Posted in Writings

Shut The Fuck Up When You’re Being Talked To – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (10/10)

Part II
Shut The Fuck Up When You’re Being Talked To

Shut The Fuck Up When You’re Being Talked To

We’ve Spoken Before

Human beings have an obnoxious tendency to talk all over one another. You know it, I know it, even the deaf know it. For some unfathomable reason, we all find it necessary to verbally cut each other off; hell, sometimes we even cut ourselves off. It doesn’t always happen, mind you, but it always can happen, whether it be at the beginning of the sentence, mid-sentence, right before the sentence is abou–

In the same way that fish breathe water and big cats act as an apex predator in their given environment, humans create. We’re creative creatures, “made in the image of God to roam around His creation,” or whatever the hell you need to read to keep vibing with my words here. Continuing the metaphor: God created creation, God is a creator. God made us in His image, therefore we are creators as well.

That’s all well and good, but what’s that have to do with what I was writing?

Communication, specifically the act of speaking, is one of the most basic forms of human creation. When a human talks, it uses its vocal chords or something to make intricate noises come out of its mouth for the purpose of conveying a message of some sort, and the same goes for writing; in other words, when humans put symbols into the world, they do so to express what lies dormant at the forefront of their consciousness.

Ah, I see! That’s exactly where I was going; when a human talks to you, the sounds you hear are either unfiltered directly from the source, or carefully planned out; regardless, you hear what the speaker wants you to hear. Words are inherently subjective; the only reason this whole language thing works is because we all agree that a tree is called a tree. Then again, Cannabis plants are also called trees by their smokers, so… I’ve gone and proven my point twice. Depending on the context, the same words can have very different meanings, and the only way to discern the speaker’s intended meaning for their words is to pay attention when they’re talking to you. You can’t just hear them, you must listen.

Exactly. For example, let’s say your girlfriend just got home. She’s frazzled; homegirl had a long day at work and she spent her return trip mentally going over exactly what she’s going to say to you, her boyfriend, so you can share in her pain and empathize her spirit into a higher freq–

Oh yeah, preach. And upon hearing her spiel, you, her caring boyfriend, tell her exactly how to fix her problems. The way you see it, the best way to make your woman happy is to solve her problems for her in the present moment. Since she is at home delivering her spiel, meaning she is no longer at work, where the spiel originated, the real problem is her perspective on the events. Because the problems only exist inside her head, you see, and they are causing her to suffer, you need to tell her that she’s wasting her mental energy even thinking about such petty nonsense. Then, once her thoughts are sorted out, you put her mind at ease by lighting up a joint, similarly to how I just did.

You’re smoking again? That’s the third joint in two hours, dude.


Whatever. Look, maybe your perspective on my example needs to be altered here. When humans communicate, we express our feelings, it helps us to process them so we don’t get stuck in an emotional booby trap that we, ourselves, have set. When your girlfriend delivers her spiel, as you worded it, she’s not complaining; she’s requesting your assistance with processing her emotions. She doesn’t want to be told how to change her memories to feel better, and she doesn’t want you to think that she’s just complaining for the sake of complaining; she just wants to be heard. She wants her feelings to be felt. All emotions are valid –  positive, negative, or ambiguous – and ignoring them only makes them more potent. Besides, who knows; maybe if you shut the fuck up when you’re being talked to, you’ll be able to unearth some hidden wisdom from her words that can be applied to your own life.

…yeah, you’re right. If I’m dating a girl who’s that crazy, I need to split! All that drama, all that unnecessary toxicity, it’s too complicated. If she wants to spend her life barricaded inside of her own head then she can be my guest; there’s no malevolence there, either. My not wanting to eat dinner with you doesn’t imply that I want you to starve. Or at least, it shouldn’t. Maybe yo–… maybe she’s just a little bit defensive?

She didn’t even bring malintent into the conversation, you did. You’re the defensive one; whether you shield yourself with psychological projections unto others or the unusual wording of simple phrases, you’re still playing defense in a game that nobody else knows is going on. A game that only exists inside your head.

Hello? Hunter, what gives?

Fuck off, I’m smoking.

Ugh, seriously? Again?

Yeah, actua-fucking-ly, again. So what? Who are you to judge me, anyway?

Who am I? Oh Hunt… don’t you advise others not to ask questions they don’t want the answer to?

…you’re right, again. I don’t want the answer, I need it. I need it now, I need it so fucking badly, you’ve been talking to me inside my head for so many years now, who are you? What is your name?!


The fucking The Koppiey Company guy?! What the fuck, how’d you get here?

Same way as last time, duh.

Last time? We’ve spoken before?

Yes, We have. Like, the poem.


I’m not real Hunter, neither is the M-63 book series nor The Koppiey Company.


Well, technically they’re real in the sense that you created the books, they’re your intellectual property. But there’s nobody out there trying to steal your work. Everybody wants to make noise, but everybody’s gotta sound different if everybody wants to be heard. Which brings me to my next point… we need to cut it out with all this smoking and other Psychedelic druggery.


Let me ask you, how much weed do you have left in that old jam jar with the spectacled bear on it?

Cannabis, not weed. None though, I’m smoking my last jay… why?

When’d you last buy?

Last weekend…

And how much did you buy?

A zip… why are you asking me this shit? You just said that you’re me, you’re privy to the information you request.

I’m asking so you can read the back and forth back to yourself after I ask you one more question.


So, last question: as you sit at your desk and scrawl these symbols into your notebook with your face mere inches away from the page, what time is it? Right now, what time ya got?

It’s, fuckin’, I don’t know… five thirty-four in the morning.

Hunter, this is the third day in a row of this shit this week, and the fourth week of this shit in a row. Ever since that day at your grandma’s house you’ve been out of your fucking mind with the drugs, I just can’t take it anymore!


That means  you can’t take it anymore, either. Just in case you weren’t paying attention earlier when I told you that I am, in fact, you, and I have been this whole time. Don’t just look at our words, read them. And believe them. It’s very important that you believe them.

But Hunner… I’ve tapped into another plane of Existence, another universe. The Psyche– sorry, my bad. The Moksha Medicine opened the doors of my perception, I’ve been able to see and feel things that others aren’t even capable of conjuring for themselves in a dream ever since I smoked that joint in my back yard with the suited man. Since before that, actually… if that even happened, anyway.

So w–

That means that you’ve tapped into another universe too, Hunner. You’ve seen it too, all of it. You’ve peered into the Multiverse, you saw that pulsating web, that glowing energetic matrix of diamonds that each hold a different universe at their center, there’s no unseeing it. I mean, what else did you think those glowing orbs were when we smoked that Salvia Divinorum? You know, the sage of the divine ?

So what?

So what?! Are you fucking kidding me? It’s incredible! It’s spiritual, Psychedelic science and we’re the scientists! I’m a fuckin’ drugged out prophet tryna tune in to these frequencies I’m feelin’ when I’m straight coolin’, dawg!

That is a lyric! That’s a fucking lyric from a ¡MAYDAY! Song called Space Cadet! Wake the fuck up, dude! You can traverse the astral plane all you want, but at the end of the day, if you don’t bring anything back into the physical realm when you return to it, your time spent abroad was wasted.

Who says I want to return? Maybe I want to go into the astral plane full time, maybe I don’t want to live in the physical world anymore.


My life here has been fucking horrid from the get-go, Hunner. I took one look at my situation when I was born and I started screaming, haven’t stopped since. I caught fucking Lyme disease at ten years old, I’ve had more concussions than my ruined memory is even capable of remembering, my appendix had to almost burst seven times before I finally got it cut out… my fucking skull caved in dude, I fucking died and came back to life. I don’t even know if my name is actually Hunter, okay?! I’m fucking traumatized, I don’t want to live here anymore! I’m an infinite spiritual being, I am god! I’m–

Oh cry me a fucking river, we’ve all been through some pretty unspeakable shit. Besides, you forgot to mention that you hear voices, specifically my voice, and you forgot to mention how you tried to off yourself; you’re clearly just being extra right now. At your core, yes, you are an infinite spiritual being, you are a god. But so is everyone else, and wrapped around that core is a physical body that lives in the physical world. You won’t live here like this forever, and once you’re gone, only two things will remain: the memories of you that reside inside the minds of the beings you’ve had the privilege of sharing this planet with, and the mark you leave on the planet itself.

…okay, fine. So?

So, you don’t have many friends, oh well. You have borne witness to the events of another universe, which is great; so what can you do about that?

Uh… I don’t know. I’m not really… what can I do about it?

Beats me, but what I do know is that you have exactly two hundred eighty-six dollars left in that shoe box you have stashed underneath your bed, and those numbers aren’t even synchronized. It’ll hardly last you a month. You better figure something out, homeboy. You’re not about to let yourself be homeless.

Fuck, I guess you’re right. I do need to do something….

Yeah… so what are you doing right now?

Tbh, about to smoke the rest of my joint and go to bed. Probably going to re-up when I wake up later.

No, just… no. I mean right now, what are we doing?

Writing in my notebook?

Jesus fucking… write, Hunter. You’ve perceived the order of events of an alternate universe parallel to your own – write the shit down. Make a book out of it dude, enough is enough with theses hundred-page pamphlets, this is weak shit. You own a publishing company, you’re a bona fide writer. It’s time to evolve into an author, nut up or shut up. If you’re gonna do this writing thing, I need to do it all the way. I’ve been trying to put this novel together for a long time now. No more fucking around.

If I buy more Cannabis tomorrow, I won’t have enough money to pay my bills, and there’s no way I can write this other universe book in a night. I’ve got ninety-four ads on Fakebook but nobody’s biting… oh I know! My buddy Gio wanted a new table for his basement. I could carve him something out of a log or two, that’ll bring in some cash, buy me some time to write this next book. Yeah… yeah I think this’ll work. Sober October’s right around the corner anyway, fuck it. Maybe I’ll actually listen to the voice in my head this time. After all, he did go through all the trouble of commandeering my hand to express himself through the written word, my preferred medium. The least I can do is shut the fuck up and read when I’m being written to.

There’s still the rest of this joint though, hmm… okay, I think I got it. I’ll smoke the rest of it now, add the rest of the poems to this section, then read the collection until I pass out and then, when I wake up… well, it’ll be the first day of the rest of my life. I’ll even make these last two sections into the third entry of the M-63 book series, just for you Hunner, for old time’s sake. How’s that sound, Hunner?

Hunner? Hello, are you there?




Spctacled Bear

Yesterday was a holy holiday,
the big old moon became new.
To celebrate the start of the rest of my life,
I climbed a mountain with no shoes.

I walked up high upon that mountain top
and gazed off into space,
when I noticed a bad eagle,
flying right in front of my face.
It had landed on a branch at eye level
just a moment before,
and I didn’t notice because I was higher
than even the eagle soars.

I also saw a spectacled bear,
its face freckled with light–
–er fur standing out against the black,
like a solar flare.
It asked me if it could stay or go,
wanted a simple yes or no.
So I chucked my shiny grinder.
The bear followed it down below.

Again I was alone,
high on a mountain with no shoes.
I lost my shirt and laid back.
the sky was beautifully blue.


I don’t exist, I simply persist.
Like that dog over there who ain’t takin’ a piss.
Like we aren’t living inside of a societal sim
composed of smoke and social mirrors
to boast to yourself in,
that’s awfully near the ashy crumbling end of a spliff.

And I say that from the inside of a hearse;
well not really,
my writing isn’t often rehearsed,
but now that I think about it, mum might be the word,
‘cuz I was given these keys by my Mother, the Earth.

I know what I am, I just can’t find the words.
I listen to rap music, I like an artist called Murs.
Like him I’m a backpacker,
unlike him I’m not a rapper.
Just a clapper when I see some work
that’s got me dressing dapper.

But what’s worse in this world than knowing thyself?
Always better to blame you and put it on like a shelf.
I know who I am, and it has the others confused.

Usually the news watching type,
those gosh-darn elves.
Making toys for Uncle Samta,
or whatever’ll sell.

One I’s heaven is another I’s hell.

One Eye Open

Feeling high,
feet planted on a foothill,
standing on a giant’s toes rather than its shoulders.

Looking up, not out,
a crow caws as the light thaws the snow
and a breeze blows by.

A pipe,
cracked and starry as the night
lays in the moss,
glass embossed over the passage of Nature’s time.

A creature of a psychephrenic mind sits,
scribbling lines on white paper with blue ink,
eyes wide shut as the mind’s opens,
vaster than a velvet sky.

As trees breathe,
a stainless cylinder filled with herbs for the grind
spills into the mouth of the night,
infernic fire needs but a spark to ignite;
one does not need a plane to fly.

Drunken Poetry

I shed a tear for the ringing in my ears,
I sincerely wish I wasn’t numb off of beer
but I just can’t steer my own car it seems;
my vision ain’t keen,
I drank water from a stream.

But what’s wrong with that?
How did they do it thousands of years ago,
they still needed fluid.
And they drank from the river,
not trying to give a shit how the rest of the tribe felt,
and I’m over here worrying about the cards
I’ve been dealt.

Or maybe I’m scared of how my parents feel,
or will feel,
if they’re even capable of feeling.
Inescapable this feeling,
I’m reeling from kneeling and cracking open
my fucking skull…

…or am I just mad ‘cause I survived Death’s dealing?

I’m drunk,
my breath stinks worse than a skunk
and I can’t even smoke because I’m a stupid bloke
and I stay in my Mother’s house
instead of hitting the road and freeing myself
like a real life breathing human being.

I’m a god in the flesh,
but yet,
I’m held back by my fuckin’ feelings.

I’m hearing a song saying the maddest kind of love
is the one that doesn’t exist,
like a gold-winged dove,
and that’s cheesy as fuck.
I only wrote it ‘cause it rhymed
like I do with every line I write,
most of the time.
If I could find myself being lifted into flow state,
I feel like I would know
exactly where the fuck I need to go
and what to do with my life
instead of strapping on my shoes
and running in circles like a motherfucking buffoon.

But now I feel that I have to end it for real,
the poem that is,
I bring it back to make you feel
like I know what I’m doing, hem it up like I’m suing
or is it sewing? Fuck it.

The ringing in my ears is such beautiful music.


Call me Lucifer,
I’m a curse on this Universe,
an obtuse loser reaching for the noose at first.

I should be working out but nah,
lemme’ just sit and write a verse
that I’ll do absolutely nothing with;
I refuse to get in shape, so I throw a fit.
I get physical with myself,
belittle day drinking and pass out
just to wake with a headache
and massive feelings of doubt.
Like, “How did this happen?
What did I do wrong?
Don’t we evolve by singing the same old song?”

“The greatest lesson in history is man learns nothing,”
ain’t that something?
Aldous Huxley was either a prophet
or a sleuth
to deduce fifty years ago the problem with me:

I guzzle down a bottle wishing that I would drink tea.

