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“Some people have all the luck,” cried out a jealous man. “They have everything they need and more, but they give nothing in return.”

“Who are these people?”, inquired Mania, a close friend of Psychotic Episode and Mary’s inspiration.

“Every single republican is like that,” said the jealous man quietly.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Mania, “But I’ll take care of them. I’ll make them watch fairytales for the rest of their lives.”

“You must remember that the spirit of things is more important than the things themselves,” Cupid coached me as I was hanging my head again. “The spirit of, “Ellen’s Victory”, shall always live on and on and remain forever. So what if a bitch called Ellen put you down. Your message is pure. Art works out where real life fails. The real Ellen is a loss, but the book, “Ellen’s Victory”, is indeed a gain.”

A little confused, and praying that I wasn’t schitzophrenic, I thanked Cupid and urged him to keep up the good work, and asked, “Will there be a new love?”

“Live your life and be yourself. Someone will find you and love you for who you are. You’ve just been to the Underworld. Be patient until Life’s scent reclaims you totally. Stay away from the Ellens of the world. They will only drag you down. The destructive only pull people down; they never climb out of their holes.”

“Didn’t you say poetry and song is where it’s at?”, asked Romeo.

“Yes I did. Music nurtures the soul.”

“But some songs and poems really stink. They really bring me down,” Romeo urged.

“You’re missing the point. It’s a matter of taste, choice, and expression. The point is to create. No one agrees with everyone. What you like someone else might hate. But the songs you dig make you seek love. The feeling of creation is more important than the creation. Hardly anyone likes all music, and no two people agree on every poem or song. But the right song at the right time causes love.”

“What’s this garbage about music?”, a feminist demanded. “Don’t you know the world is disintegrating? The negatives are winning. The Israelis and Palestinians are beating each other up. There’s drought and famine. War all over. Homelessness. Didn’t you hear about the corruption in the Pentagon? Have you ever heard about crime? I suppose you never heard about racism. You poets are so full of shit. For every good song there’s a hundred shitty ones. Poems and songs haven’t made the Earth a better place.”

“You forgot to mention disease,” I smiled. “Look”, I said. “The Iraq War will end. Things have been worse. The object is not to cure the Earth all at once, but to help one individual at a time. Even if a hundred songs are bad and just one is good, that one song goes a long way in making a person feel good. If one person feels good, he’s less vulnerable to disease; and more likely to fight the good fight against all that you’ve mentioned. The way to fight destruction is with creation. To write a poem or song is to create. The creative feeling is an act of love. We fight hate with love, disease with health. A good song makes me feel better. Music has improved the world. It’s in the Bible — you can look it up.”

The feminist, her name is Sue, she gave me the finger. Then she yelled, “We need revolution.” She walked away with her hands on her breasts.

Romeo sat laughing on the stoop. “I’ve never laughed so hard,” he exclaimed. “I’m going to write some lyrics about the coming feminist revolution while they feel themselves up.”

A couple of days later, Romeo and I sat talking on the same stoop where he had been laughing. We were discussing the fact that, “Ellen’s Victory Revisted”, was completed. Psychotic Episode was getting better, and his heart was always in the right place. Cupid was a steadfast friend. Romance would return. Mary Page might yet survive. I was just mentioning that the negative emotions are the real killers of Humanity, when Sue, the feminist, returned.

“Boy, are you a stupid, low-life poet! I heard your stupid, “If You Don’t Spend, I Won’t Bend”. Let me tell you: I won’t bend even if you spend. You’ve got a lot of nerve putting down us oppressed women.”

I really did want to say something to Sue to soothe her savage breast. I wanted to say that themes change like the weather; that I had my say about bitches, and was well on my way without holding grudges. But I didn’t. Romeo didn’t say anything either. We just turned-up our collars, stood-up, and then walked away, hoping to run into Cupid.

