You Don’t Know Me

i am


Modern Beat Flow of Consciousness

People like to judge, criticize the perception of who they think I am but know what? They have no idea who I am, what I’ve been through, what I survived on the outside or in. So judge your own self and back off the rest of us.
Don’t tell me
You know how I feel
Like my life ain’t even real
How I pay for my love
With her sex appeal
You have no idea where I’ve been
So take off that robe
Pass penance on yourself
Before you probe
Two good eyes but you still can’t see
Judge yourself
You know nothing bout me
Who am I?
The effect of one passionate evening
A spawn of sex
One steamy night of heavy breathing
Dads eyes gleaming
Moms mind streaming
Waiting to beam me
Don’t ever doubt me you know nothing about me
I languish in anguish
Despondent but real
Been down to soup kitchens
Finding a meal
Locked up and hopped up
Dragged through the dirt
Beat down by street clowns and shrugged off the hurt
Been strung out and rung out
Then hung out to dry
Tested molested with no tears to cry
I’m not plastic imitation
Shifting for compensation
Quit judging me
It aggravating and degrading
I’m a hard swinging gate
Pulling an inside straight
So back off and give me a pass
Go and judge your own ass
Don’t need your scam
You have no idea who I am

I am a child procreated
Dated then fated
A mistake of sex
But still I’m not hatin’
I’m waiting
To find out who the real me is
I was a child of Gods sake
Swam in Satan’s wake
As he sped cross River Styx
With his devilish tricks
Laughing at the trails
As I flew off the rails
Cause some joker like you
Likes to tell tales
So before you pass judgment take one long hard stare
If you reflect hatred than I just don’t care
But beware
Not everybody will treat you that fair


Existential Crisis of the Future




What is the future but a collage of moments
Waiting to become memories
Painted by the brushstrokes of the past
From the pallet of the present
Times yet to be created
We all wish we could glimpse into the future
Peer into the portent
Of our own crystal ball
What are premonitions but reflections in reverse
Remembering the stories of our experiences before they occur
As told by the apparitions that haven’t yet passed
Is there a future after death?
Or do all graves remain in the past

Tell me about my future
Your future is your story son
Built on the pillars of your present
And lessons of your past
Interconnected choices
Determined by the fate you make
Your future will be consequences
Of the choices you chose long ago
You will be what you are meant to be
Be only yourself is all I ask
You see your future Son will some day be your past
As mine is now so will yours be in days ahead
What does that mean Pops?
Its just another existential crisis son
Why don’t you tell me about your future
My future? My future is…
Paintings filled with secreted dreams
Red desires, true blue loves, green envies
A calliope of melodies yet to play
Songs waiting to be sung
Lyrics longing to be written
Tales of joy and anguish
Of love and anger
The future is bright and dark
Full of smiles and tears
Halls waiting to be filled with family
With children pondering their own futures
Laughter, sorrow ,hugs, kisses
Or maybe a lonely room
Sad and gloomy
Forgotten and abandoned
But its my future Dad
I’ll try and build a good one
I hope we both find what We’re looking for
Me too Son
Or at least mercy and forgiveness in the end
Don’t ever stop looking son, the thrill is in the chase
Without the thrill well……
Anyway my portrait is finished
My song is sung
My tale is ending
The future belongs to you now
I had my chance
All that was to be
Now just a memory
Go and make some memories Son

Age Is Just A Number And other Lies I Tell Myself





J. T. (Over The) Hilltop

After  a certain age one of the most awkward questions to ask is how old they are. Especially if the question is asked of a woman and  answered with the equally awkward question, how old do you think I am? A very quick processing takes place, I look at the woman who asked me, guess at what age I really believe she is, and then subtract ten years. It’s a tried and true algebraic equation which often brings a smile while proving that those algebra classes did in fact come in handy.  But first the tough part. Do I answer? Use the algebra and hope she looks at least close to the age I originally guessed so she feels good and I escape my awkward situation? What if my guess is way off and I offend her? That’s almost as bad as asking a woman when the baby is due only to yourself being sliced up and set on fire from her eyes, letting you know in no uncertain terms she is not pregnant. Maybe I’ll use the trusty old stand-by, distract and move on? Maybe I could just lie and say “Age is just a number” then change the subject. Age is just a number. That’s the first lie I tell myself about getting old.

