Tag Archives: depression

Love Denied: The Whole Hole

Abatement of attritions seized,

Long winded encapsulations of flicking fingers,

On keys that respond though not in kind,

Whirling fascinations of presupposed indifferences,

To the untrained eye,

Of I and I and I,

Three parts of self,

Detached from the Id, Ego and Super Ego,

Instead a delicious Freudian dilemma,

Where Pandora’s box opened,

Revealing several demons lurking inside my shadows,

Dark companions,

Those that invite libation,

Yet never liberation,

A secret secreted through ill defined words,

Plentiful though, indeed,

Scattered thoughts,

Manic suppression of fatal tendencies,

Hidden behind cheers of one more,

Uno mas,

Sante’s and Nok’s.

Prolific wanderings,

Wailings and whatevers,

Yet never a might have, could have or should have,

For I rise to challenges epically,

Instead these illuminated bastions,

Of a soul redux,

Cast aspersions of an inimitable kind,

Desperate longings of oft fulfilled dreams,

Set adrift on unsafe mechanisms,

Deities of defense,

My own,

As I and I and I battle for the supremacy of one,

Love,

Almighty love,

That which whilst I bask in the glow of its resplendence doth know,

Unmercifully my deepest and darkest hallucinations,

Bellow for my ultimate demise,

The champions of my decades long search,

Poking, pleading, presenting,

Obstinate objections to my outwardly manifestations,

GONZO,

Simple protestations that I will not go quietly,

Into any night, good nor bad,

To satiate the desires of my imaginary companions.

Here I stand,

On the precipice of something new,

Precisely poised to push past the penultimate pantheon,

Of Black Dogs and empty bottles,

Surpassing the shattering sound of a shotgun blast,

Straight into the den of my own iniquity,

Analyzing antiquated efforts at assumed acquiescence,

Smashing that something not quite right,

Writing it with something not quite wrong,

Too long Poncho to Quixote,

That now I must steady my stead,

Right my resolve,

Resist my resistance,

Futile,

In accepting that the whole hole,

Is not love denied,

But instead love accepted, ascended and awesome,

In transforming the broken emotional I and I and I,

Suicides committed daily,

That I now stand corrected,

I,

I,

And I.

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Human Beings Are Like That

Many people claim to know me,
And yet so few of you have ever understood;

Since the tender age of five,
I have endured, largely in private,
The plague like realities of this ever working mind,
Never resting,
Not for a moment stopping,
As the chemical storm
That is perfected in this warped brain of mine,
Allow for a moment of relief,
Nightly, when I stare at the ceiling;

Deliberating on the pain I have been subjected to,
Smiling as much as possible to mask what was really happening,
As I slipped deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole,
Where there was and is no Carpenter,
There was and for me is a Walrus,
Buddha seemingly calling out to me from the Ether,
Just as Ernest calls me from over my shoulder,
Along with the rest of my delusional posse,
Lost;
Fitzgeralds’, Picasso, Pound, Joyce, Stein, and Toklas,
Useful to be sure,
But nonetheless,
How, at the age of twelve, could you explain?

W O R D S…

My long time salvation,
From an eternal pain that burns in me,
Just as a flame of another,
In a cemetery where fallen men and women,
Patriots all,
Made the ultimate sacrifice for a supposed God,
And a once great country,
A salvation that for me realizes,
I have fallen,
Time and again,
Five, twelve, twenty-one and every two years since then,
Yet somehow endured;
Moreover, coming here; was to be my final release.

W O R D S…

One true sentence Ernest reminds me now…

I left my home and native land,
In my mind,
Chemically stunted by cocktails designed to create robots,
Functionality seemingly more important than vitality,
I left my home and native land,
Proud,
Resolved that I would be as far from my family and friends as possible,
Sheltering them from what I had decided weeks before leaving,
To this land of Elephants, genuine souls that shine,
Communities that thrive on common purpose and effort,
Families that thrive on love and devotion,
I left my home and native land,
To find a place of love,
For my own troubled mind,
Where finally at ease,
I could take my life,
Knowing they would send me off,
As I long to be,
Burned,
Returned to the Universe;

Sparing my family and friends the pain of being near,
Not understanding,
Not knowing,
That every day is a struggle,
Every hour the thought of death stalked me,
Stalks me,
Just as a rabbit a very important date,
I felt late for my own rebirth,
Through a very personal demise,
On my terms,
I left my home and native land,
A date with destiny,
A date with the reaper,
Grim.

