IT [US]

ℂ𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝔸𝕟𝕪𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕃𝕚𝕟𝕜 𝕥𝕠 .ℙ𝔻𝔽

 This avante- garde book explores the life of Ayers Brooks, AKA OZENOZ through his satirical humor, autobiography, and shocking lyrics.





Glue in any form. Huff and puff and blow this house down on the other side of town. If nothing else this book will make for great dialogue. Have fun with the beats and the rhythms. They are emitted, admitted, taken backward, refitted. Omitted the shame you acquitted me sane to release the remitted. Like an idea, this crime. Give me six up, Tao, the line. Spinning faded and hated, delegated, degraded the tainted love you created, infiltrated and made it easy to be what I made. And shit nigger, you paid it the time, should have been you kill her, fine. But you turn whatever to wine so with this, Mike, may I find. That it's time, time, time for the last rewind. For ugly tore up bitches on my useless dime. She packed up my belongings that ho', and left em' on the corner for the po' to pick me up. See what I’m saying? Guess I got fucked.

I landed in the eleven months of working in two thousand - ten. Before, during and after sex with him, I'd cry and balls hurting, ask him for the money to buy a hash brownie at California's Finest. Because I left behind my gold mine to get him another dinner with the smut king of the homeless shelter. Or is she a queen. Better not ask, she's from steel town. And she wants me to drive him to do this on his own. Of course now that he's driven by me, he steers his own course, but only after I put away my six figures and my Upper Class T to drive home a spike. Or five at the sushi bar next door where I partied with crew that wouldn't take me on anymore after I bombed at Del Mar. I think the answer was apparent, and not a parent when I stepped outside the Real Estate lawyers office and met with Dustin Hoffman. He ignored me, and I ignored him. And then I ignored my job and sat in the veranda and smoked my fucking brains out about the non-crew who had a wife waiting in the wings. Trying to convince her I left behind putting him to sleep at parties while he sat on a D.U.I and her five months pregnant.
I wander off about how I'm never gonna have the time to edit this piece or that piece, but then again, where's my peace? Not in the piece I carry, like the would be step-off Dad adopted tricky dick father figure to create non-oedipal complexes of coke addiction and drugs and rock and roll. Coca Cola, them Casey Jones has got big balls. And falls in the Niagara blown wind tunnels of Gulf War veterans coming home to the press call. Let's pump up the killing fields with a shot of Jack and double the coke bag tonight, bitch. That's PATSY for patty cake, patty cake, bake my hand, I'm off to the races again. If you want the Buddhist in me, it's called Mount Bromley is on the tee and I'm not Cracker Joel who is going to be your caddy for the day. I am the motherfucker who took on the loop of death, and told himself he would make more than three-fourty for seventy - two holes and a runner up because of the choked four footer in the member guest. But that is just a Verizon Wireless deal in the making, so forgive and “Fugged aboud it.” Bitch.


























































Using Mexican connections, the rebel police contaminate some of the  supply being legally transported for mass consumption by Californians with pesticides.  The weigh in stations set up for tariff reasons by the State of California at the border are bought, but not the checkpoints for drivers. The supply contamination is caught, via a truck moving illegals by a San Diego former dealer whose business has forced him to change his dirty dealing. One of California's finest, he has been moving some of the crop to one of the few center city stores in San Diego which will move large quantities so that it can be consumed by the underage population.  An addict himself, he swerves on the double take playing in his mind at a weigh in station, and both the contaminated crop and the illegals are found.















I was there for one reason, to accost the girl who led me down a long and shameful road. The one who caused me to do time with Tennessee murderer Percy Palmer. With him in mind, I set out to send off letters to my boys the night before. I sent Percy the key to my West Chester University Hockey House key. They key to the place where I lived. Cause you see, the whole of my twenties was spent being told I was a fucking caddie when I was a student. Without the tuition, minus the parties and minus the bullshit from the STD's I would have had to avoid. But that's hairpiece material, and I'll leave the herpes where she lies. In her husbands arms, the fucking cunt who told me “Troy, don't meditate” on August 19, 2001. On September 10, 2001 I pled not guilty to public intoxication for being aware that something terrible was coming that had caused me to be silent while I held my meditation that night on MTSU campus. On September 11, 2001 Buddha died in the first tower and so did my dreams of release anytime soon. I was truly fucking out of my mind. I decided to let them know in the infirmary that even though I pled not guilty to a misdemeanor or four, I was ready for psyche help and that entailed solitary confinement in the nicest of environs you can imagine for the next four months.
“OK computer? I want to get high as high can get, seize the misery seething and seeming at its seams down to the might it wields. I want to cry out the fame of the dance the flame will extinguish, want to extinguish it now in a fiery mountaintop. A mountaintop of swooshing lies in nitrous dreams that cloud the fog of morning still in the show I sing to and choke.” “I want to choke on the blood of the lamb that boils in the sizzling bloody end of cells and centers of nerves that lay dead in their frail brittle Swiss lobes of my cheesed once brilliant knowing mind. A mind that is reduced to papers I don’t have. People I never owned who owned me became their slave in retreat. In resentments spiteful glare I will smile the last gleam of the glittering past into the birth of my own death and the tearing sadness that will engulf. The sadness that is tears out the hole by creating the new ones which will only sadly enough never know itself.”
It was here I joined my first band. We were a Led Zeppelin cover group, and I was the keyboardist. Never really got too far. Snowboarding was a monthly event at one of the big mountains in Vermont or upstate. My friends rode dirt bikes in the miles of wooded trails we had at the end of our neighborhood. I used to walk my Husky/Shepard mix in every day down those trails. Those woods are now a school and a development. In the eighth grade I received my first “B” in a subject, and I was grounded for an entire semester with the exception of walking my dog. It was there that I began to experience physical abuse from my father. It wasn’t like I didn’t have the things I wanted, or was ignored. There was no sibling rivalry to speak of. He simply felt the need at times to attack me when he felt I was unappreciative. These beatings left scars that festered for years after I left home. To this day I sit and worry sometimes over the loss of depth in our friendship. On the brighter side of things, it is a relationship which has endured even through his divorce of my biological mother.
I loved the smell of the grass, the dirt that flies from your cleats as you pursue another man with hunter’s instinct. I loved the contact, loved hitting them as much as being the victim of a good tackle. I remember being hit so hard I flipped a few times. There is nothing like it to take the fight out of a news anchor brat. My friend and I bunked in the same cabin with the seniors., They were on the other side, and for some reason admired me. Atleast they did not find any particular reason to pick me out as a troublemaker. I was fast as lightning. Every morning in the damp dew at 5:30 AM we were called out by whistle to stretch and run a two mile run with the quarterback coach, a QB himself at Villanova. We called him "the rabbit" and anyone who could beat the rabbit was told they could sit out of the next days two mile run. It was an uneven run that ended in a 200 yard mountain like ascent sprint to the finish, yet I managed to beat the rabbit twice that week, clocking a time of twelve minutes and twenty seconds or so.
One morning before home room, I decided to hit him by surprise, dry gulch him. That would take care of him with one shot, like my old rival from eighth grade. He had called me a fruit cake in eighth grade French and I had bloodied his nose with one good shot. This time it didn’t work. In the movie I had watched the night before, the kids Dad had taught him how to “dry gulch” his old man by whacking him in the neck. My target, however slid off of the punch and grabbed me by the collar, pulling my head under for a few shots in the hallway. I had missed the Adams apple. It was decided that we would have to fight after school. The rest of that day, people followed us around everywhere, rallying it like it was “Four O Clock High” or something. I knew I was locked in. The whole school knew. We sat across from each other at the lunchroom table, both affording not a glance, uneasy about either relinquishing his spot at out usual table. People dropped by and began to place bets. My football friend followed me around between classes, grabbing my wrist to raise it up in the hall from time to time and proclaim loudly "2:50 PM LOWERFIELDS CHAMP!!!! CHAMP!!!"
I felt good about this move, and got up by pushing into his collar bone, he threw his first tennis player instinct, wildly striking my right wrist with an open palmed forehand. Then it happened. I began to back into the crowd, using them as the ring ropes. As began to get my confidence to approach, I took my balance step backward. I should have seen the eyes light up, the ramas pushing forward in the crowd,  making eye contact with a nod, but I was on now, nothing could stop me. Nothing but an extended foot of my own offensive lineman teammate in midstride to trip me as my opponent was sprinting forward with a hard downward thrown right. I remember hearing the crowd yell with awe, the punks driving for more, some of the girls in disgust. It had had broken my nose, a bridge which still bears the little chip of his knuckle to this day.
The Caddymaster was a short, fat, red faced jabbering little man who commanded respect from his wallet. His son was a caddy at the club, notorious for things you would not think of in a caddymasters son. I remember it clearly, I arrived on the job my third or fourth day, and for the first time, the caddymaster told me to “go below” to the caddyshack hidden in the woods off the corner of the first tee. I walked down the stone path slowly, not knowing what to expect. Three hours later, I was still sitting here on the bench when it happened. A man walked up to me and said “here,” offering me a small metal pipe. I was too hot and nervous about fitting into this environment to say no. I too the pipe and lighter, lit it and inhaled. Needless to say, five minutes later I was so thoroughly stoned; even the stone wall leading to the member’s parking lot would not stay still. I lay down on the bench, and told the guys when the caddy master announced my name, to tell him via the intercom, that I had escaped out the back door and gone home.
Late that night as the curtains fell and rose again for the cast call, I dropped the whole strip into my mouth. There was nothing at first. Then there was the crowd of people outside of the auditorium, visiting with cast members. There was to be set deconstruction party until the wee hours this night. I had planned to sleep at a friend’s house, and my girlfriend was going too. That was not too good, as she was anti – alcohol and drugs. Then it happened. The air before me shimmered like a wave from my very soul passing outward in its glow before my eyes. Then air rippled like waters in which my pebble of existence had been tossed, its energy meeting the other waves and passing through them endlessly. I left behind the crowd and reentered the stage area. It was enormous; it suddenly seemed to have the dimensions of a football stadium. A friend passed by and said hello, his arm visibly attached by some liquid form to the wall as if being viewed from some kind of twisted mirror as the wall rippled like another wave.
I feared it now spreading over my numb body as I tried to hold it still from the psycho tropical mythological labyrinth of fascinating love it emanated to my brain. That filled me from the girl who had brought the trouble to a head, my co – lead in the play. I was staring at the tornado lamp that held my life in the bedroom above the stolen street sign “sharp curve ahead” I had found. The sign itself was from the hippy who had once owned our old house. I remembered how he spoke of the guitars he had sold to Led Zeppelins old player. Like Keith Richards he was, the face now older than fifty from its eighteen years staring back at me in the mirror. It bled, and I panicked thinking the razor had ripped my face to pieces as I could not see it. Suddenly all I was staring at was a blank mirror, I panicked again. Finally the face of a pale white ghost appeared. I realized it was my own uninjured not bleeding face with bulging panic struck eyes.


amidst my inner tension. I had been on the phone at one am. The girl I was dating behind my girlfriends back was on the phone. Suddenly our conversation turned to mumbles and warbles it seemed to me, yet she was understanding. Perhaps she only thought I was masturbating, I don’t know. However the next thing I knew the sun rose as the other line rang. It was my girlfriend, I told her to hang on, and went back to the other line still staring in drop jawed wonder of the midnight sun. The girl on the other line began citing scriptures in John, and that was it, I was going to lose it completely. Earlier while showering, I had ripped the shower curtain free from its hinges and attacked a faceless shadow I thought was death coming for me. The other line was my girlfriend’s best friend, calling to find out why she had called her crying hysterically that something was wrong with me. The room exploded with white light, and I panicked. I saw death run down the stairs. Even death wanted to escape, I thought. 
I remember the jail cell profoundly. I had peed myself, I was in agony, and the cell bars were twisting like snakes, the floor a vortex. I dropped to my knees and it was as though I saw my entire life in front of me in what could have been hours, but was only seconds. The face of Jerry Garcia came to me, and as I acknowledged the thought I could be “born to be” one such a man. Then from the depths of my mind a guru sitting on a mountain appeared. He bowed, and suddenly I relived what seemed to me to be the same sort of memory I had just saw of my own life. It was revealed that this was the past life of a nun, my own past life. I was being taught something divine. Suddenly the face of death appeared again, and I shrieked in agony. Suddenly it dawned on me to pray for release. Instantly the cell went from a whirling mass of electrons and colors to a still, sober, simple jail cell in my local police department. 
I will never forget that summer. The green of the fairways, the sting of the green headed flies. The peace of the ocean waiting at home. Watching the Philadelphia Flyers wingman wing his drive out three fifty plus on every tee. I have a talent for the game of golf and I exhibited it well reading the greens. It seemed to me at times these world class greens were read by my minds eye in its Zen quietness. Often I would survey the green, and then the actual line of the ball would trace itself out in a visible white trail in the greens surface. I never went wrong. Players flew in on private helicopters to play rounds, and “bennies” were the common currency. Escorts gave massages on tee boxes, and cute beer girls drove around to the various tees. The Masters winner even complimented us with his presence at a tournament a month prior to his title. 
One person would begin to speak when another would suddenly come to life as if finishing the others sentence, and as that finished another would begin where the other left off. What we were discussing were the absolute values of oneness we were sharing. However we had tapped into a source much higher. Then an event happened that gave all of us a start. Though we were making no noise disturbance, and though we had been inside for hours miles off from the nearest neighborhood, a cop came. He pulled onto the narrow country road from the cornfields in the distance. Pulling into my friend’s driveway, he stopped. He then turned on his spotlight, backed off the property into the woods across from the house, and aimed his spotlight directly into the window out of which we were looking. He remained there for what seemed like hours. About two minutes later, he pulled away, leaving the way he came in. Whatever transpired to create this happening, it was indeed a fateful warning. 
My housemates were of a different variety. Chris was a struggling alcoholic living off of unemployment. He had no intention of finding a job, and made that adamantly clear. He lived on Ramen noodles and Old English malt liquor. The guy in the door next to Chris on the third floor was a paroled crack addict, living off the tenant agreement there should be a fire escape outside of his room, threatening the landlord while skipping rent payment until his section eight row home came through. He used to bring home prostitutes for all night fuck and suck sessions on their assortment of paraphernalia. One time this hooker came waltzing into my room downstairs by the kitchen I had freshly painted by myself irregardless of the rat and cockroach problem. She wore a mini skirt and a tiger print top, which looked as if it was sideways for as purpose. He probably ran out of money and crack, and she wanted to see if I would get it up for her. She said she just needed a match for her cigarette, one of his borrowed menthols, but I saw her eyes. First she eyed me like a hawk swooping in on prey. Then I think she realized by my stare, just how bad she looked. Poor girl, he must not have even let her rest. 
Afterward, we drank from the gallon of zinfandel I had bought with my last ten dollars while deciding to play hooky from work again that morning. In paint stained sheets and a still gleaming white room hot with fumes, she stubbornly decided to strip naked and climb into bed. She was going to get fucked she had decided. Her virgin years having been ended by me, she wasn’t much of a drinker either and was excessively drunk. In my carelessness I climbed on top of her and we screwed until I climaxed releasing my sperm into her while fantasizing about her becoming pregnant and what her filthy rich catholic fathers’ reaction would be. I couldn’t help but think that way, she talked about it all of the time about how rich they were and how protective. I was in it initially for the pretty face, for the intriguing conversation. Jobi was a terrific artist, and had secured me a thousand dollar debt in my last apartment while painting a beautiful mural on my living room wall. It really was superb except that in her thoughtfulness and in my own inability to discern what was smart we had used black light paint. 
The Pandora’s box of awakenings streamed together. Hours on hours it had taken me to observe my breath. Weeks later I had observed one by one the syllables. O in its universal ness, M in its mortal energy, A in its raising aspiring height to saint like consciousness, H or the breath of the universe, U or the mortal in the immortal, just to name a few to begin with. Then later chanting of Upanishads had brought forth futile beginnings of what I was now seeing. Ordinary resonation of the seed syllable O had brought for the mandala vision like an unfolding fractal, a Pandora’s box riddled maze of intricate detail. Put together these omanipadme hums after much thought could open other doors. One night while sleeping, I was awoken by the picture in my dream of a dark rider, his face emerged as that of Anubis. When I sat up in mid sleep, the vision remained, blocking the beginning portion of the scroll. 
He himself appeared to me, sharing a closeness of being as we had when in the same room together. Suddenly Mit, began to ask me why his friends were not noticing him there with them. IN the depth of my mind I heard him proclaim "I AM NOT DEAD, IM RIGHT HERE!!!" trying desperately to gain the attention of his desperately weeping girlfriend. The meditation then got closer. I asserted my faithfulness into opening the channel to help him in his plight of observing the between. His own perception was faultless of being there was here his earthly experience brought him, yet he would go unnoticed. I prayed for his strength in soul and the integrity to let go of the fogginess of earthly experience, that he could absorb the shock of his own death by releasing it and accepting higher wisdom, and its light. 
Around ten that night I lost the notion of my self so completely I went into a full scale life after death panic. I screamed upstairs to my roommate from the kitchen, but he would not answer. I went upstairs and knocked on his door until finally to my relief it drew a response. He opened the door and walked straight past me, down the stairs toward the kitchen as if I was not even there. I panicked again. Something in my psyche told me that I was not being a very brave astral cosmonaut. I was reacting like the strung out Radiohead lead singer in his travels through these consciousness. The right path told me I was surrendering an honor of achievement to have reached this state, and I thought better of chasing down my roommate. Then I died of fear, and came back to life in my roommate’s eyes. 
Under one such vendors tent while questioning to be someone’s “gas rider” to Rainbow Gathering in Montana I began my first meetings with the underground. A man pulled me aside and gave me some advice. He claimed to be an architect on the run from CIA involvement. A kerosene lamp lit his face in flickering shadow as he spoke of white supremacists and the spies sent already to camp near the grounds where Rainbow would be the following week. The new administration was following in the footsteps of our failed attempts to uncover the truth of our own government by suppressing the freedom fighters. He advised that I find a ride, if I must and stay on the road. Besides, he mused, how the hell did I expect to find a ride to Montana in just one week? Most of the elders had evidently made their way there already. 
Across the Delaware River, Philadelphia skyline was hazy in clouds of the midday humidity. Troy remembered the night before sitting in half lotus position, which was as far as he could stretch meditating to the incredible fireworks. There would be bang and boom with lights over the river again tonight. He wondered if tickets were to be found amongst his second show. No matter, the main concern now was to find the necessary ice to fill his cooler with the ten bucks he had left over. There were several parking lots in Camden, which would soon be filled with concertgoers and Fourth of July tailgating. With Phish lot, though it was a whole different story. The band toured almost nonstop, and had a following that would be compared to the Grateful Deads own if not for the fact that they were the same people. The night before Troy had found that people were more willing to be touring with both Phish and Further tours to bridge the gaps in the map. That is, there were miles to be traveled and rest to be taken, food to be eaten and this required money. The band in fact had a whole village of gypsy type travelers who toured nonstop with them performing various tasks from stage hands to selling t – shirts. 
A few of the canvas tents to cover the corner stores on lot were already being set up. There were a few restaurant tents, a few vendors, and then what could only be known as “Shakedown”. The term came from the Grateful Deads song “Shakedown Street” and it was like going downtown to the central heart of the lot. Picture an alley the length of a city block where every two feet another small congregation of people gathered selling different things. A marketplace of sights smells and sounds. Bands would come and set up to play in the lot where it was not filled with DJ style music setup. There was water, pita wraps, grills with every type of campground food, tie dyes, and of course other goods not so legal. Drugs could be found on lot, and it was not a disorganized system by which they were sold. One of the kids within a group would carry around a box blaring music to announce where the central spot of dealing would be. This was based on the dozens of heads wandering with digital devices to talk back and forth in code phrases. A key phrase in lot terminology was someone yelling “six up!” meaning that security or a cop was coming, time to six up for five – oh and hide the goods. 
By around six thirty he had sold forty five of the waters. The rest had been drank by he, Mark, Carey, and his neighbor in da’ hood Linda. He had run out of ice around five thirty, but had used it as an opportunity to meet other people and had gone around collecting a handful here, a handful there from others as Mark had suggested. They were all so friendly, smiles and nods, no one told him no.. and some even offered him smoke or a beer. It was half an hour to show time and he had doubled his money from the night before. He desperately wanted to get into the show, but was as yet lacking the funds to do so. There would be more shows. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he would find a way. He had heard of getting miracle tickets from a buddy he had met in Ocean City New Jersey. 

