Losing My Way

Today is an experiment in phrasing. Recently I had my biggest success in a blog, which I believe was due to the title alone, so to verify my conclusion I will put the same word in the title of this entry as well. I will also endeavor to make it more entertaining, since the record setting post was rather gloomy. It had started out uninhibited, to the point of being unhinged, but against my policy, I changed everything about the post, taking out all the references to putting a cock in my mouth, and the brief mention of getting my ass fucked. Why I did that was wrong, because this blog is meant to be totally free and honest, and I feel so ahamed for having done that. So what if sometimes I get all excited for a man to get his hands on me and make me do whatever he desires so muchthatIlosealltrackofpunctuation.whycarewhenthere'sanicecockgoinginmymouthandIsuckandsuckandsuckandthenhesaystimeto FUCKYOUHARDOYESFUCKFUCKFUCKME!!!!!!!!!!!! wHY SHOULD i BE ASHAMED OF THAT? I shouldn't be

I am used to having no readers for my blog, so imagine how I felt the other day when I saw the other day that 18 people checked out one of my entries. It was the 12/26 entry entitled 'Queer' and I was stunned. 3 had been the biggest showing thus far, and that was months ago. Why did I get such a huge response? I'm guessing it was the tile: someone it must have gotten in a search engine, and with millions of homos out there, 18 came to my site, but I fear they left disappointed. It was only a brief, somewhat depressing paragraph, followed by a brief, even more depressing poem, which I think may form the basis for a somewhat longer, even more depressing song. The results make me ponder whether I should put queer into the titles of all my blog posts, since 18 was so much more than the usual zero. I wish the readers had taken time to read what else I offered, but, alas no, no other entry was looked at. Too bad, because some of them might have liked it, especially since I wri

I am unaware of anything in my neighborhood that I would describs as awesome. It's a grim urban environment, but I like it, though I hesitate to call anything awesome in that area. I reserve that word for truly majestic parts of nature, so I would hesitate to call anything in Minnesota awesome. There are no mighty mountains, and the Mississippi doesn't truly become awesome for another 1000 miles or more. At best, Minnesota has many fabulous aspects; fabulous is pretty damn good, I think. Fabulous sounds kind of gay but I don't care. It's time I got over such minor hangups. Still, I never want to overuse a word like awesome, since the word is meant to describe sights that take one's breath away, not what someone ate or their favorite TV show. I don't mind not living in an area that's not awesome at all, because it's very comforting to be merely fabulous. For example, volcanoes are only found in majestic mountains, which are the epitome of awesome, and i

Today, an app where I had over $29,000 in winnings for PayPal totally wiped out every single penny that I had won. The email they had left to contact them at turned out to be phony. Therefore, I think Google should have to pay me, since the company enables this outright fraud. Tomorrow I intend to find a lawyer to take them on. Their disclaimer that they are not responsible for the conduct of these apps, I believe, is as phony as all of those apps are.

I am queer and I want to love someone more than I hate myself. Homelessness doesn't help the situation any, and no one wants anything to do with me, aside from idle chatter and maybe throwing me a few dollars from time to time. It's been months since I spent more than an hour with another human being. This post started as insane erotica, but I edited all that out for this pathetic lament. Was that a wise choice? What else can I say to fool myself?/ There must be something I can say/ to make me want to live/ to make me want to care/ to make me think/ that I still have a chance

I remember Jesus well. Always talking about peace and love. To modern ears, it sounds very nice, but back then I would just shake my head and tell him, "Ya gotta lay off that peace and love shit, dude. You're gonna piss off the bigwigs because hate and war is where they get their riches. Peace and love ain't worth a dime." As we all know, he didn't listen to me, and sure enough, he got his ass crucified. People paid him lip service over the next couple of millenia, but nothing really changed: war and hate still ruled the world, and the banks were filled with great treasures from all the blood that was shed. The billions spent on armaments tells me that nothing has changed, except the fact that Jesus and his words of love became another reason to kill.