It’s not “just” a number, its an ever escalating number that grows exponentially. It’s a number that goes up but never down no matter how hard we try to look younger. A toupee? They look live divots you replaced in your scalp. Dressing in younger style, dieting, crèmes, oils, aromatherapy, we have an abundance of reverse the aging process products on the market. I get emails telling me I can increase my virility by washing with bull semen. They just happen to have a deal on it this week too. Who collects that semen anyway? Some brave young stud I guess because I can barely outrun a snail. And of course the hard sell, little pills of instant sex machine. Viagra. How did my Dad survive without it? Age is a number all right and I’m getting tired of having to add to it all the time.

The second lie I tell myself is that I’m getting old. I’m passed the getting point and at the being point. I am old! I’m at the dinosaur stage. The days of my roaming the earth in search of food or other dinosuars is ancient history now. I have moved on to a new epoch. A friggen senior.  But not to worry, with age comes wisdom. Yea, that’s the next lie. They say intelligence is knowing that tomatoes are fruits and wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad. I know there are tons of stupid people out there but I have never seen anyone put tomatoes in fruit salad so the wisdom they speak of is actually very common. Besides, with all this reported wisdom how come I still don’t even know who “they” are? Oh I’m much wiser now, I realize drinking has a limit and I know it real well at this point but do I actually have wisdom? Not really, it took me a very long time to learn things I should have known years ago.

Next lie. You’re not getting older you’re getting better. Getting better at what? Just when I think I have a handle on new technology it springs another light year ahead. It took me four years and numerous lessons from my kids to learn how to schedule the VCR and one month later everyone switched to cable DVR’s and some Blur ray crap. It’s like the eight track fiasco all over again. I go to the doctor he doesn’t say “Hey good news, your getting better”, he says, “You’ve gotta exercise, lose weight, and slow down” That’s an oxymoron. If I slow down how can I exercise? Things I used to do all night take me all night to do once.

Next lie. I’m aging like a fine wine. Hahahahaha… Nice try but no. If you age a wine too long or too wrong it becomes vinegar. In human terms vinegar is known as the grumpy old man stage. Admittedly the older I got the more complicated life got and with wine  complications are a virtue. I have so much extra skin that no longer fits I could hide a bottle of wine in the flaps. The older I get the more like box wine I become. There’s plenty of me and I’m cheap. If you drink a lot of wine you will develop a common trait of us seniors, you’ll be heading to the bathroom to empty your bladder a lot. Only difference is mine isn’t full, it just likes the comfort of relaxing by the toilet.

Next lie. You’re as young as you feel. Really?? Than I must be a hundred and twenty years because that’s how old I feel in the morning. It takes a lot of coaxing from my brain to get my extremities on board with getting out of bed.  This young as it feels body feels like its been running on fumes for so long it gives out contact highs. I need a check liver light with all the alcohol I’ve consumed and a lung scraping for years of smoke abuse. Bones are crisp, like peanut brittle crisp and the noises they make scare the cat. When I was young I felt like partying all night and now I look forward to bedtime.

Next lie. You’re aging gracefully. That’s total bullshit, I may pretend like I’m being graceful but grace walked out for a pack of cigarettes years ago and I haven’t heard from it since. I’m fighting it constantly but I’m losing every battle. I use plenty of preservatives or as I like to call it Vodka, but after a few of them it’s almost impossible to be graceful. Age is kicking my ass and making me look like a lame bum boxer from Palooka-Ville that functions best when it takes a dive. In the first round.

Next lie. 60 is the new 40. What?? Are you kidding me? There is absolutely nothing about being 60 that’s new except maybe the effects of senility and the loss of bone matter. Someone tried to explain baldness to me as my brain pushing the hairs out to make room for the overload of intelligence we have. I believe it’s actually the brain cells become too weak to function and hold down the roots at the same time so they just let go. In a desperate search for belonging the follicles colonize in the ears and nose where they set up tight knit communities that are unruly to say the least.

