History Speaks for Itself

could we all take a moment, to simply recognize
that life is but before us, and deathly, coincides.

a quiet moment in the trees above the town.

the teeth of the oppressed chatter in the growing cold,
and if not tomorrow, today is getting quite old.

might I remind, trees lack leafs this time around.

the streets have filled to brims with Danes and Doe's,
while we protest, occupy, and fight, bleeding from our warm clothes.

must they all forget, foundations crumble from within?

so let's lock our doors, close the windows, and breathe the silence,
to the cannons of footsteps, approaching your door in defiance.

and as the black blood drips drop to drop,
so will they fasten their own wooden boxes.

Seude Couches

life comes
life goes
and yet,
I sit here still.
watching.

a blunder

I know that i was done for when i couldn't tell the time.
we only have a digital clock,
bright and red,
shining even in the daylight.
I couldn't read it.
Words on the front of books
were legible,
an anthology of Shakespeare
and a collection of children's
books were clearly marked so,
but numbers and time
were obsolete.
"How long?" i'd keep asking.
"Ten minutes" they would both reply,
"Just like last time." Most likely
grown annoyed, but i was in no state
to consider anybody else's condition.
Moving from the couch to the backyard
was a task.
moving anywhere at all.
First, you'd have to snap back from whatever
universe you were so shakily exploring,
freezing cold and unable to tell whether or not
you'd pissed yourself.
Which you hadn't.
Holding a cigarette inches above your chest
trying to lie away ache,
but your bed feels like cardboard,
like your mouth,
with tiny prickles that can't be seen
but are everywhere.
A shower feels like rebirth
and the feeling only lasts until
you open up the curtain.
like a baby into danger,
ex-utero, screaming because
now you've rediscovered this terrible
shitty place.
The shivers return, and the couch
becomes a refuge.
It takes care of you
while you can't watch
movies or t.v.
it hold you. it holds on to you.
Then the warmth.
if you did anything intelligent you decided
to lose your mind early,
and the sun is still in the southwest sky,
bright and shining, soothing out the chill
you've had since noon.
Deep--breaths.
Smelling everything,
since you almost thought you'd lost it there.

champange tastes better from the bottle

The lights are bright enough,
sticking to your eyes as the
tall glasses of j&b cling
to the walls of our guts.
"We need more. One more."
says our friend
slurring impossible words.
"It isn't two yet."
1:48 is all the same,
but the drunk is always
the more adept of the bunch.
He forgot we drove
and demands his keys.
i grab a hold of you. Watch
you smile your precious smile
since I'm not nearly as drunk
as him.
"I need my keys" again.
"You didn't drive" you tell him,
soft voice sending shivers
towards anybody willing.
Give me my keys sounds
more like blah, and he
forgets his car all over
the front of his pants,
and on the sidewalk.
"Get him one more"
I tell them.
"It isn't even two yet."

theres a novel on the other side

somewhere inside of the container, there's substance.
there's cause, and matter. the filmy kind,
that grits like wet sand in between the fingers.
As with most, the inside isn't all that air tight.
Wilting occurs, moisture sucks dry,
inners sucking out to stay alive.
Only it isn't. it's all dead in there, only
kind of living because of its past.
Immediate past, the moments just before the container
contained its 'tainee.
Still, that's what's inside of the out.
As one jabs at keys, and licks the points
of a million faultering pens,
and dulling pencils,
remembering that stuff, and what it felt like
when they first found it out.
Then there they go,
chasing it until they're dead, and their children love them
more, since they can't speak.

A Guide to Recovery

These stories have no home. They have nowhere to go, no one they can depend on. And we, the negligent parents of them, turn our backs on them. We've stopped caring, leaving the groupings of words and punctuation to fend for themselves like some sort of syntactical street urchin. Having to exist in such a manner turns many of them bitter and hard. Often they are violent and lash out at civilized society. One can sympathize knowing the challenges these disregarded languages have had to face. It probably comes as no surprise that the majority turn to drugs.

How can we tackle such a complicated and sensitive issue as that of the relationship between drugs and our stories? And, more importantly, how do begin and succeed on the road to a happier, healthier story? Before we can make any progress, we have to be honest with ourselves: the path to writing a good story is painful, difficult, and draining. It must be understood by both the author and the story that will be mistakes and failures. The author must also understand that they are most likely the enabler of poor drug story writing. And perhaps the most depressing aspect to accept is the likelihood of relapse. Sometimes, even with the love and support of the author, a drug story will never be written well. Acknowledging that sentiment, it is important for all of us to put in the effort in spite of the odds if we truly care about our stories.

If you're ready to face this path, then please read on to discover the process to creating a good drug story.

Step 1: Accepting that our story has a drug problem.