“In the night the lizards had come out as us and them. The tall man who blew glass for the estranged bearded one who was all alone. He was with them as they told him and me every few minutes or so, chuckling with a look of recognition that made them seem cold and mocking. They adjusted themselves into an absence of righteousness that breathed the air. Air that a policeman would breathe as the security guard did now on the back of my neck in his striped pants swishing. He was turning back around and going toward the campground I maybe had slept in not so long before. I had noticed he was going to put me in handcuffs. He thought I knew, but didn’t turn away in my mind for the next few minutes. I was now again interrupted by the wizardly old man blowing glass straight toward me with a grin. It appeared he was shushing me with flame leaping from the hot liquid substance near his lips. The bearded boy was falling over in his tallness as he had stood up, and the old mans sparks blew at him from the dragon like beard. The beard consumed his child’s play shushing, transforming it into an elder wizardly sight of wisdom. His lips still and thin held the same silly grin in the still airy night that fondled the cornfield to my right. My rights, my rights, my rights.” 
“The didgeridoo man had sung once and the crowd in front of me had fallen back into the tired slumber as if his playing had been for hours. It seemed there had been hours this minute and there they lay asleep in the night. The clouds came as if in time lapse photography and they rained on us. It was all in good fun for the dancing man with the didgeridoo who played around the sleepy campfire, seemingly unfazed by the cold rain falling from the open sky. He was next to their tents and the smoldering campfire and they were all dead it seemed. Maybe that was just me. They could be the next ones whom I would never know to have been. The thought panicked me as if I had fallen into a place where only the man with the didgeridoo could exist. His deep emanating hum played in the silence of the old man with fire from his lips who now sat silently laughing and pointing at his own slumber. This was of itself an illusion, a deep truthful illusion. I had the thought as he had been standing the moment before behind the circle of people. These campfire strangers were parked next door to his glass Winnebago. They were all now suddenly gone before my eyes. The man too was gone and there I was alone in front of a campfire which had long before been out, smoldering in the twig light of the sun which was now waking me. “ 
“I saw a woman carrying food and chips with saltiness that swaggered her staring back at my enveloped eyes. Eyes which said she mistrusted the me that was sitting there for a period that I knew could only be right now. The same different now as minutes before in the moving clock face. I had to find a way to desist in this sight, bow out right now. I had the visions of ram das in my mind and how he said it was in the chopping wood and carrying water. The highness was found in the peaceful simple ness. For them and for me I separated us for the first time in days. Yes, indeed it was in the simple ness of being that we would find the place like in Einstein’s dreams of relativity. In differentiating mirror wisdom that would feel like the time removal. That place in the dreams closer to the truth of loving you. It got slower, the illusion of time it got, until finally the time stopped and became a drag to the senses in which the eventual collapse of your time existence would collapse in 
Later in the afternoon he left with one of the kids from the house for Polaris Amphitheatre in Columbus, Ohio. It was their second show there, he had slept through the first the night. When they arrived on lot, the kid did the most unexpected kind thing. He turned to Troy and handed him a two foot by three foot conga with a leather strap which he had made to sell and told me I could have it. Maybe it would get me a better start. Then he handed over a plastic case with a thick foam padded interior filled with crystals of different varieties. He said Troy could sell as many of these as he could, if he would just meet him at some point and return the case to. This was a feat which Troy never achieved, finding him, though he tried for hours at the end of the night. They hugged their goodbyes and headed in separate directions. 
The Empire State Plaza in Albany was a sparkling hub for the city. There was art all over, and city hall on the corner. Everywhere still statues of pedestrians seemingly caught in time and frozen in their tracks stood on various corners, entrances, and walkways. Citizens preserved in mid stride with open facial expressions that would never change through the years. The capital consisted of two towers which visitors could climb in a high speed elevator to an observatory. An egg shaped stadium that hosted theater and various conferences including Troys middle school acting days in “Shakespeare Fest” stood there in the center of town. Thousands of square feet, the oblong stadium was football shaped rising out of a platform that held it like a giant football trophy at a tilt in the Albany skyline. Thus its name “The Egg”. These buildings were all connected and leading to the Pepsi Arena by a series of glass enclosed breezeways like that of a major airport with its wide staircases and escalators. 

It was a late summer’s day in Middle Tennessee. Kali and I had just moved there a few days prior and I felt that she was still the love of my life. There was something terrible in the breeze, though, and my mind began a solemn form of meditation psychotic in its delusional intensity. I had to work at Rick’s Steak and Seafood as a waiter for my second night this night. Kali was at work so Norman her brother and his friend Roger and I agreed they should drive me. That night something miraculous began to transcend before my eyes. Two afternoons prior to this, we had gone shopping with her brother’s whole family. Something radiated in Kalis eye. Literally. I began to see flashes of light as if from some internal supernatural force that I began to believe was connected fate. How true this turned out to be. At one point just as the song we fell in love to in "In Your Eyes" says, I saw the light that could only be described as that of a thousand churches glaring from what seemed to be her very soul. Later that night, expected to sleep outside in her brothers van, I sat outside in the cold backyard and meditated under the starry TN sky. The stars mingled, and the thoughts it seemed on wavelengths fluttering through my mind intensified until I had a vision. Lightning struck it seemed the very crown of my head, and the whole meditation ended leaving me surprisingly uneasy... as if I was to find out what this enlightening strike was to be soon and that just as in life... it would not be easy. 
I left the back of the kitchen, and went back out to the floor of the restaurant. It was filled with patrons, and yet as I turned from my table, I was moved to do a full ballerina style spin. I did, and to my surprise, no one batted an eye... not the slightest notice. Passing through the corridor, I saw a waiter give me the strangest look. He turned to leave the kitchen through the exit on his right, and I turned to go to the terminal 180 degrees from him to the left. In mid stride, I broke the train of thought as the thought of him elated me, and I spun one and a half turns coming to a halt facing him. The entire kitchen stopped, cooks frozen with plates in midair, waitresses one foot on the floor, words hung in mid phrase, the waiter I had turned to face however vanished from site momentarily, and then with a supernatural twist, his head turned to face me with a demonic grin. My mind raced. Then it registered the thought of a minor vision brought forth of a fierce deity. I realized I was more afraid of time stopping than him, however new now that to face him would take me further. Afraid of what further meant, the kitchen reanimated, and I found myself in awe. I was then overtaken by the expanse of time that had just seemed to pass, and yet none at all. I had to work within the realm of this meditation, and yet when back on physical terms now, continue my job. 
The following day we had gone to try and get it removed, but without insurance it was going to have to stay until we raised the sixty bucks or so to have it flushed out, or take me to the emergency room. In the meantime Kali had to go to work. It was that night, with the moth in my head at Randy's these things had come to me. As if the moth whispered to me through my ear of the other side. I climbed into her car reluctantly, wondering if I should go to the hospital to have it removed. I was shaken by all of the events surrounding me, missing my old friends and job, and these wonderfully strange new visions. I drove to the hospital in strange temperament, feeling as though there was something at hand I still was not seeing. When I got there, something stopped me. It was as if I saw this shadowed figure there outside of the car. For some reason I started to crack, get desperate about the whole thing and rather than going into the emergency room at the hospital, climbed back into the car to go the campus where Kali was now a student at Middle State Tennessee University to park for now. College campuses had always proved to be good refuges for me in time of need for just 
I felt her out there sleeping. I felt the eyes of someone on the road watching me. I became afraid. I knew it was the law, instinctively. I knew that ugly feeling of raw power perched for use in its whim. The next thought process was that of my problems. I thought about my old roommate Sam, and his entrance into CIA training. His personality invaded me, and I felt it somehow connect with my political affiliations in Philadelphia. I felt the two of loose ends out there recognize each other and panic further. There was a loose and on a bigger trail in the CIA, that I unknowingly was close to something big, and secret that I could not put my finger on. I felt that it was all coming to a head all at once. I felt that someone out there knew that I knew something they were unsure in my whit I could connect. I knew from the nature of my affiliations, many unwanted, that it would be big. As big as the presidency. As big as war. 

It felt modestly pride full in its cumberbund tightness around my waist. Piece by piece, right leg, left leg, waist area in a wide stripe of cloth , I began to resemble more so what the picture in The Gita resembled. In their layers, I was becoming suprisingly warm in the winter nights air as well. Ten minutes later I was a swaddled yogi, setting into the sinking cushions of that couch as the headlights of cars passed me on the way to downtown. I was unnoticeable , just as I had thought, looking like a bundle of cloth lying on the couch. Perfect. I settled in with my full stomach and thoughts of reaching Santa Monica the next day, and the long unknown trek down this "Old Topanga Canyon Road". I lay there imagining what the residents of the house beside me were doing in their normal lives. Knew that they would notice me at seven am or whenever the owner of the Jeep Cherokee climbed in with his steaming mug to be off to work. I felt their homeliness, like that of the Dakinis in the bushes I had dreamed of in subtle memory of Bagvhan Das story while settling in for sleep in Berkeley. 
Over the next few months I was to get to know Los Angeles. I walked every street from Huntington Beach through Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Santa Monica and UCLA, and Venice. I mostly hung out in Venice and got to know the locals, the street performers. I had fallen in love with this place. I drank daily, and remained homeless for lack of a job, or shelter. I had lost my identification, and couldn’t find anyone to help me get a social security card fast and obtain an I.D. card. I slept on the beaches of Venice, ate from the trash cans and homeless shelters. I recycled cans and bottles I found in trash cans for money for cigarettes and alcohol. I stayed at the VA Hospital, in Canyon Country, and in the Armory. It was one more day up in the canyon, and more night in Hollywood. It had been so long since I’d seen the ocean. 
It was the bottom of bottoms I had found myself in. When I saw my friends bosses show being taped in town and I went. He was a caddy who I had gone to High School with, and he was now Jay Mohrs personal assistant. For a night I was in the scene, I stayed that night on my friends couch. The show when it aired the next fall turned out to be dedicated to the homeless problem in Venice. It was these days I marched the streets with the peace protesters. I participated in the largest rallies since the sixties. But I myself, was a mess inside and out. That spring my grandmother died. I had been staying in Canyon Country, The Bible Tabernacles desert trailer homeless program. I decided to leave them, having dreamed of this day. They took me to a church on the way into town, and lo and behold it was Ken Hamm on stage preaching the sermon he and Carl William had put together the very afternoon after he had driven me to Kentucky. 
front door of my house into the Bethlehem streets aglow with Christmas lights. They are everywhere. An encompassing number swarm in blackness descending from the sky like the twisting finger of debris amassing a tornado. Mythological symbols whispered of by ancient and modern horrors these immortal winged ones, these witches and wizards of the animal kingdom. The crows descend in the thousands, protesting in their flock pattern the bitter breath of winter. Sharp beaks with a hook like quality silhouetted by cold black searching eyes our crows turn their wings into the cold blast ascending and descending the barren skeletal limbs of the trees. Constant migration from one tree to the next in flocks, the trees gnarled fingers keep their perch and fleeting moments. The effect lends to the illusion a cycle of autumn done every few seconds. The trees knowing black foliage no more than escape the wind than they are falling to the ground, swept to the air and returning to rest elsewhere. Just as the arms of the great oaks, the wise maples, the bold birch trees stop their sway, hands of branch tips unfolded from their determined fist bearing breath father winter spoke; these cunning birds return home. 