The best laid plans of mice and men,
Unraveled before me,
One smile,
Another and another,
Abounding,
Resounding,
Confounding,
As a people with so little,
Could seemingly have so much,
Such wealth that even the richest of you may never know;

A desire to live, not exist, live,
A desire to thrive,
In circumstances many of you reading this will never see,
Let alone be capable of imagining;

The best laid plans of mice and men,
Paved with despair,
That led me so far away from my home and native land,
So I could return triumphant,
Warrior Poet, back home;
That which calls me hourly…

Yet,
I found the universe, the cosmos and the Ether,
(not to mention Ernest)
Calling out to me,
Chosen light,
Protector of mankind,
Engage that smile,
Engage that rage,
That perfect chemical storm,
The power,
That rests inside this mind,
To fight for a new world,
The world I have longed for since Ernest first appeared at five,
Spoken about since I could critically think,
Worked for since I realized that what I was doing,
Was the polar opposite of who I am and what I longed for,
I worked for evil men and evil itself
A truth I could no longer hold,
Let alone the voices that never quieted;

Seeking death,
I found life,
A meaning and a purpose,
That I have long believed will only be realized upon my premature death,
Whether by my hand or that of a bullet;

My soul no longer poisoned by pharmaceutical zombification,
By actions taken, those were intended well,
Were in fact the roads to hell,
But not here,
Not now,
For this has passed,
Due to these people that have freed me,
Saved me,
Embraced me for me,
Treat me like a man,
Seeking to be a better man,
For my heart has never been tarnished,
Only my mind,
Though now free from medicine,
I have found that genuine humanity is my medicine,
I have relief that is more personal in the smile of a child,
Than I ever did from Lithium or the rest.

It is for these reasons,
The comfort I have been granted,
Which few of you would find comfortable at all,
Returned to me my life on my terms,
Returned to me and thus you, my words,
My passion,
My soaring spirit
And a mind free from the tyranny of the poison pills,
That longs to engage humanity,
To help wherever and whenever possible,
To be SENDER,
The one that you have all loved to hate,
And hated to love;

Please understand;
My plea,
My cry,
My devotion to these twelve families,
These human beings,
Who are being left behind,
Understand that without them,
These words,
Would not be written,
My life force would have been gone long ago,
For without them,
There would be,
No more Sender,
And just as there has been a Return to Sender,
Please help me, help them,
To return to a place of safety, a place of comfort,
A place to call home.

We all long for a place to call home!

SDM

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The Translation of Deceit and The Temptation of Desire

Lost in Translation…

Words,

Just words,

Right?

Just words…

Right?

It is commonly understood,

Love,

Is universal,

Felt by all,

Yet is it?

Now I am not so sure,

Me,

The very embodiment of that passionate urge,

The swelling surge,

That is as uncontrollable as the tides or gravity

And impossible to purge;

For here I am,

On wounded knee,

Felled,

Having given all of me,

And willing to give so much more,

Tempted by another’s fruit,

As the story goes,

I was,

Knowing what I was doing was wrong,

Persisting still,

Not knowing that it was to get worse,

As all things forbidden usually do;

Forbidden,

Reassured by your tender words,

The trance like innocence conveyed,

That betrayed the festering truth deep within,

Words,

Those you thought I wanted to hear,

Penetrating so,

Knowing I wanted to hear truth,

Not momentary,

But everlasting,

Convinced that what you held for me was real,

Compounded by those words you said to me,

Mocking temptress,

Vicious villain leaving me caught unaware,

In that moment,

Perhaps you expected me to say something different,

Perhaps hoping I would,

Is that the case?

I guess I’ll never know,

And in light of what has come to light,

I now don’t care.

In love,

You let me float on cloud high,

Nine and silver lined,

Seemingly higher than I have ever been before,

Realizing now the manic apparitions,

When with those words you changed me,

In an instant,

Looking into the future,

And whole lives flashing before my eyes,

My imagination wild with expectancy,

Expectant,

See,

Ripe,

As names resonated through my head,

Through my fingers,

Touching my pursed lips,

Kissing life,

Trying to find the one meaning,

That could somehow compliment what I believed we had,

But did we ever?

No,

Your deception now clear,

Intention however lost,

Despite my over thinking.