Lao-Tzu wrote that "The journey of a thousand years begins with the first step." Simple, that's how begin on our road to recovery. The first step is accepting that our stories have a drug problem. How, you may ask, does one know if their story is truly bad? Well, while it must be stressed that any drug should be avoided in a story, there are certain signs of abuse that one can recognize:

1. Is your story experiencing melodrama?

2. Have the images and language used passed beyond authentically recognizable becoming cliché and predictable motifs?

3. Does it have a diminished sex drive or poor sexual performance?

4. Are the words often confused, disoriented, or illogical?

5. Are there no concrete nouns?

If your story exhibits one or more of these signs, then it may have a drug problem. But, how do we address the issue with our stories? How does it come to terms with its problem along with our own? Others have been in that same struggle and came out at the other end. Take, for instance, this testimony:

“I lied there under the night sky. The city's sodium lights reflected as an orange haze across the bellies of great big clouds. They crept along like silent monsters. My heart pounding in my chest, I tried to breath calm and slow. You always feel like you're going to die during the crash. Always. I repeated this over and over to myself. Sometimes it helped to imagine myself not smoking the last big rock before the come down; not tonight. My breathing became shallow. Here, after so few years on this earth, was the place I would die? Having accomplished nothing but being a fucking junky?

I saw a rat crawl out from the dumpster next to me. Its long scaly tail rubbed against the side of my face. Once I had seen some dope sick punks pull one out from a discarded pizza box while dumpster diving. They slit its little throat and let the blood drain out all over the concrete. Then they skewered it on a stick and let it cook over a small fire they built.

“We're living off the grid,” one of the girls said. She wore combat boots and jeans cut off at the knee to make shorts. And a black t-shirt riddled with holes. It some obscure band on it. Cunt Christ or something like that. I had considered fucking her up until that very moment.

After the fur had burnt off and the meat appeared cooked enough to be safe, they took turns picking off the small body. The legs went first, then the rib meat. Finally, someone high enough off paint and speed gnawed at the face. I remember the way they smiled while eating it.

I wondered if this would be the final memory I had before dying. I thought to myself, if I make it through this, something will change.”

This young narrative was able to come to terms with its addiction. Are you ready to take that first step?

Step 2: Finding strength in our higher power.

Admitting to ourselves that we have a problem can leave us feeling weak and vulnerable. However, we must remember that we are not alone. There is untapped potential in trusting in the strength of our higher power. And that does not necessarily have to be the archaic idea of a white patriarch sitting on a golden throne up in the clouds. With long flowing gray hair and beard. He could be mistaken for a wizard were it not for his bulging muscles. And despite the hair on his head, his chest will be smooth. No, we don't have to believe that at all. Certainly some among us may choose to use that ideal as their source of strength, but others have found it in less traditional ways:

“Before entering recovery, I used to idolize the drunken poets of China. I spent hours reading the works of Han Shan and collections from the T'ang Dynasty. I imagined myself as one of the sages living as a hermit in a small hut up in the mountain. I drank rice wine all through the night by candle light while scratching out meditations on the Tao, the unity of all things. I tipped my small glass to the moon silently sitting high above me, silently watching.

“You old crook,” the words slipped from my mouth and traveled high into the sky, becoming glistening little stars, “don't you know that you're no different from me? We're all part of the same energy. We're all one. Come down here and have drink with lonely old me.”

But the moon just sat there. And I would finally pass out on my straw mat.

I imagined the villagers whispering about the crazy old drunk that lived up the mountain. On foggy nights they could hear my lunatic cackling come echoing down as I sat atop a tree and howled and howled. Drunk and alone and happy.”

Understanding that he was powerless against his addiction, the young man of this narrative knew he had to invest his faith into something. But, his rational mind would not allow him to believe in the pageantry of Christianity. He looked deep inside himself only to find that he had the perfect higher power all along in the Eastern thought that had occupied his youth. And, although much of his interest in it had been fueled by his drug use, he still managed to utilize it as a means of strength to overcome his bad writing.

“Now, under the night time sky of my desert home, I contemplated where I had been and was going. I was not the Chinese drunken sages. Nor was I Hunter S. Thompson. Hell, I wasn't even Nikki Sixx, but I began to be OK with that. I watched the cosmic dust swirling overhead. The moon glowed bright against the indigo and maroon of the night. Only the shadows of craters marred its smooth appearance. I moved my feet through the dust on the ground below me. I felt the dust on my body. We were one.”

And that is how to find strength in the higher power. We must admit that we are powerless over our tendency to write bad stories. There's not much we can do without asking for help and courage from our source. Whether that source is an abstract representation of the universe's energy or the great writers or even the Moon Goddess that dances with the river fairies on a clear spring night before the grain is harvested. Whatever.

Step 3: Make a list of the ways you have hurt the ones you love.