Butterflies in the field outside
Emerald Shitty
Crystal Towers
Sand grains and Ivory Pearls and wisdom seems she knows a thing or too this Neverending Rep Game
It's just a game, I give it up
Before I'm completely insane
Da Plano
Da drano
Da motherfucking kine
Da Broken is Broke
Bro
So time for the last rewind
This broken old man and a world
On kine
Hemp for oil
oil for gold gold for hmm energy
And a star in the cold
Whats up he'll say wanna get rid of that case?
NO, not really - you keep it-
This taste in art work and stickers
is great
Green and seen
And fucking pristene
It's good for that kid who'll take it with squid Macro-beanie Tack-tack sonic missing a bridge
A hook begs from a tune
New tuners New stingers
Oh shit I'm coming!
I'm going through hell here in my old hometown
I'm packing my bags everyday like a clown
This game doesn't stay here
It just moves around
The Bulls, The Bears, The Pistons,
The Wheres?
The money- the funny green stuff?
Playa Playa on the wall
Snow White Dwarves us
IN spring summer fall
Brooks range won't improve
He if he keeps on smokin
Tokin
Chokin
Hemp
like brain tumors
I had a little ouija
I had a little board
I asked him could I meet ya? He said SATAN word! Then threw the cursor gone- Oh I'm cursing, YAWEH!
Peace Now. Not for oil. Not for food.
for mu -te'a
Love
Sashimi
I am underemployed that's a noun for an adjective
My objectivism Ayn Rand coulda paid
Anthem National Debt
You gonna go down now
Real fast cause we got a new
Man on the block walking around underground
On battery acid
We don't play dat
Do you hear yo
We don't play around
My two cents in a jar
Ain't legal get tender
I stole some bread today
Cantelmi who
I stole it from in front of a hardware store
Pepperidge and keep the fridge
Farm it and raise it
A flag every day it's at half
The mast over the cast and crew
cuz I sell this script
It's for you
No gave it away that battle of whisper - it all
Away cause in fucking convulsions
On the Ave and I'm calling the medic
Cause he foaming at the mouth
Did he take it got a feeling
He did cause I said it made me trip
It did
People in the park at the church on the
Ave in Oakland
Drawin them guns for the right to bear arms
The po-po can't get em
Cause the bodyguard just caught em
The stockpile gonna be there
For the people we destroy
That's US ZA EN ZA
AZ IF
You FUCKING HOMO
Nobody likes me
Cause I don't like ya'll anyway
Unless he say she say
She say he said
Left in the crib
And he ate it
Now he's dead
Poor kid psylocybin
Phat Pharm boots
Sad for his time
And a life full of pain
When I got bounced out to the Blind Pig
Didn't finish that drink in the green room
Where we toked and joked and I saw
Some life to this
Arab Scarab
Beetle gonna get me
Mummy in Detroit at the DOA
oh woah so anyway
A-O-D don't preserve me
We made direct fucking amends to such motherfucking people wherever fucking possible except when to do so would kill a Nigga'
I ain't a God
But I gonna be wit em
If I twist dat shit
Cousin I love ya'll
But you killed that kid
Your only fucking son
with a motherfucking shroom
And slashed a fucking tire
Like it was fun like a buffoon
Then you took me where
Downtown why was I goin?
Cause I seem to need a nap now
Three jobs she was a ho'in
Cause I'm a dick a deck a Doc a Dose
A dose a doc a deck ahh dick!
L-A-N-T-A-L-L-E-D-cation
That's Cool J, my DJ got one N word
My middle is gone
My fiddle on the roof
Ayn Rand comin over
At the studio she spoofed
That dike I would fuck
If I could dig up her grave
Hope they mummified her
Thats US WE and Yoohoo!
O-Z and O-Z
E-Z money too
Strapless Dese he's aint
Dat body bag was yoo hoo!
BART Frisco kid down under the bay popped up in Marin
It will go there I pray
Where we live in a trailer a humble abode
Humble Pie
Appleseed
I won't go there You toad!
Lick a nigger play that riff
Lick a nigger play that riff
Lick a Jew play that riff
Lick a Jew play that riff
Oy Fucking vey
Hum da Lallah
500 Seneca soldiers strong
Street love and sweet song
Walid Hussein Barack Insano
The prince the pauper
The cable boy drinkin drano
I'm a lumberjack and I'm ok choppin in the Sierra's for the Mexicans today
No, lets see in 02,03, Oh say can you see
By the dawn of man
What the light has to offer When the time sifts the sand
Arachnids they are not
Same family tree origin, species, can't read it
Latin prefix Tee-hee
Tea for Two
Or pee for poo
Poopee! Chaos! Mike!
We were gonna rob a bank
Sleepin on a porch
Back from the corps knew that security tour you'd been the one making the change
Off to Belize
Where English is strange
Come on Bitch, put the money down now!
Get that car and it's over blough!
But slim to none and I left town
Running from Al - Quaida and the shit all around
Poppy Poppy
Pound Pound Pound
San Francisco treat
Dem Chinese got small feat
The opium den couldn't be on the longest street in the world in one country we live in and own it
Cept Democracy
Two Cents
One Cent actually negative Studio 54
Andris Lagzdins
You be ma' homie
Cuz you aint drinkin
You thinkin aloud
Them stories was bitchin
You da bouncer da kingpin
Cut outta the script
So you save when
Oh don't know so I don't go back to O.C
N.J. silent Bob
No arms no legs and head you're a snob
I'd fucking write it all over for you but this time it's called "Telemarketers" hmm... that's a crime cause I will, don't you know But you won't know it's me
Cause this is my name
Or pen - name in the Penititentiary
J-O-E-L
Does that one fucking ring a bell?
And the last, first, middle intitial whats up
My trademark on my logo
Has my initialization
Nationalization
Incarceration
Propertization
Tititillation
Increments of thousands in that getaway far
Berg in the snakepit at that L.A. bar
Dropping bombs
And when I'm gone just carry on You know little baby?
Diz zen masters fed up
O - OZ yeah you fuckin owe me
L-A-P-D
N-Y-P-D
Toku
Sock it to em
Rock it to em
Just don't leave a bruise
Cause I wrote that script about a fight in 2000 for the soprano not somber and this last episode ain't so nuts or was that 98,99 or uh oh
Can't mark you with a dime
Cuz we get da ball rollin yo!
Yo fucker come and get me!
Come call da po-po
Cuz you said she said I said we said diz block  ain't so clean this restaurants obscene sellin dope for trademark sellin hope for a pound selling socks for a hade mark selling slacks by the mound
it's ice it's all over
But I shovel that walk
Every time it shows
People stop to gawk cause I ain't got no eyebrows but I love em dat way
BUT I'm just movin powder struck by lightning wiz waz wazn't that a good show
In Kansas watching the house light on
fire Jack - yo!
Taylor made Taylor made play that guitar
Golf balls buddy or maybe a sitar
Sittin on the throne the o-r-g-y the poopie in the panties
Cause I'm just a fun loving guy
Now Steve don't sit down
on the toilet too long
Cause you'll splart sploof and splatter and she'll sing it don't smell dat it don't smell dat we use to smell don't fuck around
Ho-land - Ho - you hooker you bum-you walker, you talker you street hood
Get my thumb shoved up my ass oh I hope so
"But my hemmorroid!"
It's fucking painful
Time for the Gig
That one in the sky
Prism Family Seems
Would Tour with me too
Can it Conceal it don't own it you - too
Cause I ain't on tour
No World - Tour that is cause this gigs the last one
OZENOZ YOU DA SHIZ
Quit snooping and dippin and blasting
my AIDS DEFENSE
My times almost up and I'm
in fucking suspense Who wrote this one the wall?
Was it you Ayers, was it you? I didn't, I swear it
But I'm just dead and it's over oh fetus that's two.
For spiral relapse or stem cell research genetic disposition same as test tube dispersed but in medical school What kid?
This one or that - the other one too Hey hemmorroid you ackin
Splintered Sunlight
Misconstrues
Whats the point of my tour
My Conscience working early to preserve me I suppose
Hey kissing the sky
Just a Jimi Thing
Give it a little short, sharp, sharper You got that, no don't give me no...
Lips and tits and get ready
Butt smack come on smack DAT what up geez what up seize
Search and my seizure well reach in my pocket, let's see hea'
You had oh, a bag of weed lets change the I.D.
A bag of coke some slim and quick fast crazy idea to get trim in the motherfucking
John I'd open up Elvis
But I think Harry's got his costume on Tech nobody knows the trouble I been
Nobody knows who I clown
That Green truck
What the fuck
I guess I ask Tom my one and only friend
But he's your's so you ask him
Will he answer?
Guess that will depend.
On the tricks of the trade
On the tickety tock trade
ON the dickety dock dade memorial bridge
Camden oh homey just jump off
This fridge
There's a fridge on the bridge
A midge and a sidge
A tidge a da tidge
A lick lyrical syringe
Up my ass in my bone
On my bone up my ass It won't reach!
It won't reach!
Oh bitch, you fucking scumbag!
Rape me Da Broken
Da Broken Rules
Woah Bitch its over
I ain't playin no fool
Oh wait, I mean I am
I'll start rapin you now Where you goin?
Fine its over
Sashimi comin up blough!
Fucking door kicked in and on the bed
I go
We revoke your right to remain silent
Now on with my show I have to write it now through puke and tears and all kinds of shit
I won't play that guitar
It will just sit
And die a long lonely death like Bobby who's green and comes to my defense with the love in the land of Tennessee jail
O-Z and I owe thee cause I won't swing a pail
Or a bucket oh fuck it
I smoke
A pack of ICE PICKS NIGGA That faggit gonnna choke
The kkk the prowler the law
White supremacy fools your under us all
One nation we trust
In hum om and paid om
'an
I can't get it this zen dis- dis- own
I tore my shirt and walked off in a huff like I was your DAD so scoff scoff cough
Cuz you aint no Jew
You ma homeboy
At home
But at work you an atheist and this money ain't growin on trees like the monkeys with wings or what waz wiz they called
Discussion the wizards the wand the referee spawned
One, two, three
Four, five, six
Seven, Eight, Nine
Ten, Eleven, Twelve
Thirteen gate your plane is arriving
Your gait is too slow
The temperature is rising  
  D eath by Ayers Brooks
What is death?
I don't know
Why don't you tell me...
It could be here and now
Coulda been slept around could be in and out the window like a moth before the flame
Could be a cracker jack box
With a diamond ring in it
Maybe
wish it was
Tired of wantin to be Eminem or maybe just have his pad, his hat, his shoes, his gloves, his hugs
Nah, that faggit would probably
Suck my dick without a condom on while I'm on some
Nigga named John
OZENOZ you black?
Cause your dicks fucking huge And that's a fact What is death?
Probably me milkin a bone in a truck
somewhere in Bo-ze-man
Montana for Oley and Nesting on a 747 full of cows headed to Japan but that fat fucker the trucker took me all the way bought me jeans and shirts and made me smile with a rope around some kids neck who obviously fucked him too but that little fucker got a Camaro a house, or atleast a bunk
hit of acid from me in a barn hanging on a rope smokin dope with pentagrams and and blood and oops this is scary
Cause thats my childhood kk?k.
Understand. That was Satanic Don't do it.
Don't use that uzi, the shoes see they were full of
Da Kine
Da Broken Record is gonna be mine Broken.
Call me the anti- christ call me zen master cause mis understood creatures we all will be blue baby blue when we're dead what is death?
Something to be accepted as a part of life
In the Book of the Dead
In the Book of the Night In the Book of the Day in the Book of the Sky In the Book of the Wheel
Oops there is no book of the wheel?
Damn it, where's my lug wrench?
Lug nuts around like these you'll never get found
Fucking Elephantitus Elephant who?
Show me!
Show me!
It's sharin, lois and St. Bram
I mean st. louis, sharing Bram with the prison cam
Little kids you aint watchin
OZENOZ.TV
Cause Romper Room
is full of naked people playing twister
Delta-Delta-Delta oops Fake a Beta KI Yeah Kyler, you'll be no faker cause your gonna fucking die!
What is death?
What is this book?
What is this script?
What is that hit?
Where is DA BROKEN
He's chokin smokin
DA POPE
IS IN ROME
LOOKING AT ALIENS
ON THE TELESCOPE
Oops its an observatory can I hack it?
Can you?
Don't hack it kid,
Do it
Just ooze and abuse cause I ain't gonna get you cause I'm not a fit father for two - just One
LOVE
ONE-TWO
I WANT YOU
Ky-Ky and Rook to Pawn
Bishop to Queen
You faggit, you spawn of scum of the Earth you jus' gonna fold? Play chess a mothafucker I'm diggin for gold!
Chess king Jason
Red haired geek in San Diego
You fucking freak
You play like a winner and talk like a champ like me but you'll beat me up the skateboarding ramp What is life?
It's a snowboard I buckled one, two
It's twister comin at me Set hut
22 or 47 dead or was that 74 cause there was no early warning that's what this tax is for
Pay my dues
Play the blues
Cause today my guitar goes goodbye Goodbye Miss F I mean Mrs. F.
I mean
Oh fuck it
Goodbye
Broken Record
Broken chokin smokin dopin tokin dat rope and when you stepping say what up?
You doin the hump- Get up off your chest
And get off in your shoes
Get in the ring little nigga'
Cause this ones for you from 246 to 155 then back to 250
if I'm still alive
It's fatty and batty and bottles of brew
Up down goes my weight
I'm calling yoo-hoo Cause I need smoke and food and a job
This rap game aint workin
I'm no caddy slob
Merlino this chino is made in Japan Brooks family you own it in that foreign land
My ancestral background reaches far and wide
Cause this ain't no death threat
I'm open fucking wide with a gun in my mouth What is life?
A gun in my mouth from some Philly Don who said cock it and shoot
it
The Teflon Don
Wave that wand
Watch that stick
Don't dump a bucket of water on her
She's just a wicked witch
I said kill her not melt her with love once again What is love?
And where is it?
It's all over the land.
Went
Take your time
Time is Now
Be here how
With human intellect
Faster tin collect
Cans and bottles
Rusty Nails
Bars can't tell me
Tin man you've got heart
Lion your roar don't fart
on OZENOZ.TV
Pushin my cart down Ocean Front Walk
Paid that ticket oh Oh Not!
For the TV I carried it To the Bible Tabarnacle so the riots won't tackle
Degreaser this she swerve
And swing killer
Swing like you mean it Swing like the cracker coulda made the plant in a bean hat
Rice paddy Rice paddy
one two three
Capitalism Capitalism
Greed Greed Greed
Crud Love and Luv and Mug shots
firm
Hey baby, I'm HOME!
Smiling like a faggit
Lawson Lawson
Hughes of green
Money - paperback fiend
I am one read it on my head
Mario Puzo
Fools Die
In the project if their humble beginnings
Don't take care of business with 10 extra innings
Nine plus ten is nineteen oh
Ocean City New Jersey in the Gardens
Baby we love you we love you
Stay all day, honey we can screw
The door shut and ply the windows open with the fly on my shoe
Do my feet smell?
No cuz, there's no nose down there
Sniff, sniff, sniff shorty
Weenie it ain't fair
Coke zizzit wiz wazn't waz I, not w-wise
So I eat humble pie
Apple pie, the American Dream
Suck that cock, that snake, that flag
We gonna bag the hag
This world is dirt so we spit
Palmolive
For lies I ties the laces back - word Amy chasin that Casseopia Dog round the house
She ain't my bitch, she not my whelp
Marine corps strong
Tom cat foolery
I can't wait up
I lie like a motherfucker
Eat like a motherfucker
Eat my mother fucker
Eat her out good
She's done with the womb
So take it all there
Juicy Juicy
Macadamia Nuts on Mango, brown sugar and Suprise! No suprises please!
Morning view, you're nothing new
Santa is a stocking stuffer for the hoodies on Hairy's head Hairy hairy quite contrary
Troy- the wooden horse is dead
Trey for the food not bombs
Bomb da food
All over the where
Where the wall gonna stay
Wailing and moaning
These walls have ears Nigga'
Killa' Sha' you man
with the gun havin fun on
All over the lan'
Please tick the tock
On the Emerald Tower clock
Ivory soap 99 four
Fuck it killa baby you pure you pure
She sound real good
Sweet and nice
Like the rice patty hat I got on ice
Couldn't stand to fuck myself you see
Cause I view this race so equally
My half, your half, spitting cuz it's true
This Perry Camerlengo - this is motherfucking you
Dead to me on a yacht you didn't know how to to sail
Dropping bodies in the water
And I'm turning pale
Broken leg don't break his nose
Broken elbow, broken toe sniff sniff
It's a body out on the harbor or it would a been if da tide had been in
Da Broken's kind of shy with the ropes and the yacht that is runnin by motor
Fuck a nigger kill a nigger
Motherfucker that's slaughter
You gonna die you fucking Jew he'd say on a spree maybe he'll come to my home oh hee hee with a tie rack pistol and a cell phone that's nice
And a limo I get fucked in
For me and Obie Trice
Could been the weight
Coulda been the Haight
Coulda been the park
Coulda been the spark
May the four winds blow you safely home little Jew
Cause I'm spitting this shit spittin it at you Rutherford County in middle America like Africa the terror of Erica litlle dishes don't work yet for sattelite coverage Dots pinholes and maps Internet you out there?
Let's fucking hook it up
BARACK!
Cuz dey ain't no power
No water no trees just me, the little Jew boy who's willing to please
The father, the son and the holy
Eminem with an Ozenoz tour made out of hemp
from the dicarded stems and plants I planted all around
I'm little johnny appleseed
M&M let's abound
It's natural, it's pure
It's God's fucking gift
But the cost for the farmer
If you get my drift is lost in a sale from another
Fucking country
Continental breakfast
Man, my stomach is hungry
And my taste buds too
Chew chew chew
That tobacco leaf from R.J who?
Oh fuck baby, fuck baby
I think I'll sue for the farmer in Eugene who could got obscene
But took his meds real clean and toked it not so clean
Harder and harder it legal in Kentucky
For how many acres divided by what?
I wan't drugs in THIS country cause our
Farmers, doctors, lawyers, banker, businessmen
Don't need blood for oil
This is natures little plant
Power for the people
It's smelly and it's good It's democracy at it best and it's all over da hood
Seeds I'm spittin
Seeds on the ground
Cause I'll eat you grimy
niggers said G.W. to a crowd
G- duble me faggit
VW girl this volts of fucking wisdom
Peace Now
Peace Now
Electro shock therapy
Shakin hard, Edie
Dylan coulda been your bashful beau
But you went and married
Dat guy- who's the star of that show?
The OZENOZ show oh mean
it's dot TV
You get my drift
Cause I'm real nigga
Dats me
Real like the gun that Brooks puts to my head
Spruchts from Lithuania Liturgical
instead But I'll never be a Brooks, or atleast not on my tombstone
Cause Ayers is fucking crazy
This is my throne
or a booth a booth
OZENOZ booth
with lightning and thunder
Oops I think we blew a circuit this kid eats juice!
Hook up the electrode
Almost Paradise we're knockin on heaven's door
Shovin a needle up my dick oh what for oh what for?
Popping a boner
During which I gave pee
For the man on the mountain Joe who?
SCARY!
9 - eleven went down with gamesh In my head making me
Shesh Shesh Shesh cause hes the Prince of Peace
Ganesh love you little guy
Nanny's on the canny oh can I try?
Crazy insane, or insane crazy when you say Hussein I say
Baby!
DA BROKEN
DA BROKEN NYPD Blue
call the cops the Feds and the KKK too tell em I live at 13 East what?
In Venice, not Italy, in my condo
I bought Invite the world cause I'm on tour Mrs. PHD have a party M&M you better not hurl! cause you make me fucking sick to my stomach
Every time I think of
Jesi he pukes and it's bad
Poor Kyler's been had
R- U a good boy or a bad one has nothin to do with the Labrynth fucking movie I bought for you - who?
U2 - Peace Now
UB40 Dis how
A to B C to C
D to D
I woulda done well in school too busy selling faggits
PCP DUST AND SOME COOL
drugs, kids don't do em just buy em from me
But, I don't sell
Unless you frame me
Da Broken wee wee
All here together
Watching Rose Ave unfold cause this one is busty
lusty trust me you fucked me out of my piano, my grocery store
too
The the fork in the peas
You grimy little jew
L'chaim' L'chain
Baraoch Atoi Adonai Elohenu
Hu- hum
will you please stop spitting on my food A.K.A. Nuffy
God! He's not done!
And I'm not, kid thinks he broke a toy from santy he'll strew
with strings and things
I'll put together with glue
Like my lyrics are hard
No I spit em- No I write em-
No I don't
I just chew em up eat em, puke em and oh you really do make me have
Morning Sickness for the Icculus crowd succubus incubus incubator crowd
She was a small and wierd looking long fingers for rings or pianos and bananos or a few other things
Couldn't see you cause I'm lonely
A lonely little slut
I would really have called you
Tuesday, but...but...but
My ass is too big and my bra too itchy my fingernails need cleaning and my painted motherfucking eyebrows need cosmetic tattoing from Tattooine to the
spaceship
Those fuckers from MARS
It's my sign plus the Venus,
Sun, Moon
I'm a star
Libra rising, yes I am guess that's cause I read but maybe my times off
4:20! NEED WEED!
Four- thirteen
Four-twenty
Four-twenty two
Twenty three twenty four lets play hide and seek
You!
Where are you?
Where are you?
I hope it takes long
Cause Daddy's gotta write for awhile
But I'll find you, hold on...
Shaney, you little mother oh I mean what?
Jessi you, act like her
Kyler's not a brother
Just kiss him you little fucker
Matthew I loved you
Read you more than twice
Mommy just swears too much
I'd put her on ice
So I'll pack my bag and go away soon To Venice and meet Dre there!
Oops, no that you - know - who!
Not I don't know where I meet Dre or my Dr. or wifey or slut
my venus my capricorn my Libra my strut
Said the frog to the scorpion, you won't sting me will you
Yeah, I'm gonna sting you scorpion
This frog is a witch!
I mean the witch licks the toad
And the toad will lick me cause that scorpion killed the frog
Oh joy Ren and Stimpy
Fuck it Faggit
Hee Hee
The well water tainted?
Said the king to the people...  
Why don't we
all drink it down he said smurking... oops that's not how it went...
It Hurts
Dig it Dog
I'm a fucking pig
Dusty Rhodes
Tigga Tigga
Thats my figga figga Faggit what? keys the piece keys the peace keys the wasted basted tasted casted
Blasted Bombastic sarcastic compact Nine millimeter
In my back gonna click clack
Don't shoot!
Don't shoot!
Cause It's just a pussy down there with herpes all over it
My new name is Ayers Brooks
But I'll never be Brooks
Om money paid me hum
Ayers putting on the will
Dusty Rhodes gets the compact i - pod shuffle
But not in an mp3 format cause there aint gonna be nuttin on it cuz I don't steal
My brain nice to meet you
Hide my name
Cause I forget
Yo- El! Smoke it the rope it's rope a dope
Put em pope in jail
Cause he's fucking crazy sympathy for the devil
I shot Kennedy
I shot Nixon stuck a pin in Jessi's head and walked away
Needles up the cooch
And suction for pooch Post Mortem thoughts they could be ya know
In my new body I'll be kind of a hottie
But I gotta lose 9 pounds
At the lost and found in People's Park off Telegraph Ave Haight Man you gonna climb again
Take that dress that garb that
Scarf that pound ain't my dog Scared of A's shadow?
No Shadow's at home with Sunshine he could be
Indigo out you go
I'm in Eugene
Springfield down the road
Shot my load Principal Skinner
Principles of Recovery
For the book for the look
for the nooks and crannies My grannies grave was at my funeral
B-4
B-2
Bomber
You too old gonna get a new one
Cause I'm a ticka ticka ticka soldier motherfucker
You ain't a NIGGER!
Cause Obama's in charge and we wait and see what that body bag will be For me
Shoot me kill me put a hole in me
Put a hole a hole in me
Run up on em and shoot cause soldier in boot
Camp you was da shit
Dropped out of my journalism major minor
Thanks Mr. Minor
Om Pa Doom Pa
Doom Deed dee doo
Cuz I'm gonna take care of this shoe
Richard Reads alot
Matches and catches
For snatches and oil
No blood for oil
No fud for Elmer
No pud for dis one
Cause its shrinkin
Dinkin thinkin
Pink in there
Sinkin in jail
filled the toilet that cell got cleaned
Mr. Palmer's too
Cause we got supplies for the skin flicks in solitary killed a man
Amen to the Flocco family for the prayers and the thoughts
For the fallen ones twos threes
Fo's and Po Po's
Make sure your pure before you spit that shit cause God gonna look out for you legit!!
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha
My one cent is free
Oz-en-Oz wiz waz wazn't there ditched the clothes without a care
Cause I ain't no motherfucking nigger
I'm a trigger man
Across the land
KKK you gonna fucking pay
For the Zo in the zoo
For Owens you too
For MJK walk in the park
For my fucking scary thoughts alone in the dark
Nigger Nigger on the wall kiss me kiss me
Pay the fall
Autumn in spring and Spring in Autumn
Yu Yu and Yu Yo and
Mrs. Yo too
Zen Den watch the hen
Cause Zo's in the Zoo with lions and tigers and bears that's you
Auntie Em
Cause I wasn't an Oz
And for Sony Picture's you can fucking get lost
Cause that photographer, the old
CEO in training he wasn't too po'
To make her his wife, that colored lady with kids
Till you knocked him off
Zigs Zigs Zigs
Zaggita Zaggita
Whooped dee doo
Eminem he's not scared He's in Kalamazoo
Or up in the mountains with my man Mountain Joe or the vietnam vets like Wolf who was so patiently guarding my sleep at a bus stop
Right down from the mission
I just hope he doesn't
Pop off at a tree
Or his insanity
Uncle Sam had created 
Dis owning my only word