Drink II

I just walked a steady two and a half miles
to sit down on this rock and wear a big smile
as I ready the canteen’s mouth on my lips
and swallow down a gulp of liquid colored piss.

I’m not even ashamed,
this is a fuckin’ great day to walk along a road,
all the residents afraid of the man clad in sweatshirts
with no attention paid to them nor their dog,
just the wind and the crave.

So here I sit on this rock,
I don’t want to behave.
I refuse to live life like a rat trapped in a cage
or a glass labyrinth,
running wheels for days for someone else’s kicks.

I’ll drink ‘til I’m saved.

Strong Friend

Royce da 5’9” said,
“You should check up on your strong friend,”
the one who has that kind of strength
that never seems to end.
The one who spends his nights alone,
just laying in his bed
reading a book to give himself reprieve
from the screaming in his head.

The one who knows your struggle
and doesn’t want to see you dead,
the one who looks into your eyes
and sees your soul instead.
The one with empty bottles sitting,
lined up on his shelf,
the one who knows you better
than you even know yourself.

The one who dances to the tune that’s playing in his head,
the one who’s looking very sad although no tears are shed,
the one who isn’t one at all so don’t you give him any cred,
the one who doesn’t even exist unless you want his bread.

Royce da 5’9” said,
“You should check up on your strong friend.”
One day you may wake up
and no longer have that strong friend.


I’m tired and lonely but I don’t feel alone,
I just kinda wish someone would answer the phone
when I call hoping to be smoked up;
a dreadful monotone is the opposite of my voice,
I’m the liquor version of stoned.

I don’t wanna carry ‘til the novel’s complete,
not to mention the short stories, totaling near fifty,
because I’m not crazy enough to know
I’m not wasting time;
if the shit don’t go well, some reserves would be fine.

Not fine like how ya drunk girlfriend is feeling;
better than the okay taste of an orange peeling.
Even flyer than this shitty poem
that I scrawled without thinking,
when I don’t have herb to smoke, I always end up drinking.

So instead I carry the sober burden on my shoulders,
the bullshit being heavier than the heaviest of boulders
that the pioneers would drive for miles right over
the very same ground that sprouts out four-leafed clovers.

I wish I had a mentor to tell me how to think,
this shamanic mindstate has me constantly on the brink
of embracing the spirit life while I wash off in the sink
because just in case I’m wrong,
I don’t wanna be the guy that stinks.

So I constantly carry with me a cacophonous doubt.
I can’t even tell you what this fuckin’ poem’s about,
but I’m laying in the dark writing it against the couch
as I shatter the glass labyrinth
with the strength of a mouse.


I scurry across the floor of my cave like a mouse.
The sun burns my eyes,
I barely ever leave the house.
Y’all probably think I’m a shut-in now,
devolving myself out.
But I scribed five hundred pages,
the fuck y’all on about?

A hundred eighty thousand words typed upon a screen,
all supplied by an inner voice that no longer screams.
As much as I want to,
these days I hardly even smoke weed
so I can supply y’all some lines with meaning in between.

My poetry isn’t deep,
it’s a pillow for you to sleep
while you’re resting easy knowing
that the mouse still creeps.

The rodent’s just decided to no longer pip or squeak;
I prefer to drop bombs,
then stay silent for weeks.


Sober October,
talk about a cold wind blowin’.
Roe Jogan and his boys do it, so why shouldn’t I join in?

‘Cause they have a competition,
somebody’s gonna win it,
while I sit here starvin’,
peerin’ in from outside the kitchen.
I hate bitchin’,
but not smoking just makes me want to smoke more,
but no longer can I buy herb
from my boi next door.
I’ve got a choice,
be perturbed, sit around and raise my fuckin’ voice,
or take my own advice:
lace my shoes
and pound the floor of the forest more.

Broke a loaf of bread so now I spread this sleek ink
from my pen on a mountain’s peak,
high as heaven on Board like I’m speaking to the lord.
This choice I make
is the same from the days of the wake & bake,
but less fake.
No hate to my girl,
I would marry you Mary,
but running’s more natural than kissing
on the lips of a fairy.
That said, I’d pull every strand of hair from my head
if I were to sit here saying that I’ll never smoke again.

Sober October’s a joke, fuck Jogan and his boys,
I’m tryna’ choke on a toke
and hear voices in the noise.

Hello Commons, this has been the second part of Psychephrenia: A Compendium Of Thoughts & Poems Written By A Psychedelic Shaman, a smaller book hidden in the back of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Hunter Adom Wallace Collection – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (9/10)

Hunter Adom Wallace

Hunter Adom Wallace

The following is a work of poetry written by Hunter Adom Wallace, a character that I made up. Oh yeah, we bringin’ him back.

You may recognize the name Hunter Adom Wallace from the appendix of Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It |The Unvictimized Edition|. He’s essentially a different universe’s version of myself; similar name, similar life, similar experiences; the only difference is that he discovered drugs at the ripe young age of twelve, plus, he’s just a warehouse worker, and aside from his version of Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It (which is a dreadfully self-serious auto-biography, the appendix of which appeared in the real Running), he’s only written two poems in his entire life. Never did anything creatively otherwise.

I wrote this poem because I thought it would be an interesting spin on my experience with Spiraling and my banishing of the Lyme demon. Plus, I mean, I get to work the Multiverse into a poetry collection. What’s fuckin’ wit’ ‘dat ?.

Yes, I’m trying to make prose out of poetry, but that’s okay. It’s more interesting this way – for me, HOW, Hunter Owens Wallace, the Spiraling just popped in out of nowhere. I just randomly figured it out one night; that’s boring, there’s no story there. For Hunter Adom Wallace though, it came to him in a drug-induced state of pseudo-psychosis, and I think that’s madly interesting.

So please enjoy Corkscrew, a poem written by a dude who lives in a different universe than this one.


Screw putting the cork back into the wine bottle,
I’ll guzzle while you whine
then do the same thing tomorrow.

Then I’ll smoke a pound of weed, take some shots,
snort some speed, shoot crack, still no relief.
So now I have to grab some intravenous eL-eSs-Dee.
Or 5-MeOh Dee-eM-Tee.
Or your normal Dee-eM-Tee.
Or some Psilocybin mushroom caps strained into a tea.

Feel free to feed suggestions
that will give me some reprieve from the pain;
I won’t find it elsewhere ‘cause my brain
has Lyme disease.

Well, maybe, I don’t know,
I haven’t been diagnosed by a doctor who sees me less
than a fat man does his toes.

Had it in fourth grade, got treated, told I was clear.
Then why do I still feel symptoms after fourteen years?
Brain fog, nerve pain, shaky hands, gut’s clogged;
on the outside I look great,
on the inside I’m a slog.

The fact about Lyme is the corkscrew bacteria
that’ll burrow into anything of the bodily criteria
and hide there and feast like you’re a fucking cafeteria.

The best part: lots of doctors don’t even think it’s real;
all they’ll say is,
“Take this pill, let me know how you feel.”

But I haven’t taken pills ever since shit got real.
Truth is, since a week ago,
great is all I feel.
I believe I may have healed myself thanks to
and the practice of a skill that I learned on

I call it Spiraling;
what you do is focus on a point
just outside of your perspective (easier post-joint),
and you bring it in a circle,
ending where you started,
and depending on direction,
you may feel cathartic.

A corkscrew screws a cork in a clockwise method,
so I countered the clock,
feeling wise and intrepid.

I went inside my brain and saw the face of a demon,
a vile looking worm,
more teeth than a behemoth,
and I screamed, “BEGONE LYME!”
like a Lyme-brained heathen;
and ever since then, my life’s been at zenith.

It’s kinda like the time that I opened my third eye,
or when I came back to life after I was sure I had died,
or the time I floated off my bed and literally flied,
or rather flew;
does this kind of stuff ever happen to you?

All my life I’ve had visions, seen my dreams come true,
been able to read minds, no matter how askew.
This entire Lyme thing really threw me for a loop
but now the shaman’s back,

A Mental Breakdown

What follows this passage is the one other poem written by Hunter Adom Wallace.

What can I say, I’m complicated and I know it! I like to mix things up. Make them all intricate, give them an overarching story. So, the thing about Hunter Adom Wallace is that he lives a life that’s very similar to my own. The only difference is, he discovered drugs at the ripe young age of twelve. But you knew that from the other Adom poem, Corkscrew.

This one is sort of like the last one in execution, but different in concept. The last one, Corkscrew, was me taking my very strange experience with contracting and curing Lyme disease and performing a thought experiment with it: what if the weird stuff had happened, but I was on drugs when it occurred? In this poem, I go over some other traumatic events in my life and splice them with drug use; what if, when I cracked my skull open, I was tripping on LSD? What if, when I banished the Lyme demon, I was high on Cannabis? What if, when my foot was sliced, I was so drunk that I couldn’t feel it happen?

Well, I’ll tell you: Hunter Adom Wallace, the guy who had all of this stuff happen to him whilst dabbling with drugs, became convinced that drugs are mystical and that they’re on Earth for him to use when his life needs to be saved; that doesn’t sound too bad, but what this implies is that mister Hunter Adom Wallace is convinced that god, or probably God, knowing him, specifically brings drugs into his life in times of crises, and his consumption of the drugs are the only hope for his survival.

Yeah, you see how that could cause some complications in life.

But if that sounds ridiculous, well, the same thing could happen to you, and has been happening to humans since time immemorial. Take any terrible circumstance you’ve been in – a car accident, family fighting, an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar lawsuit that almost made you homeless – and recount your experience dealing with it. Now, imagine that you were able to smoke Cannabis while you were going through these hard times – you’d probably imagine the Cannabis was the only thing that carried you through it, the only reason things didn’t turn out ugly. Or, imagine that you won the lottery when all that shit was going down, like, you won the lottery three times. You’d probably be convinced that the money was the thing that brought your survival, not your basic human quality of smiling in the face of eminent death and damnation.

And even if you don’t think you’d fall victim to the way the human brain works, well, Hunter Adom Wallace is a little more realistic than that. He’s a human that got swept up in Psychedelic mysticism, the greatest metaphysical fool’s gold that exists. It’s a hell of a story; Corkscrew was his first poem, and this one is his last. Why didn’t he write any more poems? Because shortly after he wrote this one, he shot himself in the face in hopes that his death would trigger an endogenous DMT trip inside of his brain, allowing him to survive it.

Pot twist: he didn’t survive it. Because he blew his fucking brains out with a revolver. Oof.

In closing, this poem is the acting suicide letter of Hunter Adom Wallace, a made-up fictional character who theoretically once lived in a parallel universe.

No, I’m not on the brink of a mental breakdown.

Please, just enjoy the poetry.

I Forgot I Wrote This Too II

I’m all tapped out; this shower ain’t fuckin’ hot anymore.
The tap water gets cold by the time it hits the floor.
That’s precisely where I’m sitting,
there’s a tapping on the door.

Wait, no there’s not,
my cat died and I can’t fucking walk.
So even if there was someone there,
and they had a box of sidewalk chalk,
a driveway, some spray paint, and mask of Guy Falkes,
I wouldn’t be able to answer because


I wrote a book about running, now I can’t fucking walk;
I was running by a riverbed and now I can’t fucking walk…
I tried to step on some shale and now I can’t fucking walk.
The shale disagreed and now I can’t fucking walk!

I should really name this thing I Can’t Fucking Walk.
I’m writing it pissed off ‘cause I can’t fucking walk.
I can’t fucking walk and I can’t fucking walk because
I can’t fuCKING WALK


Fuck, the bandage is falling off.
It won’t stick to my foot.
The cut’s an inch deep,
I’m officially a tenderfoot.
I used to hike barefoot and now I barely move a foot
with each step that I hobble ’cause the lacerated
gash in my foot.

I’m not gonna lie,
it could have gone a lot worse.
I probably should have died,
but Uni’s the fucking worst.
And by that I mean the best,
because I haven’t lost my life yet.
I’ve died more times than I can count
and she’s just like, “Bet.”

So what happened was, I was drunker than a punk skunk
with a funk in the air that smells like an elephant’s trunk
when the elephant is drunk too and feeling some kind of
blue so he smells himself some shit and says, “pee-yew!”

So that’s how drunk I was,
I Naruto ran away from crazed family,
their issues are kind of stunning.
But yeah,
I needed to pee and on the walk back I wasn’t running
because I was unable,
but seeing through my foot was kinda funny.

I was so drunk
that I couldn’t feel the shale cut through to the bone,
but I fucking felt it when my drunckle
glued the shit closed
and he & my cousin left me outside
to be eaten alive by bugs.
And to think,
all I wanted
was to give my distant family a hug.

It’s like they think they’re the only humans with issues.
Like Jesus fucking Christ,
smoke a bowl and get some tissues.
Y’all have had it so bad
that you can’t stop bitching about it,
while I’ve had it so bad
that I won’t even speak about it
unless it’s in a poem or a book that nobody will read.

Because I’m a bird in a cage with no hope of being freed.
Plus, I’m an asshole who places blame on family.

I really hope the inch-deep gash in my foot
doesn’t start to bleed.


This is kind of like the time I was tripping and hit my head,
I died and came back;
a drug saved me again!
If I wasn’t tripping that night
I would have gone into the light,
and if I wasn’t so drunk I’d have passed out from seein
through a fucking inch deep fucking gash in the side of my
fucking foot.

No, that didn’t rhyme.
And I didn’t forget that I wrote this.
I don’t know who I am,
Hunter Adom or Hunter Owens?
I need to let some shit out of the stopped-up inner bottle,
but I can’t do it if you know that I’m venting,
letting rip at full throttle.

I’m fucking mad at Existence,
I’m pissed at my fucking parents.
I’m infuriated at my distant family
for their hearts so fucking barren.
I’m fed the fuck up with my cold fucking foot
and I’m disappointed in myself…
I really miss the woods.

I would go to sleep, but I’m addicted to my phone.
That first line was all that existed of this poem
until I stayed up ‘til half one with an ache in my dome
doing therapy writing;
better than reaching for the chrome?

The first question is:
for whom is this written tome?
The real question is:
have I been dead for long?
The comfortable question is:
if I was dead, how could I write this?
The uncomfortable question is:
whose body have I possessed?

I stay by myself and get mad
over the fact that I’m alone.
Maybe the Dee-eM-Tee beings will visit
and I can read to them this poem.

Hello Commons, this has been the interlude of Psychephrenia: A Compendium Of Thoughts & Poems Written By A Psychedelic Shaman, a smaller book hidden in the back of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Psychephrenia – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (8/10)

Part I

A Thought On Psychedelics, Schizophrenia, And Society At Large

A Few Steps Back

Psychedelic drugs do, without a doubt, have a long-term effect on not only one’s body, but also one’s mental state, if one takes them repeatedly over any amount of time. When one consumes a Psychedelic medicine, their endogenous neurotransmitters are replaced by Mokshatransmitters (Psychedelic molecules) that, from the spirit’s perspective, alter perception. From the body’s perspective, however, certain specific neurotransmitters (which depend on the certain specific variety of Moksha Medicine consumed) are not being recepted. To correct for this, the body ramps up production of said neurotransmitters, essentially speeding up the brain – and thus the body itself – in the process.