Last lie. It’s not the years in your life, it’s the life in your years. Okay, I have to admit that ones true. Despite the fact that I have to convince myself to get up each morning, despite the fact that the image in the mirror is way fatter and has much less hair than the real me, despite the fact I am not much wiser, despite the fact that young people laugh when I try to use the newest technology, and despite the fact I constantly need to remind myself not to let the small shit turn me into a grumpy old man, it’s still me who is in control of how I live out the rest of my life. Is it asking too much to live it out with a little of that reckless abandon that I enjoyed so much before responsibilities became my reality? I hope not……PEACE

Once Upon A Ginge




A city boy at heart who loves the urban chaotic

The asphalt pathways and concrete concubines

Where sirens and horns replace the blackbirds at night

I was positive I could never leave that behind

But the lady I cherished asked me to visit her home

Fields dreamed and the beauty in which she’d grown

Where we could be the keepers of each others secrets

Off to nirvana of farmlands last stand

For me a world unknown but grand


The wind tugged lightly on her bright orange curls

Sweet smelling wind pressed close the polka dot dress

Outlining her form and betraying salacious intention

A fiery red silhouette against the waning prism of day

Waiting for evening to lock tight the bright door of sunshine

Obscuring the once vibrant fields of yellow green and black

The towering sunflowers bowed their heads good night

Allowing the dark sky to light up unto a diamond landscape

Lust beckoned in the Kansas field

Two lovers both prepared to yield


Cicadas sang cricket love songs to the distant horizon

Tongues tangoed furious an erotic passion dance

The still night air was soaked in aphrodisia essence

Arms legs and torso’s in a desperate search of belonging

The ground trembling and writhing with reckless abandon

Where we clutched tight a duet of burning desires

An explosive vortex shrieked shattering the glass moonlight

A cantata of emotions led a orchestra of sizzling emotion

Satisfying of our carnal hunger

Brought us to a peaceful slumber





In morning the solar king held golden specters of light

Above grains of our love reaching up to the heavens

Creating Waves of wheat, corn , and tall shining reeds

And a carpet of green for lovers to frolic and stroll

We tip-toed the sharp blades of grass whistling a tune

One lasting song hummed in a lifetime serenade

The grandeur of serene bliss in this captivating pasture

Far from the garden iron barriers of urban decay

Passions equaled and skilled

Two lovers hopes fulfilled


But it seems nothing lasts

So time passed

An old cliché that may seem contrite


She turned left

And I turned right

Yet saving our brief magical connection

Is out of sight









Like A Bat Out Of Hell Part 1

bat 1




I’m Coming Home I’ve Done My Time

J.T. Hilltop

I woke up feeling good as I looked over at my thirty scratches on the jail cell wall. Each day I made a new scratch. It was my countdown to freedom. They don’t supply you with calendars in jail so I had to keep track like some sundial making ancient Roman or something. My cell wall calculations were my oracle and they foretold that its time for “Yankee Boy” the now infamous New York jailbird in some South Carolina Correctional Facility to get out of this hellhole and back to….. Well I‘m not sure where I’m going yet but believe this my brothers and sisters anywhere is better than jail. I was ready to breath free air once again. I was finished with my 30 day stint for driving with a suspended license. Yea I know, major crimes division was all over me but the truth is they locked me up for that because they couldn’t make the marry-wanna charge stick and they had no real proof that it was me using a garden hose as a credit card for gasoline. Thirty days may not seem like much to you but when you can’t go anywhere, get feed cold instant shit grits four days a week, fill up on some bitter spinachy thing called turnip greens, and the highlight of your day is watching some dudes argue over the game of checkers it feels like forever. Not to mention it takes less than a week to lose your identity and fill yourself with a nagging sense of hopelessness. Besides all that thirty days without even seeing a female was torture for a 20 year old with hormonal overdrive syndrome.

