALFRED...

Alfred

By Obsidian c. 2010

...and so i cried at

Alfred Washington's grave

there i heard piano keys

tickle ivories old jazz-time strokes

and Art Tatum was the most

Bible-thumping Alfred Washington

a cornucopia of useless historical biblical knowledge

and canonical tones

i was just a black boy

trapped in ghetto's plight broken

windows tring to escape his fate

black & white ivory keys

promised to set me free

from the chains of a forbidden

South Bronx rite

Alfred Washington was

Be-Bop's epitome of epic scale

chords and arpeggios

diatonic triads

"E G B D F

Every Good Boy Does Fine

G B D F E

F A C E

& A C E G"

Running my bony fingers up

and down the scales

became the new religion of

salvation to me

flat scales

sharps

and inversions

saved a nappy headed Negro

boy from gansta's delight

and dark foreboding jail cell's

cold steel blight

i quit my piano lessons

at 14 wanted to box and

play basketball

Sugar Ray Leonard

and Magic Johnson dreams

escape my father's screams

but i still hear Alfred Washington

tickling the ivories in between

finally i come to the

grave sight of a jazz musician

rhapsody's peaceful sleep

and bent my tired poet's

knees not to pray...

but to weep

JACKED

JACKED

By "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2010

this was the house

that held the ring

that held the hand

that drove the car

that opened the garage

that led to the bed

that bore the children

that heard the scream

that JACKED the dream

that led to the papers

that brought forth the lies

that tore down the bricks

in the house that Jack built..

and in The End

there's just wine, women, and song

this was the house

that held the ring

that held the hand

that drove the car

that opened the garage

that led to the bed

that bore the children

that heard the scream

that JACKED the dream

that led to the papers

that brought forth the lies

that tore down the bricks

in the house that Jack built..

and in The End

there's just wine, your hand on your cock, some vaseline, and song

this was the house

that held the ring

that held the hand

that drove the car

that opened the garage

that led to the bed

that bore the children

that heard the scream

that JACKED!! the dream

that led to the papers

that brought forth the lies

that tore down the bricks

in the house that Jack built..

and in The End

after all the viagra, lavitra, and ciales has failed

there's just wine, and song

this was the house

that held the ring

that held the hand

that drove the car

that opened the garage

that led to the bed

that bore the children

that heard the scream

that JACKED the dream

that led to the papers

that brought forth the lies

that tore down the bricks

in the house that Jack built..

and in The End

...there's just songs

TO THE LATE POET YICTOVE

Beautiful

By “OBSIDIAN!!!” c. 2009



when light cascades into
a multitude of rainbow colours

it is BEAUTIFUL

when the sun shines at the
height of its powers and
then sets upon a haze of
violet clouds

it is BEAUTIFUL

Eye will never know what
colours of the rainbow you
beheld on the day you gave
up your soul and was
finally set free from the confines
of this tired world so full
of lies...

but i know the truth
that your words brought
joy to the hearts of
so many

and that you were...

2 NOBODY...

Therapist, “So, did you cross the river?”

OBSIDIAN, “No, not yet.”


The Dreamtime 13
By “OBSIDIAN!!!” c. 2009



Perhaps that’s
All we ever had
In life
Was the dreamtime

And to dream is
To live in a life
So filled with disappointments
And illusions

Eye close my eyes
At night and return
To the dreamtime
There eye finally reach
The shores…

And then I dream
Of You and it is
Then that I remember
When we use to walk
Hand in hand past the
Ruins of the lost and
Sunken continent
Of Mu…

MOM!...DID YOU CALL ME???...

Purple Elephants Conversing with you in Latin

By "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2009







they say

it's just a pill



a shake from the bottle

and a cup of water

is all



but when its

geomancy confluences

hit your ever flowing

stream like a moth

that's not suppose to

emerge from a cocoon...



there you are



but they say you're

cured and like the

new slur in your speech



and find it sexy



oh, where was i?


that's the point



stay away from the

meds Magical Child



and let the purple

elephants break it down

to you



in Latin...

PAY NO ATTENTION TO THAT SAUCER IN THE SKY...

GRATITUDE
By "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2009


And i have come to
discover that the whole
purpose in life is to have
gratitude to the Creator for
allowing us to participate in
this bizarre human experience...

the rest is nothing
but confusement...