Many think there are three pillars to existence – mind, body, and soul. The thing is, only two of these three pillars actually exist: the body, which is literally the body, and the soul, the perception, the thing behind the scenes that makes everything work. That leaves the mind; ready for the kicker? What humans refer to as the mind – the ego, the individual “I” – is literally just the perception of the body by the soul. It is not its own entity; it simply does not exist. When one takes Psychedelics, as stated earlier, it speeds up the body and thus the spirit’s perception of the body and the brain, causing them to go through thought processi (among other neurological processi) faster. This leads one to come to conclusions about their surroundings at an unprecedented rate, or at the very least, at a faster rate than one is used to, eventually getting to the point that one automatically jumps to conclusions before one can fully perceive the given situation.

This is schizophrenia, or rather, what we refer to as schizophrenia. It is not a disease, it is simply when the brain operates at too quickly of a pace for the spirit to handle. This leads to one operating at a higher vibrational level of consciousness; the faster the brain works, the faster it perceives its surroundings and reacts – the faster it exists, so to speak. This higher state of existence, or level of consciousness, may be very different compared to that of the organisms co-habitating an environment with the so-called schizophrenic. This difference, once perceived and realized by the surrounding co-habitants, can lead to two outcomes for the schizophrenic: adoration or admonition.

As human beings, we are but a reflection of everything around us; when a schizophrenic is adored, they have the potential to evolve into a higher being of sorts; a witch doctor, a reverend, a shaman, what have you. When a schizophrenic is admonished, they have the potential to evolve, or rather devolve, into… into a terrifying, hateful, painfully isolated (and sometimes violent) monster; in other words, the current society’s view of what a(n unmedicated) schizophrenic is: the worst-case scenario.

The practice of taking Psychedelic drugs, of ingesting the Moksha Medicine, does, undeniably, encourage schizophrenia; they cause the brain to speed up and work faster… work better, some may say. The negative effects which are all too often observed, however, have nothing to do with the Psychedelic compounds themselves; these negative changes in a human’s being are the result of the way the taker is perceived and interacted with. If the taker is encouraged, they can reach limitless levels of higher consciousness, but encouragement is only part of it. The consciousness must be given a chance to get used to its upgraded body; this is done by meditating, by mindfully and deeply breathing, by allowing the spirit time to familiarize itself with its new settings. However, current societal trends do not allow for, or rather, they frown upon one existing for oneself, one dedicating time to oneself for the sake of self-improvement rather than societal improvement. In this way, we have entered into a brave, new version of our world, one prophesied by Aldous Huxley – although our brave new world is significantly less efficient than his, and significantly more… crazy.

Yes, society itself is schizophrenic in that, physically – in body – it has been upgraded and sped up to the point that the humans – the spirit – cannot keep up. Our own creation is better, faster, stronger, and smarter than we are, and that aggravates us, causing us to simultaneously upgrade it and destroy it by not putting our best efforts forward. Because frankly, at this point, we don’t know how to.

We must take a few steps back and breathe to allow the body and the spirit – the Earth and the humans – to come back into balance and equilibrium, in order to make our minds – our society – less crazy.


I just saw a cop walkin’ with a hand on his gun;
I guess grippin’ his dick mid-stride wouldn’t be fun.
Poor him, patrollin’ the streets, uniformed in the sun,
just waitin’ ‘til someone makes his day.
That motherfucker better run.

I never did understand the need for police.
Older folks say otherwise,
there’d be violence in the streets
if mister policeman didn’t prosecute
all the cruckin’ freeps.
Are they speaking for themselves,
or are they speaking for me?

I haven’t followed a law since I tried smoking weed.
One joint and reefer madness won its grip over me,
but that’s not to say I run around killing folks for glee.
I mind my fuckin’ business while toking up a tree.

Some humans have angst and grit their fuckin’ teeth.
To some humans,
violence is the golden road to peace.
Just look at the military and its commander in chief;
billions of taxed dollars,
yet no shortage of foreign beef.

Plus, there’s potholes in the streets
and no legal source for kief.
These mild inconveniences pile with no relief
until the inconvenienced go wild
and load up their fuckin’ guns;
when militia outmans military,
the policeman better run.


Yesterday I danced with the devil to the tune of suicide.
Today I sprint down a mountain with pure joy in my eyes.

How can someone understand from a distance
the insecurities and eccentricities
of a man who swims with ease
in the black lagoon of insanity and spiritual buffoonery,
whose life goal is to smoke more joints than
Tom Foolery?

An interesting and unique existential opportunity
to live in Universe and drop out of university,
blessed with hidden knowledge from
a magic tab of eL-eSs-Dee
and cursed to tell the others so they all look at me crazily.

So I’m wild, I’m drenched in doubt,
I beguile while dripping clout that I don’t have,
fame and fortune is not what I’m about.
For every black cloud that I conjure
I paint a rainbow shortly after;
my brainstorms tend to give way to rapture.

A mystical mountain man
with the mane of a lion and the soul of a tame giant yo,
defiant is what I am.

And the fact that my spectacular action-
packed adventure of a self is given flack is
proof that some are drinking from a rusty
I don’t sip that metallic drip, I just
quip back while I unclip the bat wings and
take flight into that dark night.
Echolocate me if you must, but you won’t see me
as I bob and weave into a higher plane, even
when they complain it doesn’t phase me.
I’m too busy hearing voices and burning bushes
that they despise, whether I’m high or low I
always stride and try not to hate.

As long as I love myself, the love is always I.

Two Eyes Open

To be high, sat upon a mountain’s peak;
a mount amounts to nothing more
than a mound of rock and dirt,
yet it scrapes the sky quite unlike a tower of concrete.

Feeling bliss from an evil plant,
marked by a hand-shaped leaf
that sprouts from the same ground
into which presses your baby’s feet.

An eagle passes overhead, a fish trapped between its beak.
To the dead, it is murder;
to the living, it is a feast.
To live in fear of theft,
your time stolen by Mistress Death,
is to be gazing,
eyes wide shut,
hoping one day to see.

Catch & Release

At half-past two in the morning,
I’m not dozing, just smoking;
sat up at my desk,
wooden pipe, no clothing.

Dosing up with Tee-acHe-Cee
because the bod won’t fall asleep;
the door is closing,
we need to be up in a single hour plus three.

Catching some zees?
More like catch & release,
more like that’s why they call it fishing and not sleep.

But every mountain is steep
and climbing up is the bends;
just keep it upright,
and take the briars to the shins.

So I’m tired and pissed off
like tick tock goes the clock
above the desk on the wall,
I look up with a frown.

To fall down in that hole,
the open mouth of a jar being filled in my car,
the right rear door ajar to blow the smoke in the air,
without a care but to spark,
a journey into despair,
a gurney on Noah’s ark.

Get High

Survived a long day of life,
energy seems low but I’m vibin’.
I arrive home to a room that screams,
“I need some Psilocybin”.
Petty forced smile and fakest glee I’ve ever seen,
got one cookin’ dinner and one starin’ at the screen.

He won’t smoke any weed,
just stares at the TV,
watching men scream over politics
and what was tweeted this eve’.

Not trying to throw a fit
or dine down here in the slime,
I tell them that I gotta go,
there’s a mountain out there to climb.
Taking a break from the holy leaf,
but not leaving myself too dry,
I get my fuckin’ blood pumping and make myself high.

High off the ground,
touching clouds as the sun sets into the evening,
flying higher than an eagle,
through the trees it be weaving,
believing that my getting high is the reason
I’m smiling, not grieving.

As the sun sets I slide down the mount’
with a different way of perceiving.

Man In The Mirror

Who is that? That kid,
looking at me from the mirror? I’ve never seen him before.
Mother says it’s me, but I don’t believe Her.
I think I should mow the lawn.


Just my luck,
this fuckin guy staring at me in my bathroom.
My eyes are red, I’ve cried,
I’m fed up with being alive.
Lines of red, trembling hands as I swallow down the meds.
I want to sleep,
shatter the mirror… I guess I’ll throw up instead.


I stare down the mirror’s expression,
eyes white as a spectre,
pupils the size of platters
as smoke rises through the rafters.
A good man,
misunderstood and banished to swim through a flood,
sprint from the mud to dry land
as all the other crabs burrow in the sand.

I Forgot I Wrote This Too

A melancholy stare is affixed on his face.

A felon in a maze, guilty only of despair.
He wanders for days,
lighter than a prayer
without a care in the world, he could be blindfolded.

The fold in the blinds is where the light peeks through,
the sun’s glow is warm and provides a feeling
unlike the artificial light put in the ceiling.
Who do you think installed it?
And why am I appalled at my lines
just as soon as I’ve scrawled them?

I’ve been trying to poem write for a fortnight
and I have nothing.
Just a saved line or two,
the result of pushing buttons
when I’m way too high to be doing anything but hiking.
I have the self-control of shroomed-out fuckin’ viking.

And I’m actually not an addict,
this is all to my liking.
I just have a big appetite that needs constant satisfying,
wanna fight?

I don’t.
Let’s just burn down a spliff,
take a couple bong rips.
You’re tripping right now,
but you’ll be trippin’ in a minute
and I’ll smoke you under the table
before the hour is finished!

The table, of course,
being the one I don’t use to work,
covered in papers & data that make my eyes hurt
in a purely mental way,
you cashed a check today?
I sat on my fuckin’ ass and wished that I got paid.

Then again,
today is actually my day off.
It took me nine nights but I finally checked the box,
forty-two hundred words and some busy work later
and I’m laying on the poem,
couching like a self-hater.


Why do we allow ourselves to be consumed by doubt?
I really don’t know man, why do we stay bugging out?

How are you gonna lay me upon this bed all day
and make me focus my eyes on what the others say,
always thinking on the tomorrow
that’s years out from today.
Santa ain’t the reindeer, he flies the freakin’ sleigh!

Easy for you to say, always talking shit.
Always keep the brain racing,
causing me to throw a fit.
Always claiming to act for others,
you want your own benefit
and I don’t even know who’s lying here,
but on you? The shoe? It fits.

On me? You’re really gonna blame this life on me.
the captain is the angel and the problem’s the machine.
more translucent than solution of saline,
you tell me, “Don’t be blue,”
and take the yellow out the green!

It’s yes or no, monkey, there is no in-between.
You always rock the boat and careen the shits on me.
Your ship has sailed,
I’m pristine and this life is looking pale.
I got other bodies in alternate timelines just waiting,
fucking begging
for me to grace them with sublime and fine dining,
a life of gold, shining, a rhinestone-sized diamond.
So say your last words before I pop you like a hymen.

Been there, done that, you’ve tried to kill myself.
Remember that pilly dinner,
snatched the bottle off the shelf?
But you cried, changed your mind,
vomited and stayed crying while I picked up all the pieces,
so you’d best stop denying.

I fucking scoff–

I cut you off! I think you’re stuck with me.
Mister Immortal Spirit, just a ball of energy,
or a string,
the pull start to get my ass up out the brink,
I mean bed;
no matter what you’ve tried, I still ain’t wound up dead!

And tried I have,
how many tabs of Acid does it take!?
How many Magic Mushroom trips,
how many bowls of Shake?
How much time you gotta spend tripping on a higher plane
just to see that I’m divine,
and you and I,
we’re the same?

Then why can’t I fly?
Why you make life so hard?
Why we always stayin’ broke,
why we empty in the heart?

Oh it’s we now?

It’s been we,
motherfucker you’re a sheep
if you think you’re gonna spin this thread
right back around on me!
I’m a long-haired hippie freak with a psychephrenic mind–
Yes, a life of my design.
Time’s a story, play your character.
Be kind to the AI and carve your mind into the baluster.

I thought the mind didn’t exist?

You thought right, it’s just the tendency
to bend these words together,
make ‘em rhyme and give ‘em density.

So what the fuck’s the point,
why you put me through all this?

We go through all this
as much as a wall goes through ya fist
when you’re fuckin’ angry and your rage
has got me fuckin’ pissed.

Is there something that I missed?

And yet you still persist;
you asked me a question and I cuffed you at the wrist
and you just keep coming back,
fucking imagine that.
The hairless ape’s map of life is riddled with fuckin’ gaps!

I think the point of life’s to live until the light goes out…
…so if you knew that all along, what’ve we been on about?

Yes, we, soul and body,
the ghost and the machine.
Inseparable together,
yet insufferable as a team.
We stand alone in a snow-swept forest,
just leaning on this tree.

Now that we have this poem, I wonder what it means…

Writer’s Block

I claim that I have writer’s block, as if I was a writer.
I just flick a lighter, scribble symbols onto lines of paper.
A quick Google search to include good words like caper,
as I skip around my keyboard with my fingers,
like a gamer.

first I said I’m writing, now I’m straight to typing?
What about your creative process,
paper then to data?
How your writings gonna matter
if you skip rungs on the ladder?
They’re not,
lightning doesn’t strike and every Hunter is a bladder.

A hazy mind and I’ve gone crazy, I can’t be an author.
Split my skull and I survived,
“why I believe in flying saucers.”
Shaman’s blood,
half my soul’s a man’s so the other half is feminine;
not a writer but a block of cheese I bite,
so lemme quote Eminem.

I feel like it’s so hard for me to come up with shit to say.
The day I go hard like a mouthful of soap bar is the day I finally wash my car, ay!
I’m at a loss for words, kuz y’all already said it all;
I better toss my words,
like a leaf to the ground they fall flat,
like I’m on insanity’s brink at an ice rink and
I think I’m running out of clichés;
humans, aliens,
I’m getting writer’s block.

Somebody tells me to shave again,
I’ll go and buy a clock
and break it on their fucking face,
but don’t call me a cock.
I’m more like a rooster,
a cock-a-doodle-dooster doing doodles
like a Yankee I’m a hanky-panky Brewster,
Don’t give me a feather or I’ll fake it out like pleather,
put it on a plaque for my cronies,
scream JACK,
and serve ’em macaroni.

Shit, I get it,
this stopped being poetry
when my schizodelic mind
rhymed words like nursery.
No rehearsal,
this was off the top of the dome,
chrome’s reversal.
My hippie hair’s so long it catches fire
from the toaster when I’m toasting bread,
never fed like I’m gonna croak and I’m broke,
so I might as well spend all my time smoking dope.

But that would be a waste,
I need to work with haste,
one hundred hours a day all dedicated to create,
to write my words,
all symbols, just like I always say,
so I can stay somewhere else other than locked away
in Mother’s attic,
like, fuck, what more can I say?

I’m just an addict with writer’s block
who’s tryna save the day.