Now what I am left to consider,

As my heart cries out,

Like a lone lemming,

In search of family,

The family I believed I was starting,

That you let me believe for too long,

Was going to be real,

Finally,

In love,

A child conceived of love,

But do you know what love is?

As poison dripped from your lips,

Seeping into my veins,

And killing me from within,

For that which I could not be without,

The manipulation of my desires, dreams and aspirations,

The game you play,

Not just on me,

But all.

Do you know what love is?

Truly inside your heart and soul?
Nay, simply the wicked game,

Played by your insecurities,

Those measured imperfections,

Shadows of shadows,

Wherein you hide,

Mata Hari to your own needs,

Momentary,

Stated,

Never satiated,,

By your own despotic evil,

Webs of deception,

As in my hurt,

My eyes wide open,

Availed once more,

Of the piercing screams of my dark companion,

Lifelong,

Depression,

That woeful Black Dog.

Left to understand what you never will,

For love would not do what you have done,

Could not,

Let me feel the way I felt,

Let me believe what I did,

Including as cannon fodder,

Our families both,

A lifetime,

Forever,

A loving girlfriend, wife and mother,

The most wonderful present you offered,

And as a man, I was ready,

To stand up,

Doing whatever necessary,

To support our burgeoning family,

Nothing I would not do,

Nothing,

And I would have been for you.

But no more,

Given the chance,

No more,

Given the chance,

No more shall I beg a fool,

For surely you are,

I was;

All that you wanted and more,

Instead blinded by your own iniquity,

A fanciful insanity,

Delusions,

Not unlike my own,

Though I never had a malicious thought, nor action,

Knowingly,

But for you, I was pawn,

And you were Queen and King,

Making a jester of my thoughts and desires,

Deeper into the burrow of your sham.

All that I am,

Once,

For all of you,

For each other,

For our families,

For our child,

The full spirit of love exposed,

Expressed,

And then repressed,

As now tempered reason,

And lies exposed,

Reveal no burgeoning translation would ever be,

Now,

Wandering lost,

In cultural differences,

Secret life,

Lives,

Yours now reveal,

Very real,

Though now free,

Stinging my broken heart,

Crushing my wounded spirit,

Questions,

Endless,

That will never be answered,

Or will they?

Seemingly the truth has set me free…

Uncertainty brash and deeply hurting,

A fragment of the man I was,

To become the man I will be,

Not for you,

But for a love requited,

True,

Understood beyond the words so meaningless to you,

Hmong Key,

The ‘Key’ indeed, you were,

Words;

Ones never lost,

In translations!

SDM

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Lost Generation (2)


I no longer wish to cradle you in my arms,
For the body electric is gone,
Reminisces of once held soul mate,
That now seeks life on her own,
Knowing that you had to do what you did,
Without knowing why,
Is precisely why I am moving on,
Why I no longer wish the body electric,
With you,
Abandoned at the moment I most needed you,
When you most needed me,
With reckless disregard,
Self loathing and fear,
I now stand as champion of my own soul,
My own advance,
Creating a new body electric,
Fueled by Tesla, Hemingway and more,
Those voices,
They continue to speak to me,
Smack me, jar and jam me,
In ways you never did,
In ways you never could,
They grow louder each day as I grow ever closer,
To the realization of a new love,
A self love,
So that I may again learn to love another,
The one I now believe I see,
My first love and hopefully my last love,
A paradigm shifted,
By all misunderstood,
These words that I caress just as deftly as I had you,
These words that I twist and turn into beautiful elements,
Of a life worth living,
For in now accepting what and who I am,
And what I did and why I had to support you,
I am free to enhance the calling,
I will answer the clarion call of the giants in my mind,
In the pursuit of happiness and love,
In pursuit of Muse,
She, herself,  calls out for me to listen to the Lost Generation,
Though she misunderstands them and perhaps even me,
Transplant myself back to the age I should have been born,
And that I now live daily in my mind,
Paris, 1923
Over in the corner,
Picasso is holding court with a bevy of ladies,
As always,
A few men try to enter the fray and are shunned away,
As always,
By twirling fingers of fantastic delight,
As always…