...MY RESPONSE TO MIKE & THE MECHANICS

Father
By “OBSIDIAN!!!” c. 2009



it's easy to hate your father
...my father?
i hated him
then i became him
& learned to
love him
and then he died...

THE THRONE...

"...And in The End it's the love you make that's equal to the throne..."
-"OBSIDIAN!!!"

THE ALCHEMICAL MARRIAGE OF CHRISTIAN ROSENCRUZ...

!!YO!...I JUST WANNA EXPOUND UPON THE PROFUNDITY OF THE HITHER-TO-UNKNOWN SACRED PROCESS OF ALCHEMICAL CHANGES IN THE SUBTLE BODIES OF INDIVIDUALS FROM DAY-TO-DAY...MAN!...HAVE I BEEN POPPING 1 TOO MANY PILLS, TODAY!..."
-"OBSIDIAN!!!" [Excerpt from "Zen is Now" c. 1994]

Chastity



I shine, you shine and
The stars are dim by comparison
I explode! You inflate and the universe
Is too late, expanding inside of us
Stars die out and we’re still here
Radiant, inferno, and oh! So solitaire

The sun sinks, green leaves die
Tired old trees ripple beneath hazy
Orange sky under beneath a young mare
Who gives birth and then yields up
Her life and dies, while pretty daffodils
Wave lazily beating away the flies

I love the beauty and the colour of your
Mane, the flowing hair like poppy seeds
Scattering in the breeze like baby’s breath
And the groan of birth , and the blood
And the pain, and the stain
Of life and death, and oh!
I fear the dragon’s breath the
Rushing sound of his sucking
In wrath, hastening to ignite
This flame, obliterating
The wheel of life as he unfurls! To blow
His lethal rain and stain our undersides
With shame

I want but to take you to the other
Side, where placid seas ripple and
Then subside, subduing our passions as we
Ride out the thunderstorm, the heavens
Grew tired, yet I’m still in your arms

YO!...U BETTER STOP SPRAYING THAT THERE FLOUROCARBON HAIRSPRAY INTO MY ATMOSHERE, YOU!!!...

Solis Invictus
BY "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2007



Sunpot
Suntan
Sunscreen
Sunburst

Hail Hail Solis Invictus!

Sunshine
Sunset
Sun-up
Sundown

Hail Hail Solis Invictus!

Sundance
Sundry
Sunflower
Sundail

Hail Hail Solis Invictus!

This morning
I looked up between the
Tall buildings to view
The sun but i couldn't
For the want of the
Ozone and it was day

NO sunspots
No suntan
Too many sunscreens

What happened to Solis Invictus?

Shoeshine
Upset
Throw up
Get down

What happened to Solis Invictus?

Can't dance
Too dry
Wilted flowers
Spinning Dail

What happened to Solis Invictus?

We use to bow
Down to you but
Now neon lights
Will do
I'm gonna turn my
Back to the west like
The Cherokees do

"HAIL HAIL SOLIS INVICTUS!"

FOLLOW THE HUDSON NORTH...

POUGHKEEPSIE

By "OBSIDIAN!!!" [Excerpt from "This
Eye of Mine"] c. 2007

i bet your boyfriend from Poughkeepsie
doesn't dream of landscapes
parted by highways running
besides flowing streams
of dark rivers separating
the world of now from
the worlds beyond
sufforcated by the rush
of luxuriant trees tossed
about by storms...

i bet you your boyfriend from Poughkeepsie
doesn't fear the darkness
as it overspreads
dread the darkness as it
overspreads the land
-tornado ridden
twister-torn kelly fields
in the world beyond his
wildess dreams...

i bet you your lover from Poughkeepsie
is not want to touch
the child within afraid
to touch the child within
that use to wrap himself
tight behind a blanket
-afraid
of too many blows
of too many beatings
-belt shy behind a
daggerless cloak
belt-shy in a busted down
ghetto apartment in
the bronx
devoid of dreams

to rise again
as a poet from the bronx

i bet you your lover from Poughkeepsie
didn't open the closet doors
at night to behold
worlds without end in
a whirlwind-
worlds without end!
from dark nights filled
with his mother's screams
to fall into the
crevices of his mind
and to rise again
as a poet
from the bronx
from the crevices of
his mind ancient and furlong
breathless and eternal
from a void promising eternity
in its own way

i bet you your boyfriend from Poughkeepsie
only awaits you with
his own desires with
his own beliefs
-poetless
with his own church of beliefs
-poetless
in a parking lot with
his own busted down car
and his own wanting
world...