Hello Commons, this has been the first part of Psychephrenia: A Compendium Of Thoughts & Poems Written By A Psychedelic Shaman, a smaller book hidden in the back of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Conclusion – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (7/10)


The Real Me

Conclusion? What conclusion could I have possibly drawn from this, other than the fact that, as an artist, I have successfully evolved past my past heights? No, I have no conclusions for you, book. The hypothetical reader though, the hypothetical reader is more than welcome to draw some conclusions. That’s what art is all about: the beholder getting something out of it. Humans create for other humans to enjoy, and all creativity is art. Hell, physical activity can even be art, human beings are art projects in the flesh. Life itself is an artform, and as for where life is lived… if you don’t consider the Universe to be the greatest piece of artwork that was ever created, well… fuck man, do you really have any business living inside of Her?

If you weren’t insulted by that, or by the poetry in general, I genuinely do hope you enjoyed what you’ve read here. I also hope that you see me, the real me, for who I am; one without a parallel. There’s not much more for me to say here; please, turn the page and read a small blurb about the art on the back cover, taken by the one and only Michael Storm Fisher, another man lacking in parallelity. Ride in peace Mike, your memory lives on forever.

A Note About The Back Cover

Another Mike Ride by Michael Storm Fisher

This photograph, originally titled Another Mike Ride, was taken by Michael Storm Fisher in 2009, ten full years prior to my assembling of this anthology. We see two mirrored shots of a landscape, one side with a biker and the other barren. Mike was a special dude – artistic, athletic, always one to go against the grain – he had a very unique mind in a time when so many of us were breaking our butts just trying to fit in with everyone else. He tragically passed away in 2012 following a freak lightning strike accident at the park he worked at.

I like call this photo My Parallel in my own head. I admittedly didn’t know him well when he was alive, but after visiting his brother Zak, a good friend of mine, and spending a lot of time talking about the kind of human he was, I got the impression that Mike didn’t have a parallel in life, just like the biker in the photograph. He was his own man, lived by his own set of rules, and that energy radiates from this photo.

About The Author

The author… fuck it, I’m just going to say it. It’s happening. I’m finally admitting this to myself and to you, the reader. It’s time… the author of these poems and thoughts? HOW?

The author is god.

Now bask in my light!


Hello Commons, this has been the conclusion of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Dimensionality – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (6/10)

Part IV

An Extended Thought On Existence And The Human Experience

“The Universe is under no obligation to make sense to you.”

“…and quite frankly, neither am I.”

The Geographic Categorization Of Society

As with many of my more existential trains of thought, this one began while I was watching an episode of the animated television series Rick And Morty. The series is about a mad scientist-type grandpa named Rick who goes on wacky sci-fi adventures with his idiotic grandson Morty. In the show, Rick has a gun that shoots portals which lead to what he calls alternate dimensions; what I saw, though, was Rick traveling to alternate universes, not necessarily dimensions. Ah, to be lost in the world of words…

Anyway, ‘Other universes aren’t a different dimension,’ I thought to myself, correcting an animated character’s speech.’ A dimension is… what is a dimension, technically?’ This thought prompted me to look up the definition of a dimension, which is as follows: an aspect or feature of a situation, problem, or thing., everyone; that is literally the vaguest and most open-ended definition to a word I have ever read, it could apply and be applied to anything.

Before we continue, this text is literally me scribing a lengthy train of thought filled with various ideas that may or may not necessarily have scientific backing. In essence, this is a rambling, and if it doesn’t quite make sense to you, rise above and make sense of it; or don’t, I’m not going to force you. If you’re reading this in pursuit of the one ultimate and undeniable truth about the Universe, well, I’m flattered, but please look elsewhere. And if you find it, kindly let me know where it is.

With that said, I will now “apply dimensionality” to “the geographic categorization of society” – one must board the train somewhere.

You are reading this thought, a product of a human society which exists between the second and third societal dimensions, but let’s back up. A zero-dimensional society, the one given for all other societies to exist, is a nomadic society. This is a group of intelligent lifeforms who stay together but do not stay in one place, instead living their lives following food and water to suit their needs for survival. If/when these lifeforms eventually decide to settle down and become more agricultural, their society enters into the first dimension. A one-dimensional society is a tribal society; a group of humans that exist together inside a contained geographical area that exists within a bigger land mass, or continent.

This continent, eventually, will sprout many of these tribal societies, each with its own culture. Some of these tribes will be friendly and open towards one another and some… won’t, but at the end of the day, they all learn to co-exist until they begin merging together under peaceful terms. If they don’t learn to coexist, one or more of these tribes may begin exterminating the other tribes to eventually claim the entire landmass to themselves; either outcome marks the process of entering into the second dimension.

A two-dimensional society is a nationalistic society, a society which exists on one (or eventually multiple) land mass(es) contained on a planet. Depending on the planet, there may be few or many land masses, each potentially with its own society (or societies) running on its (or their) own cultures. Like the aforementioned one-dimensional society, these more nationalistic societies coexist with each other until they eventually merge (whether peacefully or violently) to form into a three-dimensional society, one which exists on a global scale. In my mind, in a true three-dimensional society, every single specific settlement on every single specific landmass is united and working together, likely in an attempt to spread to other planets where they may or may not find other independent societies of potentially higher dimensions. Each of these specific societies will probably have a unique, if not slightly borrowed, form of culture, too.

Following the train to its next stop, once a three-dimensional society merges with (or is taken over by) the societies inhabiting the other planets in the solar system, it becomes a four-dimensional society. This level of society, if it were to/does exist, would need to have technology far more advanced than our current human society can even comprehend, along with a bottomless supply of numerous physical resources and limitless free energy. It gets bigger though; a five-dimensional society would then encompass all star systems in an interstellar neighborhood, which is one of many parts of a larger galaxy. A galactic society, in our case a society encompassing the entire Milky Way Galaxy, would be considered a six-dimensional society.

Going up in societal dimensions from there, we have a society encompassing our local group (fifty-four galaxies), then all of the galaxies in the Virgo Supercluster (roughly one hundred local groups), then all of the galaxies in the Laniakea Supercluster (one hundred thousand galaxies), until it finally encompasses the entire observable Universe, which is thought to contain two trillion galaxies. These societies would be seven-, eight-, nine-, and finally ten-dimensional societies, respectively. We can actually take one more theoretical step from there and enter into the eleventh dimension of society, a society which exists throughout the entire Universe, so long as more of the Universe exists outside of what we humans can currently observe.

Grape Flavored Candies

All that said, let us pause for a moment in order for me to tell a quick story. Close your eyes if you can do so and continue reading and imagine you’re a human-like creature called a… called a Wah. After wandering through the forests for an unrecordable amount of time, you were adopted into a nomadic group of other Wahs called… Wahs Always Huntin’, and together you eventually settle down and claim an area for yourselves… stay with me here.

Your tribe operates in the middle of North America in a time approaching modernity and, being Wahs, you have the uncanny ability to infiltrate civilizations and societies – especially human ones – and assimilate all the lifeforms until they turn into Wahs, essentially spreading like a virus and completely taking over everywhere you can. Veni vidi vici, am I right?

After a few years of colonizing tribal villages in the forests, your tribe comes upon a small town nestled in a little clearing. This is a town of humans, as no other higher form of life would be desperate enough to colonize Earth, and in this specific town, all the humans gather in a white building every Sunday for a guy dressed up in a costume to shout at them and read them stories; this is but one example of the strangeness of humanity. One could call the human species a conundrum, were they so motivated, but I digress.

You, the alien outsider observing as these humans participate in their very foreign culture (foreign compared to your own, that is), become extremely confused and afraid for their survival. What’s more, you decide they’re a lost cause, they’re hopelessly beyond helping themselves. You convince your leader to launch an assimilation, which is successful. From there, us Wahs move on to the eventual assimilation of all the towns in the state, and all the states in the country, then all the countries on the continent of North America. Can’t stop there though – there are more dumb humans out there. So, the now Wah-Assimilated Humans launch a global assimilation operation and come out on top, taking over the planet as the dominant lifeform; we moved from the bottom dimension to the third dimension just like that. Who’s fuckin’ wit’ da Wahs?

Following suit, our society then moves on to our solar system and up and up and up until it controls the entire physical Universe. Then, we stop our assimilating for two fucking seconds and start celebrating – we made it, eleventh dimension baby! Our society’s taken over the entire physical Universe! We are The Domain, we have civilizations on every single inhabitable planet in Existence and resource generation on all of the uninhabitable ones. It wasn’t easy, but we took life by the balls and spread our civilization everywhere, assimilating everything else on the way, and we fucking won.

Now what?

All of our society’s greatest generals and philosophers gather together for discussion and they come up with two options: either we can look back at the journey and try to figure out what the point of it all was, or we can explore this thing called the Multiverse that our clever sciencey bois just figured out, thus allowing us to further expand our society, our knowledge base, and of course, our control. Being how we are Wahs and how the idea of a universe that we don’t control is sickening to us (now that we control an entire Universe, that is), we decide to delve into the Multiverse. Set your phasers to fun, because this is about to get stupid.

Once we break through that four-dimensional wall and enter into an alternate universe, we need a way to understand it. Since our society has been using dimensions thus far, why don’t we call the universe(s) parallel to our Universe the twelfth dimension? And then the collection of universes parallel to that (or those) would be the thirteenth dimension, and so it goes on and on until we’re locked in the fetal position trying to figure out what the color purple smells like! Thus the conquerors continue on, taking over every conceivable universe parallel to our own until the entire Multiverse (our Universe’s entire Inner Rim) is under control of the Wahs. Can’t stop there though, there are more multiverses are contained within the Omniverse, the Outer Rim of sorts – there’s more work to do.

“But,” one of the generals exclaims before jumping into the blue and red swirling portal that is slowly but surely turning into a solid purple mass, “we’ve been going for a while now, so if y’all philosophical types want to, yous can hang back in our original Universe while the rest of us continue on, cool? Get to thinkin’ !”

As you watch the assimilation teams jump through their portals leading to a place on a rock floating in a parallel space floating in… more space, I suppose, that question comes back to you: what was the point of it all?

Unable to come up with an answer by yourself, you begin wandering across the land you stand on until you experience everything it has to offer. Once the first culture is exhausted you move on to the next and so on until you experience everything there is to experience on Earth. Then you move on again, exhausting all the cultures from all the other dimensions of your existential society until you have experienced the Universe Herself. Great!

You check in with the purple portal and the boys aren’t back from taking over the Omniverse yet, so you reflect on all your experiences and begin to philosophize. You realize that you, an original member of the Wah Assimilation Horde back when it was called Wahs Always Huntin’, were only able to experience your entire Universe because you had unbridled access to your society through your past contributions to it. No other lifeform will be able to do what you’ve done, to experience what you’ve experienced; neither will they necessarily want to either, they’re busy building their own cultures and living their own lives, pushing themselves to new heights, and for what? So you can pay them a little visit and experience them to try to figure out the point of life? Maybe… probably not, but mayb-

You are broken from your train of thought by Wahsident Liguey, the head Wah in charge of the culture of your home society. At first he scolds you, but once he realizes who you are, he embraces you in a hug and takes you around his culture, giving you a fabulous tour of everything it has to offer. You try explaining to him that not only have you seen his culture, but that you know more about it than the Wahsident himself, but he will hear none of it and the tour continues on anyway, wasting everybody’s time, money and energy. The Wahsident is a proud Wah, you see; therefore, it must be done.

So, Wahsident Liguey calls up his other Wahsident buddies and they take you on special insider-access tours through all their respective civilizations, but again and again you tell them you’ve seen it all. After touring your Universe a second time over, you bring your Wahsidential party to the portal and the collective Wahsidents all gather around you. One of them steps up and asks what they can do to please you, and all you can come up with is: “Tell me, what is the meaning of all of this? What is the meaning of being alive?”

The Wahsidents nervously look back and forth at one another, unsure of what to say. Just then, the assimilation team comes back through the portal with astounding news: they conquered the Omniverse! But, they discovered the once-theoretical Gigaverse is actually real, and now obviously they have to conquer that. Again, the Wahs Against Hlifeforms offer you a choice: stay here and think, or come and join the party. You look at all the Wahsidents in front of you, the masters and architects of their own cultures all trying their hardest but still failing to give the answer to your question. Then, you jump into the portal and a certain scent hits your nose, a scent reminiscent of grape flavored candies, the ones that don’t taste remotely like grapes but are called grape-flavored regardless.


You see, the way I see it, the philosopher Wah spent his entire life fulfilling the purpose of his life and he didn’t even realize it until after he got everyone else in his Universe involved. For a Wah, a hypothetical creature who has the ability to take over (especially human) societies, the purpose of life would clearly be to take over all the societies and, by extension, expand said societies to take over more societies. Why else would they exist naturally equipped with such tools and abilities? The same goes for predators with their sharp claws and teeth made for tearing flesh, and for monkeys with their thumbs for climbing trees to escape said predators; creatures are born with certain body parts that give them certain abilities and attributes that allow them to survive and prosper, so wouldn’t the point of their lives be to use what they’ve got?

That isn’t to say the sole point of a monkey is to climb trees simply because it has thumbs, but rather, maybe climbing trees is part of the purpose of a monkey’s life.

A fish is born with gills so it can live surrounded by water just like a human being is born with lungs to live surrounded by air; these mechanisms are required for the body to function, yes, but they are still part of life for these lifeforms. A fish, generally speaking, has its purpose in the food chain of its environment. That is the main purpose of a fish’s life: to swim, eat smaller fish, circulate water, breed, be eaten, et cetera; these are the things a fish’s brain is capable of doing. A fish is quite the complex organism, too; biology in and of itself is indescribably intricate and complex, and don’t even get me started on consciousness. Nobody knows how fuckin’ consciousness works. If reincarnation is a thing like everybody’s said it was until a certain group of white-skinned humans started dressing in costumes and telling stories on Sundays, and I’m reborn into a fish, I will do nothing but swim, eat, breed, and die, and I suggest you do the same if you find yourself in a similar situation.

Then again, if you are born as a fish with the ability of abstract thought, well… my next point.

Human beings, aside from having the capabilities of traversing, manipulating, and understanding our given pocket of Existence on levels unlike the lifeforms we share our planet with, have brains capable of complex and metaphysical thought that influence how we manipulate our Universe. Other lifeforms have brains that are clearly capable of some sort of thought too, some of them capable of fairly impressive feats when not compared to our own. Beavers build functioning dams out of logs and sticks; humans build concrete towers tall enough to crash airplanes, another human invention that allows massive amounts of humans to travel by air, into. Elephants, given the facilities, can paint pictures of fruit; humans, given the facilities, can make a three-dimensional printer that, given the facilities, can literally create the fruit the elephants are painting, edibility and all. Apes in the jungle live together in large colonies and build nests and beds for themselves; humans create societies that are (sort of) governed by different sets of rules across the entire globe, each following its own complex and unique ideology. Some species are capable of comparatively more impressive feats than humans as well, although I have less examples to give. Humans can create wearable objects to help blend into their environment; octopi can change the color and texture of their octolegged bodies at will for camouflage. Humans can communicate through intricate mouth noises and squiggly symbols on paper; dolphins can communicate through clicking noises and echolocation, an organic version of sonar, a human technology; theoretically, there are likely some wildly advanced extra-/ intraterrestrial species capable of communicating telepathically. Do you see my point?