Gertrude approaches me first,
Entreating me to sit with her for a glass of red wine;
“As you well know Sir, one of the pleasant things those of us who write or paint do is to have the daily miracle. It does come.”
The words fall from her mouth,
As an entrenched philosophy,
An esoteric Ether that empowers me,
But appear like Victoria or Angel falls,
Monumental in that Stein is always right,
Well,
More often than not.
She continues;
“An audience is always warming but it must never be necessary to your work.”
I ask;
“Do you feel I need an audience?”
“Not at all,” she assures me,
“Just remember, that your words are you, you are your words,
and nobody, anywhere, can change that.”
I deeply inhale my Cuban cigar and find myself looking for the familiar,
Calling out for a scotch,
With that, I hear F. Scott off in a corner;
“Have you proven yet that Gatsby is not the greatest character?”
As I approach I can hear him laughing;
“Surely you are a greater character than Jay?”
“Frankly,” I reply,
“I am not from any Egg, east nor west, but I am certain that Jay is still the greatest…”

F. Scott scoffs at me as a mother a child,
Scolding me for something I have done something in err,
As far as I remember is human, no?

“What is wrong with you boy, it’s up to you, write.”
Pensively I stare into the void between F. Scott and my face,
“You don’t believe it is that easy?”
“Well we’ll never know until you write it will we?”
I nod my head partially frightened but truly elated,
“The world only exists in your eyes.
You can make it as big or as small as you want.”
He says kindly,
“Create the world you want to create and make it BIG…”
F. Scott clearly enjoying his treatise goes on;
“An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation,
the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.”
I fire back without hesitation;
“But I am not in my youth anymore…”
He angrily interrupts;
“Son, you are a writer, you are in your youth evermore.”

Apparently Zelda had had quite enough and as many times before,
As always before,
Takes me by the hand and leads me to an empty space,
Invisible pheromones clashing,
As Muse reenters my mind,
No music is playing except for the soft rush of wind,
Against the storied cobblestones of Paris’ Left Bank;
“He is right you,” she says,
“About?” I inquire.
“His advice to you, is right on.
You are youthful, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Zelda” I say, “Are you hitting on me?”
She replies; “No, well maybe,
yet, have you looked in the mirror?
I have seen twenty year olds that don’t have the baby face you do
and what’s more Jay may, or may not be, the greatest character,
but you have it in you to write that character and the time is now.
What are you waiting for?”

Together we swayed back and forth,
Not as lovers dancing more like a father with his daughter bride,
And Zelda started to hum,
Knowing something was coming I steadied my nerves,
For when she hums,
Zelda hums,
As the Ether beckons,
“Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise,
erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions,
fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions
and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes. ”
She twirls me gently;
“No sour grapes Sender, live, live, live.”
As I reach the pinnacle of the twirl she releases me…

So I drift over to T.S. who sits pensively;
“You come to us, daily,
or rather it is we who come to you,
we know you are searching,
you know you are searching but I wonder…
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out
how far one can go.
How far are you willing to go my boy?”

The voices in my head determined today to make me think,
As always,
Forcing me into intellectual corners that I’d rather not be in,
Boxed,
“As far as is necessary,” I assure him, “further if possible.”
“You look stunned young man…
the best advice I can ever give you consists in this…
If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.
Be poignant. Be selective. Be you and write.”

The sun had long since set,
Paris revealing that majestic splendor of its thousands year old history,
With deafening shadows and perfumed stains of life,
This was the Paris we all loved,
The Paris we lived for,
The Paris that always exists in our minds,
As we all stood there in a faith shaking silence,
Our talent, ability and joie de vive,
We knew it could not last,
But we would fight,
To the death,
Refusing to grow up,
While trying not to get old,
Though our words may live forever,
We know,
We shall not.

NON OMNIS MORIAR…

With a telling glance and a tip of my cap I walk away,
Over to my literary father,
Hemingway with a slap on my back and a firm grip of my hand,
Looked on with child like wonder,
At the sight of Paris on this most perfect Summer dusk,
“Sender, you realize we won’t always be here?”
I laughed,
As I wondered how a figment of my overworked mind could express,
That he knew better than I,
As always,
How long they would or would not be there;
As always,
“I assure you Ernest, you will always be with me…”
“Not as now…and that is why you must know…
We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
I was a failure and so too will you be,
if you can’t finally unleash the  fuming literary beast inside you.”

He continued;
“Every man’s life ends the same way.
It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another. How are you going to live your life?
How are you going to distinguish yourself?”
He repeated this line over and over,
As always
For what seemed like hours,
And Paris slowly transformed into Laos,
And I am brought back to this place and time,
So that I can finally distinguish,
Myself.