I awoke the next day to a knock on the door. Whoever it was, I didn't care. "Enter," I shouted. It was Guido. "I wake you," he said, looking sad about his intrusion. "Forget about it," I told him. "I should get up anyway." I didn't move a muscle, though, other than my mouth; if I didn't have to get up, I could think of no reason why I should. I wasn't so lucky, though. "The doctor wants to see you," Guido said. I stretched as I sat up. "How wonderful," I said, then I yawned. "Tell him to hurry." Guido looked confused, then he chuckled. "No, no, no, it is you who will hurry," he said, so I stood up. I slept with my clothes on last night, so I just had to put my shoes on, and we were off. We went to the same office where I saw the doctor a few days ago, and Guido told me to go in. "The doctor will be here soon." I thanked Guido and smiled, and I watched him walk away, adm

Where do we start to describe/ all that has gone wrong?/ Was it on the dark streets/ a man wanders alone?/ Could it have been the empty hearts/ he knew in a place he called home?// I knew someone like that once. I see him in the mirror occasionally. He stares back at me with haunted eyes, no words coming from his lips, though he tries to put the torment into words. He really tries, but he can't. Each thought he chokes on, until I begin to fear the effort will kill him. The next time I see him, the effort is renewed: he has to connect to the world, but there is no way he can. I cry to see him suffer, but there's no way I can help him; I wouldn't know where to begin. He is lost, and I have to turn away before I am sucked into his pain, and I lose what little is left of me. I know I could have done more.

A waiter at the Green Mill gave me a $25 gift card for his restaurant today as I left. I was fumbling in the vestibule, getting my coat zipped up, when he came to me with the card. I was touched. If I had been ready to leave when I left, I wouldn't have gotten anything. Besides my sister's CHristmas gifts, I also got a free mug for coffee at the Speedway from the manager, because he noticed I was always bringing in the same cup from the day before and the day before that. So many people look down on me, and here I am treated kindly by people who have no reason to do a thing for me. I will have to keep that in mind when Christmas comes and I have nowhere to go. So where will I go?

I had to fight a few unsocial impulses today. I did mutter some comments, but there was no yelling or slapping anyone in the back of the head. Perhaps I don't deserve a medal for that, but the strength it took to do that was heroic nonetheless. I feel I'm being swallowed alive, my depression sucking me into its gaping maw, and there is no one who will reach out to me. I wrote a song about not caring how much people hate me, but the contempt of all the little people starts to hurt after awhile. The only lifeline I have at this time are the immortal lines of Henry Rollins, 'Rise above', words that I should never forget. Right now, I'm listening to Prokofiev's Second Symphony, a piece I save for moments of extreme psychic trauma, such as what I am feeling right now. There's something about it that just sets me straight, and I should probably listen to it constantly, but then I would be afraid it would lose its power, like taking hallucinogenics everyday re

No one wants me around, so I choose to go wherever I want and say to Hell with everyone I meet. I don't say it out loud, but it's implied by my prescence in the company of good people. There are lots of good people out there, but too many of them aren't as good as they think they are.

I actually know what I intend to play at my open stage tonight. Of course, part of what I will play I'm going to improvise, but I have a clear eye on the starting line. It's too bad that there is a time limit, because once I hit the stage I don't want to leave, since I usually feel bad once the endorphins wear off. It's like my depression is in the audience, and he wants me to sit on his lap after my set. I can't say no, for we've been together for so long. I sneak out for a smoke and think about leaving, but my carrying bag is inside so I have to go back in. He nods his head towards it when I return. "Maybe you should write that depressing song that's been tumbling around in your brain tonight," he suggests, and I probably should, since I've pretty much just written my blog lately, which is just a form of improvisation all its own. That probably explains how I can go from saving the world to having my clothes ripped off by some stud, throw

Today I was shown great kindness by my sister Kathleen, and I was delighted by it so much it depressed me. I got out of it quickly, but the reaction was troubling. Maybe it was just basic physics. I am sick inside, though, that's plain to see. And the cure? It seems to be a chronic condition, something that I must hide just so I can still be amused by the deplorable conditions I find myself in. How wonderful that I am a great actor, so I can hide my insecurity and deep problems, but then again, I might've been better off if I was openly an emotional wreck, because then someone might've reached out to help me instead of just passing by without a second thought. A few times I've been asked if I needed help, but I always said, "Don't worry about me...I'll be fine," or words to that effect. My brother George never had ay problem expressing himself, but then he was one of the sane members of the family. Undiagnosed mental problems aren't as much fun a