“Love is something to talk about after the food is on the table and the bills are all paid. You know, for most of history marriage was prearranged,” Psychotic Episode, barely psychotic anymore, was telling his shrink of forty years. “You know, girls want to go out and spend money, but not theirs — they don’t pay their own way. They want to be supported, but they won’t support a guy. They don’t want to be taken advantage of, but they take advantage of the guys. I think society should go Dutch all the way down the line.”

“You’re too bitter, Psychotic,” the shrink replied. “Precious Pussy is the name of the game — that’s why I sometimes regret not being a gynecologist.”

Psychotic Episode was on the verge of an old fashioned temper tantrum, but he quickly realized that his destiny to conquer Fear, Anxiety, and Depression was still at stake. Instead he said, “I think I’ll bottle pussy juice.”

“Let’s stop here,” the shrink replied.

While knowing the personality cannot be replaced upon death, virtue has somehow still overtaken my soul. Joy does indeed ring inside my brain.

“There are no politics,” Dylan once wrote. That’s the way it is when you have peace of mind. There are positive deeds. There are neutral deeds. We all know about negative deeds. Sometimes, deeds are interwoven. I have said, “The political world is not in my soul.” I’m leaving everything to Ted Kennedy. I support him wholeheartedly. Although I’m registered with the Green Party, in real life I’m a bleeding-heart liberal. Social progress only comes when people are left of center. When I vote, it’s strictly a matter of Democrats. I love Jimmy Carter. I want Ted Kennedy to rule the world. I’ve said more than I intended. I’m going to run to my hobbies.

“How long will you rant and rave before you realize I’m dying of Aids?” Mary Page turned to Psychotic Episode with a bitter tear.

“Hold on dear Mary. They’re making advances everyday. You don’t have to die.

“To think that making love is what’s going to kill me,” Mary sighed. “You were smart to turn me down when I threw myself at you.”

“Now, now. Take it easy. As long as you’re alive there’s still hope.”

“I hope that Ellen woman didn’t give you the virus,” Psychotic. “She’s been fooling around for years”.

“Yeah, to think that love can kill.”

“I’m going to make it,” you silly Episode. Take care of yourself. Accomplish that mission of yours.”

“I’ll be back, Mary, to see you healthy.” And with those words repeating themselves in his mind, Psychotic Episode sat down and wrote an essay urging an all out war against disease.

Gas, and the surburban moll, running through sacred fields — no one notices the blood on their crotches as they frolic on drugs.  I must be myself, or I’ll perish in the crabgrass.  I must find the calm to accomplish my musical goals.

If you say something nice, you’re naive; if you’re critical, you’re too cynical.  Russian is the hallucination of English.

So, you’ve written and written … what have you got to show for it but lousy everyday madness?  Well, I’ve tried everything else, but writing always returns no matter how severe the extremes.

Nancy Pancy the Patsy is a latent gay.  She knows her triggers.  She’s full of giggles when she sees you know what get bigger and bigger — what a hitter!

It’s getting late for Hydrogen flowers, whose petals of doom do not exclude the groom; but beware of the conventional hypocrite.  Sleepy Rose is in her throes.  Wise guys fail to be wise.  Once, twice, and thrice, World Wars broke out, and the calendar is irrelevant.  Justice was cut by laser fire.  The demise was instant; the solution fatal to all who called Beersheeba and Pot — oh my, oh my, the greatest flower could not devour.

Oh!  Why have I been branded here by the Village queers?  How much anger does stare at the bottomless whore?  Jeffrey the Nunless and Mary Page and ruthless Arthur, the slave, are here for the convention of deer salesmen with guns.  Oh boy!  Oh boy!  Someone will be killed.