The voices,
These voices,
Those sing the praises of a life worth living,
Are my daily reminder,
My daily escape,
And my daily reminder,
That we are all put on this earth to do something,
Not just anything,
Something,
Whether to paint, write, sing, dance, whatever it may be,
And should we refuse to answer that calling,
Our lives,
Will be less than they should be,
Love, Family and the words,
The voices of the Lost Generation,
Are my clarion calls to a brilliant masterpiece,
And I don’t know what I would do without them,
Save,
That I am sure I would go mad.

SDM

Lost Generation (1)

https://senderupwords.wordpress.com/2013/10/09/lost-generation-found-love/

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Lost Generation (Found Love?)

  

If I could cradle you again in my arms,

Like these past weekend,

A lifetime shared in beautiful moments,

Collected,

Feel the body electric between us,

Soul mates now advance,

Or is it depart,

Apart yet together,

Knowing that you feel you have to to do what you’re doing,

Without knowing why,

And refusing to see the truth

I too must now move on,

Progress to the conviction,

That it is no contradiction,

That this can be,

Sing my own body electric,

For you,

For the rest of the world to see,

Let the voices in my head,

And the Ether,

The giants of my craft,

Use me as their conduit that I may produce,

My epic,

These stories,

Unearth for the world,

The universe,

The truths of these demons,

Those come dressed to me in tuxedos and ball gowns,

Entreating me to dance the love hypnotic,

Can you be hypnotized,

Captivated,

Enraptured in these emotions rare,

A virtual green fairy, produced,

Inside my own mind,

Expose that my calling once ignored,

Save for the women of my Muse delight,

Is now the central feature of a life lived?

Am I now complete?
Not without you!

In the pursuit of happiness and love,

For others,

Without acknowledging what I need,

Thinking of the Lost Generation,
Living with them,

Drinking, eating and partying,

My delusions,

I can feel Zelda’s breath on my neck,

As she whispers sweet everything’s in my ear,

As I wish you would, and have,

I can hear Pablo as he twirls his fingers,

Explaining the abstract,

To those that will never get it,

But he will get them,

He persists,

Determined little bastard,

Note to self;

Become a determined little bastard,

Gertrude takes me by the hand,

Walks me to the Seine,

Waves her arms dramatically and says;

“This is the river of your discontent;

Let it ebb and flow,

As true as the words you write,

And you will find,

Find you will,

The answers that you seek,”

 

In the corner F. Scott and Ernest are laughing,

Drawing me near,

With their alcohol blemished wisdom,

Just as my own,

The sage like discord you’d expect from giants,

Of personality, spirit, mind and life itself,

Ernest in earnest,

Says to me;

“Go on Son, the world is your oyster;

It is time for you to find a pearl,

A pearl you must,

Travel far and wide,

Inside your mind and in the world,

Find your voice,

Your voice,”

F. Scott scoffs;

“My boy,

It is time for you,

Time for only you,

Live gloriously,

Fabulously,

Relentlessly,

Find your inner playboy,

And reveal to me that Jay is not the greatest character,

Reveal to me that you are the chosen light,

Reveal it to the world,

They are waiting.”

In unison they declare;

“She is waiting for you… you just need to find her.”

So I smirk,

As I realize that my joy,

Is in these words,

My love is in these words,

Abundant and without end,

Just as my love has always been for you,

Proverbial and literal.

As F. Scott finishes Pound rounds the corner,

Slaps me on the back and says;

“Wisdom they impart,

Is only that, which you may find,

Your fingers dance,

Your mind is a beautiful tangled and intertwined tango,

Easy for you,

Now you must find your flamenco,

Do with these words,

What you will,

Go wise young man;

For you are one of us,

Truly.”

With that,

I am brought back to this world,

To this time,

The present,

Where I must find my way,

Find my way,

To excellence,

Personal greatness,

Where I can find you,

Literal,

That we may both shine,

Basking in the glory of love,

Of life,

Of uncertainty,

And find that I may triumph,

In spite of my black dog,

The curse of depression,

Repressed,

By you, for you, with you,

If you’d let me,

What if man never dreamed of the stars?

Never dreamed of flight?
Of going under the sea?

Of being a family man,

With love and a true life,

What more matters?

To wit,

We all raise and glass and say;

“LIVE…”

SDM

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Amorphophallus Titanium

Avenging my own unrelenting despair,

I and I,

And I,

In the same moment of space and time,

Dimensionally confused, refused, abused

And consumed,

Looking on myself from the outside,

As you see me,

Though none of you really can nor do,

Purging toxic stress,

Leaving me rattled and shaken,

The physics of my despair containing the meaning of life,

Yet I know,

Each day… survival is the name of the game,

Though soon I will,
Thrive,

As Muse will guide the way.

