Celestial Trinity

A full moon in the sky,
and a child was born,
then a goddess gave me life,
to a world rife with scorn
she raised me with nurture, she held me in her arms,
bestowed me with her knowledge of the evils was alarmed,
like a well running deep
taught me passion I should reap, if I know it, show it, hold it, touch it, drink it, feel lit, love it, know it
Goddess of my world, she's my holy mother pearl
In lunar blankets praises, in solar showers raised, from birth I felt the sickness, with your aegis won the fight, you did your best to raise me, the word was in your voice,
mother you're my Goddess, my Goddes, gave me life
a boy must start his journey, I left the light by choice

Holy Trinity of Females, the apples of my eye
in tender teaching I found life
your loves so deep it makes me cry
these tears are not of sorrow, they are vessels full of joy
I cherish every one of you, and in your prayers I will not die

The daughter fell before me,
By chance one night we met
She mused me with her teachings
The word of love is what she said
her voice was like a swansong,
the sound was of a flute

Tim's House (Part 3)

But now the meaning was clear, similar to Jaco’Pastoria’s 6/8 jam upon the 10^th listen.  She looked like a 65 year-old Barbie doll that was left in the microwave on reheat for an hour.  Obviously an older woman, who was desperate to hang on to her youth at any cost, even if it drastically altered her appearance beyond God’s original conception, like that of Michael Jackson.

Her name was Karrie, her tits were enormous, her lips looked like firmica, she had long red hair, and a Brazilian butt lift she paid for on installment plans, one cheek at a time, and squandered the money for the second cheek elsewhere.

Butt lift paid for one check
at a time!!! 

“Hello” she said to me, trying to keep her ass out of my eye sight now.  “Which room are you staying in?”

“Um, Bruce’s Room.”

Her eyes rolled back into her skull like a pin ball being shot out the spring, and she replied “that sucks,” and at that moment, a loud crashing sound occurred, and almost like watching one of the twin towers crash down, the guy known as Ben came tumbling down the stairwell in some kind of drug induced blackout.  He was breathing, so it was clear he was alive.  Karrie just kept blinking, then retreated to the garage. Apparently, this was typical behavior in the house.

Months passed, and drama flew by.  While I sojourned here, a deal with ‘Ol Smoked Out (Bruce) was made.  For the price of a few methodone, I could have my girlfriend stay over on the weekends, and of course, this deal went all to hell when Smoked Out decided we were in cahoots and conspiring against him in nocturnal combat.  Since we both snored simultaneously we were put on trial as “sleep terrorists.”

Tim's House (Part 2)

...and the next installment

“Oh, I just want a room,” I replied with a look of defeat.  Ben staggers away. It is at this point I can imagine the way the conversation with my P.O. would go “Your room wreaks heavily of marijuana, and furthermore, I didn’t appreciate the skinhead with the dialated eyes and the green teeth refer to me as ‘the biggest baddest tree in the forest.’  In addition, we found several unregistered firearms and a crossbow, I have no choice but to violate your probation, go straight to prison...look at this place...why on earth would you stay here???.”

Tim's House, the bedrock of recovery!!!

It’s 8:30 now and a giant black man who looks more like the Gorilla Amy, walks in the room accompanied by a tiny white woman who reminds me of a docile, subservient Japanese geisha.

“So Bryan tells me you just moved in, I’m Tim, and this is my wife Debbie, let me show you to your room.”

So Tim leads me down the hall and it becomes obvious that at least 20 people live here, it’s co-ed, no rules, and no real sobriety at all.

“If you need to smoke, smoke in your room or outside.” He then paused with an awkward grin “This is Bruce, your roommate, enjoy.”

Now had I known who my new “roomie” was, I would have elected to sleep in a dumpster behind Jack N the Box because this was going to be a nightmare.  I felt like I had walked into a Geico commercial, only ater the caveman had consumed 3 bottles of robotussin and an entire bottle of nutmeg, and in an enraged state of Alpha dominance, smashed everything in sight in a primordial showdown to win breeding rights and affection of an invisible cave girl. So either Bruce the neanderthal was talking to his bong or his fantasy cave love, and when I looked over my shoulder, the gorilla was long gone. Was this a set up? Where were the hidden cameras? Was Ashton Kutcher going to jump out and “punk me?”

Bruce continued his tirade of profanity and seemed either uninterested, unaware, or highly under the influence, but right as I was contemplating an Exodus to the streets, he made contact and said “Fucking pigs…can’t ABC with no 123.  Piece of shit, talking waking me up at 2 pm when I was trying to sleep, my lawyers got my back bro.” The twisted grin on his sun-burnt face suggested an amphetamine induced psychosis, or worse, the real deal.  I introduced myself and timidly extended my hand, half expecting him to bite it off like an emaciated one-eyed pittbull.  He didn’t reciprocate, but he passed me a bong instead. I had to act coy, cold sore chronic had an irreversible effect.  He checked out, so I ripped it and checked out too.  His long black hair rolled down his face but his crown reminded me of a slice of baloney, or even the cul-de-sac we lived on.

“I hate that stupid loud monkey fuck, wakes me up all the time. One day I am going to beat his ass!”

“Who Tim?” I asked.  But I knew already this is Orange County with 16.5 black residents growing .008% annually.

Bruce slumped his head down and moaned “yeah.” It was clear that his zyprexa or Trazadone psych meds were taking effect.  I put my bags down and slowly retreated to the kitchen.  Was he going to flip out or be mellow? Was the weed enough to put this paranoid schizophrenic at ease or was I done for? Would he be hiding in the closet late at night, wearing a ski mask, chain smoking and talking to the stuffed animals with a machete in one hand and 4 lbs of cantaloupe in the other chanting “redrum, redrum?”

Maybe I should hit Ben up for a narcotic peace offering.  I can already hear what type of conversations we would have.

 Vacillating on the great tight rope of
stability and the open void of a modern vagabond

“Yes Bruce, you’re right.  The fruitcakes of today are the leaders of tomorrow. Here, eat some methadone, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to share a room with such an insightful and well informed neanderthal such as yourself…What’s that? Yes the government is experimenting with a metrosexual army of robotic aliens for the city of Costa Mesa, you’re right Bruce, they are infiltrating the homeless in an attempt to brainwash them with ecstasy and canabinal to reprogram them and serve the clerks at the DMV, what’s that you say? Nancy Clarke is Hulk Hogan, couldn’t agree more.”

The house was quiet y now, and upon entering the kitchen is when I saw her. I remember the black Mercedez parked in the driveway.  The license plate said “Double GG’s” I pondered the meaning of it. Two gangsters, two great grams of dope? Two gay graffiti artists?”

The saga continues : Tim's House part 3