Chapter Twelve:
Chapter Eleven
I came into this programmed state of being from a very direct source. The life I live is one that I come to a higher power about on the terms that he arranges or she arranges and not they arrange from behind my back to trill about how I fucked up myself so bad that I have no hope of recovery. Don't let anyone ever tell you that. Don't let em' beat you down, or worse yet back to the bag. That's the hole of the parts put together.
When you are broke and near jumping off the bridge, declare your bankruptcy. Be it spiritual to you, and may it be as you wish. Because it is not somebody telling you what to do. It's a higher power working in your life, that good feeling is what you should follow. Not the chemical one. The one from the blossoms blowing in the spring wind, or the ocean flowing up to your feet.
The world is your oyster, my oyster, and wouldn't you know it? Oysters can be farmed of their pearls. You know what I mean?
Hey, but don't take it all from me. Take it from the next book I write. Under a pen name. I don't want to blow my cover or anything.
When life's got you down, turn a frown upside down. Taking too much direction is signs of senility long before your time. It means you've got too much wisdom you're trying to put into action all at once. Surrender to the flow. Let it go. You live once, live as healthy and happy as you can. Most of all, don't of all things, publish anything about your life in recovery from the normal shit we all go through. They might call you ill. And I don't think anybody likes that. Except Ozenoz and Eminem and after all, we're only ordinary men.
Chapter 13:
Mentally Ill Anonymous
1. Admitted that we were poor
2. Came to believe that we weren't in charge
3. We made a decision to give in to those in charge
4. We made ourselves write it down
5. Admitted to Allah, to US and someone pretty much in charge why we did it
6. Were entirely ready for  Allah to stop US
7. Humbly released our burden on the universe
8. We wrote that shit DOWN, nigga
9. Tried to do good stuff
10.Owned up to the bad in an easy way every day
11. Pondered the meaning of the good stuff
12.Talked about it every day
13.Thought we were gonna fuck it up, slapped a name on it, figured after work it would be a little different, and that it would cause clouds of death to rain down.
Chapter 14:
Lucky Strike
Maybe my D-U-D and sister aren't the only comedians in the family when it comes to pilots. Let's see, can I make my own gig? How about an S&M SNL advent guard thing:
(singing) “doo doo doo doo weee doo wee”
The shot opens with a middle aged businessman leaving the office...
“Hey, are ya hungry? Want a snack? Got no teeth to chew it with? Try methhead munchies and crackhead cuisine!
The businessman smiles and shows, he has few teeth.
Gooey Mexican goodness, cream filled! But not for long!
He bites in, and it squirts all over him.
So try Methhead munchies and crackhead cuisine now! The man says “mmm... methhead munchies...” and bites
Now in rock star shapes with flavor crystals.....

“I'd like to open the floor for sharing now...”
Guy in the third row raises his hand.
“Yes” the speaker in front of the podium points to him.
“Hi, I'm a boogie addict named Bud”
Everyone replies “Hi Bud”
“It all started last week. My girlfriend broke up with me. Then I got the craving. And I... well I started picking. Before I knew it I was crushing and eating...”
Everyone in the room murmers their identification.
“Then came the snorting and shooting. Now I'm back on the streets, and there are boogie nights here and there, but I want to stop. And then I get sad and cry and oh I'm just a snot ball...” “No Bud, you just need to get free of the wreckage. Quit picking at yourself...”
“Yeah I guess.”
He reaches to his face and brushes his nose very carefully.
“You see it all started when I was a kid. I had a doctor who told me that it was a good anti-biotic
for my internal digestive tract...”
“Oh, Bud, Bud, addict, Bud!”
“I know, now I have a doctor who tells me not to even pick cause it may kill me. But that's the
thrill. The thrill of the kill I suppose”
The man in front of Bud chimes in “Bud, once I started shooting it was just a matter of time before I was after all the snot in my family for their loot. You know what they say...”
Everyone chants
“You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your families nose...” “But that's just it...”
The girl exasperated says “Bud!” Picks a big one out and holds it in front of him “There, you want it! Its that the answer to your problems! Then go ahead! Just see where you end up”
The guy in the front row says “Yeah, in bed with her...” People snicker.
“Ok, that's all I have, thanks for letting me share I guess...”
“Thanks for sharing...”

Life got you down?
People around need an excuse to put you down?
Try Depakote and Risperdal!
The combo is killer...
Imagine for minute that you are swept free of emotional distress and relaxed...
But without all of the social fun and connections that pot and beer will give you!
Yes, Depakote and Risperdal, take away the pain, with out the fun buzz!
Never have to go and have fun again!
Plus it comes in five amazing stigma packages:
*weight gainers are us
*I have it flowing in my blood close to toxic every day and
*get the twitches for life
*combos in assorted colors and varieties!
But don't take it from me:
Ask the nearest representative who can take away all your freedoms to strap you in for the solution to all of your healthy living:
Try Our Mental Health solution today for only $2000 a month
does not include doctor fees, counseling, hospital visits for complications, trauma or death

The scene opens in with a psychiatric patient on the chaise longue, too short for good taste.
His feet dangle, rubbing back and forth.
“Gollee you're fidgety! How is the new medicine?”
“That's the thing doc, It makes me go for dogs...”
“Now, Roger. Are you referring to Ezrith as a dog?”
“No, my wife is fine. I'm talking about real dogs. Poochies. Shnousers. Mutts. You name it.”
“Roger THAT is where you have to learn to draw the LINE. You're married.”
“No, but my wife is in on it too. She brings em home all the time. Strays mostly, but some of em are kinda cute. Makes me feel all gushy, and before I know it it's like Alpo on rice all over again.”
“Roger, let's go back for a minute. Where did it all start? Can you remember the first time you were attracted to one of these...umm...dogs?” “Yes, It was when I got my first puppy...”
The screen fades into a shot of Roger kissing and cuddling a six week old golden retriever that is up on it's hind legs licking him in slow motion. The genitalia are blacked out.
“Her name was Samantha, and she was my dream dog. All lick and jumping my bones from the beginning...”
The dog takes a bone from Roger in the shot.
The screen cuts back to the office with a record scratch sound.
“Roger, we've been through this, you're not a dog.”
“Then why do I love them so much?”
“Because they're soft and cuddly...”
She begins undoing her blouse and fanning herself... Roger cuts in.
“Like Mommy?”
“Yes, Roger, like Mommy.”
She stands and retracts a leash and collar from the desk.  The scene cuts to black and panting and smacking ensues...
The scene fades back in with the Doctor leading the patient back out to the waiting room. Roger is still wearing the collar and leash hanging from his neck...”
“See you next week...” He no more than says “See you...” when she calls out “next!” to the awaiting crowd. A ten year old, a transgender, and two Obama look alikes.