 

Presupposing that I was meant,

To feel this pain and suffering,

That it was mine by birthright,

Divine majesty of terrific torture,

This Black Dog screams,

Not knowing what is in store,

Though knowing that it involves words,

Words from you,

Those propel me on,

Pushing me from my own unrelenting struggle,

Pulling me to an awaiting greatness,

Pulling me ever closer,

Through the laws of motion,

To you,

Muse,

Who will set me free.

 

These words,

To you, may seem nothing more,

Than something which defines life,

But to me,

A word is power,

An unnerving power that jangles my cage,

And causes,

Sobering thoughts,

Plagued by a mind that never stops,

Both blessing and curse,

Hiding behind a well rehearsed smile,

And a thin veneer of extroverted exuberance,

That so few of you can see.

 

Introspective,

And reclusive,

Most nights,

I sit in the darkness,

Pondering a world I’ve left behind,

Gladly, as it surely would have killed me,

And a new world,

Unfurling right before my eyes,

Daily,

Reminding me that this struggle,

It is the joyful transition that makes me me,

I and I and I aware,

Like,

Amorphophallus titanium,

Ravishing to be sure,

As surely she will be,

My Muse,

She that will guide me from my darkness with nothing more,

Than her radiant soul,

Majestic spirit,

And what I know will be beautiful big brown eyes.

 

Diligent,

You have honoured me,

The Ether,

Giving me this blessing and curse,

And I in turn,

Honour you,

I and I and I

Acknowledging those imperious,

But leaving them,

Behind,

As I go forward,

Will you come with me?

Oh Buddha,

Whatever God there is,

He/She/It/They,

Let loose the hounds of hell,

My Black Dog,

Bring to me my greatest temptation,

A Muse,

To alight the fire in my soul,

To inspire the fire in all those around me…

I long to be slave to your master,

Love,

Of Muse,

Delivering me from me,

For you…

 

SDM

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Good Sender Hunting

 

Since my birth I have shirked convention,

I am FAR from conventional,

I guess some of you might call me a pain in the ass,

Especially those that never did nor could get me,

But if we are calling spades, let us call this spade what it really is;

I have at various points of my life worked as a video clerk,

A flyer guy for a start up Pastry store,

A Customer Service agent at a utility call centre,

I have owned and operated two consulting firms both far ahead of their time,

With a partner who still luckily adores me,

Started a Philanthropy,

G O O D P E O P L E… cause that is what we are, right?

I have worked as a trash compactor service repairman,

A private investigator,

A Club promoter

And have I left anything out,

Chef and even an Online Retail General Manager

Oh yeah, not to mention…

 

…a political operative at all levels of the democratic process in Canada

and around the world!

 

Since my birth I have shirked convention,

Why should I try to fit my square

Into your circle?

 

I have been everything to everybody and ultimately,

Nothing to myself,

I have done enough to survive,

Knowing that at some point survival would come in handy,

And it has,

Just look at me now,

Life is my oyster,

Despite and in spite of all my pain,

Twice lost children

And all I could do was cry,

Three times lost love,

And all I could do was cry…
But I march on,

Press on,

NEXT…

Since my birth, I have shirked convention,

I have attended the best schools and the best universities,

None of which knew what to do with me,

I have spit up the mental vomit that was required of me,

And still feel the putrid bile in my throat,

And then some,

All in an effort to get a piece of paper,

That said I was educated,

An empty promise from our schools I assure you.

YOU ARE NOT YOUR GRADES!

 

Since my birth, I have shirked convention,

I have whacked my head against the wall many times, too many to count,

I have thrown shit against the wall and tried to see

What might stick?

And it never did,

And so I wonder;

 

Since my birth, I have shirked convention,

On many a whim I can quote Plato,

Aristotle and NWA in the same paragraph,

Drawing conclusions and making assumptions that few could ever see,

Nor dare to,

Lacking the conviction to think for themselves,

I can remember the first time I was called a liar,

I mean truly a liar,

By a librarian,

Because I had read 100 books in a summer,

I was so surprised that a woman of letters,

A woman I had been taught to respect,

Would have so little faith in an inquiring mind,

To belittle her thought

I asked her to flip any book to a page,

So I could demonstrate to her,

What a great mind looked like,

Needless to say she never questioned me again,

Though I still feel this great mind is in need of more,

Do you understand?