CHEROKEE PEOPLE...

Cherokee Soul Box [Vol.1] by "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2006

there's a freedom that

comes with this you know

there's a freedom that comes

with this wild ride this suicide

gangbang tied blood thrilled

scream-filled night

FIGHT!

there's a freedom that

comes with this you know

there's a freedom that comes

with this red blooded cherokee

HOWL! that coyote tailed

breakway flash that

boulder-dash! native american

clavary CHARGE!

tamahawk scalpel snatch...

HOWL!!!

that custer's last

stand on the jagged cliff

that glisterine powdered fire!

nervously ignited nose

riff of a thunderous

blade white flashing like lightning

step-off-the-cliff!

there's a freedom that

comes with this you know

there's a freedom that

...comes

...with

this...

[Eulogy]:

"...and in "The End"

he became an idiot

and in "The End"

he became a buffoon

and engaged in all kinds

of buffoonery...

he use to enjoy the light

from her dark brown eyes but

now he see the darkness

that hides in inside...

-No!

now he sees the darkness

everywhere...

he use to like to lay

like a pretzel in his mother's

arms at night...

but now at night he sees the

clowns drawing ever so closer

but now at night he sees

the clowns drawing ever

so near..."

-YEAH!!

there's a freedom that

comes with this you know

there's a freedom that comes

with this wild feathered apache

ride this split laughter broken-arrow

shot breakdance raw cow hide

behind the shadows of words

smithed inside the arrows

of poems

verses vesus the pitfalls

of the poetry of his mother's

Bible thunp-

Bible thumping lies! spread

out like dead cherokees

sprawled out sideways along

a ghetto landscape

landslide...

JUMP!!

-HOWL!!

release your DNA

1/3 part african

1/3 part cherokee

1/3 part of the U.S.A.

but-STOP!! because you're still

a nigger so you squeez the

trigger of another 'the pen's mightier

than the sword' ATTACK!!

step back black! before you get

slapped with another felony...

so i stand on this indian

cliff with the spread of the

whole of new york city!

inspite of me...

as a cherokee free

to ride these tamahawk winds

like my red blooded ancestors

who proceeded me...

there's a freedom that comes

with this...

DOWN!! the long drop of

the spiraling cliff

infront of me...

cherokee

free

broken arrow

PALE FACE LAWS!

NO!!

free-dumb-me

feathers fly

sun

burning

landscapes inside of me

horizons

another

cherokee

has escaped!!

newsflash:

"ANOTHER

CHEROKEE

HAS ESCAPED!"

SSSSHHHH! BE QUIET...

The Shadow
By "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2009



Why have you abandoned him
Like some wayward child?
Why have you left him to fall unwanted
Into the darkness
Kept in the distance contaminated
With your misguided point of view?

He’s laughing now so
Embrace him
He is cold
But his heart has desires
That are not forgotten
By you

Dark Moor
Contriver of such mischief
And sin
Come to me now and
Let me embrace you
For you are cold and
Ostracized much in vain

Tell me, what is your
Heart’s desire for perhaps
I desire it too

What?

I cannot possibly do that
Sort of thing but I
Already have many times
In the depths of my sleep
But it was only a dream
And dreams are but
Clashing brass
And I have awaken from
That spell, so tell me
Something different
Something that I can
Tell my friends, while sipping
Coffee in a shop

I too was an abandoned
Child left alone to wander
In the forest of my dreams

But I have long-since repented
Of these iniquities
You are so brash!
From what darkness were
You formed?
Was it before the world
Was enshrouded by light?

NO!

The things you whisper
Are unspeakable, but I
Love it!
You darling rascal
Stop while you still have
A chance before I
Banish you to the place
From whence you came

Well, alright I’ll give you
Some reprieve, for you
Are my shadow and I cannot
Deny you again

I Am thirsty for the
Words you speak I too
Wish to Be born from
The flames to dance
Naked in the howling
Winds to take hold
Of the roots of trees

You are drawing closer now
And I am afraid your
Voice is like wind
Your eyes are like mine
But deeper

Just who the fuck
Are you, my shunned and
Despised Moor of
The soul? Rake
Me over the coals and
Make me laugh again

I shall choke you and
Choke you again I
Shall spit into the wind
What shall we do now
That I have accepted you
Into the confines of
My burning heart?