So it’s time to alert the friendly guards so they can escort me to freedom. I was feeling a little bit New York cocky so I addressed my jailors in terms they are not especially fond of, “Yo turnkey! Hey oh, today is day 31, I’m supposed to be getting out of here!” My words echoed off the jail cell bars so I tried again. “Hey! Oh! I did my time I want to get out of here!” Maybe yelling louder will help. “HEY COUNTRY BOY I WANT TO GO HOME!” But no guards came by and even if they did they would probably just stare at me with utter disgust and distain, the one thing they’re real good at. It was beginning to feel hopeless, like I was destined to be my own Lifetime TV movie about a young hippie who gets locked up in a South Carolina prison for thirty days then ends up doing a life sentence in a prison run by sadistic cops. The other prisoners, most of which have never even seen me but were happy to trade insults with me all the time, had a sudden change of heart towards me. Insults and trash talk were really just bullshit, spoken to sorta brighten up the day but when the cops fuck with one of us? Man they fuck with all of us. Nothing like a little injustice from authorities to break down barriers creating a bond between the oppressed. Someone else started yelling on my behalf, “Yo, let Yankee Boy out.” Another voice repeated the phrase and then another. Before long it was an out and out chant of a brotherhood of wrongly incarcerated inmates enjoying any opportunity to piss of the guards. An ear shattering chorus of “Let the Yankee go!! Let the Yankee go!!” now shook the iron bars.

A loud clanging of a billyclub on those prison bars brought a momentary silence, long enough for a guard to raise his voice. “HEY! Alla y’all better shut the hell up right now! I ain’t hearin no shit from y’all today the Braves is playin’. Y’all bess shut up right here and right now! Whicha Y’all started this mess and done ruined my game anyhow?” Just my luck, my old pal Billy boy, always ready to rumble with a man in handcuffs anytime of the day and a big fan of kicking Yankee ass. Fuck it come hell or high water I’m gettin outta this shithole, “Me, I started it officer Billy. Your favorite long hair Yankee. I done finished my time and I want outta here now!” Billy walked up to do what he does best. He stared me down for a few seconds then spoke in his own special brand of condescension, “Now listen here Yankee boy, if’n its time to kick yaw stinkin’ long haired ass out this jail I be happier an a pig in a New Yoke City shit puddle but I ain’t no judge or no record keeper boy. So you bess shut your mouth now an let me get back at mah game. I’ll check with the warden bout your time you can believe that. Tell ya what now boy, if’n you done ruin my baseball game fir no reason I’m likely ta kick yaw ass alla way to hell boy! So yawl better be right quiet till then son.” His dissertation contained the usual amount of greasy spit flying off his unruly thick mustache. That vile saliva always seems to accompany his attempts at proper use of the English language. I wiped my face, “Listen here turnkey, I been counting every day here and the judge done give me thirty day and its been thirty day. Great day in the morning how much longer I needa stay here? I wanna git outta here.” Jesus shit only been there thirty days but I’m starting to talk like him.

I stood at the bars waiting patiently for Billy boy to return but he didn’t come back for over an hour. When he finally did come he walked up to me smiling, “Seems ain’t no one here today can look up to check yer story boy. Now lookie here, heres what we gonna do, yew done gun shut yer trap an get on back to yer little home there ith alla the other law breakers here and I’ll leave a note ta have em check it out first thing come morning.” To make sure I understood he put one end of the Billy club between the bars pointed at my chest and slammed it right into my diaphragm causing me to gasp. The pain was a not so gentle reminder of how mean an sadistic he could be, especially with people in no position to fight back. He smiled triumphantly, gave me a sarcastic “Y’all have a nice day” and walked away loudly lecturing the lot of us on keeping quiet so he could enjoy the game. The rest of the inmates started calling the guards names and offering words of comfort to me. I’d gone from dumb shit dirty Yankee asshole to a prison guard whipping boy martyr which, sad to say, wasn‘t much of an upgrade.