Our mediocrity has undoubtedly caused pain and anguish to those around you; particularly the ones that care about you. It is therefore important for us to recognize that pain we caused and make attempts to rectify it. Unless, of course, by bringing up the past it could cause harm to that person in the present. Like if you go to your former mistress' house (you know, the one that used to let take rails of blow off her tits and ass) and apologize for the time you gave her chlamydia. You tell her that you knew you had it but the coke had you so horned up that you dove in without the rubber. And all the while you're telling her this, her husband and kids are sitting at the kitchen table with their mouths wide open and their eyes wide.

Yes children, your mother used to get off putting a pile of powder on the tip of my cock before blowing me. It does no one any good to hear that. But, that 1500 dollars you pulled out of your grandma's banking account because she was naïve enough to trust you with her PIN code; she should be sat down and given an apology. Oh, and apologize to your mother for reading a story about a woman sucking coke off your dick.

We must acknowledge that our stories have effects on people. Effects that can be negative. One brave story tells its tale:

“Her rainbow-dyed dreadlocks were what first caught my eye. I walked over to her and held out my hand. In it were seven little green and blue pills. Small dolphins were stamped on each one. Triple stacked, I told her, very smooth, no speed at all.

“That's a shame,” she said as she swallowed two of them down, “do you have any water?”

We jumped up and down to the pounding bass. She pulled her pacifier off her candy necklace and placed it in my mouth. We laughed as a young Japanese man twirled neon green glow sticks around and around.

“You like to party?” she asked. I told her I was born to party. She smiled and grabbed me by the hand. She pulled me out into the cold city night. I was mesmerized by the shimmering lights on the tall buildings. They're almost like stars, I said.

“Fuck the stars.”

When the apartment door opened the first thing that hit me was the smell. Cinnamon incense and sweat and something familiar and strange. The smell of sex, I thought. The room was dimly lit by the soft red glow of the lamp. On the floor there were naked sweaty bodies writhing on the floor. The blankets beneath them were soaked through to the hardwood floor. We licked and nibbled and touched and thrust. All the bodies became one tangled mass of flesh and fluid. We were one organism in orgasm. Bliss. Ecstasy.

And two weeks later I sat in the pale waiting room of the free clinic, anxiously awaiting the results of my test. Fuck, I thought.”

Step 4: Dedicate yourself to recovery.

After accepting our disease, finding strength in our higher power, and attempting to heal the old wounds are actions have caused, then it is time for true dedication. Dedication to our craft. Dedication to language. Read the great works from the Canon. Write. Write. And then write more. The moment for true dedication comes at different times for different people. Do not force it. Keep trying until you're ready. Sometimes it takes years before our members truly commit themselves to the path of recovery.

I remember one young man that completed the first three steps with virulent dedication. But he never made the step to rid himself completely of bad writing. No, he clung to his mediocrity like a lifesaver. Only on the weekends, he would tell me. I only dabble in melodrama; I'm not doing it everyday. But, when we have the disease, any poor writing can drive us back into depths of pain and suffering that our amateur writing had caused in the past.

However, one experience finally made that young man realize his commitment to recovering:

“My stomach was upset, I was sweating, I heard strange bells ringing in the distance. Where they real? Holy fuck, was someone at the door? Slowly I got up and made my way to the door. I peered out but all I could see was darkness. And some sort of purple dust closing in around the sides. I think I took to many mushrooms, I said to my friend. I turned around to see what he had to say but then remembered I was alone.

I'm dying.

I'm dying.

Just breathe.

I thought about what my mom would say when she got the phone call from the police telling her that her son was found dead. I was wearing pajamas. They would find me dead in my fucking pajamas?

Something needs to change. I have to change this lifestyle. Fuck the drugs, fuck the terrible things in my life. The rainbows coming off the side of my lamp did nothing to ease my anxiety. I'm freaking out.

Bells ringing. I pictured young prairie farmers calling out into the fields of wheat for the workers to come into lunch. The men made their way from the green plains and headed towards the large wooden table set with warm biscuits and fresh milk from the morning. There were berries and salted pork on large silver trays. Bells ringing.

A lone Chinese monk sitting on the cliff side peered out over the forest. He pondered the streams below him where the fish swim free and easy. He heard the wolves howling. The mist came rolling up and around the moss covered boulders. It slipped up through his nostrils and into his lungs. And then a bell echoed out over the mountains.

Was someone at the door? Oh no, I already checked. Fuck, I thought to myself, if I make it through this, I'll change.”

Step 5: Spread the message of recovery to others.

Always have concrete nouns. Like the moon, hanging silently above the mountains. Howl at it if you must. Take the ones you love by the hand and show them the path to health. Bbe thankful for every moment. Drop acid when needed. The occasional toke of reefer is alright too. But most importantly, more than anything else, know when to end.

Good luck.

CSULB Prospector Pete

Feature Story: The Daily 49er