Reality is ugly.  That’s nothing new.  Get out of the pew.  Don’t be so rude.  Come on James, find a way to row to Michael’s shore.  Let’s forget the raw weather of blight.  Keep you weary sight upon the heights of Maw.  Don’t saturate your hope.  Bring in the ship of might.  There’s some hope.  Run to the Pope.  Why are you a mope?  People, people, people, everywhere.  Who dares to fall?  Who dares to stall?  Dance on bright warrior.  Seek nothing new.  You’ve been through everything, so just do your thing.

Never travel into the fixed past where historians lie for the sake of a raise, and dreary, persecuted angels have no efficient say on matters of shame — don’t you just love the hatred of the Devil’s smell?  Say, hey, baby, don’t you love to moan even though you hate to moan, but know it’ll get the John off your body quicker?

Trying to feel gentle, the gentile interferes; braving new “triumphs” the follies are near.  Who has gotten closer to the redneck fear?  Who has gotten further from the Ace of Jeer?

I saw you never died.  You soared over lost goals — decidedly forlorn, steadfastly adored; greatness for every soul.  They merged the night.  The day approached, despite the Devil’s claw.  I saw you romancing the jaws of little-minded men.  The many rainbows chasing hoods; the red robins curing blue eagles  — I am standing amongst the ruins; do you know when it’s Purim?

Graciously young in good stead; but ferocious goons and derelict fathers — you’re not positive enough, and Charlie’s got a strong dick.  Matilda’s after his groin, if you know what I mean.  They both still live in the ’60’s; but they’ll steal a gold chain just the same as an old tire.  Danger for hire.  Come and get a thrill from the graciously young.

The bitches and bastards are still playing their destructive games.  They blame everyone and anyone for their pain.  They say to me, “How come a man with your credentials is so lame?”  Diana and Apollo smile at me as I watch them move the day.  The bitches and bastards don’t realize they are real, and I answer them with contempt, as they play their destructive games.

There are few sensitive gains in this Macho-cliche world, where pain is induced for the sale of a drug.  Yes, I watch the bitches and the bastards play their destructive games.  Picture no words in the world.  Imagine no captions unfurled.  Yes, I have my reasons for writing.  I have my mind singing.  The letters written and received leave me in wondrous steed.  The stories are songs if you believe in the strong.  Even musical notes are words of an alphabet.  Who among us is against the Word?

May sees April’s concluding reminder of Winter’s glow; but tells the snow it’s time to go. So what! Again — the Devil’s advocate remains and Mary Jane persists despite the ignorant cops’ fist. But you don’t have a Cancer ( thank God)/ why should you seek THC?

Oh, the reindeer are galloping. Their antlers are made of love, and the hornless ones are bravest because they get the most kisses for getting the most done.

I try to do something with what I see; but my eyes are closed. I lose my teeth; but you lose your life if we have strife.

“Where have you been this year?”
“I’ve been marching along the streets of New England.”
“Why were you marching in New England?”
“The streets are filled with the smell of Oasis.”
“What does an Oasis smell like?”
“It’s the scent of all flowers.”

Losers in the streets. They don’t chew on treats. Senators pass around. The old are damaged but proud.

I’ve been a fool trying to be cool when I really love you because I know you’re true. People ignore the truth; but your name is Ruth. How could they know your name when life to them is just a game?

This morning harkens May; just what happened the day before last when tributes were paid to dawns everlasting? The dead have been swallowed by the innocent: “Give me back my indecency. I think I’ve frozen all the sperm I have, and it’s just not the same kind of fun.”

There but fortune and the Hercules goose has got us colorless in this day of mazed segregation. “Look: I’ve had enough: this is rapid uncle time. I’m sick of your live/evil relations; I’m ready to die for the sake of ridding God of this world.” The last happenstance and the drifter’s escape have the Status Quo enraged.

“It was easy, actually, to put a mirror in front of the masses,” says Edwardian Penis of Great Drake the Cupcake.

Love is not doing well. The creeps in the infirmary swell. God bless all those in hell. Jane, time to ring my bell. Remember the time I fell, and bloodied every cell? Boy! did you go and tell the farmer in the dell. Yes, you did go and sell. Oh, how it made me yell!