I paced my cell. Two steps at a time as that was all the pacing room I had. The minutes passed even slower than a watched pot. Dinner came and then lights out squashing all my protests in vain. I was here until tomorrow. My living quarter was tiny cell with all the amenities literally at my fingertips and once lights went out we had our nightly talk session, where we offer each others therapists help for the criminally insane. I remained silent because I was afraid my voice would crack and betray the fact that tears had welled up in my eyes. The inmates in my neighborhood tried unsuccessfully to cheer me up as I lay in silence. They finally tired. I fell asleep and dreamed about the beach.





Chained by your own apathy

Eyes blinded by the glare

You tell me you’re free and wonder why I stare

Back aching from the weight

Freedom taking a toll

Carrying crystals of your embittered soul

From the shadows of freedom

Hold them to the light they still won’t shine



But what is freedom anyway

Absence of care and grief

Choosing your belief

Monetary relief

My freedom is not the same as yours

My freedom is of the mind

To think free of my own design

Not your kind

Your tunnel vision causes derision

But its your decision, you’re free



My freedom can’t be won in war

Fought in the mud and paid in blood

You fear me because I empathize

I’m counter to your clockwise

I don’t fit into your expectations

I’m abstract thought creations

So just let me be

Nothing is truly free

No one is truly free

Except in your mind if you want to be





Who Am I Now

who p


Modern beat poetry incorporating a Dylan Thomas technique

And giving Props to On The Waterfront and Palooka-ville


Who Am I Now



Who am I now

What have I become

Every button undone

Unfinished and diminished

A life on the run

Am I not still my mothers son?

She drew me a map to Wall Street

But I got turned around

Jumped on the fastest one way

Headed straight out of that town

I was gonna be someone

I was gonna be a man

She gave me her best directions

But I still turned and ran

I don’t care I love her

But she pushed me under

Its not that I’m trying to offend her but

I coulda been a contender

Instead of a bum

Which is what’s become


Who am I now




Who am I now

What have I turned into

Vacant and complacent

The highs I just keep chasing

Became a loser and a boozer

Always cruising for a bruising

A substance abuser who screwed her

And wouldn’t renew her

An epic fail falling off the rail

Looking for someone to pay my bail

I may look like I made it but

Oh my Gawd

There’s nothing left standing when

You tear down my façade

No more lightning rod

You don’t understand

I coulda had class

I could been somebody

I could taken my shot

Instead I got laughed at

A lot


Who am I now


A Face From The Ancient Gallery




(Inspired by a Welsh poet who refused to go gentle into that good night)


I was King of the evening

Time was my mistress

So many darkness’s ago

Life beckoned my call

I was the survivor forever

Fortunate dreamer

Age clutched me close to her breast

A pillow of confidence

Embraced me in endlessness

Swimming side by side

A vast ocean of pleasures

Drifting in her grace

Filling my vessel

Warm compassionate smiles

And enough comfort to keep me asleep

As she whispered promises

So many promises

Whispered dreams

So many dreams

Visions of greatness and grandeur

Oh the potential of those reveries

Dreams she only leased me

Mine to pay back


Endowed with dominion over the night

Writhing in the passion filled light

In darkness of nights

When my world needed observing

She shone her light across my obscurity

Her torch to my ear

She whispered close

“Dreams yet to come will burst with elation

Don’t rush past them in your haste my love

Live inside them and breathe deep

The brass spiral is yours for the climbing

And the world yours to embrace

While you keep your dream alive”



Time held my hand close to her heart

Laid my head on her shoulder

Tenderly caressing my soul

Her hair smelled of sweet promise

Of vows once confided

She murmured into my core

My prophecy is a life of bliss

With condition

Embrace them together

But heed this warning my love

Do not close your eyes or blink

Never let your lamp grow dim

You may also miss precious moments

She looked past me into the horizon

Eyes hinting of sadness

Sorrows of mine yet to come

Foretelling misfortune

Our eyes once met in an embrace

Together we shared a teardrop

And a moment

A precious moment


Time is a calculating prophet

I wish I had paid closer attention

My prophecy I was bound to fulfill

Blindly I continued chasing the air

Sunrises and sunsets came and then left

Leaving me lonely and tired of eye

Until her prophecy emerged full

I shut my eyes too tightly to see

For only one brief second

Moments morphed into memories

Both time and I grew older of age

As time got more distant she added some pounds

Placed the weight of the world on our backs

Stripped me my carefree title of midnights

Made me slave of my own 9 to 5

Stresses of lifetimes pulling me down

Gravitationally held in a rut

My dreams collided confused

Love or success?