A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM MY TEENAGE YEARS...

The Pilgrims
By "OBSIDIAN!!!"LongRiver c. 1978

here i stand along without you
puzzled from wondering about you
it seems as if it was just yesterday
we fell in love

and though i'll often wane and weep
and even find it hard to sleep
my pride is mine

for this i'll keep

i know i'll do without you

here we stand alone and cold
ready to adjourn our pilgrimage road
love is blind is what we're told
loyalty's hard to attain

i fear no foe nor fret my friend
but hold to life hope ours
not end for we shall stand
alone again i know now
love is vain

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO EVERYONE!...

8 DAYS
By "OBSIDIAN!!!"LongRiver c. 2009

it's New years Eve!
the balls gonna drop
pop the champaign and
drain away yester-years
fears and pain...

kiss the Queen and
the one you love
get laid in a warm
bed while the snowflakes
wash away the debris
of the Skeksies too
broke to have a hangover
the next day...

Oh, Me?

what's my plan for
New Years Eve?

I'mma bum a couple of
bucks from anyone i can
buy myself a 40oz of
Nigger Kill-
spill my semen in
my hand...

smoke myself a bone
put my headphones on
listen to the silky smooth
voice of Marlena Shaw
sing: "Go away little boy"
so sultry and deep

and cry
myself to sleep
for 8 days...

UNTIL THE NEXT CONTACT...PEACE!...

A DEDICATION
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 1995



To my father
who died with all The Knowledge
in his head

To my mother
who taught me to
read “The Book”
in my bed

To the Great Architect Of The Universe
who created the world
with a word
She said

I offer a prayer
that these poem might
be widely read
-Amen Ra

OF THE SACREDOTAL...

Lectures on the Square
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" [Excerpt from "Zen is Now" c. 2006]



i see you over there
holding the compass and the square

you old pythagorean
geometrician
mystical
magical
top hat wearing
magician
spinning
fibers of space time
like a mad electrician
setting the condition
for a new dimension
-al partition

i see you over there
holding the compass and the square

you old masonic
craftsman
philosophical draftsman
compass wielding
copper smelting
past master
circumnavigating
traveler
circumambulating
arcane dabbler
of trigonometric matter
mastering trigonometry
while circumscribing
tetrahedral geometry

i see you over there
holding the compass and the square

you old oceanographer
rune shaking
cryptographer
stone guilding
cathedral building
royal arch
philosopher stone
seeking archaeologer

i see you over there
holding the compass and the square

-yeah

TO THEDA DETLOR...THANK YOU FOR SHINING A LITTLE LIGHT UPON US FELLOW POETS...NOW YOUR LIGHT BELONGS TO THE STARS...

Theda
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2008



flowers dance
flowers arc
why are some flowers
set in the dark?

flowers whirl
flowers spin
why does the winter time
seem to never end?

flowers open
flowers toil
flowers meet up with flowers
to form a bouquet
upon a wall...

flowers dance
flowers bend
some flowers break off
and get tossed
...by the wind

OF THE RITUAL...

Dervish
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 1999

from the stone to the throne
from the throne to the stone

under the canopy of Muwaki
we met at night

from the stone to the throne
from the throne to the stone

round and round we whirled
the circle tight

and Ibin Azize makes salat on
his knees while galaxies spin
away listlessly in the night

from the stone to the throne
from the throne to the stone

round and round we hold
hands as we pull the
circle in our flight

from the stone to the throne
from the throne to the stone

Sheik Mekmed's turban
gets caught in a loop of light!

REMEMBERING YOU

PROPS
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2001

when we use to walk hand in hand
like puppets dangling by a string
then
all of the world around us seemed
like props
now that the strings that
bind us has been cast away
once again
the props
have become the world

ABSURD ISN'T IT?...

Life
By "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2008

Life
It's the greatest
Experience that i'll
Never remember...

THE TIME IS NOW TO AWAKEN, MY DEAR...

The Awakening
By "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2008

Christ!
The Dragon
Is awakening

Cthulhu has opened
His eyes from
Millennia’s sleep...

THE 1ST CHRIST

The Two Caves
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" c. 2008

The true light is
Hidden in the darkness
It comes to you like
The mother Innana
Sophia the bringer of
Forbidden wisdom from the
Fruit of the forbidden tree
Effluvium light!
Light my way out of
This darkness!
That mine eye can
see...