Now for our guest:  Black Widow with their hit single by the same name:
Black Widow
With a glint in her eye, he is the way out
He's bitten then to die's the only way out
And when he's going through the throws you throw his ass out
To slave for the trade inside the glass house
So he makes it, he takes it he watches the spring
The summer, winter, fall and who it will bring
When the egg hatches, hell it all will break loose
But Black Widows on the prowl, she'll hang up the noose
Just ignore it, lay blame they'll call it a lie
Then you get swarmed by all the netting left on the fly
Eat your offspring's to the next throwin juice
And when he's bad, just kick it and throw in the noose
Bridge
She's got an hourglass painted on her ab's
Double tongue this and make it ready for tabs
Take your son's death and wash down with a swig
Of the purer life you kill with next jag you can rig
  2  nd verse
With a glint in her eye, he's on the way in
He's bitten til death takes his ass from all of the sin
But the sun's not set, you can't let them win
Cause your sun it'll set before you get in
Chorus:
She's a Black Widow
Hourglass tilted to the sky
Black widow
One to the next and one to the high
She's a Black Widow, angel of sorts
And she'll spin the web until it's silk
Contorts
She's a Black Widow
Hourglass tilted to the sky
Black widow
One to the next and one to the high
She's a Black Widow, angel of sorts
And she'll spin the web until it's silk
Contorts
Of course they don't PLAY it in that order. 
Chapter 15:
HUM
If trees grew upside down
And root houses were in fashion
I'd build me a root house, high in the clouds
On the bare peaked mountain, with snow it's base
There I'd spend my nights
Looking down at the stars
That shine under the sky
From the seas of illusion
To the the deserts of green
And swing from the roots of my lone sanity Chapter 16:
“Luke, I am your Father”
My favorite passages from the Addicts Bible:
“And he took the crystal, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to his friends, saying, “This is my body which is given for you; do this in remembrance of me...”
“Likewise he also took the Henny after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in My Blood, which is shed for you...”
”Who himself bore our drugs in his own body on the trees, that we's, having killed the shit, might live for righteousness- by whose stripes you gettin' laid...”
“In whom we have redemption through our bloods, the forgiveness of bad deals...”
“Now to the drug eternal, immortal, invisible, and to the Dealer  who alone is wise, be honor and glory forever and FRONT. Amen.”
“And there is no other drug besides me, a just drug and savored, there are none besides me...”
“And the Dealer Fronted a man the Dust of the Dead, and he breathed it into his nostrils, and the man became a fucking genius...”
Chapter 17:
White or Wheat
Imagine a world of peace and kind feeling. Then you, feel hope and like it's going to be a positive way through the mess in front of you. Then you come home to the psyche shelter where you live.
YOU FEEL SO AT PEACE, SERENE. GOD HAS GRANTED THE SERENITY TO SEE
YOU'RE WAY THROUGH.
Then the fucking person who works at the place wants to talk. So you say that you have just been on a nice walk. You were going to go shopping for a guitar she knows you can afford with the tax money coming in. You have let her know previously that you are not headed for San Diego, though that would seem a simple solution.
“Yeah I had a conversation with my Mom for about a half an hour.”
“What did you talk about, about buying a guitar?”
You don't feel like being pried into and the serenity starts to eek out of your sails.
“Just talked...” you reply.
“But what did you talk ABOUT? Joel, you look so sad, are you ok?”
Fucking bitch. Now I'm trapped by the person who holds the housing over my head. The person who holds over my head that she is at peace with her life, and I am not. And she's out to prove it, as usual.
“No, just mellow.”
I'm sure there will be a drug test later.
Fuck this place. Fuck the people in it. Cause my serenity won't come from them or it.
Tax Refund: $1600
- 300 rent
1300
-300 web
1000
-   40 copyright
960
-60 phone
900
-400 guitar and bag
500
-200 ms office pro
300
-100 Mom
200 Writing/ research books
“I'll have it on rye with extra dressing and corned beef”
Q: What did I do, to get involved in this mess?
A: I was born.
Q: Why was I ever born?
A: To be a psyche patient sucking at the teet of the system.
Q: Why are niggers my niggers?
A: To be a psyche patient sucking at the teet of the system.
Q: Why is my doctor a doctor?
A: To make money off of people sucking at the teet of the system.
Q: Why not fuck the system?
A: Because Bubba has got you when you drop the soap.
Q: Why not marry Bubba and live happily ever after?
A: He's meaner than Newport News collard greens on your ass.
Q: Why not leave the system?
A: Not possible.
Q: Why not?
A: All of the above.
How about $1666 TAX MONEY BIATCH
1.$666 Laptop and case with these motherfucking files in it
2.$500 Guitar and case
3.$200 Plane ticket and bus pass on the other motherfucking side
4.$300 for the fucking party that waits there
-$80 crystal
-$20 a day for food
-$12 a day for beer
File for my unemployment which is $400 a month. Get food stamps in the meantime while recovering from making my way.
Work the sign holding job on weekends and maintain my phone.
Look for a job and get clean enough to pass the test to start work. And move the motherfuck on from all this bullshit left here for me to deal with. These people can suck my dick, nigga. And you too, nigga. Bubba, you move me like Led Zeppelin on a Summers Eve douche casserole, so here we come. I am off to the finest of places.
“aaahhh...”
The sound of the first cold beer I could pop open. As soon as I get my tax money, pick  up a hard drive. Dump everything worth it's snuff on that from this computer as back up. Take that on the plane. Stick this computer in the duffle I have surrounded by the clothing I won't need immediately.
Pick up another piece of luggage at the Chinese dollar store in Easton. So:
 Start in Easton. It'll be after Friday the 13th of May, so I will be nicotene free for a week or so. First stop: get a carton of CRUSH at the smoke shop. Pick up my luggage piece and stick it in there. Go pay my library fine for when I come back to the area again. Get a coffee at Terra Cafe and give away my frequenter card which is almost full for a free cup. Wait for the bus to Bethlehem. Get to
Bethlehem, put away the stuff and smoke a good one.
By now it's lunch, so eat lunch at the Brew Works. Can't have a beer yet, still on the damned med. Catch a bus to the Lehigh Valley Mall.
Buy a laptop,case, hard drive, blank disks, AAA batteries and headphones.
“Smoke my hoochie, say that I'm the devil...”
Yeah baby, yeah.
Sit at a cafe after opening and situating all of my new toys in the case. Drink the coffee while appearing not to be too rushed to open up the new laptop at the wifi hotspot. Have a glow from the seller about the new laptop and my spending. Think about the watch I want, and the other things I kept from “impulse buying”. Realize that I only have $900 left and that it was really my choice to not jump ship, as well as the higher power of my understanding.
Say “fuck it” and buy the plane ticket anyway for the next day. Then pick out a watch for the symbolism and get back on the bus to Bethlehem. Pack at home, and have a glow about this shit.
Get up in the morning, say my fake goodbye's to the people at this goddamned place goodbye and get on with my cab ride. Wish I had the balls to have turned down my Depakote so I could drink on arrival in San Diego. Hope my cabbie is sober enough to get us there in one piece. Have a short hop to Philadelphia and switch planes, during which my baggage with the computer is retained, but then again that is my gift to a friend anyway, so fugged about it for now.
11AM next day Pacific Time, jet lagged and  with only $600, arrive with new laptop and missing luggage in San Diego. Go book a room at the Jazzman Inn round the corner from PETCO, where the drunk me goes. Buy beer for when the psyche meds haven't been taken for atleast 36 hours, call all my friends. Call one of my best friends and sing our hard rock personal anthem “six 32's” and tell him I would be on the way, but I have stuff to take care of.
Go ask if I can get my dis-abled bus pass back with my Pennsylvania I.D.
Go to the Cricket wireless store and buy the Droid, pay down the month for my San Diego number. Now have unlimited wheels and phone for the month with $100 left.
Go to the taco shop. Worry about whether or not my sign holding gig is going to pay the rent every week. Worry less about it, and start a schedule of things to do on my new phone, call some people to let them know I am doing well.
Go back to the hotel and watch television, jonesing for pot that I don't have a medical card to get. Think about getting it from a neighbor, but figure street stuff is bad. Skip my Depakote for the final time I will count it as skipping it, take the Risperdal. Eventually sleep after much fuss and planning and fiddling.
Drop by the group home I used to live at and say hello to the counselor, and my friend who lives there. Go out for coffee and talk about how to get in on that sign job I need to keep a roof over my head and other programs that get ruled out due to non – drug and alcohol rules. Kick it for a little while, promise to get together again soon and jump on the bus.
Call my friend and sing our old hard rock anthem “six 32's”. Go straight to friends house with the money I saved to drink my face off. Buy the beer and say hello to old house manager on the way in, talk to him about moving back in. Offer some beer, as I need to keep up the good relationship, and it is mid – month for the government money peeps.  Go hug my friend and joke about how my computer got held up, but that's ok, show him the laptop. Then ask him if he wants to use my desktop until I get back into my room? Listen to him tell me he loves me more than his luggage, and that I shouldn't have stayed at the Jazzman and that I am staying with him until that rat the house manager lets me back in. Cowl “fuck yo house nigga!” until we both say our rounds of I miss you's until the only thing left is to start the inevitable. Crack open the beer. Feel the tension about the other topic hanging in the air. Get in a verbal consternation about him borrowing from me to buy crystal, give in. Worry about the psyche meds still being in me, and don't smoke for sure.
Hang out til he and I get tired of bantering about life and what he missed and my book. Go home and worry that I have plenty of beer money, but that the rent is due in five days and that sleeping on my friends floor is pretty much the only option besides... the street. Start praying it is not a rainy spring for the sake of my laptop, and thinking of places I will end up pawning it to keep him and I satisfied as I extend my stay at the hotel El Cajon Boulevard with drugs and alcohol.
Could I come up with a better plan?
Nah. Sounds like relief. And how do you spell relief? R-O-L-A-I-D-S. Just don't take em when you are on crystal. Oops, not that's that other anti- acid you can't take cause it can have side effects.
Hmph. Fucking stupid doctors.
Nah, fuck all that. Skip the Depakote the morning I get the tax money and get to drinking the second I land in a motel room in San Diego. Fuck all the bullshit, I need a drink. Need one like Jesus must have needed it when he turned the damned water to wine. Damn that water nigga! Damn it. I need this now. Oh well, all we need is just a little patience here and it will come.
Oh all the variations will play in my head until it comes true. Until my glass slippers find the foot of another porn magazine with some dope in me, and my fingers are making me feel like a permanent orgasm. Oh god, yes. Crystal dick, oh God. I hate that shit. It will kill me. I feel like I am actually dying when I come down, but the sexual effects are just so Goddamned, oh why do they have
to be....
Nah, how about....
I get up, the tax money is there. All $1600 of it. I go to the post office and buy two money orders. $100 for Mom, which I send immediately. $300 for rent at the Dual Diagnosis Psyche shelter which I take home. $1200 left.
 I go to the Lehigh Valley Mall and buy the following:
Tax Money
$100.00 LG ATnT go Phone with $20 talk time  (Radio Shack)
$Put 65.00 on phone
$95.00 watch
$400.00 Modem and time (?)
$50.00 headphones/extension (Radio Shack)
$50.00 MP3 Player
$200.00 MS Office
$100 More birthday presents for Shane
$100 Shipping to Charlie's House
$20 and $20 in cards to Alyson and Kyler
$1600.00
Just called Mom and told her about it, asked if I could have Jessica's address to send the presents. She said no, she wouldn't give me the address.
“Look, if I wanted to cause problems I would hop on the bus and go over to the house right now, I know where she lives, I just don't know the number on Washington...”
To which My Mom replies “NO, Joel it's just not right. I can't give you the address of people who you aren't getting along with without their permission!”
I suppose that includes access to my son. No, don't suppose. Know. Cause I am knowledgeable.
And that was fucking autobiographical and auto- finished by the computer. “Fuck yo' address nigga'.”
Of course in the midst of all this, I grabbed coffee and marveled at how I have been adhering to my patch and haven't smoked since last night, even in the midst of the last few chapters and nine hours of drug induced fits of rage that my serenity is replaced by the desire to run as far from the only sane solution in sight.
Of course, my phone just rang and told me that there was “Alarm! Alarm!” a twelve step group I could go to, but they all have such animosity towards me here from the fact that I came in and shared about how real fucking messed up my situation was all winter, that I just don't fucking think so.
Let's just get this out of the way.
Fucked times eternity plus escape equals solution.
So far there are a number of titles for this book. The book I don't figure will ever sell unless I stay clean, which ain't happening. I just want it to get read, but fuck it, oh well.  So far we have: 1.Bad
2.Step by Step
3.Mentally Ill Anonymous
4.Dually Unlucky
5.The Answer
Which I figure the answer from every publisher is going to be “no” anyway, so big pun you win.  
Chapter 18:
The Answer
There is no answer. The answer is to be at peace with your life, and make the best of it. For me that means just for the rest of my life, I won't do drugs. I will have my schmooze booze and my mellow buds, but that is just the norm. No more psyche meds and doctors and groups and stigma and drama and homes and programs and bullshit.
Time to just follow the course of life and stop trying to find the answer.
I've been through the wringer because I have fed into the people who caused the drama, and fed off of it, and made bad choices. Chasing light dreams, you are going to get light results.
The psychic in LA said these things: get a haircut, there is no unlucky number, and stop smoking butts. In Bethlehem she said: you are connected, they named him Shane, it's similar to shame, and you'll never agree with your family.
Should have learned these lessons long ago.
I had a happy life in San Diego. My friends aren't perfect, but they are my best friends. My life may not be perfect, but it's my life. I may not be a role model, but I do what I think is best.
I will continue to do what I think is best. Which is to leave this dreadful place. Stop searching for the answer. The answer is right in front of me every day. In the things I do, the people I encounter. The dreams I dream , the music I learn, and the love I share with the world. All you need is love, you know.
Love is all I need. Perhaps that will be the title of the next book I write from that apartment I get when I get back to California. “Love Is All I Need” by Joel Ayers-Brooks. Or maybe by Edward
Brooks. Or maybe by Michael Heirs. Which reminds me: maybe a name change is the answer. Nah.
Just a place and a woman I love to share it with. That's how you spell OUR relief this TIME. L-O-V-E.
THE
END
P.S. To all I have exposed I pray you get the money you deserve. But he who smelled it 1st.
Don't Jump
Just Stay
Be Loved
So I finished that ending, and then took a walk. Along the way, I encountered the fact that the title was all wrong. I was trying for Eat, Pray, Love with Our, Time, Love and got nowhere. Because I am not at peace. Or I wouldn't be choosing all the wrong things.
Need to let go, and let God.
So I decided amidst all of my psychobabble to walk across the third street bridge and see the Steel Stacks. Then I had a thought about my son's mother. And all of the sudden I had the nearly overwhelming physical urge to jump off the bridge. So bad I went weak in the knees and tried about a dozen mantras in panic while clutching the rail and praying I would make it back off without giving in to the almost overpowering urge to jump. I felt the whole time like the presence of my son's mother was in my mind urging me to do so, go ahead, make her life easier. It was the scariest three minutes  I can remember quite possibly ever. It was like I wasn't in control. I guess because I am not.
I HAVE TO GET HUMBLE AND ADMIT MY POWERLESSNESS OR I AM GOING TO
COMMIT SUICIDE, BE IT SLOW OR FAST.
There is the message loud and clear.
No more joking, relapse planning, angst and rock driven rages. No more hanging with the wrong crowd here or pretending that I am well right now or anywhere near to being it in the immediate future. This gets spelled out in front of doctor, counselor and group next week.
This is the answer: I am not the driver. He lives inside my head. Starts me up and stops me, and puts me into bed. He opens up my mouth when it's time for me to talk. And fires up my legs when he wants me to walk. Keeps my eyes open. For most of the day. Adds to my memories, the things that people say. When he makes decisions, I don't have to wait. And yes, sometimes it just seems that hes got too much on his plate.
But you know what?
I don't, and I don't need to put it there. I need to accept what and where I am at as the way it is.
Realization of the serenity I had for a moment when talking to my mother today is possible with God. 
Chapter 19:
Bag IT
Well, I made it thirty six hours without smoking so far. I quit at 10PM on April 30, 2011. Of course that means that on May 1st being the day we bagged Osama Bin Laden, I had my first day killing the killer. Killer is smoking, and the word assassin comes from the word hasish. Cause you know what? When I went to the office to claim my new nicotene patch for the day with my morning Depakote and Risperdal, I was told that I wasn't allowed to have it. That they would need to check with the fucking nurse. Meantime I am left to smoke if I like. Fucking asshole system.  My plan was to use the twelve patches I had, and quit on Friday the 13th of May. Scary thought. Ahh fuck it, in two hours I can have a cigarette.
Of course, I went to the I.R.S. Today to pick up my transcripts. They said they need another month to enter them into the system, so come back in June. I told the lady that they had toe tagged Obama a couple of times and left. But of course, it was freudian and I was trying to say Osama, but that's just the two in the bush in me. I hope when I get to the streets next time, there are two in the bush, but I've got one in the hand now, so. Pharmaceutical tech's, rock and roll and justice to the wary of the guru in the mind. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I'm on a Holiday Inn, Hooligan's Holiday Inn mindset and I will Eat, Pray, Love in here until I get a piece of “ayasss.” (That Veronica Vaughan is one...Billy Madison? Nevermind...)
Nirvana and toast for breakfast, followed by horse tranquilizers and trauma with the mortality rate in the news. Next to Obama, we figure it's all good, and my roommate the quotient potent Brown Leaguer almost P.H.D. in stats says hes got ten grand on US. The paper holds our folded faces to the floor, just as  the super glue on the one dollar bill stuck to the street at the corner in Solana Beach. But that memory barely comes back to me now, as I am so far out of, didn't know that I was in. Have a taste of champagne and O.J. In my mind and wish I wasn't watching the simpletons wonder when nuclear holocaust will rain down on us from the twelve steps of Allah.
There is no thirteenth step. That's because I am an unforgiving atheist, just as my lovingly adopted, success driven KYW father, youngest son and holy ghost to my cell taught me to be.
“But Jesus Christ, don't be a JEW, understanding is what the Muslims need...” he would sneer in my mind laughing hilariously if I wasn't too busy coming up with it myself and listening to him laugh in my mind. But it's me they aren't coming to take away, ha ha to the Funny Farm, which is on
Interstate Ten in Texas in Bushland. One in the hand, two in the Bush and I think I will have to take the train in June. The plane may cause me some anxiety. Sleeper car, bar, and tar. I don't wanna know.
I made up a rhyme about my cycle. January Babies, February Maybies, March ON, April showers bring Mayflowers but June bugs, Jew lie August. Septembers glow, Octobers No....
Could be my date V or peace ember to December 24th, my clean and sober anniversary. May it hold my weary ass down to this hole. Living six feet in the hole. Of course, I made that poem up YEARS ago in Los Angeles, so I was down on my knees in Hollywood at the time. Time to kiss some....
Fuck me in the goat ass. Or maybe allow me to get some kids and raise em til I can break out the leashes and take em to the ball park. That's my advice to my mothers in my life. Give em a Frank, a john and cracker what? Jacks for the aisles you worry every one else is walking while I sit and ponder my next fiancee. Maybe I'll propose on the big screen at PETCO or maybe Big Bubba and Uncle Ben (last name Dover) could plan a surprise ambush and tackle her ass so I can kidnap her and we can marry in Bogata.
Of course now it is 11:11 and I should kiss my wrist and make a wish. I just smoked a lucky cigarette and now my patch (with permission) goes on Friday the 13th. They all want to know downstairs why Friday the thirteenth. The obvious answer is “I am suicidal bitch” but that's just my tendencies to “bes” rude at all times, sever and the System of a Down will get me in the bunghole for all the television jalapeno popper down there is snoring to. It's just the death and destruction of the “Muslim” terrorist leader, after all and with no more Serocloud to rock his world, why stay asleep all the time? Drug enough for the water retention that will kill him the sleep is, but that's only because the doctors don't have a fucking clue what to do. That's what jalapeno popper says anyway. I need an I Love Puerto Rico t-shirt so I can get my happy ass whacked in this city long before this ever gets published. Now if I were Ozenoz, I'd say that:
 It's all whack, jack get back and stack at the stack what the attack fact racked in your plaque. No, just brush, flush and crush cause smoke will make me blush when I get the gush from the girl who sees the pearl of wisdom in my bowl's of assassin choked mayhem coulda been a good date, but then again. When can I get again the desire to use? Every time I get the blues, cause no matter what I'm gonna lose “the cruise is on the way” says the telemarketer for the day, and I'm buying not dying, so Just For Today.
Just for today I won't get in the sack or sacked cause I'm waiting to get fat from the psyche that they plan. The med that can make me do the can can but not in the can cause that's not a plan, “BUT THIS IS!!!” Oh forever young, blood, forever young.
But I'm not Ozenoz, I'm just a talented low life one step from the street who has no energy to lie around and wait for the inevitable.
As Alice Cooper said “I just lay in my bed. Dreamin of the day, when everyone is dead. Oh I am a vicious young man. I am a wicked young man.”
Don't you think? I think I should run out and join the U.S. Armed Forces cause “I want you, I want  you, you're making me sick...” Yoko Ono sings “join the revolution... join the revolution...”
My lifelong consolation is that I have to make myself into the constitutional amendment that
people arrested for meditating have the freedom to not be violated by “revocation of bail bond” for god intoxication. In a caste system, that would be a must and I am not resistant, I am an opulent tied down crass observing monk to the fact that a body bag is not reward for a body bag. Right? Or right?
What did I do to observe such a fate? Played the mix on my computer. Did you know what music can alter your mood? But can it load a gun and cock it too? Should I brush my teeth before I end up with a gun in my mouth? Will my future wife be that pissed off about all of this? Is mush mouth a good name for a new mouthwash company for alcoholic veterans of Afghanistan?
“Yes, all natural Mush Mouth. And you can have a mush mouth today!”
Alright, maybe I should just wait until June when I get my big return for the “return trip” as the I.R.S. Worker, the governmental cougar of my absent minded Osama bin laden with ladels of in too much of a hurry to notice I had everything right, but have been taken away the right to fight. Until June, then the accountant said I could equip myself with quips, but I am a quitter not a quipper and fuck it. Gosh darn it. Golly and gee wiz, I am a was and wasses have to know their goddamned place when they almost jump off of bridges.
Yeah, I am not walking over anymore bridges anytime in the near future. Of course I could just absentmindedly “walk my fat ass into oncoming traffic” but that would be a weird and messy thing to do. And once again, the KISS of death seems so simple. Just smoke my way to death. So slow that a cup of joey bag a donuts could choke me sooner than later. I could fake it until I'm pregnant with Jerry Brown's child, or smoke some hooch lined with opium, or snort some crystal and jerk off until I take Risperdal for the anti-psychosis antidote. Cause I am Dr. LOVE and all you need is Glove. Glove is all you need. But it doesn't fit, so herpes for you, me, and the other half of the town you'll fuck after we break up again, bitch.
Bitch, bitch, bitch. (That's right the women are...)Give em the doggy bone (who was that?).
Cassidy. I Know You Rider. Simple. YEM. Set break. Signs. Cars, Trucks and Buses. Billy Breathes.
Reba. (Mcintyre) Joy. Round Room. Set Break. No encore. Encore? Yeah ok: This one is for Madison!
Frankenstein into a very middle weight Killing in the Name Of.
“Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.”
Like quit smoking. Oh wait, I mean I won't do what I tell me. I'll do what you tell me. Cause that makes more fucking sense than anything I could come up with and finance on my own. Could be, rabbit! Or maybe a rabbit, or a golf, or a passat, or a bug. VW Girl, El Stiffo into Rage Against The Machine's lead singer crooning “Lengthwise” while I do cartwheels naked and hump smiley's leg for the encore. Opening act for The Meatball Rolling Epidemic at the corner of fifth and Funny Farm,
Bogota, Columbia. But only if I get a green truck full of shit for my cut of the take. And in my wake as
I leave behind the gig that cost The Meatball Rolling Epidemic their right to cover G-Love and The Special Sauce performance in Bonnaroo note for note at Musikfest I will think “Gollee Beaver. Let's roll a turbo tax monster job.”
Of course with my spotty record, the leopard will lose it's hots for me, and every cougar bearing weight will sit apoun my baby, which is shrunk to fit my meds and all will be hell. Not that it doesn't freeze over, but at the Hotel California Donovan Mcnabb has dropped the keys off to a hair of the dog morning, and I am way past check out. But hanging and swingin' are just my style, so why not dry out and cut the cord when the fatty rolls past at bed check. I am after all institutionalized and when she cries rape, the fate could be the fucking same. So what the hell, won't you step into the freezer my “piece of ayass!” I promise I won't end up face down on the floor from the yay yo' with foam coming out my nose, I will end up face down.
And for those of you who don't have the peeps I do, let me tell you they are so Bethlehem, and so Hollywood, and so and so is doing so and so and so on and so forth. Not taken from the addicts
Bible.
It's taken from the addicts Koran. The one apparently I'll be reading O' Summa long. Well, it is