Can you?

 

I have studied the classics,

All of them,

Not in school,

Not in a classroom setting and not because I have to,

I studied them looking for that piece of me

that might somehow make sense of my life,

Great reads to be sure,

Great mind developed in tow,

Inspiring great minds as well,

May I inspire you?

 

Though I still seek the answers,

Do you know where I could look?

Do you know where I should look?

 

I have read, thought about and drawn my own conclusions,

On Smith, Hobbes and Locke,

Coming to Rousseau and knowing that I do think,

And that is the only thing that I can be certain of,

Well that and I can write,

SCRIBO

ERGO

SUM.

 

Dickens has entranced me,

Falling into two cities like they were equal but separate parts of my brain,

Bipolar hemispheres that are in constant duel,

Black dog howling,

Virginia Woolf crying,

Churchill smoking a Churchill,

Hemingway with a shotgun in his mouth,

Shelley, Tennyson, and Mohammad have wooed me,

I have had my eyes opened, by Cohen, Kissinger, and Machiavelli,

I have consumed with great interest Dante,

The Divine Comedy is right,

Funny I cannot peg which circle of hell I belong to,

Tragedy though seemingly my path,

Though I can tell which of the seven deadly sins I have committed,

I have been victim to the giants of the literary world,

Been the willing passenger to the other shirkers of convention;

Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Wolfe, and Mailer,

I have stood on the edge with Dylan both Bob and Thomas,

Also looking at religion with an open heart and mind,

Though drawing conclusions that so few people like,

GOD IS YOU,

YOU ARE GOD!

 

Poe has hugged me,

I have been beat up by Shakespeare,

Enthralled by Bronte and Austin,

I have consumed mass amounts of Vodka,

Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy counted amongst my mental friends,

Despite their constant battles,

Rasputin always wins;

 

I have read the Bible, The Koran, Torah, and Bhagavad-Gita,

In search of an answer that never comes,

Will it ever,

Perhaps in the end?

I have had conversations with Rabindranath and Flaubert,

Contemplated the nature of life with Darwin,

And questioned it with Kafka and Rushdie,

I have dreamed with Cervantes and Balzac

(damn Absinthe almost made me sane)

While William Golding laughed from the corner;

As he chuckled; “Piggy, piggy, piggy,”

All I heard was “Sender, Sender, Sender…”

 

I need not respond as George Bernard Shaw sent him packing,

Embraced by Chaucer and held in place,

At every step of the way,

By a system that had no concept of what to do with me,

But I have survived,

Thrived,

For all the haters,

Naysayers,

Those who have doubted me.

 

I have been told that my brain is too big to fail,

Kind of like American Banks,

Save that I have no need of a government bailout,

For the government has failed me too,

At every step of the way,

Corrupt for them,

Corrupted by them,

To the point of personal destruction.

 

Good Sender Hunting,

Is now where I am?

 

And I am hunting,

For you, wherever you are,

I am hunting,

Looking for the freedom of expression that is guaranteed me,

The peace, order, and good government that we profess,

The ability to find meaningful work,

To inspire,

To uplift,

To inform and bring joy,

To study as I please,

To write as I please,

To find a way to survive in this world,

That has no use for me,

Except these words,

And in the end my soul friends have always been words,

On a page,

Written by men and women in a far off land and time,

Wondering if I would have hit the same wall,

Thrown the same shit,

And suffered the same sacrifice,

In the name of survival,

In their ages,

Or would I be celebrated like sages?

 

Good Sender Hunting,

but my life no movie,

though if it were surely a tragedy

Shakespearean,

And all I want,

Is to have a place,

That I can call home,

Is it here, now, with you? Figurative!

 

Not more nor less than I need to survive and thrive,

One word, one sentence, one paragraph at a time;

 

TAKE ME AS I AM,

For I am not in control of the many parts of me,

That led me to this page,

These words,

This continent,

This country,

This city,

These kids…

 

I am a maverick,

A modern renaissance man in search of civilization’s enlightenment,

Have any of you seen it,

Heard it,

Felt it,

Can you point me in the write (intentioned) direction?

Because really,

I am lost,

And hunting

definitely an original,

For Sender.

Will you help me?

Because I really like apples…

SDM

 

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