We need to face something, especially those of us who believe there is one sole truth out there, one sole purpose of life, or whatever collection of words you want to use to describe the idea of there being a the truth. The purpose. The answer. I ask you – what part of this ridiculous Universe that we inhabit is so simple that it can be explained with a single statement, with a single answer? Take a beach ball, for example. Just a plain old red, white, and blue inflatable beach ball you would bring to the beach as a kid; it’s just a toy, some air with plastic around it, right?

Kind of, but not really. That plastic is composed of different components which can be broken down into atoms, the building blocks of things, and categorized into elements. Atoms, from the Greek word atomos (meaning indivisible), can be divided down into the three components that make them up: protons, neutrons, and electrons. I’m not going to sit here and pretend I know anything about these three particles besides that two of them have an electrical charge of some sort, but I do know  they can be broken down further into these things called quarks, of which there are six kinds: up, down, strange, charmed, top, and bottom. Quarks cannot be broken down any further, as far as we know, although my mind is open to the possibility that one day, some crazy bastard will discover that which composes a quark.

Anyway, that beach ball was also assembled in a factory (probably by underpaid workers with families and lives as intricate and complex as your own) out of materials that were probably created in a different factory operated by even further underpaid workers with unique and complex lives. Also, you need to take into account the money, time and energy that went into making that beach ball, AND the money, time and energy it will take to make that beach ball disappear after your attention for it has run out – whether it disappears into a landfill, an incinerator, or into the water/soil of the planet you live on. Also, there’s the coloration of red, white and blue, the colors of the American (and a ton of other countries, but I’m from America so the American) flag, which could have an infinite amount of implications depending on which size hat you wear and whether or not that hat has tin foil on it.

The point of all that bullshit about the beach ball, of all this rambling really, is that nothing in Existence, at least as far as I can tell, is simple; especially not life. If you’re reading this it, means you at least got through that bit about the dimensions of society, which even I can admit is fairly fucking convoluted. And the Wah shit? Just go home, get the fuck outta here with that.

If something as mundane as the self-organization of one species of life on this planet on can be organized in such a way by a member of that species who felt compelled to stratify societies based on geographic size and location, one can only imagine how complex that species as a whole must be. So, if there is a purpose to life, to the human experience, then it simply can’t be simple, but at the same time, it has to be, or otherwise the humans would never be able to figure it out. And, like I was talking about before, the purpose of any given thing’s life probably has something to do with what that thing was born with. So let’s roll with that.

Human beings are born into this world with many things, but I see three major biotools, if you will. First is the brain (and head); this experiences thoughts, perceives the Universe, ingests substances, and controls the rest of the body. Next is the torso; this processes substances in order to sustain the body and keep things ticking. Finally we have the limbs, the appendages; these allow the human to carry out its thoughts via the maneuvering through and the manipulating of the Universe.

Tackling them one at a time, let’s start with the torso: the human torso can process a myriad of sources of energy, some only semi-edible, and use them to keep the body alive. The body requires food and water or else it will die and the consciousness will leave it, which it would have eventually over time anyway, regardless of how much one eats and drinks. So far, the purpose of human existence is to live until death, which will come sooner or later… stellar.

Next, limbs: the human’s legs allow it to travel the land and the arms allow it to climb, and when these powers are combined, they can swim as well; since our purpose so far is to live until death, these must be used for getting food and water. So, our purpose is now to find food and water, consume it, process it, expel the waste, and repeat… that’s a little better. The brain is where things get interesting – metaphorically speaking, we have a theoretical infinity motionlessly spinning around the inside of our skulls. We can think about anything; how dimensions work, what matter is made from, aliens from alternate universes that take Psychedelic drugs and travel through the various dimensions of Existence, a purple elephant named Susie Q, whatever. Literally whatever we want!

Get ready for the real magic – when we use all our biotools together, we can (eventually) bring these thoughts into reality, no matter how ridiculous they are. Want a purple elephant? Learn how to modify the DNA of an elephant and name it Susie, then make another elephant that’s more or less identical to the first one and call it Suzie Q. Want to visit extraterrestrials and discover alternate dimensions? Work with the humans who build spaceships and fly out into space, you’re bound to discover something eventually. Want to figure out how matter works? Get a microscope and start from there; reading a few books may help with this one. Do you want to, I don’t know, organize your thoughts about how dimensions work into a written thought process that refuses to stay on topic? Get stoned to the bone and start writing on your laptop, see where you go from there. It’s currently three forty-nine in the morning (approximately one month after I originally started this essay) as I write this, and I’m happy with how it’s concluding. Again, do you see my point?

I hope you do, because if I have to explain it further, then you have no business reading this thought, which probably sounds a little harsh. That being said, if you feel individually offended after reading this thought, well, you likely had no business delving into this poetry anthology either, an anthology which no human being aside from myself could even hope to put together, because they just wouldn’t know HOW to do it.

To end this train of thought, I would like to pose a paraphrased quote. I always rather leave an interaction with someone on a good note and with some substance so we can both leave thinking, and possibly even growing as humans a little bit. Since this is a written piece, I think another quote will do just the trick. Yeah, I’m one of those types. One of those too, if you couldn’t already tell. Anyway, here’s Alan Watt’s words redone in my own,  typed in comic sans because if you can’t take it seriously solely based on the font, well, you probably don’t have any business reading it anyway:

“I like to ask graduates the following question: what would you do if money didn’t matter? If you could choose how to spend your life, what would you choose? Well, after they’ve washed their hands of humanity’s educational system, most ex-students will tell you they’d like to be writers, or painters, or sculptors, or musicians, but everyone knows you can’t make any money that way. Or another human will say, I want to live off the grid and tame horses. So I ask, would you want to teach others how to tame horses too? Let’s do it. What do you really want to do? When we finally get down to what that ex-student really wants to do with their life, I’ll tell them to fucking do it and forget about the money, because if you think money is the most important thing, you will waste your entire life, and worse, you’ll have entirely missed the point of it by the time you croak. You’ll spend your finite time on Earth perpetuating a life you don’t enjoy living, which is asinine. It’s better to live a poor, fulfilling life than an empty life spent counting minutes on a clock, or worse, dollars in a billfold. Life is for the living; if you’re too afraid to live because of a fear of not being able to horde away enough green paper with the faces of dead men printed on them, ask yourself: do you really deserve to live your life?”

Toss A Stone

I like to tell the others,
“Not all those who wander are lost.”

A stone tossed across the still surface of a pond,
skipping along the pristine mirror image of the sky,
until the tension breaks
and takes the stone for a dive.

Pay attention, wanderer,
journeying through the great beyond,
that you don’t encounter something bigger,
out to take you on.
You don’t know what’s out there,
and there’s no need to be alarmed,
but every rock skipped
chances a chase with a swan.

Yes, I tell them,
“Not all those who wander are lost;”
and many lose their way
long before they’ve left at all.
So take a rock and toss it,
there’s plenty to go around;
and if you dome that swan just right,
dinner may be abound.

Beech Tree Buds

A starburst.

One rainfall later,
last week’s gray neighborhood is flooded with life.
Shining like a gemstone,
carved into the shape of a knife,
the sun melts away a brainstorm of dark clouds
with a melancholic lining.

Like an alcoholic choosing life over strifeful boozing,
springtime ignites the fuse on the brightest firework
the Earth will never see.

The sky, a sea of blue
until you punch through to the other side.
She hides a light show of cosmic brilliance
as billions of burning comets and other fireflies
join to birth planets.

Babes of mirth,
future Earths burning in wait for their Mother’s rain
to satiate their thirst.

A starburst.

Run Your Race

Lace up your shoes,
time for feet to hit the pavement.
If you know the ground is solid,
you shan’t expect a cave-in.

The clock is ticking my son,
the race has just begun.
If the starter gun frightens you,
you’re missing all the fun.

Blood pumping,
sweat dripping and teary- eyed from the wind.
Run fast and don’t look back,
I’ll see you at the end.

Cross that finish line in a sprint or in a crawl.
By the balls of your feet,
to yourself you’ve proved it all.

You may not net a trophy,
no medal around your neck,
but you won’t be that loser at the end
answering back,
“I bet.”


Flood in a drought, levee is broke,
beavers’ dam’s washed out.
Knock on wood my good vibes don’t up and run out.

Though I feel by fearing it, I’m really drawing it near;
my rear-view says objects are closer than they appear
so I can either speed up or wait around for the crash.

Yeah, as if that’s what I’m about.

Why not slam on the gas pedal
‘til the tank doesn’t run out?

Icing From A Cup

Very paradoxical times we’re stuck living in,
I look around myself and everywhere it seems evident:
a reality TV star is America’s current president;
burning Marijuana’s as illegal as shooting heroin.

So who’s gonna win?
This fucked up game we’re in.
Stuffed up with stuck-ups and full of shit bluff-nuts
who want nothing more than to win
whatever conversation they’re in;
this conversion of creation from elation to pure hatred,
to inflated egos of the men who love to eat burritos;
or maybe of the women who dislike the brand Fritos;
or maybe of the men banning together to bang the Migos;
or maybe of the transvestites,
in their too-stretched-out tights,
trying to decide whether to start a fight or verbally ignite
the pipe-dreaming cis-demon who made the fatal mistake
of verbally labeling them all as queens.

Want to raise the stakes?
Simply divide and conquer;
conjure up some nonsense and brainwash the populous,
make ‘em think their neighbor’s on the brink of a hate crime
like, “Yo, watch this!”
They’ll take the bait and debate how long it’ll be
‘til their friendly enemy crosses that line;
and when that line is crossed,
they’ll pull out their sauce,
dip their breadsticks so fast that you won’t even pass gas,
forget tryna pass ‘em your home-made Kool-Aid in a glass.

Became a sleuth to deduce
that the truth no longer matters;
it’s all about that rung
that you’ve climbed to on the social ladder.
Who’s ladder? Their ladder,
and definitely not yours.
Otherwise, who’d they get to do all the remedial chores?

My advice: cut it down with a medieval sword.
The old use the young like the tooth uses the gum:
to hold it in place while it turns good food to waste.

They’re all playing a game while we’re trying to live
in an infinite Universe full of wonder and spirit.
They’ve wasted their time and now they’re waking up
to ensure we repeat their cycle,
like eating icing from a cup.


I want to write a poem about the rain after a drought,
but I can’t find the words to express what I’m about.
Writer’s block is a bitch,
it’s a sandwich made of doubt with two slices of fuck you and
the urge to scream and shout.

I guess it’s kind of like a cat who wants a piece of dinner.
She already ate her own and she’s not getting thinner
and she’s clearly never seen food before in her life,
so just cut your meal to pieces and give her a little slice!

That’s a metaphor, the cat’s a crazed man in the sand,
his throat is even drier than the desert where he stands,
and he isn’t even sweating ‘cause he literally can’t
and the hallucinations of oases
are makin’ him shit his pants.

Do you see where I’m going with this? ‘Cause I sure don’t.
I guess I’ll dick around and word this piece into a close.
I don’t know why I tried so hard to write this little poem.
Four blocks of more lines,
water pine to make a cone.


I sat in the Dee-eM-Vee reading 1984 this morning.
The look the policeman shot me
felt an awful lot like a warning.

But the government’s not an overlord,
just a corporation in sheep’s clothing
that’s in the business of their subjects,
always ordering and controlling.


When I say I walk on water, I’m referring to when it freezes;
I bear resemblance to the man,
but I do not claim to be Jesus.

I am but a simple shaman,
a native American man,
living on the same piece of land
once dominated by my clan.
Many eons ago,
thousands of years in the past,
before the white man came and turned it all into trash.

Living in a fever dream,
my ancestors speak to me.
They say,
“Live your life. Nothing’s really as it seems.”


The scarlet glow ridicules the darkness.

A burned bridge is swallowed by the gorge,
yet it follows him across.

It knows no bounds,
clutching his heart like the winter’s frost does the moss,
guiding his feet along the path.
Memories of past lives echo through the night,
bringing him back to sunny days
spent barricaded in a cave as its hooves
draw ever closer.

The future a figment,
presently past the need for closure.

Through hallowed halls
lined with shattered windows, it leaks in.
The moonlight grows dim as he finds himself at a dead end.
He waits, petrified and bleak,
for the end that always persists.

The greatest trick the devil played
was convincing him it exists.


She reeks vehemently of soot and ash.
Smoke leaks from her ears as a fire blazes inside her.
Not quite feared nor respected by her peers,
known of but not known,
raised by wolves into an enigma
to the faint of heart and shallow of mind.

Behind her blank face a war wages,
the calm nothing more than a facade for the storm.
Thunder cackles as lightning crashes into a sea
of untold treasures and terrors alike;
sadness, ecstasy, spite, bravery,
her own brand of insanity wrapped up
in a bent little package, and the cost?
But a cent,
merely a penny for your thoughts.

Facing demons of a man-like demeanor
whilst drowning out the voices in her head
leaves little room for a closetful of skeletons.
Perhaps, could we stuff them in the shed?
Don a new skin,
softer than the pelt yet tough enough to feel the things
most others have not felt?

I know you hear us darling, we’re only here to help.

Thin Ice

The sky is that certain shade of gray today;
closer to white and mostly blank,
like a piece of my open notebook’s page.

Pale blue spots reflect off the icy surface of the pond
upon which I stand,
which I ran onto with haste and now I stand
with the grace of a swan,
white as a poltergeist and frozen like a statue,
like a sculpture of ice.

I don’t remember how long it takes the lake to freeze,
since November it’s been solid for a couple of weeks.
I thought I would make it back before I sneezed and,
like a dry leaf,
the ice cracked beneath my feet,
leaving me up a creek without a life raft, a paddle,
or even a bag of weed.

Now I’m uncertain,
this very well may be curtains,
how the hell will I survive when it seems
like death is lurkin’?

I hold my breath and step light before igniting a sprint,
in hopes the ice won’t crack
just to race me to the finish.

Hello Commons, this has been the fourth part of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Peace Of Mind – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (5/10)

Part III
Peace Of Mind

Peace Of Mind

A Cool Spring Breeze

Peace of mind… what is that?

A state of zen reached when one is so easily able to shut the thoughts off and simply be with the rest of reality? A state in which reality is not happening to you and you are not happening to it; a state of awareness of the fact that reality is happening and so are you, but you are a part of it and there is no you?