Please I begged her spare me the onus

No longer can I bear the demand

I was offered beverage of self confident stupor

To lighten the load of spiritual bricks

Took more than my share

Far too many times

Filled my lungs with wisps of contentment and joy

Laughing my way past my life

In constant search

Found euphoric fulfillment in carnal release

Seeking out intimate solace

Passions moaned softly under silken enticements

Blissfully groaning in tandem with love

In the midst of salacious confusion

Of blind indulgence I blinked once again

It was gone




I stood still as my dream ran right past me

Forgotten moments tucked under its arm

My eyes became heavy with lost opportunity

Too much weight for my tear ducts to bear

Dejected I blinked once again

In an instant I was again abandoned

Leaving me alone to negotiate the forest ferocious

Void of strength to fight

Unable to flee

Unwilling to enter the brawl

No longer able to face the dangers I once braved

Behind me trailed ashes of my yesterdays

Billowing smoke of pale ghost dreams

Time left me for another

I’m old enough to care now

But I’m too tired to cry


A face from the ancient gallery sang her plea

“Why must it take so long,” she inquired

“Why must it take so long?”

Time blinked

Confused by her query

Once more she offered dreary supplication

As we waded in my teardrops she spoke

“Why must it take so God damn long to die?”

Time held me tender caressing my head

“Close your eyes my love, and let me hold you a while ”

She sang a song so soft and sweet

A warm embrace

Her lullaby was like a dream

So I slept



Happy Mothers Day Mom

We All Live In A Yellow Petri Dish



J.T. Hilltop

There are those among us that believe that we ourselves are the ultimate creations, the single most important things in the entire universe. No, not Trump, I’m talking about the science deniers and reverently religious zealots who still insist that the universe is finite and was created by the one and only true creator, theirs. The ones that say earth is only 6,000 years old and science is pure bovine defecation. Taking into consideration that when the world was created calculators were still a ways off, not to mention that the length of a day was our creation not Gods I have to disagree. A day could have lasted a million of our years or a millisecond of time, who‘s to say. Still many insist scientists have it wrong and deny that their religious texts are open to interpretation, that it should all taken literal. (or at least until the literal doesn’t agree with their perceptions) They believe not only are we the most intelligent but we are also the chosen species. Bad news my zealot friends, the truth is we are but small specks of a bacterium culture in a Petri dish being studied under a microscope. Much like the bacterial sight of worms and assorted squiggly things we viewed in biology labs in high school. Perhaps we haven’t even been discovered yet by the scientists/creators studying us. We are merely part of a quantum theory to those viewing universal growth in a dish. To them the bacteria we observe microscopically is still a hypothesis and they are searching for the Higgs Bosen or God particle of humanity. Which in reality once they find this sub atomic particle is nothing more than our very own discovery of staphylococcus. Get it? Well don’t, it’s a bitch to get rid of. But anyway that essentially makes us pathogens to these humongous scientific creatures who have us in their labs in a Petri dish. Confused? Okay, a little perspective.

Physicists today have gone way beyond big bang theory into string, quantum, multi dimensional, and multi-universal thought. Most believe there is not just one universe we can’t even seem to find the end of or that keeps expanding but perhaps there are two or more, maybe an infinite number of universes. We can only see what’s in our own “observable” universe so how can we possibly have enough arrogance to claim there is nothing else but our universe? Personally I think instead of just exploring all over the universe trying to find the end one of us should just stop and ask directions. Unfortunately that would involve admitting we are not the smartest species in this universe. Earth is just one spinning orb filled with various forms of life perhaps totally different from any of the millions of other types of living matter out there in the deep recess of space. At any rate, its my belief that our universe is situated in a huge sort of culture dish in a ginourmous scientific lab that makes the large Hadron Collider in CERN seem like a waterpark. Think of our world being observed like a tiny little ant farm. But one being viewed from the moon. Not our moon, Io, one of Jupiter’s moons.