May quit smoking after all. The doctor approved, and even gave me welfare supported prescription to begin, you guessed it: Friday the 13th. Fucking doctors.
It could be worse. Imagine you are in your cave. You have gathered a harem so good, it's attracting all the military men. All summa you think you'll be cummin when boom goes the foxhole and it's in the bag. No, really. Bag it, tag it, sell it to the media butcher shop, cause they will be summarizing why we ain't at war with the Koran all summa long. But that's just the middle Ayah.
Morons.
And more on that, and moron this, and moron get off the dope before the soap that should be in your mouth isn't just in your mouth it's so far in the john next door, the plumbing won't be fixed til next week. But that's neither slam nor there, so spam, spam, spammin the night away.
“Yeah twistin, twistin...”
Of course if it's a good show you aren't looking for then let me get it straight, or atleast metrosexual. I am hairless, I am clean, what am I? I am a good version of the future president's morale.
“Happy Birthday, Mr. President...”
Many birthday wishes go out on this very day. To all of my former bunkies and my next door to me cellies, all but the one who whacked his fudd before the grand jury unwilling to test him at Whackenhut. May all your Christmas Cities be this bright. At night, in the dark I find my way to the star, but can't cross that bridge when I come to it.
Is it all comedy, or are you ever going to get to the reproductive simmering crux of the matter Joel? Or are you going to tell me that this all going on in your mind is the normal functioning of an all too natural mind at work on the days take of you're scenario? Is that the mother in me speaking, or am I schizophrenic as the doctor told me years ago before another doctor disagreed and said I was not mentally ill, and then the one after I got forced to due to the money scenario said I am just Bi- Polar.
But he thought I was cute, so I guess he had to say bi-something.
I hate the thought of my stupid cunt of a little sister having the all knowing attitude she has about my “mental illness” so that she can claim instant superiority” rather than simple admission that is just what falls in the normal category of sibling rivalry. All of you seventeen year old scorpio siblings of mentally ill patients do your little bitch dances, cause guess what. You'll always win. And why? Oh cause I love you. But that's not why I am in the mental predicament I am. (refer to previous 17 chapters) Because I am a violent, self destructive criminally intent demon of vigilance against the proletariat of instantly gratifying my wishes government who will ultimately win in the long run so :
“HA!”
Why don't I stop sending these chapters as text messages in audio  form? Because I am an attention grubbing addict who has been fed the mysteria of social media and need to formulate an exit plan that works into it winning over the ties that have bound my predisposition to fail at all costs their right to bear arms and give it all the fuck up.
Translation: When I get through all of the whit and rhetoric, I am going to have to do some serious work on this book, because the ultimate goal here is not only have it be a self help book with which dually diagnosed people can relate to, but to find some serenity. And the path to that is (still reading the audio message here) getting in the good message which relays that when it's all said and done, use what you've got not only to get what you want, but to heal the wounds. And in healing the wounds, I mean those of the people in your life as well. (To that effect, when my phone money runs out on Thursday God gives me no choice) So, to all those opposed at this point, you just wait. I'll see you on Oprah.
“Joel, you say in the book that you have been with a man.”
“What's you're point?”
“Kill the lights, we are going to commercial here...”
But that's neither here nor billion there. Maybe the name of this book should just be: HEIRS.
H-E I.R.S.. Human Empathy for the Internal Revenue Service. And that's not lip service, or Blimpie delivery or anything at the Quik- “E” mart, or anything else I could go for if I could rid of the terrible gas I have to torture myself and the bed checks with all day while I type off  the asymptomatic razors of torturous descent to publishing hell this is.
Maybe I will just make it an E- book. Fully researched with links. But that's called a blog. And that would be a no – money in the pocket thing to do because in order to draw attention I would have to do it the right way and get it syndicated. And I like jam writing, well orchestrated. I guess I will just have to blog it, and then take the attention and go legitimate. So HEIRS fits like O.J.'s Glove condoms.
Or at least I hope it fits like his friend Bubba's, and I'm not talking shrimp. Run O.J. Run.
But what if someone did that? Did someone do that? Make it possible for e-books to be fully linked and capable of linking to the sites referenced on your hand held devices?  I would kill for that.
Of course, my reference point is all fucked up, so run Forrest run.
Back to the research, Forrest Labs at Synergy Research in Escondido, California.
Let's not and say we did.
“We did.”
This could be page one hundred, but I am guessing that it will be log five thousand, so I will cut to to the chaser. Then double up on blacks and stack the redhead on my left with a toothy gleam of cherished abandonment. When the waitress returns, I will tax myself fully to not ask for another tonic and bitters, give in and take sweet revenge on the whole scenario by leaving for the john.
“The pisser is loaded  full of cracks and grins about the shit casino life is made of...” quips the absentminded comedian of a restroom attendant. I tip him with a silver cufflink as I have lost the other one and stagger out the door, having drained the weasel.
“Piss boy's” I mutter to myself as I straighten up and return to normal swagger as I am not actually drunk. Full load of tonic on the way, I'm gonna have to Jew it to a different bathroom to avoid further embarassment.
“Creatures of the Night” KISS slot beckons my arrival and I turn and face it with a wary eyed gleam. I can't tell if it is or not, and I pawned my watch to get the crystal here in sin city Bethlehem to wager my rent on the room I paid for with the money from my blog, so I guess...
“Fuck the readership...” I tell myself.
“Fuck yourself!”
They scream back at me. Perhaps I should just be a creature feature tonight and pull out the fire crotch routine I rehearsed earlier in my head for that hot young blonde chick who needs money. 
Chapter 20:
LOVE
I just received a very official text message. It was as follows:
Joel Brooks, resident of Step By Step in Bethlehem, PA.. You are hereby being told by me, Lillian Prilutski, your mom that you are to no longer send the voice or txt messages to your sister, Carly Brooks. If u insist on doing so I will, as her legal guardian, file an harassment against you. If a simple hello is what u want to convey that will still be fine as I know she loves you inspite of the fact u just sent a voice message mentioning her as”your little cunt of a sister”.
I will dedicate this to the defense team: I called back and let her know how it is. She made her choice. If Brandon Brooks, Asher Brooks, Carly Brooks, Lillian Prilutski or Jessica Ruch attempt any contact with either me or any other agency with which I am involved there will be harassment filed on them.
“By the way,” I let her know shortly after smashing my phone and all of it's contents “You will remain the emergency contact for all of my dealings.”
She was agreeable. That's how things have been done in my family. Unless I am gonna fucking die, or dead already due to whatever and so on, just fucking fugged' about it. So guess what?
HEIRS. Unfortunately I am stuck like a chump with one plated on my thumb every time I hit the space bar now cause I slammed it on the railing as I smashed the phone. Call me “Space Bar”.
Hmmm.
Chapter 21:
20/20
I guess it is always gonna hurt like this. Until I cry my eyes out like a baby and can't get through it without having to kill the pain God's given gifts to us. You see, I wasn't meant to sit around and take psyche meds, because I'm not mentally ill. And they are bad for me.
I wasn't meant to stay clean and sober forever because pot balances my mood when I am going through problems from my past, and alcohol numbs me from the days stresses and allows me to sleep.
When I am living in balance, I have a routine.
My ideal routine is:
6am 2 cups of coffee and 2 cigarettes
6:30 two hits of Medical Marijuana
8AM breakfast and a little more coffee to round off the remaining fuzz and begin to write and network 12-1 PM lunch
1pm-5pm write and network
5pm crack open a cold one and make a nice dinner for myself/friends
5-8PM have another cold one with a friend/self/or write
8PM take two hits of Medical Marijuana to round out the day
8pm-12am relax as I see fit to. (probably write)
But I never end up that way. This time, I will end up that way. I am going to build this fucking writing machine up until I am making money and can stop being thrown into the system because I am broke or pressured into it by family who just wants me to be doing well and think it is THE ANSWER. I have got my chance here. I am going to use the system like a rag and come out on top. Fuck ever having to answer again to any of this shit. Until people read this and wanna know, at which point...
“IT'S
ART
PEACE”
I quit smoking  tonight.  Two days before Cinco De Mayo will be my MAY  I QUIT FOR LIFE date. No more fucking around. No more quit dates and bullshit. I know what is good for me. I quit.
So May 3, specifically Father, Son and Holy Spirit be with me as a guide through the straights of the between here and the hereafter as an example of what not to do with your life. I know for a fucking fact that this book is.
It is not written as a suggestion anywhere I have seen, but generally accepted as one amongst people I know who have seemingly conquered addiction, that as an addict, it is not a good idea to write a book in the first year of recovery. Or start a business. Or to do anything that seems to me to what I am capable of doing if I could get over my fear of flying and cross that bridge when I come to it. Perhaps it will not be in my first year, but I will be damned if what I went through is going to be ignored and not related to by someone who needs a model to look after their own ailing soul.
The aim here is to continue forward, as throttled and bewildered as I am by the cravings and delusions I have about ever being able to return to what commonly people refer to as a “normal life”. To finish writing this book and publish it through the proper channels. To get a job and to support myself. To enroll in school for a course of study that will enable me to go forward in life with a sense of purpose for the shit I have been through and work with people who are in positions much like my own. I want to be hope in this world for that someone out there who is unable to confirm these thoughts being and experiences being something we don't have to go through all alone. Touch that lone reader out there who hasn't heard it from the source in front of them at their regularly scheduled therapeutic session that it will be ok. That there is life on the other side and that it is grand. And that it all starts here.
Sitting at my disposal is something I don't have the access to use right now. The status in life to claim that these things are to be looked on by my family as something forthright and proven by the monetary success, and so biting words issue forth from me all day long at times wondering where it will all end.
But the truth of the matter is that when it is not being shoved down my throat, that I have quite a bit of this recovery in me and that I have a very non- sardonic or sarcastic viewpoint for my own future.
I want the car, the house, the job, the school, the writing, the hobby. I want the woman, the friendships, the experiences that life holds for all of us. I will have them by  being patient and accepting at the slow speed at which they are given to me and will just have to re admit myself to acceptance training every time I think that I am in control of the way things are going to turn out. I am not. I can either adversely or positively affect my surroundings and the people with whom I am associated and I have to face up to the fact that this may or may not be including being able to make amends for all of the past wrongs I have been involved in. It also does not include any of the past wrongs that are being pushed on me for the convenience of being an easy scapegoat to the inattentive association. Don't worry about them. They will attend to themselves and leave well enough alone with out your input.
And they will bear their own burden for their own reasons, which you can neither fix nor resolve for either you OR them.
In this specific scenario, I refer to my father figure for the past part of my life. I feel the crushing weight he places on my head as being the fucked up kid because he builds his own image up as a father. His failure to accept personal responsibility is for the fact that he has other children to try and be a role model to, and I feel quite often that I am the scapegoat because I am an easy target.
Am I not?
Having revisited this scenario over and over in my head, it has become apparent to me that the thing that I need the most is the time and the space to find myself in a better place. That his family has shut me out, their problem, their loss.
And the way in which it becomes the problem is that I take out the retaliatory actions taken by
siblings in the direction of my mother because for years I was an only child before them, and I feel that I was abandoned by her when she remarried.
I was beaten as a child by this “father figure” and he took his toll out emotionally as well. It was ignored by my  mother who either really has a mental illness of her own, or is simply denying the fact that she was there to see me beaten very badly as a small child.
I feel the sting of the report on this when I think these thoughts, put them on the page. I feel the sting it will issue on the head of those people in my life, my parents. But they are human, and were born to make mistakes as well as to raise some kids that will make mistakes.
Communication is obviously not my forte at the moment with anyone in particular, because not only do I not have my phone ringing at any time, but I don't even have a phone at this moment. I smashed that fucker to the ground not long after being told that my words were so cutting to a sister whom I don't even know that I would have harassment charges filed against me if I were to take it any further.
Does anybody disagree? I certainly don't. The things that have been coming out of me for the past few days have been some of the most disgusting and flat busted logic that could ever disgrace the word. It is not logic. It is the grace by which we do the things we are told by whomever or whatever we deem to be our higher power in whatever form it comes to us, that is most important.
Right now my higher power is the staff here at the facility at which I live. They are compassionate, caring and attentive to the fact that I neither need to be babied or ignored. There are issues at large which cannot immediately be solved, but life is always going to be full of them.
I am quite positive that for now the correct action for me to take is to stay put and budget my time and my money wisely and to take the necessary corrective actions that I can to be in the first place spot for success driven attitude amongst my peers. And like it or not, right now I call my peers my brothers and sister s here at a place of recovery. For some it is mental illness. For some it is both mental as well as substance abuse.
For all it is not the answer to lay blame, but rather to take the necessary steps to ensuring a future that will inspire more positive growth and actions based on sound principles rather than sound reactions.
This will be my thought for the day as I end the night. I am sorry to my family, to whom I do not know if I will ever be able to make amends. I will try and heal the hearts I have broken over the years, but if you break a heart once can it be mended is an age old question. One that leaves sadness in my heart. And a ringing in my ears. And an emptiness in the wholesome love I want to be surrounded by and feel the need for but do not have the means to instantly gratify myself with.
To not be alone in a time of need is the thing that I am granted. And For that I will be thankful. And to the reader out there in a time of need right now: you are not alone either. It is for the betterment that your fan mail is unanswered for the both of us.
Bad joke. Cheer up. Chin up. Choke up if you have to and cry, but when life's got you down ask if you were worse than I. Crying in the shower asking God why don't I just hurry up and die. No family left to turn to. No problem but the workings of my inner selfishness. Surrounded in heart by untold many who wish for my well being, but with whom I have never felt so far away. Wondering if ever will come the day.
Hindsight's twenty twenty and the battle is left behind. But the
table is empty and somehow I feel blind. But that's US, not me.
Something I need to remember next time I go calling my innocent seventeen year old loving sister a “fucking cunt” on her iphone to satisfy my own jealous longing to have recognition and approval from my family. But that's not my pain now, it's ours. Hindsight's twenty-twenty. 
Chapter 22:
Ass Rimming Doctors
(and the sphincters that control them)
Friday the 13th
$102.50 Welfare
$200.00 Food Stamps
Minus $70.00 Rent
Minus $170.00 Food for the House
Leaves $30 cash
Leaves $30 food stamps
 $30 Cash
-$12 tobacco and papers
-$12 flash drive
-$ 6 pay backs
___________________________
$0
$30 Food Stamps
-$30 Limo Driver
________________
 "He doesn't need the limo man"
I
LOVE
AMERICA
Wow. That made a perfect pyramid on the prior page. Maybe it's a sign that my Amway business is going to get sailing, or that my forty nine left over ten ninety-niners are going to get the wind on my sphincter flowing. If not, a full glass of milk and some grilled cheese with bean dip will do the trick.
“I love the Tigers and I hate the Mets,” Cooper tells me as I start another day cooped up in the chicken shack, awaiting the arrival of my return to Cougarville with marmalade check. But if the answer lies ten thousand miles away, then I am shit outta luck cause I'm out of music to my ears to get that far. If I could fly on the voices in my head I wouldn't need to take medical marijuana in the first place.
“I'd like a Q-P of some Train Wreck and some of the wickedest Sativa you have...”
“Yeah, Dude, righteousness.”
No problemo, me compadres, the man is back in town, and don't you fool me around. I am a city slicker with a love for booze, women and bi – polar M&M. I hate bridges and Bridges to Independence won't be the path I take at St. Vincent de “SMALL” homeless schmeltzer. Something smells fishy, but for once it ain't my girlfriend. Course my ex is getting there just vibing how well written this is, putt, putt.
I do not drive. I believe I will make that another phobia. Bridges, driving and par putts. Birdie putts are all gimmies and fore score and seven presses ago my t-shirts brought forth some tighty whities that said in my white T, I'd have some Chai. But just because I don't have the chem lab anymore that I should have the money to buy for my ailing six year old soon.
I'm the kind of guy, who would like some Chai, like it high and dry, so I think I ought to buy.
“Look biznatch, if you fizill my mizz ill with a pizzill I'll chizill you ill with a new grizzill.”
Tokin' gifts of gratitude in the beach bums paradisio of Felicio Del Torres ant swerve. Ahh
nonsense. The pain in my brain not taken with gain in the train of thought I will make forward to the establishment that priors and arrests for public detoxification grants my living ass bone weary and tired of waiting for the ultimate gainer.
Things I fear:
Not having enough beer
Not having enough pot
Not having enough sales
Not having enough food
Not having enough bridges
Not having enough water
Not having enough time
Not having enough music
Not having enough women
Not having enough sex
Not having enough product
Not having enough tools
Not having enough acronyms
Not having enough
Not having
Not
No
N
What are you lookin' at? (Get Shorty, and his cute assistant too)
What are you lookin'?
What are you?
What are?
What?
It's all part of my Rock and Roll Dream. My Hard Rock Hotel driving let's go to the ass bone weary tired schmelt smelling schmutz that hits on me first cause I haven't had a piece for so goddamn ed long that I am developing a sore spot for the whore slot. I could have shortened that to a sore spot, but I like my women just a tad on the swank and snide with a side of chill and fuck me if you like, but
I'm not the dike.
Of course I got raped so, what can I say? It's a Holiday Inn faggit, and I want everyone but Bobbit to get their chops back. Knowing my luck I will end up in the corner with bottle of Tequila (I turn to you like a long lost friend) playing Crazy Train over the local radio station blaring B104. Point taken. Until the best slut in the room decides she wants me to not be left out, but at that point I'll be too sloppie Joel seconded so fugged' aboud' it. What the fuck it's only a chuck steak.
“Top or round?”
I'm listening to Round Room so I'm gonna need to find the corner and roll up a doobie with my rolling papers. At $1.16 a pack you can't beat em', just yourself. To death if you have the balls to withstand it.
Apparently there isn't anything worse than being so far out at The Space Bar that the counselor can't offer you some dope besides the dope you are already on, so I'll just sit in my room and type out the fact that I am so fucking beautiful in my life that I have pissed in every corner I ever lived in, and this one is gonna be no different.
“Counselor, when are they set to beam aboard?”
“When Jim Beams my hoochie.”
“Fugged' aboud' it”
“Warf, you smell like barf. And you look like it too. Wanna fuck?”
“Counselor, I find you and Data have been screwing too often with my family so...”
Smoke em' if you got em'. But only the varieties that you have come know and love, hand picked by you to enjoy basking in the goodness of bending over to the ultimate authority, a loving government as they wish to reveal themselves.
And while we are on the ultimate authority status quo, let's say a thing or two about higher powers. They are not all they are cracked up to be. They are just higher glimpses of a reality all too soon to end your weary, bleary eyed daydreams on the sunny river bank where you skinny dip, jingling and jangling cause you forgot to take your spurs off. Token gifts of booblicious things in my life. Hell the only tits I have seen for years have been horrible specimens, and if I had to live and die to see it again, I'd say what the fuck. And probably do it. But that's just us.
It's me myself and I, and you and what army is gonna move that with a craned neck to your bedroom you fucking porch monkey creepazoid turtle brained louse of a roommate. I am shooting for the stars, or at least The Star BAR at ten am every morning when I have money in my hand and a viable excuse, but it's my life. Do what I'm gonna do til' death do us part.
Growing a beard. Should be long enough when I get all that money I haven't planned how to spend except for running as far from THE ANSWER as I possibly fucking can. Because the answer is no-one but no-one and Mr. No One all have the answers so, if you don't like my sentence structure you can bend over and give me what I have never had.
Take it from a sphincter muscle of extreme quality and vocal appreciation for the speed at which my neurological impulses control the outer and inner sphincters of my dreams. I should have completed that sentence with my own asshole doctor, but she's too busy with Hustler to break out the trick bag for me. And unless she wants to do a skinny girl/fat guy porn flick AND can line it up for us when I am on some serious absence of nostalgia, methed out, bleak and weary and wandering around Hollywood looking for a good solid dildo state of mind; well you know.
The situation is this: You have been wandering around Hollywood for hours trying to figure out how to score food for the night. You also need smokes, booze and a place to sleep. Let me tell you, from experience you will find yourself the walking target of many SUV driving former prison inmates who have the going rate to give you a blow job if you like.
Just beware of the psychotic ones. Not that I ever said “yes” to a single one that wasn't threatening my life and developing in me a severe distaste for the gay community in general, at the same time as a closet desire to understand why what I want to do was so fucking enjoyable.(but left me wanting to take a shower with a brillo pad)  But that's just a cross country rape excursion from another testimonial. Can I get an Amen?
Bitches.
In Eugene, they told me I needed a fag pimp and apparently I was so ready for it I jumped in the cab and became the tri- sexual I am today. In order of relevance: Ex-fiancees, fags, and mutts.
“All Rise”
Bread maker, that's what I need. So I can have a wifey therapy/dual diagnosis brothel with therapeutic dogs. Now that's the shit that I would dream up if I only had the balls to make it real. Wow.
Whattya know? An epic of epic proportions... Friday The 13th Part 22: Mirage Mansion
Yes, folks that's it. These faggits are cunt cummin action for the spine tingling pooch smacking cum licker in you. Slice and dice your breakfast and your wifey after giving her the ass rimming cum job of her out of control sphincter's life. When the horror get's loose, the man in the mask will make them all into horse food. You know why we made so many of these movies? Cause we didn't scare
EVERYBODY YET! So get ready, get your pop corn,  your cell, and strap on for the ride of your life!
A Mr. Ed production in association with Warn Her Brothers Films written by Basket Case Jones.
God, I just want one hit. A chart topper, a party popper and a bottle of kiss my ass for all those who have ever said I would never get anywhere. You know what I mean? Not that you should be relating to my sick as hell out of touch with anyone but the whore who would never fuck me bed checker (I am in psyche rehab) I am farting for right now. Wait a minute. Maybe if I give her a copy of the book I am writing? Maybe if I, ahh cigarette break. Be back in a “Flash Ahh” second. Yes, I know,
I know sweetheart, but I need a good British fag and I am going to smoke one if I damned well want to.
Well, fresh in silk Saks T under  Nike Golf and shorts with my Adidas whites Sirius Hat and Chinese Dollar store shades I have made my way through the laundry bin. I'm on the way to a full closet, although I seem to be cleaning it out at an alarming rate without getting any action. American Beauty, American Pie, American Psycho or The American?
Today of all days I have to deal with the fact that I only have a total of two months I will spend in this place with a computer to write and complete the novel idea: a complete manuscript. Without conning my way through this let me tell you I have no idea what I am getting myself into here.
Hopefully alotta mula and hula hula to you too.
 My friend here says that he will take the filler for the home slice and give me a piece of the
action by converting my PDF to a format compatible for my .odt here so I can turn it into an STD and really get rolling and read through this shit. Just picking up the TOOLS on Friday with the money coming back to me from the government I gave the money to. Only I am taking it back because I am an Indian Giver in the most American governmental politically correct sense of the word, unless you are just cracking open a fresh one in the oval office. That's referred to as giving casinos the ultimate authority: a loving rain dance as we understood them. God I want a drink.
But I have to give credit to both  Obama and... Osama all summer long. “You're the monkey on my back and it's time for you to go... HAMMERED...” the Crue wails on in the endless loop of the very few selections of enjoyable music to my ears I have on my PC.
I am the most twisted fuck I know, but I can't get twisted or get IT twisted I just have to twist and shout and let the ladies do their pout for now cause I'm waiting til the cows come home on 747's to get it in the sack.