Evening is no better than night. Geronimo and several Kites ignore God’s daily paradise where fornicators trust and trust but rarely obey their thrusts into vaginas that go readily bust. What’s the fuss? Muckrakers decide and evangilize courtships of dust. We must forsake Jesus or turn to rust. The whole world agrees, as mob rule and majority rule are the same. The brutalizing police are the Cancer cells of society.

Law and order, well what do you think?  Is there enough to go around?  Downtown’s mine, Uptown’s her’s.  Look at all these expensive furs.

I’m skinny and my mother’s fat; so I’m the superior one.  Don’t want to carry around this ton.  I wish I’ve finally won.  There she goes again, walking off the deep end.  I’ll bet you ten she’ll always fend.

Drastic Drowsers of Medieval thought — long win and run the plays of Vinegar; for whoever sees the eternal dome sees Life forever after.

I don’t believe a bird is bothering me.  It’s the fate of gentle souls.  Oh, you can spend your fee; just be part of the whole.  Lest you think I’m someone’s fool, just remember to use your tool in defense of Liberty and Freedom, and absolute Social Security — amen.

My hero wants to commit suicide.  My lover wants to go out.  Maybe I should have lied.  I think I had too much pride.  The truth is just another toy.  You wind it up, and lift your fatal cup.  Boys will be boys.  Just be satisfied that you’re lucky to be alive and well.  Remember all the nooky that prevailed in Life’s hell.

Bet you five; even ten that you’re happy with Ben.  Stay in tune with your position.  Survival must be your decision.  Play a Turnaround in C or G.  Don’t expect much of a fee.  Always see what you perceive.  Don’t give in to thieves.

Now Rembrandt is a famous man, and Jessica Hahn is another pawn.  The Lone Ranger is a hearty soul.  I didn’t get an answer from Robert Dole.  There you go again, selling out to the fallen.  What’s the score over there?  Here it’s nothing to something.

Angels of Mercy in misery.  Trade offs chosen superficially.  Evil must not enter the bride.  I’ll give you two steaks for her hide.  I’ll be a bratty bard.  She always keeps me hard.  She plays every card without getting marred.

So, delicious ice cream and Diet Pizza are running, running, running, running on the profits of your tummy.  Profundity has lost its way.  A gun is a gun is a gun.  The Cowboys are having a lot of fun.  It’s no longer early May.

Caution: Low Risperdal level thrown at the devil’s brain.  He’ll disappear for good, and I’ll have an alibi, standing on Mount Sanity just the way that I do.

There could have been better times, better days, and better ways; but being alive in the pleasant present neutralizes all past wrong doings, and permits change for a fortunate future.

I miss my father; yet he is with me stronger than ever before, as the music soars, and Joshua plays with the new precious puppy God has secured.

I am running out of agitation as my lessons are more quickly learned.  Prosperous paupers are well-versed in Mark Twain — there were two knights of reign the other day during brunch.  My hunch is that they were out to lunch, as bunches of rosey punches focused their minds on the year 2006.

Every word is a planet, and every letter a moon.  Punctuation makes up the rest of the universe — how could I ignore, “Scarlet Letter”, “Giants In The Earth”, “Red Badge Of Courage”, “The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow”, “Silas Marner”, and Robert Frost?

“Getting and spending we lay waste our powers/little in nature we see that is ours” — W.W.

It is my favorite line, as is poetry in general.

It had come to pass that much had gone down, much was going down, and much would go down.

Everyone has been around, and people are choosing sides again.  Some will be playing for Good, some will remain with evil.

There is no doubt that Darling Dora is good, and has saved and made my day.  Call me Dybman or call me Nick China, it is still plain as day who I play for and what I stand for.

There are those that would say I have been an alienated loner playing only with myself and standing alone.  Not so.  My life has been rich with friends, and I’ll be calling on them again real soon.