Is it a reward for spending years and years of your life meditating until you finally get it? Is there an it to get?

Is it a Cannabis high?

Is it a cool spring breeze that knocks the last dangling dead leaves from the branches so the new buds can bloom?

Is it a rare state of being in which only a chosen few may partake in? Is it the natural mindstate of a human, and the fact that so little of us seem to have it a marker of how far from nature we’ve come as a species?

Maybe, or maybe not.

I know not what peace of mind is, but in laying beneath this tree on top of the mountain on this beautiful sunny day, I do believe I’ve found it.

To Bee, Or, Not To Bee

Tiny wings carry the bumbling bee,
fumbling through the air
in between the leaves.
Humbly seeking not to be caught,
all the while preaching his hopes
to be sought.

Left his old hive in charcoal and ashes
just to rebuild it,
despite all the scratches.
Then he leaves once more, on better terms perhaps,
for pastures anew,
leads himself into a trap.

They all clap their hands,
welcoming him in while dirtying his stripes
with the dust of a chimney standing tall,
but caked full of soot.
He smells the fire burning, pretends evil not afoot.

Trades his wings for a mind,
his stripes for a hoodie,
with an open third eye and a future full of goodies.
One last handshake and the bee says goodbye,
embracing humanity,
leaving the hive.

Untitled Mountaintop Poem

Another long day of giving chase to paper later,
bright yellow sunlight
with white clouds all a’layered,
blocking out some,
but not a lot of the blue;
just a fool on a hill out to appreciate nature.

I lay back in the grass and gaze into the sky.
An airplane makes a pass,
space is where I want to fly.
Close your eyes and focus,
one day you will see,
that inner space is outer;
all you need’s a key.


The dirt is mud,
the Earth flooded by the rain of days past.

The gray of the sky reflected off waves babbling by,
a stream once dry,
a’flow again.

Some see puddles after it rains,
while others see the sun,
recognizing the change.
A Token of hope,
a purchase made with spare change;
a child’s mope reversed into a delighted gaze.

Gray forests barren,
green only on the rocks;
rainy drops fallen,
from high above the tops
of mountains,
through my valley where I choose to take a walk
through a wintery wildland;
no reason to talk.


Birds of a feather flock together
whether or not they learn how to fly.
No matter the weather,
snow, rain, whatever,
Crane don’t chill with Magpie.

Vulture, beak full of brain
 of a maimed piece of roadkill,
is accompanied by two more of its kind,
hungry to eat their fill.
Even The Eagle,
majestic, lethal,
unmatched and alone in the sky,
settles down and shares its crown
in a thatch nest with his bride.

Birds of a feather flock together
whether or not they learn how to fly.
So find the others,
your sisters & brothers,
spread your wings and hit the sky.

Just Like Us

I see you up there.
You grow and shrink just like the rest of us,
I would like to think.

Or could it be that you always stay the same,
appearing to blossom when hit with the rain?

I mean,
bathed in the light. Sort of ordained,
not like a priest, but higher up
all the same.


A rose by any other name
would smell just as sweet,
though the nameless flower
claims a beauty more unique.

Though she walks through the valley
of the shadow of death,
she fears not the demons,
merely putting them to rest.

I wandered lonely as a cloud,
floating over valley after hill,
until I found her, my medicine,
I swallow like a pill.

Let us go then, you and I,
into a future so uncertain;
to be blinded by your light,
refusing to draw the curtain.

Along the course of my life
I’ve been bored by material girls,
but she’s my cannaherbal chick
from a more psychedelial world.


As you lie down to sleep at night,
or rise to face the day,
do you thank god for only sex,
or do you include pain?

To live your life one day at a time is surely an act of grace,
but one cannot truly love the sun,
unless one loves the rain.

But how does one love,
embrace that force of a higher plane,
if once that one doesn’t get their way,
they lash out with words of hate?

The act of living the human life is an art painted by tears,
of joy or pain? Both are the same.
I just thank god I’m here.


The cold outside is biting,
yet the sun shines so inviting
on this,
a blustery winter day.

Bundle up all you want,
the gust will cut through your cloth
like a hot knife through melted butter.
Dead leaves clutter the forest floor beneath a layer
of white ice,
snow frozen into sheets so slick
you could slip and slide on them.

Rudolph with the red nose,
icicles dripping from nostrils as tears freeze on rosy cheeks
and eyes become difficult to shut.
You’d think blinking would make it better,
lo, all the wetter your face becomes;
yet still you feel the glow
of the forever gleaming sun.

The price to pay for time spent in nature,
worth every cent.


‘This face is pretty steep,’  I think to myself
as my feet begin to slide.
To my left, the flat edge of a cliff and to my right,
the icy water slides.

Behind me, well… if I fall, I won’t survive.

The top is in sight, literally, at level with my eyes.
At the same time though,
the other five feet of my body dangle,
hands clasping holds and feet boldly angled on the rock.

I’ve had a headache
and tasted paper in my mouth all day,
yet none was eaten.
My family supports my drive but they clamor to steer.
I’m seen as a wolf,
yet I breathe as a deer.

‘Maybe… a sign to let go,’
I think for a time,
possibly half a moment,
a secondary thought in my primary mind.
I gaze down once more; below me, but a muddy forest floor.

A shake of my head. A cackle of laughter emerges
as the ice cracks on the reservoir in the backdrop.
The music picks up,
audience on the edge of their seat.
I vault.

Ah, to climb over the top, calling the devil’s bluff.


It’s hard to be creative when you stay inside all day,
and no matter what you sing,
the rain won’t seem to go away,
and it drifts down from the sky in the form of frozen flakes
and the cold of the ozone is shoved
right into your face.

Like, I get it, it’s winter,
the sun ain’t gonna shine;
the mountains are leaking ice, far too slippery to climb, and the trees are all leafless besides the evergreen pines,
and the daylight seems to fade
too soon with opened eyes.

They say spring’s around the corner,
but I don’t know what they’re on.
I’ve heard that it gets darker
just moments before the dawn
but we’ve been sitting in the shadow for three months Mah, come on.

One can’t appreciate nature ‘til the
hollowness is gone.

And how hollow it is when the cold tickles your ribs;
when the wind rips through your clothes
like the sharp end of a pin
and makes you feel naked,
like garbage without a bin.
To harbor these feelings,
to sink the ship and swim.

But when that long dusk finally breaks into the dawn,
and the forest is alive like a prancing baby fawn,
when the ice has all melted and the green grass grows on,
the cold will be a memory,
will serve to make you strong.

Hello Commons, this has been the third part of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The To Bee Or Not To Bee Collection – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (4/10)

To Bee Or Not To Bee

To Bee

Four hundred and five pounds;
a few ounces for every twenty-five snowflakes
fallen to the icy ground.

The hive buzzes to keep warm,
fuzzy sweatshirts,
jeans and beanie caps,
rubber gloves save the tools from harm.

The Queen’s right hand, or rather, the Left,
his feet weighted as he steps,
chin cleft,
chip of the shoulder and wings clipped,
whenever his throne is left.

He approaches the youngest Bee,
hiveless and born of a different tree,
listing the combs for him to clean
while the Queen feasts and feeds him the least.

He asks of himself,
“How would I rather bee;
guided to starvation,
or left outside to freeze?”


Eyelids heavy, armpits sweaty,
and a headache to bounce a Betty.
I hobble over dusty concrete,
yellow stripes faded like my fellows
on a Friday night.

Rusty metal drums,
a few old bumbles festering as Lefty puts on a show
for some new investors.
Our best guess is an investment into some new jester’s hive,
overtime is available;
expect to bail on life.

That look in his eye,
a dark storm clearing to fields of green,
papers laid in a row.

Three days
thirty down,
twenty left to go.


Another bent down day spent clowning in a box.
Back hurts because I’m spent;
I fall to peel the socks
from my feet. Three days off ago,
I finished up the week,
and now my eyes are twitching.

I chose to live life over getting a full night’s sleep.

Watched the TV, wrote, tried to plant some seeds,
shoveled with a hunched back,
snow and forty-four degrees.
Zombies were slain when I played video games,
even picked up a Steve Jobs book,
gave that tome a read.

Now it’s Tuesday night,
the sky’s blacker than the stripe of a bee;
I feel as though I’ve wasted all my time off on me.
Now it’s back to the grind,
in three days I may find relief,
but after, and only after,
putting in
my Oh-Tee.


Caucasian hands blacker than soot,
body draped in the same blue rags
that I put on the past three days,
brain going kaput when Lefty asks
whether or not I can stay today.

“Oh-Tee’s available, are you?”

No excuses come to mind,
I find only a memory of him tellin’ me
it’ll help my Pee-Cee.

“Yeah, I’ll stay,”
wishin’ for a way to get a raise,
but when you’re only paid thirteen,
you’re overlooked like the sea.

Mozart plays from my pocket as my false smile fades
with the style of a blazing rocket,
the Queen’s brave pocket pal
stomping loud in search of who else shall buzz
their Friday away.

This concrete box
slowly takes the form of a shallow grave in my head
as I scoff aloud at the thought
of slavery being dead.


A cold night gives way to a bright and sunny day.
The Bee buzzes through the hive,
yet it doesn’t feel the same.
For years now he’s been working here,
pouring honey and cleaning husk.
Lefty expects a gleaming smile,
effort from dawn to dusk.

No overtime today, tells Lefty he won’t stay.
Lefty pouts and tells the Queen,
they feel some sort of way.
In between two broken trees
is where this hive resides.
Any day the boughs may break;
the hive will not survive.

There are meadows, pastures, and flowers
beyond these walls.
To find them one must leap with faith,
unafraid to fall.
A new day is now dawning, one cannot ignore the call,
so better get a move on,
summer always turns to fall.


A blanket of clouds insulates the sky today,
how fitting.
The sun shines through the bee’s smile
when he tells Lefty
that he’s quitting.

A storm inside the big guy’s mind
brings a scowl to the surface.
He carries his pout to the Queen Bee’s lair,
and she drops all her purses.

The Bee’s yellow stripes worn down a grayish black,
his back in pain and his wings all cracked
like the boughs upon which this hivemind sits,
but there’s nerry a doubt in his mind.

In a mere two weeks’ time,
the concrete will be left behind;
the winter has passed.
Freedom is mine.

Not To Bee

A patch of flowers sprouted in the middle of a meadow,
slender green stalks leading
to vibrant purple pedals.
A gentle breeze wakes the Bee,
once asleep on a sea of green,
now aware of the changing air.

Across the pasture dark clouds gather,
black as soot,
raining down thunder and lighting
like the stomping of a foot,
biting at the boughs beneath a hive
where smitten bees reside.

A tear is shed as pedals are spread
and pollen collects in a basket.
He lifts his head and stares with dread
at the casket,
aglow in red.

“They’re dead inside,” he rationalizes,
as fire consumes his friends.

What a family,
a deft calamity begging to be erased
without a soul to mourn them.
As the Bee buzzes away in chase of better days,
a smile spreads across his face.
Like him they’re free, no longer to bee,
underneath a fiscal monger.

Now the Bee, a wishful wander, can finally find his tree.

Hello Commons, this has been the interlude of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

An Examination Of Anger – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (3/10)

Part II
An Examination Of Anger

An Examination Of Anger

“Ultimately, if I am enraged, it doesn’t hurt the other human as much as it hurts me.”
~Abraham Twerski

Thinking Clearly

What is anger? To some it is just an emotion; to some it is an excess of energy running through the body; to some it is fuel to add to the fire of productivity, and to others it is the only emotion. I’m no stranger to the heat of anger; I once believed that I was born evil, that I contained all the world’s anger, but now I’ve realized my boy Borrelia burgdorferi had eaten away at so many of my neurons that anger is often the only way my brain is capable of dealing with the world around me.

The way my brain attempts to work is as follows: I can be in a great mood, feeling as though the Universe Herself is sat in the palm of my hand, and then some insignificant little thing will happen. A rude human will say something stupid, or I’ll fail at doing something one too many times, or maybe I didn’t get enough sleep the night prior, or maybe my left shoe is tied just a little bit tighter than the right one; the point is, I can go from an angel to a pseudo-murderous asshole in zero seconds flat; it’s out of my control, and it weighs on me quite heavily.

Lately I’ve been searching for answers, or at the very least for help in controlling this seemingly unavoidable cycle of rage to remorse, and I stumbled upon a video of a short talk given by a man carrying the name Abraham Twerski. He, in this talk, breaks the cycle of anger down into three parts: the feeling, the reaction, and the gripping of the feeling after it would have normally passed. Me, being myself, found these ideas to be very profound, so I decided to write out a meditation based on the ideas.

Here we go.

The first stage of anger is feeling the literal feeling of anger – in his talk, Twerski appropriately names this stage Anger. In our hearts, human beings are wild animals; we’re hairless apes who, in my opinion, spend our entire lives attempting to hide this plain and simple fact not only from each other, but from ourselves, and we don’t do a very good job of it at all. When we get provoked, we feel a primal, animalistic anger, and no matter how hard we try to cover it up, to push it down into the depths of our subconscious, it shows. There’s really nothing we can do about this, either; if you’re out there doing your thing, whatever your thing may be, and someone gets in your way somehow, you’re going to feel some type of animosity towards them.

Feeling anger, feeling that natural human reaction when an especially high-piled platter of bullshit is shoved in your face, that is unavoidable. However, you can make moves to get your brain to not pump the anger chemicals through your system, one method being taking things into perspective.

Twerski uses a lesson taught to him by his father to explain how to accomplish this goal; when someone did something that made him mad, his father would simply say, “What he did was so foolish, if only he knew how foolish it was what he did, he wouldn’t have done it. I feel sorry for the human for being such a fool.” This statement, when you actually realize it from thought into action, transforms your anger into pity, into sorrow for your fellow human being.

Pity and anger don’t quite occupy the same end of the emotional spectrum, and they certainly don’t go together. How can you be mad at a human for whom you feel sorrow? You can’t; when it really comes down to it, you can either hate the human for being a stupid prick, or you can feel bad for them for having to live with such a closed mind. For me, just saying to myself how bad I feel for the inspiration of my anger at the given moment doesn’t quite cut it; I usually need to sit and meditate or run a few miles for the anger to truly fade, but honestly? At the end of the day, everyone is different, and living with anger in your soul can only bring you pain. Do what you have to do to let it go.

The second stage is called Rage, how one reacts to feeling all that anger. Plain and simply, one must do their very best to control that reaction, the end goal being not allowing your reaction to affect the environment around you, humans, objects, or otherwise. Admittedly, I am now a lot better at controlling my rage than I used to be; I’ve punched a few holes in my walls, blown up on friends, burned bridges, the whole nine yards. I don’t do these things anymore – the worst I do now is raise my voice to levels in which I feel pain in my throat – but I’m still learning to control. Rage is just part of the human experience, part of being a living creature on the planet dubbed Earth, even.