What I wouldn't give for two thirty two ouncers of some good 5.9%. Take me home to the paradise shitty where the grass is blue and the girls are brown and whitty. Oh won't you please take me home.
Well after a short recess to shit myself, jerk off about a staff member who fits like a GLOVE and take a bath, I took the time to check out my online status. I went to the drop in center, where mental patients of shapes and sizes gather to get what they need the way they need it. For me it was fried coated string cheese, Facebook and realizing that my book is realistically way too long already but that I am a writing junkie who needs to earn his way into the common law marriage Bubba will take me for after all my law suits settle. And fuck you too demo of more to come.
At this point I am very back logged and unsure as to the status of my quotient, so I must refrain from acting like a jerk any further and tell the abominable tale. The tale of two shitties and the poop that pursued them to the ends of the ABE area. Of course by the time I am done, I will have flown the coup and be smoking the dupe, so shoop de shoop doo wop dee doo. With poop on top.
“Smoka da poop!”
And there you have it folks, asshole doctors. What do THEY know? Assholes.
Of course it's now 7PM. I have just come from The Mental Health help yourself to fat pieces of shit Drop in Center. There the  fat piece of shit in charge told me that he wanted to prove himself just that and I told him to “have a nice fucking day”. To which he told me to watch my language. To which I replied “I will, Have a nice FUCKING DAY!” To which HE REPLIED “In fact don't FUCKING come back!” To which I replied “HAVE A NICE FUCKING DAY!” And you know what? I will.
Assholes who know that guy better triple up on the double dose of reality, cause he ain't gonna move anywhere in life sitting on his fat ass being the big guy over a bunch of retarded people.  
Chapter 23:
School
Perhaps I should relate a bit my tale of woe. Wojohowitz which sounds like an old black woman saying “woah Joel it's” very breathily, which reminds me of my fat piece of shit for brains mother saying it very breathily as she stands up for every one else in this world but me, unless I admit complete defeat, give up on life, collect SSI and succumb to being the most mentally retarded thing she ever met next to my son, whom she will force feed his illness until he gags on it now that I have told her she will have a gag order if she comes near me. No, wait, she was doing that ALREADY! Must come fucking natural to the cunt.
So, back to wo Johoel it's “not fair to be so mean...I LOVE YOU!”
Don't talk back in my brain bitch, I know you're ex husband bought himself too much when he knocked you up, and up to that point he had just  been buying a piece of ass by treating me nice. As soon as named after Chaim Potok's The Chosen red haired Asher came out of your cunt, he started beating me as hard as he could as often as he could afford the time. Thankfully you forced him (begrudgingly in sweats and slippers) to take me to football where I excelled in defense, and I was able to defend myself. Ever wonder why I choked the dog so hard when I trained her? So she wouldn't actually fucking kill him when he was beating me. He would have come up with a way to get me out of the house faster than he did. At age eleven I would have been the notorious former straight A gifted student who trained the dog to attack his adopted News Anchor father. Notice the capitalization? How about this one: ELEVEN YEAR OLD State Award Winning Actor and GIFTED STUDENT with no behavioral problems to date.
Ok, then fast forward. I have socially adjusted, but you have rape complex from your past life
and won't let me have normal female relationships. So let's get to about fifteen years of age when I have about fucking had it with being the blunt end of more emotional abuse than you and he can dish out because I am big enough to scare him now.
So he starts in on me when I have never said a dirty word in front of anyone in our “model” upper class household, and he decides once again his career is on the line to be the family man for KYW and I need a lesson. He starts in on me about never mentioning “tits” or anything vaguely or otherwise teenager like ever to anyone in his house. That I am sick, and he will fucking hurt me if I do.
A short time later, never having been asked to mow the lawn I am told that “he gave me fair notice” and that if I am to be allowed to visit my friends beach house (they are waiting in the driveway) I have to mow the acre of lawn with the push mower NOW.
Of course, I did what any self respecting teenager would have done and left. He used this as fair game to charge me rent. And when I worked my ass off and paid it well, it wasn't enough proof to him that I would succumb to his holy devoutness. So shortly thereafter at age fifteen, I was told “FUCK
OFF YOU LITTLE SHIT, YOU ARE HOMELESS.”
I managed to maintain well enough, balancing delicately the threatening calls to my counselors at the High School which saw the truth and supported me. I managed to make it until bribed, and then of course because I had 15 years left to see the REALITY came back. As soon as I graduated with my little National Award in Acting (two first place finishes as well), my writing credentials, in good physical shape, an astounding musician and singer in a band playing the hottest spots in Philly I was told to “get the fuck out”.
Of course when it came down to it, I had to medicate the pain and was in trouble before long because I was hurt BAD. Mom and Dad “number one” were there to be happy about their moral victory because it meant they weren't bad parents, I was a bad son. Current correction, no... just a no class slob with mental illness which I was BORN with. Do your research assholes. It either came from both of your abuse, Mom's genes, or both. Both. Well researched.
So of course when it came down to it, I needed help after the summer of caddying at one of the worlds best courses ever, and came home on Christmas, being a lame duck. Guess what, I am not lame anymore. That “drug induced psychosis” was not psychosis, it was termed it to please the family who paid for the therapy so that they could bury me instead admitting what I was too fucked with a complete nervous breakdown to realize the truth.
You turned me away to be homeless on Christmas Eve. Said “Don't come around here no more”.
Why has it taken me until age 33 to realize that you are the blood sucking maggots lacking any morals that you are?
I love that sentence.
So I wandered on from Christmas Eve, and had a nervous breakdown. This is turning into an all out JAM session here. Mixing conjugations and such...
So Daddy, you filthy faggit, you paid out of your “oh poor you” insurance, and when I was fresh out of the coma you put me in and helpless dumped in the first available ghetto North Philly dump you could find for me to die in. But I didn't.
And Mommy was oh so sad, cause she was “concerned... these people are going to help you
Joel...”
What I didn't realize was that where I went was less cutthroat than where I came from, and
they carried weapons. Of course now you do. But if you were to ever pull one on me, I would slit your throat so fast and deep you wouldn't even blink and you'd be in Hell. Of course I would end up where you have sent me my whole life, on the run and ultimately in front of a mental health judge. But that's cause money and power are all that matter in your world, and I don't matter. Fucking try me. Due to my own inability to realize what immoral pieces of shit you are and simply stand up and be the man I am becoming now at lightning fast speed, I have learned to live among those that know how to kill and learned. Don't think I feel any kind of pleasure in the fact that you might try something so wonderful and desperate when this gets read by the world, but if you do... out of desperation, then it is because for the first time ever the tables finally got fucking turned the direction they needed to be turned.
And if you don't like my opinions, as they are just that, opinions, then fucking sue me bitches.
All you ever wanted from me was the ability to be socially fit for your uptight snobby world anyway so I'm sure all of the TRUTH you sue me over that gets put into print will put plenty of bang in your social funsies.
But funsies aside, push me pussies cause the people I call my family are people who haven't been issued a warning not have any contact with me or else be issued legal action on my behalf. If you haven't gotten that through your thick fucking skulls, then welcome to my world. Hope it doesn't take you as long as it took me to realize.
 I need a drink.I need a joint. Then I need  a cigarette. Then I need to have good conversation with a female. Then I need to get laid.
Then I need a fucking cigarette. Smoke a cigarette and lie some more, these conversations kill. I don't drive, or cross bridges under my own power, but FUCK IT.
FUCK IT.
FUCK IT.
FUCK IT.
It's the same story the crow told me, it's the only one you know. I miss Shari. If that isn't a juvenile statement then I don't know what is. It tells me how far from the reality ... no not THE reality, reality itself I have been for so long.
I haven't the faintest clue what to do with this path, but exactly what I have learned. Take it one
day at a time. I can't break it down any further than that or I take it too far. Having goals is quite ok, but that's just it. Sometimes I feel so weighed down by the goals.
Right now I am having a mild panic attack brought on by emotions of looking over IT and smoking too much and too much caffeine. I need to cut out the caffeine and cut way back on smoking.
As far as IT is concerned, yeah, copyright. Then I figure I don't want it to overshadow any career I could build in writing, so self publish and sit on it. If I ever have any success, the message of IT will be quite clear and final. That I steered the course to the good, made amends, stayed clean and lived on.
I will go to a career fair tomorrow, and hopefully land a career move. The goal on my resume is: To own and operate a successful Marketing Corporation. It is missing the big picture as I have it coming down in the new novel I am working on: Going Public. That would be build it, expand it, take it public and become a lending powerhouse with an Investment Banking Firm I open to finance my dreams.
Of course the immediate picture is just how it was left in IT. Family hasn't seen any concrete proof. Still can't see my son. I am getting some hope though. A worker here gave me bus fare to get to the career fair, and I have a pack of smokes to ease my head through it.
Got my California Unemployment back today. Doubles my income, to a whopping $400 a month now. Of course I should still get food stamps, so that counts for something I guess. Nothing to be proud of still, and somehow that ironically includes IT.
Watching my roommates get high and fuck off their lives. It is sad. I am going to get a job. I am to take that tax money and pay off my fines to get my drivers license back. I get the restoration requirements letter sent today from PENNDOT.
I figure if I can get a sales job making me anywhere near what I was earning in California, well, anyway. Figure I can pull off the equivalent of $12 an hour. That's $2k minus taxes a month. Figure I clear $1500, I can save about a grand a month. If I get the job paying out starting July, that makes about four months to save and move out. I will have my license after the suspension in September, so figure in October I could take two grand and buy some wheels. That leaves two grand to move out  on November first. The wheels will open up the choices for my location for the living situation, as I would like to be in a nice place and not settle for anything less than the ability to safely have Shane come over and spend some quality time.
I am on Step 6 of the snowflake project for Going Public, my first novel (next to the manuscript all handwritten I dumped in the trash in 2009). Figure another 200 hours, it will be done. At 20 hours a week, that is two and half months. That means in August I can be looking for an agent for the copywritten manuscript.
Figure $1510.
$1510
 50 BUS
1450
50 CIGARETTES
1400
410 RENT
1000
2000...
Now I start to feel kind of melancholy about how much money I am going to have when I land the apartment. Then I worry that I will lose the job and end up on the street. Then I wonder if ending up on the street will end in me freezing to death like I almost did last winter a few times. Now I feel like having a cigarette, but I am still having anxiety and it won't help any. Now I want a few puffs on a joint, and know it will help if it's the right strain. Of course then I will want to loosen up with a little alcohol.
Read that fucking book, Joel. Read IT. Tell yourself. Play the tape to the end. This isn't the end, it's the beginning. And not the beginning of the end.
And it's not ok to not be in touch with the family who loves you, and it is not that simple due to status and amends and stigma and etc etc etc but really.
Like A Stranger In Moscow playing in my headphones I feel so sad. I just want to be filled with
that joy that I know. But the only joy that I have filled myself with for years is liquid joy, so be patient.
Be patient.
May 20th $45 CASH
$20 cigarettes
$25 work bag
$120 every 2 weeks
$240 total
-50 bus pass
$190
-$50 cigarettes
$140 broken into 2 week segments
$70 for two weeks
$35 a week spending cash
5th first check for $200 welfare coming for $102.50 figure $80 rent
Leaves $220.00 and food stamps!
220
50 bus pass
170
$25 cigarettes
145
35 mp3 player
110
INTERNET CONNECTION REST
I just talked to Mom. She told me she may have had a mini stroke on Saturday, and that she spent the last few days in the hospital. She was at fucking WORK. And she told me, crying the whole time that she needs me to not be in contact with her for at least thirty days.
I am so sad. At first I felt blamed. I'm sure that stress causes these things, so I am sure I am blamed. I feel like I just need to go away and leave her family alone. I will never be at the family gatherings, but I will keep in touch with her. Of course not until 6-9-2011.
I have to feel like maybe she is blaming herself for some of the stuff that has happened to me or she wouldn't be stressed enough to have a stroke.
I had called to tell her all of the good news I have amassed in the past few days. Namely that I have an interview tomorrow with Lehigh Country Club for the position of locker room attendant. Of course it would be mostly afternoons and evenings, so I would have the opportunity maybe to caddie in the mornings.
I feel like I have this 22 year old twerp for a brother who has to play a power trip all the fucking
time. He is a half brother, and it needed and needs not to be forced down my throat. These roles in the family were defined to be what they are, named what they are for a purpose. My mother insists that they are my sister and brother when they are not and never have been, not in Ashers case since he was a toddler.
So in light of all of these arrogant pricks in my life trying to steal my thunder with the Mother I grew up around long before they ever came into being, I just fucking lose. And if we are all not careful, we will all lose our mother.
In the meanwhile I have a crazy attention getting book I have written in IT, which is sure to kill my mother if it were to ever achieve success. That's what I feel like. I feel like she would have that final stroke and die if I were to have success with IT. How the fuck do you make that kind of decision? It is important that the book be published as it IS intact so as to hold the proper message and have the proper effect. So I guess I do what any sensible person would do, and give it to God.
I filed this and then had the wonderful thought. Why not use the journey as the rest of the book? Diary entries are about the best I am going to be doing for the next quite some time, and get me to the place where I need to be to be able to give the proper message for IT. Don't end IT with FUCK IT, end IT with the story of how life got better.
For Mom. Who I love so much. I pray that she takes HER doctors advice and takes it easy. I need more time. More time. Of course, if she dies, I'll probably sell about 400 billion more copies.
Can't stop crying here. Dinner time. Grace. God, grant me some.
That's it. I'm never gonna make billionaire status with writing for damned sure. Time to go for it for motherfucking real. Time to start my corporation. Brooks Flow, LLC.
I need start up planning and money. And so it begins.
Figure I get this caddying job tomorrow, as the locker room attendant is OUT for now due to transportation issues. I move out of here with the tax money and into a room. Get back on my own, thank God. Nothing too permanent, as caddying is temporary. But a DECENT room will run.. hold on let me check the paper here.
OK, found the answer. Get the caddy job. That is about $2k total income. Rent at Hamilton Towers is about $700. Figure I can keep food to $300 a month, that's half of it. Make my own cigarettes with tubes, get a case. Cigarettes $50 a month.
2000
-700 rent
1300
Food stamps pay most of food
MA pays Risperidone
FUCK the Depakote
1300
-150 alcohol
1150
50 bus pass
1100
-100 phone Boost
1000
-200 food
800
$800
-200 spending
$600 to save a month for 5 months to prepare for Florida
$3000 to make the move
Figure caddie and unemployment May-mid June: $2k
2000
-300 rent
1700
-50 bus pass
1650
-50 cigarettes
-100 spending
1550
-300 lunches
1250 Pay one months rent and deposit at Hamilton Towers get tax money
-pay off license fine
-get phone
-if you can, get wifi
$3000 for move to Florida
-buy a cheap car
-research places in Miami
Now make yourself feel better about it all.
At $1600 a month times 12 months, you make
Almost $20,000
WAY BETTER THAN YOU HAVE BEEN
Figure November through April in Miami
6 months at $2k same budget
6 times $500 month savings (car costs) is
$3000
MOVE BACK and bank it... back to Hamilton Towers.
Over this period of time you have: written a business plan.
Made contacts. Written books.
Now the school thing is nagging at me. Maybe do online classes at my own speed with someone throughout the course of all of this.
So figure do online classes in business. $2000 plus turning over the car for a grand gets a $3K car.
Save and milk the car and school.
Repeat.
Went outside and smoked a cigarette. I have got IT!
I am going to go to The Art Institute of Pittsburgh for Web Design as initially planned. So days on the golf course, nights on the computer. Do two years of caddying in the endless summer, and schooling.
By the time I have the degree I should have over five grand saved up for my move into a new career. Get a job as a web designer and go finish my bachelor's in Web Design. Do two years of working in the field and finishing my Bachelor's and move up in the world.
Work in the field and go to school for my Master's in business with an emphasis on ecommerce. Move up in the world. End up as an e- commerce strategy manager making six figure income by the time I am 44 years old at the very worst.
That gives me 21 years to prime retirement age. Do 22 years of working and writing as a hobby, and retire gracefully with a great portfolio to fill my days with adventures to write about.
Stay away from drugs, and live a normal life. Deal with the Bi-Polar correctly and it won't cause me to go back to the life I have seen, the bad parts anyway. That means take your risperidone and see your shrink. Make healthy choices, and be you.
That just seems so freaking good. And so freaking simple. It is just a FACT that I don't need to have anything in the way of too serious a relationship until after I have my associates degree. But normal healthy female relationships are possible under those circumstances. Just don't get caught up, keep your plan.
I just went outside and had a cigarette. I saw the fatal flaw in my plan here. Beer. Leads to not taking meds. Leads to not listening to doctor. I can maintain medical insurance under a student plan once I am started. So moving ain't a problem here.
Stay SOBER. How do you stay sober? Attend support meetings. Forget about NA, it's shoddy and trouble. Take the advice of your first and foremost in your mind counselor, Kim Oroscz. Stick with the old timers. Go to AA. Start tomorrow. It's that easy. You can build a network of friends who are in sobriety who are understanding, because there is wisdom in those rooms. Something you weren't finding in the rooms of NA.
Stay sober, take your meds, work and go to school. Wasn't that easy? And it adds what would probably be a lot more than $150 a month to your budget. Money to pay for what you forgot. Toiletries.
Now then, hit the book.
A young protege in marketing gets blackmailed by a woman from his past. Mark thought he had it all. Risen from the ashes of past riddled with bad memories and bad associations, he has formed his own marketing firm, HEIRS, LLC from scratch. Leaving behind careers in industries riddled with dead ends and drugs, namely caddying, and the restaurant industry, he left to become an artist. Bottoming out into the streets, he built his sales career one piece at a time until he had the skill set to start off on his own. With a grand and a grand dream he has built a soon – to – become empire consisting of a network of Realtors and Auto Dealerships. Now servicing every aspect of modern day marketing you can imagine, he is poised to take the company public and cash in on all of his dreams. At a dinner celebrating the firm's rise to the top, and impending future as an investment banking powerhouse, he receives a phone call.
“Mark, it's Cathy.”
Cathy is a former girlfriend of his from his days long buried as a junkie. She tells Mark that he is quite an artist still, and that it's time he put his writing and acting skills to good use. It's time to write a check to cover what he has been neglecting, for all of those he left behind. She says unless he can come up with nice round number, namely half of the money the board he oversees will get in two weeks, she will blow the horn. He receives a multi - media file on his phone with picture of him shooting up, arrest records and last but not least a birth certificate. She tells him he has a son who he has never paid a dime for the care of, and that it is over. The phone call ends, and he is left in shock. He leaves the dinner to find his old mentor and get some advice.
When turns to his old mentor for advice, and is met by the tired admission that this too can be bought. The mentor suggests that Mark is overreacting and that he use his resources to investigate before acting. Then the stalking begins, street people, mob associates, you name it come out of the woodwork to let Mark know he will not get off so easily. At his Customer Service Center an employee hands him a flash drive that contains more shocking files. Standing in his office, facing the bay,  a call comes in to his phone and the sniper on the rooftop across from him puts his laser sights all over him. When he leaves to go to the trolley, he bumps into his old dealer who tells him he looks like he needs a fix, and hands him some crystal meth. His girlfriends all begin sending him text messages canceling their dates with him, forwarding nude photos of him they received from his number. He receives a phone call telling him that data in his backup phone directory has been stolen and that they can make those texts and phone calls from his number to the investors if he should so like and create the storm to end all storms. Cathy calls and tells him that he is investing in his son's future.
He realizes that the money for such an all out assault has to be coming from a greater source and  begins an investigation with one of his executives. They find in the record books a tie from one of the old marketing plan customers from his street days. A now successful rap and rock act, he has been shown in photos with Cindy. Digging deep, they find the ties to the drugs, to the mob, and then the trail goes cold. Until Mark realizes it is an inside job from one of his own executives. The file was left on his desk by accident, but contained some pertinent information to a rival marketing firm vying for a lot of the same business.
Mark arranges to have a backstage pass to one of the rap acts shows, and goes with an escort on his side. When he arrives, he finds himself confronted by the street scene he left behind years ago, but with all of the money he has now to go with it. Ears ringing from his front row vantage point, after having been pointed out by the rap star, he makes his way backstage. There an old guitarist of his is waiting in the wings. They have small talk, and he gives the guitarist a note to give to the stage director.   The stage director reads the note into the rappers ear in between songs, and the set is ended. He comes storming off the stage entourage in tow, ready for action.
Mark pulls out a phone and calls an old connection of his from back in the day. It is a mob associate in the city where they are standing. He puts the sattelite video phone up for the rapper to see as he approaches, the don whose turf he stands on. The rapper starts to make a move with his entourage, but Mark is ready. Taking a transmitter from his pocket and plugging it in, the video conference is played on the concert screen to the audience. “This Don Vincente” says the Mafia ringleader to the audience. He narrates the current problem with the rap star,and then recites his rap sheet. The audience eats it up and starts a riot that forces the star back onstage. “It's done, the press will be all over this...” Mark slyly grins as he walks offstage and out the side entrance. On the way to the street, catching a cab he calls the opposing firm's CEO.
Fueled by the scandalous back stabbing, Mark releases a book written in the days before his rise from the streets and feeds the story of the scandal to the press. Going public day comes, and the stock soars in reaction to the multi – faceted approach of the marketing whiz. The next day, it is in the news that Cindy is suing the rapper for child support, physical abuse and harassment. The executives at the neighboring firm run for cover as customers bail off their network and into HEIRS. The backstabbing executive is cut loose to fend  for himself.
Characters:
Major:
Mark: CEO Owner of HEIRS, LLC
Cindy: Girlfriend of Rap Artist “Tinny”
Tinny: Rap Artist
Elizabeth: Board Member HEIRS, Mark's romantic involvement  and co-investigator
Darren: Executive inside HEIRS involved in conspiracy
Don Vincente: Mafia leader
Edgar: Mark's mentor Alfredo: Mark's first partner
Minor:
Slim: drug dealer slides Mark Meth
Cap: sniper
Fizzy: tech criminal
Richard: Opposing firms CEO
Mark: CEO Owner of HEIRS, LLC
Mark is the driving force behind the story, the hero. He goes from hiding his past in the beginning of the story, to acknowledging and using it as an inspirational story.
A start up businessman of his own right, Mark has built a business from the ground up, starting with very little funds. He began from a homeless shelter, and has amassed a network of Realtors and Auto Dealers who use his marketing firm. The firm has raised capital to expand the business, and Mark is poised to take the firm public to complete the final stages of his transformation. His goal is to expand into Investment Banking, and to use his network of Realtors and Car Dealers to become a lending powerhouse.
Mark was a former drug addict, pursuing the life of an artist. He used to live, to get by through the highs and lows of a failing writer/actor/musician. Mark is well studied and has a penchant for high class women with taste, though he is more of a homebody. His aversion to flying was not an obstacle to his success, and the business was built in spite of it. He has built around him a team of executives, slowly hand picked through the ranks of the different levels of the organization as it expanded.
Mark is unmarried with no children, though he has had so many bad relationships through his past life that he wonders how many abortions are out there. It had never really occurred to him that someone would hide a child from him until reached an acceptable level of success and then come after him.
He relocated to avoid the family that stigmatized him in his hometown and when visiting there avoids them. He has contact with some members, but remains away from them due to the fact  that he cannot live down the weight of his past and what he feels will ultimately shame him, even in the position which he has achieved.