That the truly good never succumb to evil cannot be overstated.  Darling Dora defeats evil.  All prejudice and preexisting conditions and interaction flew out the window when I first saw her.  All things positive are meant for her, for goodness thrives within her.  All things negative will be conquered because she deserves the best.

It’s never been like this, and can never be repeated or duplicated.  Cupid’s new bow could not be stronger.  David’s song selection could not be more romantic.  The cause of Romeo’s devotion has never been clearer.

I shall try to tell you all I can, but Darling Dora has the only key to my well-guarded love.  She is, as the coming pages prove, my one and only true love.

The things I’ve done to survive — only you know for sure, dear Lord; but I do recall being a deli clerk, an ice cream man, a waiter, a gambler, a bookkeeper, a performer, a credit/collection manager, a branch representatitive, an office manager, a two-time draftee, a cab driver, a leather peddler, an actor, a Marijuana consumer, an accountant, an investor, a coder, a student, a poet, a singer, a writer, a harmonica player, a guitar strummer, a composer, a teacher, an Artist, and yes, truly a genuine prophet. …

But I have learned from you, oh Lord, that all I have done to survive comes under one main heading: I am alive because I am a lover.

So, there it was: May was taking the heat off April, and I was praying harder than ever for father to be rescued; and mother came through, and my own music finally flew.  There were great, meaningful changes despite the pain that remains.  I cannot perceive with certainty, but I am determined to shed my prophecy wings; for those that accept the Prohphets’ ideas and deeds without direct, benevolent interaction cannot gain from the Prophets’ again.  The negative emotions cannot be rewarded; for then all Prophets would become Prophets of doom.

So, there it is, dear Lord: 1985 has led to a better world, but it is delicate; for the negative and violent remain, and giving credit where credit is due is not their atavistic way.  Blessed be my God for my everyday world, and I do pray that there not be a need for the heights and missions of ‘85 to be repeated before a furious world.  Oh, I’m there for you in whatever way you choose; for you never came close to forsaking Jesus; but the people, especially the republican elite, did and still do.

I am in clover, and do strive to maintain the positive with Darling Dora.  I do feel you and for you, dear God, who arose from nothingness and nowhere with the only needed ambition: the elimination of evil.

Yes, the jealous are the main threat to the continual rise of Good.  Rather than join hand in hand with the Good, the jealous continue to act out every negative in the book.  So, dear God, of course I am yours; for there is no other course for a boy who believed what he saw in a cloud ( a cloud he still sees), and never gave into the generations of raw war; who knew the difference between authority and authority figures.  But I would prefer to practice what I preach in a quiet everyday routine.  I seek to serve you, but not the beast.  I seek to perform at my peak, but not for the incredulous amusement of those that pretend they have learned; but only seek personal gain without giving in return.

Let us not be fooled by the evil of the Bush Administration.

“Violence has always existed.  It continues to exist; it will always exist,” these are the words of my father.

Israel-Palestine, although full of holes, is not Holy.  There is no Holy Land.  Without Holy People living on it, there can be no Holy Land, and there can be no Holy People that resort to violence.  Each time a person dies prematurely because of inaction or violence, that person is an abortion.  All deaths, including Capital Punishment, that are people-caused, are abortions.  Violence equals abortion.  As long as people continue to abort, there can be no salvation, there can be no perfection.  Just one act of violence (sadism) proves that there is no actual civilization, and that the Good must continue to refine Self-defense.

There is no indication that abortion will end, that its constructive alternatives will be adopted.  The Humane are continually tortured, and survival of the species is indeed at stake.  People cannot expect a world they continuously abort countless times over and in numerous ways to continue, rather than be aborted itself.

All physical laws have a moral dimension: Cause and Effect is also Reap What You Sow — you made your bed, now sleep in it.  Each individual, each mass, must follow the moral dimensions of physical nature: abort, and you shall be aborted.  The species, collectively, feels every act of violence; including Capital Punishment — and the consensual Psychic suffers to this point of near extinction.