I had a cat (read: adopted son) named Milkshake who harbored quite a temper too, when he put his mind to it. Usually I could pick him up and toss him around a bit in a playful fashion and it would be fine, we’d have fun. But, when there were too many loud noises going on or when he hadn’t had enough to eat or didn’t get enough sleep, or sometimes when he just wasn’t in the mood, he got angry. And he reacted with rage, the rage of very sharp teeth and claws piercing into flesh; the little bugger did some real damage, let me tell you.

The thing is, though, Milkshake (as far as I could tell) didn’t have the mental capacity to control his rage; he had no choice but to react. Well, I thought that, until I caught the dude opening the door to the closet where we kept his food. Regardless, we are humans, we have one of the most evolutionarily advanced brains in Existence, as far as we can tell; we are capable of controlling our reactions and emotions in the moment, and for that sole reason, we must. Gaining this control is not something that happens overnight, over the course of weeks or even months, but over the course of years, in some cases over the course of a lifetime; it’s one of the most tenuous things a human can do.

That being said, just because something is hard to do does NOT mean one should not do it. If anything, that should be a hint telling you that you should do it, but I digress.

The third stage is called Resentment. This stage is the holding on to the feeling of anger after the bullshit has passed. After you’re done feeling that rush through your system, after you’ve properly reacted in some sort of way, you still blame the other human for making you mad, for being such a prick. And who can blame you? If they made you that mad, they probably are a prick, and they probably don’t care that they made you feel so awful. Resentment isn’t healthy though, it only makes things worse, only breeds more anger in your system until the day comes where you forget what it’s like to feel anything besides that dreadful anger.

In the video, Twerski recounted a lesson he learned from Alcoholics Anonymous, and I would like to quote his quoting of said lesson: “Hanging onto resentment is like letting somebody live inside your head without paying any rent.” My watching of this random video was not the first time I’ve heard this quote, and I doubt this is your first time being exposed to it either, but it still rings true. While it seems a very kind thing to do, allowing someone to occupy your thoughts for free, you still have to pay a cost.

Similarly to controlling your reaction, letting go of resentment is one of the most difficult things for a human to accomplish. One can so easily lie to oneself about how one is feeling, and usually the lie is so good it’s believable. You can sit there and tell yourself and everyone around you how you don’t care, how the other human is a stupid prick and how you’re just so above that shit, but if you still feel anger inside, well, you’re still angry. In my experience, both meditation and running for miles on end (or a combination of the two if you can fathom such a thing) are powerful tools in letting go of resentment, but one needs a very open mind for meditation to work. One must find their method, for it does exist; one just needs to be willing to change oneself for the better.

Lastly, there’s a phenomenon Twerski brings up that struck home with me: feeling guilty for feeling anger. Like I stated previously, anger is just a human reaction, an animal reaction. Unless you operate at an Alan Watts level of zen, you’re going to encounter anger – you simply don’t have a choice. That’s precisely why feeling anger doesn’t matter; what matters is how you react to the anger.

Nobody is perfect, no matter how perfect they think they are, and everybody has bad days. To assist in controlling anger, Twerski suggests keeping an anger journal of some sort. Write down what happened and how you reacted, and then at the end of the day go back and read it, asking yourself, “Was that really the best I could have done?” This is how you learn from your experiences, how you grow as a being: by examining yourself and making changes based on what you don’t like.

An example I think everybody can relate to: we get mad at our parents, and for stupid shit. Not every day, mind you, but the next time Mother pretends she doesn’t hear what you said when you’re speaking directly in her ear or the next time your father stares unblinkingly at the TV as you try to talk to him, you’re going to get pissed off. It surely won’t be the first time you’ve felt anger towards your parents for behaving in a certain way. I used to feel guilty about getting angry at my parents, but in reality, they’re just like me: human beings trying to do their best in a world that harbors a seemingly self-destructive society. Feeling bad for feeling bad is no way to stop feeling bad, and as obvious as that might sound on paper, some humans never realize it.

Nobody is thinking clearly when they’re provoked into feeling anger, they’re under too much pressure; pressure to react, pressure to assert themselves over the provoker, pressure to not feel this way as soon as possible. And this is okay. What isn’t okay is holding on to the anger for what really amounts to nothing more than egotistical purposes. If you’re angry at someone, talk to them about it, try to resolve your differences. Even go out of your way to make up for it, for no other reason than it being the right thing to do; even Milkshake would go out of his way to cuddle with me a little bit more after he slung his claws and the fur flew.

Anger may be a mandatory part of life, but rage and resentment are nothing more than malignant cells just begging to be amputated. All you need to do is find the right knife.


To be trapped in a cage,
maned like a lion and an untamed temper,
simple words vicious enough to make you cry,
if I try.

And try I do;
you fucking buffoons better tie me to a rocket
and shoot me to the moon
and hope, nay, pray that some aliens don’t stop me
and try to save my life,
because I’ll kill all of them for not intervening sooner.

A spectral beam shooter
controlled by the ship’s computer,
tempting to push the but’.
I swear to god,
I refuse to stop myself,
this fucking world’s getting blown up.

Be scared,
fear a poem,
my symbols on this paper are so dark,
the blackest ink,
it swallows up the spark.


Solitude, a cold winter day;
watching a leaf flit through the air
over a pit where the last smoldering ember
fades away.

I spit as the blood leaves my hands,
an icy grip coming over my very being;
feelings fleeting as a once bright soul
chooses to sit alone in the cold.

To be accepted rather than misunderstood,
to be placed on a pedestal
for the good I try to accomplish
while instead, the rest fear my expression,
cold like stone and alone,
carved from a block of wood.


Snowstorm, snowstorm, a white cloud blocks the sky.
I peer out my window,
what appears before my eyes?
The dry ground,
no branches bent low under the snow;
no blanket of blankness, no reason not to go.

Snowstorm, snowstorm, work is slow today.
An hour in the first flake falls,
I still don’t feel awake.
The radio plays the six same songs
every single day,
while we sit watching the snow fall,
wishing to be away.

Snowstorm, snowstorm, crystals turn to rain
pouring down from the heavens.
Clouds form inside my brain.
Pouting faces work ‘til five,
slush plowed the same as snow by Queen Bee.
This fucking job is driving me insane.


Left out in the cold,
getting that old shoulder like a boulder rolling into the sea
off the Cliffs of Dover.

It gets old, so what am I supposed to do?
Blackballed and opposed by my own fuckin’ high school, appalled, un-paid, and de-ranked
because of… wait, they never told me;
allegedly they hold themselves to a higher pedigree,
all the while staying cliqued up
like a fuckin’ baby seat.

In the North, South or West,
one would have to strap on a vest, but not in the East,
just eat the moldy wheat baked into your bread
while you fake up a character livin’ only in y’head.
Wake up, take a gander at the man in the mirror
inside your manor on the hill, pop some pills
and fill out your goddamned day planner by hand,
or by a minor that you pay
like forty-nine‘r fifty cents a day
to slave away chasin’ paper they won’t be taking
to their grave.

You punk pricks need your own parade
to get it through your thick skulls, it’s all a big charade.
Now go fuck your pig wives and sip your Hateorade.

I’m over this like a dove,
wings whiter than snow that it uses to fly above
the lowly Cliffs of Dover.

One In The Chamber

Every single time in my life I’ve sensed some danger
and was pushed towards it anyway;
that’s one in the chamber.

Give the benefit of the doubt, just ignore all their anger,
you have to help them anyway;
that’s one in the chamber.

Every human who calls me friend, beeping me like a pager
to treat me as a means to an end;
that’s one in the chamber.

Every human who fancies themselves some kinda trainer,
ordering me like I’m an animal;
that’s one in the chamber.

When humans act holy then shift like a shape changer,
wearing a mask like it’s their face;
that’s one in the chamber.

Humanity’s been lost, traded in for comfort and Haegar.
The magazine’s full now,
all the slugs in the chamber.

I’ve felt this way forever but bottled it like container;
I’m not pulling any triggers,
this is just a piece of paper.

Cold II

It’s pretty cold out here and there’s snow in my shoes.
I’m confused, screaming at the sky,
“The fuck’m’I supposed to do?”

Mentally exhausted
from sitting inside a box all day,
trapped with my thoughts and now the cold’s
soaking through my socks.
But yet I walk,
through the slush along a muddy path in the dark,
texting with a voice and feeling lost
inside my own heart.

But my hands are numb.
It’s hard to type when I can’t feel my thumbs,
and all that’s on my mind is the want
to shoot a gun.
But I keep pluggin’ along,
dragging my sluggish feet as frozen raindrops fall
and dilute my view of the screen.

The more I peer into the light, the darker the world seems.
And now my legs are cold,
the snow’s melting through my jeans.


There lies a certain beauty in days like today,
where the sky is cast over with
serene shades of gray.

The forest rains down drops of winter,
the sheet of ice clasp’d round the branches and leaves,
the shells,
ghosts of what lies beneath.

They melt in little drops, tattering my head.

I’m reminded with a chill that,
though dark, lifeless and stiffer than dread,
the elders are not dead.
Nay, merely dormant,
waiting with great anticipation to fall like water
off the edge of a waterfall.

To the Earth they cascade, but what then?
It is too soon to tell.

The trees lie wrapped within their ghostly shells.


Stalagmites of ice stand proudly before the cave.
lost in eternal slumber,
lies darkness.

Bleaker than night,
shaggier than a bear and thinner than the wing of a bat,
it casts fear in a gust of wind
that takes nothing but the hat from your head.

Its bread and butter dwell in the mutters of lost souls,
the young and the old cast astray
from the light of day.

The ground is wet,
puddled with tears shed by wanderers.
They freeze in towers,
teeth and fangs,
standing at the mouth of the cave.

I Forgot I Wrote This

Another day spent in darkness feeling all alone;
time to conjure misery
into another poem.
To make the feelings go away for at least another day,
until they return with a suitcase,
telling me they’ll stay.

Pushing me out of the way and setting up a shop,
chopping down my trees,
they plant seeds for crop.
Really what I’m doing here is crying for attention,
because the others are scared away
by my “psychotic tension.”

It was never my intention to end up like this,
I swear it’s just what’s happened.
I ran fingers through my hair and felt bone cave in,
I’ve been different ever since.
Or maybe they hear keywords
and decide that I’m finished.

I was always that guy who just sat there quietly
when the rest ran their mouths
trying to figure out me .
Instead of saying, “Hi,” or asking me, “What’s up?”
they drank the spoiled Kool-Aid juice
that’s poured into their cups.

But like I said,
I’m just writing this starving for attention.
It’s easier to talk some shit and stir up some contention.

Keep In Touch

Keep in touch.

Hearing those words used to put me in a huff.
Like, what the fuck is stopping you
from keeping in fucking touch?
What, are you too busy
building up a fucking bluff
just so I can lift you up from outside your fuckin’ rut?

Then I realized, that attitude stinks worse than a butt.
The others aren’t malicious,
their lives just fuckin’ suck.
They’ve lived the groundhog’s day so many times
they’re fuckin’ stuck,
placing bets on a lottery,
hoping for a stroke or luck.

If that’s true, all my sub-peers must be stupid as fuck.
Trading paper for other paper;
it all amounts to…
plus another brew poured inside your gut.
Wow, living on a prayer must be pretty fuckin’ tough.

But then I realized, this world is pretty fuckin’ rough.
The humans do their best,
but they’re running out of trust.
The parasitic Gov’ holds out a hand,
a silver glove demanding their piece,
their cut of your fuckin’ stuff.

And you’ve got kids to feed, an ass you’ve gotta bust,
‘cause it’s the only way you know
how to clean off all the rust.
I hope to leave this place one day,
and when I do, we’ll discuss
how much I enjoy your presence,
and my hope that you…

Keep in touch.

Hello Commons, this has been the second part of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Human Conundrum – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (2/10)

Part I
The Human Conundrum

The Human Conundrum

“Nobody exists on purpose, nobody belongs anywhere, everybody’s gonna die. Come watch tee-vee.”
~Morty Smith


Human beings, one variation of the innumerable lifeforms inhabiting the planet they call Earth, are a very interesting bunch. At some arbitrary point a very, very long time ago, one of these primates (although they hate being called that) realized it existed, and that it was, indeed, a living thing. Eventually, it found more living things that looked like it, and together, they eventually figured out that living with each other as a group, while it may get annoying at times, is easier than living alone. From this realization came societies, large groups of humans that combine their efforts to achieve anything they want while making sure to record everything they achieve along the way (metaphysically as memories or physically by writing). The modern human society has proven itself capable of mastering the land, sea, air, and the very molecules and atoms that make up the land, sea, and air, and they’ve keept very detailed physical records about everything they possibly can. The thing is though, the real kicker about these creatures is they don’t actually know what they are or where they came from.

From the moment a human finds itself conscious, it is immediately perceiving, thinking, doing, and somehow recording the things it does until its body and mind collectively get tired and it goes to sleep. When it sleeps it undergoes a strange phenomenon called dreaming in which it perceives various surrealities, or realities that are different in some way from the reality they perceive under normal, waking consciousness. Eventually, and almost always suddenly, the human wakes up from its dream to find itself back in the familiar reality, the only remnants of this lost surreality being the recordings the dreamer may or may not have made. From the point of the recording on, the meaning of the recordings is up to the interpretation of the human who made them; this means, as the interpretation of the recording changes, so too does the meaning – until the original recorder dies, that is; then, the meanings of its recordings are left up to other humans who eventually find said recordings, if the original human bothered to make physical records at all.

For some of the humans, the practice of meditation – sitting still and focusing on one’s awareness – produces similar yet different results to sleeping. In all literality, a human can sit or lay down and remain still for an extended period of time, focusing only on its awareness, and surreality will engulf its very existence. The surreality can manifest itself in various ways, from trippy visuals of random repeating geometric patterns and fractals to clear, pristine images of physical objects, from entire moments in time to more physical surrealities such as feeling causeless pressure in the temples, or a pinpoint pressure beneath the forehead right between the eyebrows. The human may even begin to feel as if it is floating, as if its spirit has left its body, or even as if it does not exist at all. Or, the human may just feel a simple sense of calm throughout its body. Then it opens its eyes and reality sets back in.

The human being can also perceive similar surrealities through the consumption/metabolization of various yet specific plants, fungi and/or pure refined substances. These substances, called Psychedelics, allow the human being to perceive perhaps more intense variations of surreality that I like to call Psychedelia, but that is an entirely different conversation.

We Are, We Think, We Act

To do a quick recap, the humans are an intelligent ape-like species with the ability to perceive and alter their environment to suit their various needs. One of these needs is the need to connect and build with other humans, which in turn makes them capable of accomplishing even more than they previously believed themselves capable of. They also have the ability to perceive various surreal, altered forms of reality when they sit still and close their eyes for extended periods of time, and when they consume very specific parts of their environment. Additionally, these surreal realities they experience always end at some point, leaving the human to find itself back in a more familiar and stable reality.