Darren:
Darren was hired from another firm into the executive sales team raising capital to expand HEIRS into call centers. He was hand picked from a team of experts who obviously loved his glowing resume' and the fact that he represented the demographic most missing in the HEIRS team. Darren is an African American male from a southern background who ran from trouble in small town Arkansas to become a college success, and the salesman the son of a southern baptist preacher should be.
Darren goes from the spited in his own self esteem issues overachiever trying to bring down his boos to win a spot as a partner in the competing firm to exposed and seeking psychiatric help at the end.
Darren enters the story at the celebratory dinner where he is being offered a spot on the board of the Investment Banking Firm. He has been offered what he has already put in place by the opposition's plan to take down Mark. He gets bullied into staying in the deal with threats of exposure, and continues on the treacherous path he has created for himself.
Darren was salesman of the year, raising over two point two million dollars in capital for HEIRS almost single handedly while coaching his upper level managers behind the front lines of the network. An overachiever his whole life, he is impatient and begins an affair with a married local politician. As soon as the scandalous activity begins, he begins cracking up and taking prescription downers to an extreme.
He has a past history in the gay community, and when he threatens to back out again, threatening pictures and hotel camera videos surface along with records from a vacation with his former roommate, a well known New York City fag. The politician with whom he is having the affair receives the same information, and breaks off the relationship. To say the least, Darren reaps what he sows.
Cindy: Girlfriend of Rap Artist “Tinny”
Cindy is the girlfriend of Rap artist “Tinny”. She is a drug addict with many talents. While supporting herself as a porn-movie industry star she ran into the rapper, and it became lust at first bite. Over the course of the story she transforms from the long abused and cowering addict and heavy drinker into the trying to recover victim of the abuse she has fallen to.
Cindy was a friend to Mark during his days on the street. At one point they became a couple, frequenting local shows for Mark to sit in and perform. They scraped up enough to start their own sort of speak-easy and lived in it for awhile. It became a hotspot until they had a falling out over the drug use and whether the people who frequented were due to her vast connections. She is a social butterfly with undying whit and a light sense of humor, but vicious when backed into a corner.
Cindy has a five year old child which was born during a time in her life just prior to meeting
Mark. During their brief affair, she never told Mark of the child growing inside of her, and she harbors a sort of bitterness that he was never man enough to stand aside and do the work he promised. She feels that with his talent, it was his responsibility to build a career out of his artistic talents, writing, acting and music.
Cindy has had an ongoing relationship with Tinny since they met shortly before Mark arrived on the scene. Tinny and she had shared a house in the south side of Bethlehem,  Pennsylvania which had led to contacts for him, and he had left for his budding career. She began doing videos of she and Tinny engaged in sexual acts in that house, and used them as leverage after her affair with Mark to get into the porn industry after the birth of her son, Shade.
Cindy is a bad mother, pawning her son off to anyone who will take him at any point in time to relieve her of the hand she feels she was unfairly dealt in light of the career she should be having. She blames the conception of her son on the circumstances she fell into due to the family which would not stand behind her.
Elizabeth: Board Member HEIRS, Mark's romantic involvement  and co-investigator
Liz, as she likes to be called goes from HEIRS Board Member to heiress of Darren's spot on the Investment Firm Board. She is a very well educated small town girl from Michigan, with a Masters from U of M in Ann Arbor. She earns her place by carrying Mark with her investigations and obvious education about the goings on within the company.
A romantic relationship springs up between Mark and Elizabeth which does result in some steamy sex scenes, and banter about sexual harassment. She earns her place however, and given both the option to bow out or join Mark as equals in the new venture, she chooses to stay.
She is a sexy brunette, likes to drink, but not too much. Just enough to be one of the guys.
Loves baseball and is a die hard Detroit Tigers fan, often quoting the Alice Cooper song, I Love America. She is probably the most honest and hard working, loveable character in the story with her love for simple pleasures.
Daughter of two Michigan politicians, she grew up on the farm until she left for community college in a neighboring city. After a year at a state school, she attended Michigan State in Ypsilanti, until she and her fiancee graduated. They broke up when he cheated on her, and she decided to stay on in Ann Arbor and get a Master's at U of M.
She is the author of a nationally syndicated blog, running favorite amongst many heavyweight politicians and bankers. She holds the keys to the press box whenever it comes time to make the proverbial shit hit the fan, and she has no fear of unlocking the bank vault and laying it to waste.
Sharp tongued to those in opposition, but slow on the draw for the purpose of softening her image, she often gets overlooked for the positions that she is capable of , and this turn of events in fact, she decides are the workings of the powers that be which her parents always talked about in the days growing up in Michigan.
Tinny: Rap Artist
Tinny has had a rough career, built from the bottom up. Rising from the streets of Philadelphia, he earned the nickname “Tinny” for both the nasal voice he uses when “spitting” at high speed and for the fact that it was rumored that he had no heart. He used the nickname as a backbone for the theme of his first album, The Tin Man and came to be the rap artist Tinny. His main focus is always on what it took for him to rise off of the streets.
Tinny had been homeless in Los Angeles for some time when he flew home to the Lehigh Valley to get some rest. He got into drugs, and found a landlord who would put up with it while he set up a studio in his house. Using what he learned in Venice while digging through trash cans, Tinny begins to record and promote his own shows online and in nearby New York. He avoids Philadelphia, which is strangling him, because it is where he came from. Then came along Cindy.
With Cindy along as the social butterfly for his local gigs, Tinny was soon hitting the hot spots and leaving them begging for more. She would bring along all of her friends, pack the club and before he knew it, Tinny was getting offers from labels. But when his label finally cut a deal for the rights to the already recorded college radio hit-single with the arrangement to cut his next album with their promotion, he took the money and ran.
Tinny, though from the streets had done his homework and through the boosting of his single had sold other numbers for movies and television to finance a clothing line. After recording his new album and making it to the Billboards, Tinny tried to sell his story, but ran short with the part of Cindy.
He needed someone to warm up the movie studio executives, and finalize the meeting arrangements.
The record company didn't like his script, and refused to help.
Bringing Cindy back on board, he desperately tries to get an audience with studio executives, but is finding himself falling short. He wants the money to boost his clothing line, as he has overspent his royalties already. Then he gets an offer he can't refuse to take down his old runner, Mark. Using his money for the criminal work, he makes a deal that if the take down is successful, a competing
Investment Firm with HEIRS will get his movie bought and financed.
Afterward:
There are no easy answers
Except but to trust
Our Father, who Art in Heaven
Mine who is in Heaven is with me Every Day
And it is by His Guidance
I Will Find my Recovery
Every second of every minute of every day
So for this I do Pray
For you
For it
For us Fore!




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