My brother Peter would've been 59 today. He died in 1994. He was coming home from his lady's place and fell asleep at the wheel, and got smacked by an oncoming vehicle. I still miss him a great deal. I remember one day, roughly 30 years ago, I was complaining about something trivial, and he said, "I don't like you very much anymore." I was so shocked to hear that I had to inquire why, and he told me that I was bitching too much. Although I felt my complaint was justified at the time, I realized that negativity wasn't a good thing, and a constant barrage of complaints could only drive people away. For that comment alone, I am forever in his debt. But there was so much more: Peter and I spent a lot of time together; tossing a football; pitching and hitting baseballs; there was so much we did together. It's too bad he sold the drum kit he bought, because he would've been a great drummer. That's something I blame myself for, because I should've

Lately, I have been inviting gay men to read my blog, but they probably don't want to read. People don't read like they used to, whereas I am only beginning to make a habit of reading again. It's a good thing to grab a book and read at the end of the day. It helps to take the mmind away from the little problems, or major catastrophes, one might face. I wish I had put the blog's address in my profile, so now I put it in all my responses to men who want to chat with me. Many of these guys are from other countries, so I wonder what they could want with me. But it doesn't hurt to try to get a plug in. I guess that's an innocent phrase that someone could take the wrong way, if they were so inclined. I guess I'm really hoping to have a lot of homos reading my blog, since friends and family won't read it. Lord knows I made them aware of it, but like I said, people don't like reading, not even bite-size pieces like this. Maybe if I rubbed my crotch as I

The Dark Lord smiles to see me in such pain. "You thought you could find joy in a garbage dump," he says. "Fool yourself all you want...now you know you can't fool me." I shiver at the words. Naked before him, I cower alone. Is that the reson for his power? His laughter echoes at my thought. "You will never have the friends you need, as long as you are in my grasp, and any moments of freedom you have are because I am toying with you, like a cat with a mouse." I go to the open stage I frequent, and play some variations on a song by a famous band on a stand-up piano. I play a song of my own on a borrowed guitar, then I realize my time is up, and he is out in the audience, waiting for me to take my seat. I am safe with the guitar in my hand, but once I put it down I feel the shackles being placed on me. "Good set," he sneers. "I love how you use the pain I give you to make something wonderful. You should thank me for all the torment I

I never thought I could love again/ but I was wrong...I was wrong/ Thought that part of me was gone/ but I was wrong...I was so wrong/ I know I'm certain to go mad/ since she came along// No one's wanted my love before so why would she?/ The only thing I have to give her is me/ No money, no fancy jewels/ all she would get is a fool// That's how I feel. I can still can love a beautiful woman; should I hate myself even more for that?

My great idea for today is to find out where the rich go, and offer myself up to them, in all my pain and misery. "I am here," I will announce, "so that you may prove yourselves worthy in the eyes of The Lord!" Too many rich people feel it is enough to make anonymous donations to charity, so that hundreds of poor fools may get help, but I contend that is not enough. Rich people should also get to know poor fools on a personal basis, fill their PayPal account with healthy sums, invite them out to a nice Italian restaurant, and if possible let them play the baby grand piano, then crash in the mansion. It is a sin of all those richfucks out there that they do not know what day my birthday is, and I must inform them all that God doesn't like that. No, God is not pleased at all with that. "Adore me! Take me from the depths of society and lift me up high so that you may be amazed with the wonder of my creation!" When speaking to the rich, one must make

Although I have written a lot of songs, I would still perform covers. The reason is that a good song is a good song, and if someone has written a good song about something unique, there's really no need for me to write a song about that, especially if it wouldn't be as good as the song I cover. An example of that would be 'Apeman' by the Kinks: it's a very unique song that I never would've thought of, plus it's catchy, and having no solo part, it would be a good change of pace, since most of the songs I would would call for a lot of jamming. That leads to the second reason to cover a song: it provides something to jam to, like many of the blues songs I would choose to cover, for instance, and any song that fades out at the end just screams to have someone finish the song somehow, like with a long improvisation that may, or may not, segue into another song, either mine or someone else's. So, in order of what pops into my head, the songs and the artist