The truth is our universe does have limits in the way of a spherical finite dish with a circumference as its boundaries. Sure it can grow like bacteria grows but even with logarithmic growth spurts it will eventually hit the rim of the dish and be forced to stop. Our seemingly never ending universe is a live active culture in large round dish known as Experiment#541728226, and it is stored along with hundreds upon hundreds of other universe dishes all containing planets, solar systems, galaxies, quasars, black holes, pulsars and super novas. Or as the multiverse creator/scientists call it, Cosmic Bacterium. To us, our planet has a multitude of different species including humans, but to the Cosmic Scientist we are merely an organic growth in a dish. Its an experiment and we are what they call micro-humanoid genatlium, a parasitic bacteria they discovered on the hairs of the genitals of a species from their world similar to our primates. Kinda like gorilla ball hair bacteria, simian salmonella if you will.

Now I know this all sounds a bit far fetched, like maybe a chapter from an L Ron Hubbard or Michael Creighton story but when you really think about it its not much different than many of the wacko tales of some of our more creative or devolved religions around our own world. Aside from the obvious out there accounts burning bushes, floating zoo’s, talking donkeys, plague bringers, salt pillar people, and river parters of the more common sort we have one religion created by a sci-fi writer that involves alien infiltration. Then we have the not so mainstream or well known religions like ones that focus on magic spells, UFO’s, cosmic light people, and even a church of euthanasia, which promotes cannibalism, suicide, and sodomy. The Seven Deadly Sin Day Adventists. And that’s not even the most bizarre. There is a group of people whose religious belief is that the illuminati impregnated a women with Satan’s sperm and delivered the baby antichrist They also believe that Nicola Tesla was originally from Venus and that we are conducting cloning experiments on Mars. Now I ask you, is a universe that’s a petri dish in a cosmic laboratory really all that out there in this perspective?

I mean really, compare my theory to creation theorist that include leaders who convince their followers to drink poison Kool aid, commit mass suicide to transport their souls to a spaceship chasing the comet Hale Bop, allowed themselves to be killed while locked in a building with their families? How about a theory that the creator of life came from a big boat on a planet orbiting the star Sirius. I’m serious, Sirius! I’m not saying religion is wrong, or bad, but why can’t my theory be as viable as the others?

Shit, by comparison my theory sounds almost plausible, or perhaps even sane! Hell, maybe it is sane, maybe I’m on to something. Perhaps the end of the world as we know it won’t be so spectacular, perhaps our world will end when the scientist in charge of experiment 541728226 gets frustrated at their progress and dumps the entire universe down a galactic drainpipe. Or maybe I watch too much Doctor Who and enjoyed too much mind benders back in the day, but then again hey……Ya never know, I could be on to something. The TARDISites of Gallifrey….I’d follow depending on what sna


Inner Psychopath




They laugh at me


I can feel their eyes

So much distain

Where does it come from

They don’t even realize

That in killing my spirit

They’re releasing

My inside hate

Ripping off my skin

Peeling away my face

Tearing down

My wall of esteem

Their words are burned

Under my skin

Scoffing at my reality

Karmic retribution

Is coming

From my inner psychopath




Is that what they want

To set free the evil

Churning inside me

Anger boiling over

Scorching their world

Then bring it on

I want the feel

Of warm blood

I want to taste

Life exiting

Breath stopping

Pain flow

I want them to know

Why they suffer

Why they cry

I will wipe that smug chuckle

Into the dirt

Let them burn


Its their turn

Feel the wrath of

The inner psychopath





I could set him free

Let his havoc fly

Destroy the destroyer

Relieve paranoia

Instead I return

To my tedious world

Meek existence

Just another grain

Of sand on the beach

Another drop

Of brimstone rain


Venn diagram of a life

Never intersecting

Sentenced to life

With my inner psychopath