 

Down in the valley they’re hanging a Jew; it’s Millenium time, but the age is still blue.  John and Jane are truly in love; but a lot of folks hate their eyes: they’re going to seduce them away now that there’s a cure for Aids.

No need to bother with reason or rhyme: some make it, most don’t.  These are barbaric times.  Now Mel will tell of better times of singing on corners in harmony until the dope came in.  One hit and the tune was gone.

If you got nothing nice to say, don’t say it at all.  If it rhymes, it rhymes; if it don’t, it don’t.  No need to bother with reason or rhyme: some make it, most don’t.  These are barbaric times.

Mary Page hasn’t given-up; but things sure are rough.  You’d think Society would guarantee the Individual’s survival by now.  Forest Hills sure is a lonesome town.  It’s a place where I’ve been the clown, seeking the closest thing to Utopia; thinking every woman is still a virgin.

Raphael was here years ago; but he headed back to Cuba, where a Latin whore stole every cent he owed.  Somebody better start loving; someone should be giving; something’s worth bringing.  It’s a matter of living.

Bill is standing on the window sill.  He’s not planning to jump.  He just thinks he’s a pump.  A thrill’s a thrill/that’s his fill.  Critical views don’t hold water with Jill.  She’s got an optimistic view of life: she’s 14, and just got her abortion pill.  Things are pretty simple, she feels.

Somebody better start loving; someone should be giving; something’s worth bringing.  It’s a matter of living.

Jake the Snake is drowning in Lake Fake.  He deserves his fate for all his hate.  Jealous Margaret is zealous over the Soviet Union’s trouble.  Somebody better tell her it’s an interdependent world.  They say violence will never end.  There will never be a perfect world.  You better just protect your own ass, better head off the Arabs at the pass.  Just how long must we suffer?  All kinds of abortion and pollution, and no adequate muffler.  Where is our true leader?

America is not kinder and gentler towards John Tower or Jim Wright or to most of the world; but it’s the least rotten of the rotten.  I am singing a true song, but hardly anyone is listening; and if they did, they would probably ruin me.  I do not ask for salvation: only the best that is possible.  Suffering is horrible, and can be lessened greatly.

Now Art has to fart, and there are those that are angered that a natural liberty cannot be manufactured.  Oh, the rain is heavy, and our time quite short.  What is it about my throat that reminds you of the Navy?

Lo and behold Frances has found true love.  She doesn’t care about the Dove.  After all, the money is pouring in.  Well, let’s take a look at Lou.  He’s good at Kung Fu.  I suppose it will get him free, if he snorts his Coke the wrong way.

Many passages have passed, and my weariness startles me.  I can’t go from A-Z without energy, and it’s so rough to be depressed.  The only thing that will make me better is the yogurt on your letter.  Moistness is soothing like flesh.  An orgasm will clean-up Bangla Desh.

Anthony’s looking out his casement, and he can’t see the government.  Something’s wrong with the Navy, and it ain’t Uncle Davy.

Long live whoever lives.  Living is a real rarity.  No more jive from the beehive: everyone gets parity.  How many times will you say I’m getting reincarnated so there’s nothing to worry about?  I am what I am now.  Somewhere there’s a proud cadaver on the hills of Maybeline.  He’s living in some spiritual place; but I sure don’t like his face.

Just can’t seem to feel okay.  The Sixties just won’t go away.  I’m temporarily rescued; but I better not miscue.  Aleza is the brightest star.  She goes farther than Mars.  She wins all her wars.  She’s greater than every Czar.

“Ejaculations are my way of singing,” repeats Lavendar John.  “Justice is for the lucky,” cries out Bob Dylan.  There’s something in Sue’s smile; it just drives me wild.  What’s the difference between 2 and 3?  It’s the same between you and me.