This would have been yesterday's blog, but the entry for December 6th was written on the 4th, and I neglected to post it, until I upgraded my December 5th entry and noticed my mistake. I am certain that no universe destroying paradox has been unleashed, but if such a thing happens soon, I guess I am the one to blame. How ironic. I am usually punctual, but the passage of time means little to me. Its daily attack on my body and mind goes by unnoticed, except when I occasionally see my reflection. The arts I excel at are temporal in nature, fleeting moments never to be recaptured, an illusion I cast that is soon gone. According to Einstein, in my dim recollection of his work, time can be warped, and it is said that if one could travel at the speed of light, it would barely be felt at all. Very interesting. This is what makes me think of time as a force, that brings down great mountains and brings us to our knees. I really have no more to say on the matter, but I know my time to do

She entered the train I was on, carrying music in a purse. At first I was annoyed, but I got over it. The song she played consisted of just a single drum, with a woman singing in some other language, perhaps Ojibwe. She was Native American, so I'm just guessing about what tribe she belonged to. As the music played, she got the biggest smile on her face. When I got off the bus, her eyes were closed, but the smile was even wider. Her state of bliss was so beautiful. Live music is the best way to hear music. It's a shame that the Beatles never performed for an audience after 1966, because their gig on that rooftop in 1969 showed they were very good live. They should have done a tour in 1968: they could start the show with 'Revolution' and follow that with 'Helter Skelter', then 'Dear Prudence' and 'Your Bird Can't Sing'. They end it 'Strawberry Fields Forever' and for an encore, they play a bunch of their old songs. Such a waste tha

Criticizing religion is like shooting fish in a barrel: there's no challenge in it. The worshippers are like the fish, who surely don't like to be shot, just like believers don't like their beliefs challenged. I have no problem with people believing whatever they want to, as long as I don't have to participate, and they don't start fighting over each other's dogma. Why there have been so many wars involving religion is one sign that the Human Race is not that intelligent, and even World War Two was a religious war, for Nazi thought was a religion at its core, and the same can be said for nearly any other ideology one cares to name. Religions have a core belief, a great figure to worship, and a bunch of people to interpret the great figure's thinking for the true believers. It is here that the line between politics and religion gets blurry, and it always has been. Religion is just politicized spirituality, and I think a truly spiritual person doesn't n

I love America, although I must admit that I thoroughly detest most of the people who are running things. Today, I saw the Donald on my computer screen next to Biden, asking the question "Who do you support?" The answer is easy: Biden won, so I have to support him now. He is a fool, and totally bungled the situation in Afghanistan, as well as misjudging what new policies he should put in place, but the fact is that he WON. No matter how stupid I think he is, he is now my President. Sorry, Donald, but you blew the election, and now we're stuck with Old Joe for another 3 years. Until he dies or is defeated, or chooses not to run for re-election, he is our leader. It's a shame that the sanctimonious hypocrites in the Democratic Party did not give Trump that respect when he was our leader, but any true patriot honors the result of the electoral process; otherwise, elections are worthless. That there was eveidence of some shenanigans from Cinton's campaign was a disg

The windows were smashed, the paint peeling. A drunk lay sleeping on the porch as a light snow began to fall. He was barely illuminated by the flickering street lights, but there was no one passing by to notice, much less care. He dreamt of a wife he once had, both together in a place he had never been, and they shared laughter, like they did when they had first met, so many years ago. They sat, on furniture the likes of which he had never owned. A cat, an orange tabby he called Ricardo, jumped into his lap, curled up and fell asleep. He stroked it absent-mindedly as she went to get him a beer. She opened it for him, and he thanked her as she sat next to him. Rodney Dangerfield was on TV, announcing that he was running for President. "Since I never get any respect, I might as well do something where I don't deserve it," Dangerfield said. "He's got my vote," she said, and they both laughed again. Then he woke up. He was aware of the cold, cursed the snow

I saw a broken pane of glass yesterday at the Snelling Avenue Eastbound train station, which has prompted today's blog. Just because we're the land of the free doesn't mean we shouldn't honor a commitment to the public places we share. Whoever broke the glass at the train station was very selfish, and freedom and selfishness do not go together. So many people don't realize that. I know whoever committed that act of destruction will, most likely, never read this opinion, but to do such a thing is horrible. One should always be on their best behavior in public: don't litter, don't break things, etc. What the fool doesn't realize is that he (I will assume the perpetrator was male) destroyed his own property when he did that, and if, in the privacy of your own home, you want to destroy your stuff, then go ahead. But he also destroyed my property as well, along with the property of everyone in Saint Paul, regardless of whether those people take the train or