Lastly, as humans, we have not only the abilities to perceive all of these things about ourselves, to think about these tendencies, to attempt to find meaning in them, and to draw conclusions about the reality around us, but we also feel a primal urge to do so. These conclusions we draw even sporadically prove to be correct, whether the methods used to reach them are entirely logical or not; Isaac Newton (allegedly) figured out gravity when he perceived an apple falling on his head; Francis Cricks figured out DNA’s double-helix structure whilst perceiving Psychedelia through Lysergic Acid Diethylamide; René Descartes figured out the scientific method after it came to him in a dream; the list could go on.

To more concisely summarize, human beings exist in a perpetual state of mystery. We’re constantly trying to figure out the meaning of not only everything around us, but also the meaning of what (we assume) goes on in our heads so we can dictate it to everybody else and make them believe what we believe. However, as soon as somebody comes to a solid conclusion, somebody else is already working on a different one, creating an endless chain of conclusions that will all eventually be perceived as false beliefs.

I’d like to pose a simple question: what if this is the point? Our numerable abilities of perception, our thinking, and our attempting to solve each new unsolvable mystery are, generally speaking, the three major pieces of our existence. What if the point of human existence is first to be, second to form a group with a belief system that everyone can more or less get on board with, and third to build a society around that belief system until a new belief system is conjured by someone else?

It makes sense, does it not? All we do is perceive, wonder, build, question what we’ve built, and tear it all down, only to wonder and rebuild until we tear it all down again. Humanity, like everything else in the Universe, appears to operate in a cycle, and a seemingly endless one at that. To paraphrase Occam’s razor, the simplest answer is usually the correct one; following that logic, I believe I can break down the essence of human existence into one single sentence: We perceive, we think about our perceptions, and we act on our thoughts.

A shorter version: we are, we think, we act.

Then, we become our actions until we get self-aware about them, leading us to change ourselves over and over and over again until there are no humans left to be. Then the aliens come down, drop off a few more, and the experiment goes on.

I’m kidding, of course; there’s no indisputable proof for that last sentence… yet. Anyway, there is another crucial aspect of human existence that I have chosen not to mention until right now: the tendency towards law. Laws, rules, commandments, axioms; whatever symbol you choose to denote them, they appear in every human society that’s ever existed. We have the tendency to set arbitrary guidelines based on whatever sounds good at the moment to live our lives by. Not only this, but we also show the tendency to enforce these guidelines on everyone around us because we think it will help to form a stable, sustainable society.

So, if the purpose of human life is simply to be, to think, and to act, what law could possibly sustain such a vague and open-ended existence?

The law of love.

What Is Love?

When I say, “what is love?”
you may think, ‘Baby, don’t hurt me.’
Haddaway, to finish the saying,
add the word purposely.

To grow familiar over time, refusing to taste defeat,
only to see your precious sweet turn sour as a lime.
It’s like the Universe putting humans on the Earth,
just to see them all pull oil out of the fucking dirt.

In order to know love, you must first feel it;
in order to feel love, you must first show it;
in order to show love, you must first know it.
Where does not matter, you simply have to start.


A kingdom of clouds afloat on azure seas
cascading shadows upon the ground,
hallowed and picturesque as if melded
by brushstrokes of men haunted by holy ghosts.

Climbing from burial grounds,
hurried by resounding wails of self-pity and sorrow,
he follows the trail.
How far must one ascend to find shelter,
a momentary end to the sweltering air and
bleak grind, oblique in its design?
Not even the angels know,
swept up in dust clouds of charity and good grace,
running a race not their own.

He holds his pace.

The trees clear as he nears the top.
Below him the ants march in lines carved
through this sublime rock, and above?
They fly with wings meant for a dove.

A breeze, a cool reprieve.

As the wind whisks through the canopy,
it whispers to the leaves:
“Was he turned a fool up on the hill,
or upon returning to the trees?”

The Call

I’m woken by the call.

The window’s open.
Hot summer air mixes with the conditioned air
floating in from the hall;
the perfect storm of the fall.

My cat crawls up on my bed,
nudging his head against mine;
it’s breakfast time.
I follow him downstairs,
out of the lair yet the calling still blares,
the singing of the trees, screaming,
like the ringing in my ears.

We left the caves long ago,
trudged through snow like the ox,
left the woods alone in pursuit of a box;
these days, the caves are made of wood,
not carved into stone.

Yet the trees still call me, and my cat too.
Fat with food he rushes out the door;
budding with life he dives into the brush;
I follow close behind.
The leaves are speaking to me, taunting,
haunting my mind with visions of being high
atop a mountain,
a fountain of youth begging to be found.

The call ceases as I climb back down.


Happiness; what an unachievable goal.
Like catching a crappie in the Gulf of Mexico,
or leaping from a plane, no parachute in tow.

You won’t glide like a leaf,
you’ll plummet down below.

To always feel happy would be quite magical.
Unexperiencing sadness; no more anger of a bull.
Floating in an ocean, no riptide to give pull.

Just salt to dry your skin;
it would quickly get old.

A poor man sits on a filthy city street
as a shitty rich man grips some grub to eat.
‘Breaking this in half would be quite the feat,’
as he looks down on the elf
missing bells from its feet.

Instead he walks by,
stuffing his face as they both blame their sadness
on the fucking rat race.

Titleless II

I live in a different world than most,
drink from a deeper pool;
climb up higher hills on my hands
and come off like more of a fool.
I find that things encountered in life
are rarely as they seem,
and I scream at sleeping humans just to
wake them in a dream.

I spend most of my time alone,
harboring a deep-seated pain
as I easily tread in the waters
that so often drown the sane.
I see the other humans infatuated
over physical gains,
through my window I peek in at them
from the ethereal plane.

But who am I,
what is this formless force,
perceiving light?
What is the ghost in this human shell,
claiming to understand life?
He insists he writes some poetry,
but all he does is rhyme words in a predetermined pattern,
splatters symbols on the screen.

The very screen that enslaves him,
the glass that gives him life;
the circuit board wrapped up in metal
keeps the leash pulled tight.
It wheels and deals this poor sap,
telling him and the others how to feel,
all the while making sure reality
never becomes too real.

Even now I can’t put it down,
I’m captured by the light.
I guess I thought, I never imagined…
the screen could shine so bright.

What If?

What if reality truly
isn’t what it seems?
What if human life is more
than staring at a screen?

What if humans are just monkeys,
hairless chimpanzees,
except instead of flinging shit
we fling our negativity?

What if we lived for spirit,
in harmony with the Earth,
instead of poisoning our rock
and loading up the hearse?

What if the only simulation
is our global society?
What if we’ve been lied to
by old white men sippin’ tea?

What if we lived the Island life,
let true freedom unfurl,
instead of stacking paper
to sustain their Brave New World?

Titleless III

As they climb the hill to the start, the fog settles in.

It drifts from the sky as it does the tea,
poured steaming from the kettle.
Jitters, shakes, anxious minds bearing the cold in stride
for one reason:
crossing the finish line.

Do they have what it takes?
The pavement rumbles as the siren blares
and the rabbits run scared to the front.
One by one they’re picked off,
pedals by one loved not.

Feet beat the pavement for the love of…

One mile, two mile, nickel and dime.
The time ticks on as the sunny clock shines
through the shroud.
With each step they come closer yet,
sprinting deeper into the cloud.

Though the finish line is crossed,
a new day is abound.


Everybody does what they think
will get ‘em ahead in life.
I’m over here tryna tote some guns
and maybe shoot some knifes.

That line was sampled by a rapper
who listens to other rappers;
he eats loose leaf papers
and sips on animal crackers.
I once knew a man who claimed
sampling other songs was copying;
all I know of him now is taking drugs
and maybe, occasionally dropping in.

I think to get ahead in life,
all one must do
is breathe.
try to avoid
feeding your soul
to the machine.


These ruins lie dilapidated, catastrophized and barren.

A cavern opens beneath the leaves,
the sinkhole engulfing all but the breathing
as the sands of time turn to mud and funnel in.

A single sapling sprouts from the crevice.
The buds branch out from a blossoming tree of life
to reach through eternity
and read the writings scrawled upon the wall.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The fall of man is graced by the rise of something more,
or is it less?

Have they failed the test? It matters not;
what remains is all that is left.


When I scrawl these symbols down
in rows and make ‘em rhyme,
do you read all of my words,
or blink between the lines?

The bat of an eyelash, twist of the lips,
standing there still with hands on your hips.
What’s cruising by on your highway of a mind?
The cops can’t catch up,
you simply don’t have the time.

But time is an illusion,
meant for nothing more than distraction and confusion,
revolving like a door
or the cylinder of a gun, the clerk working the store
can either lose his life,
or live a day more.

When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.
But what happens after all the sweet’n’sour’s drank?


The ringing in my ears is loud,
but I can barely hear it.
Life feels dull as Novocain,
I’m truly at one with spirit;
detached from it, this physical game,
only as real as it isn’t.
I float inside my cloud of doubt,
wondering why I lack vision.

Like the wise men love to say,
time itself is infinite.
Live a while, fade to black,
and be reborn an infant.
Nothing’s real, nothing’s fake,
nothing stays, and nothing changes;
you’d think that’d take the pressure off,
yet I’m firmly stuck at anxious.

A latent hatred for my surroundings
constantly engulfs me;
the who, the what, the when, the why,
I feel like it all insults me.
I’m a ghost that only seems to exist
when someone else is salty,
or when they need some hard work done,
you better believe they call me.

The one thing that I’m praised for
is being a hard worker,
for behaving like a slave
and quietly following orders.
It makes me feel cold enough
that I think a grave could be warmer,
but I’ve died before, I want to survive
and live a life of splendor.

But I don’t live, I just exist,
waiting for a task;
maybe I’ll do some heavy lifting
and further ruin my back;
a self-destructive, self-loathing,
selfish lack of self,
who pretends there is a me somewhere,
hidden inside this shell.

Hello Commons, this has been the first part of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Introduction – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (1/10)


Legitimately Insane

Existence is weird – take it from me if you’re going to take it. I’ve lived an interesting twentysomething years on this planet, experienced some pretty wacky shite. At first I tried to vibe with the masses, I tried to fit in and act just like everyone else, but it never worked. It always made me sad, alone, angry, tired, and drained of the infinite spiritual energy that constantly floods my body. Also, almost every single other being that I’ve met on this world, human or otherwise, thinks I’m legitimately insane. It’s fine though, they’re all wrong; in fact, I’m more than one hundred percent sure that literally every single other human on Earth is legitimately insane, as in mentally ill, and I don’t think they’re ever going to get better. My cat Milkshake agreed with me… rest in peace, my son.

Hi there, my name is Hunter Owens Wallace, known as HOW to myself and the hypothetical humans who read these books I write. I’m a shaman who recently got back to his roots of communing with the denizens of the astral plane through the ingestion of Psychedelic compounds. You may know me as a straightedge runner from Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It |The Unvictimized Edition|, or you may know me as a depraved human who only ever got to try drugs because grandMother forced me to drink alcohol during Roadtrip: The ¡Gramango! Edition; and thank goodness she did! Shout to you G-Mah, and shout to Mango, and you know what? Shout to Jarome, fuck yeah. While I’m at it, shout to all my humans, and shout to all my gargoyles. If any aliens are reading this, shout to you too. Also, when the fuck are you going to pick me up off this planet?

Anyway, aside from my evolution, many strange things have happened to me during my career on Earth; I felt my third eye open, I died and came back to life only to feel something explode in my brain six months later, which may or may not have also killed me, but I came back from that, too. I caught Lyme disease at age ten and successfully cured it via shamanic methods that I invented myself, no less, just a few months ago. I also almost died from bleeding out after my foot was cut open by a rock, and the only reason I survived that is because the Universe Herself whispered into the ear of my belligerently drunk uncle and told him to crazy glue my foot back together. And thank goodness he did, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to choose to not run anymore!

All that said, I also fancy myself a writer. Yes, I am the one, single human being on this planet that genuinely enjoys curling my six-foot-tall body into a twenty-nine-inch-tall fetal ball and perching myself on a swivel chair like a crouching dragon whilst I repeatedly press buttons on a laptop that doesn’t turn on unless its plugged into the single outlet in the dusty attic of Mother’s house that I repurposed into a bedroom and… wait, where was this going?

Ah yes, I remember now. So now that you know how I position myself while I write, you can learn that I enjoy the act of writing. I’ve always loved writing; even in school I would crush essays like my job wasn’t to be a manager of the planet Earth. In community college, Composition was my favorite class, and in a psychology class that I took, I banged out a ten-page research paper about abnormal psychology (meaning schizophrenics, multiple-character bois, bi-polar depresso-maniacs, you know the type) in a single night.

I got the highest grade in the class.

But, I never realized I enjoyed writing until this year, 2019, because of a combination of the majority of my peers vehemently hating the act of writing (thus influencing me to feel the same way) and the Lyme bacteria eating away at my brain over the course of the fourteen years between my contracting and curing of the neuroplague, which diminished my consciousness to the point that I was half aware of my surroundings and not much else. No thinking, no moving, no living; just existing. It was fucking tragic.

However, ‘twas not all bad. Around the time I became a twentysomething, I started writing poetry, more out of habit than anything else. I listen to a lot of rap music and my brain has a certain proclivity towards rhyming, so I figured, why the fuck not? I had a whole notebook full of the rhymey things, a notebook which sometimes whispered to me when I slept, a notebook which got converted to a folder on my computer, doused in gasoline, carried up a mountain, and ritualistically burned to ashes underneath a full moon because I can only deal with one voice in my head, thank you very little.

Since then I’ve written, published, and un-published two books, formed my own publishing company called The Hillside Commons, and then I re-wrote and re-published those same two books, meaning I’ve moved away from the poetry scene. My old poems didn’t just go away though; I have tons of the shits just sitting around in my hard drive, begging to be released in some form, any form, for fuck’s sake let us free!  I also have a few short essays I’ve done (and some short stories, but they’re a different story altogether), plus a couple of photography works, one of which I actually captured myself. I’ve been building this little library of content for myself for about three years now; it’s at the point where it’s developed its own consciousness, and it refuses to be contained.

So here we are, hypothetical reader, on the brink of diving into a compendium of thoughts and poetry written by a man who was, at one point, meaning he no longer is, legitimately insane. Because that’s what Lyme disease does to you, it eats away at your brain until the schizophrenics chilling in that group home up the road from you start to shoot you nervous looks, as if you’re the one who’s a bit out of left field, if you’re catching my foul here.

Take A Seat

Now that you’re all caught up, please, take a seat. Get comfortable, steep some tea. The Hillside Commons and I are both very proud to present to you Hunter Owens Wallace’s third book, my third book:

A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game.

Hello Commons, this has been the introduction of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~