You die twice.

First, when your heart beats for the last time.
And second, a little later, when someone says your name for the last time.
It’s the definitive journey.
Death, that is.
It’s the only true step into the unknown that you take, or at least it’s the first.
That’s the kind of undertaking you want to have your wits about you during.
That’s why I’m extremely opposed to medication when someone’s dying. Don’t put them in a morphine coma, don’t knock them out with some chemical or another.
Sure, they’ll be in pain, but they’ll know it’s coming.
Think about it…what if death isn’t a natural one way street. Maybe there’s no angel escorting you to heaven or hell.
What if you have to get there yourself, what if you take a wrong turn?
What if you are unaware that you’re dying, or unable to control your spirit?
Would you dissolve? Would you wander in a fog until you lose all identity? Would you return to “god” and be absorbed into the source that awareness came from, losing your individuality in the process?
No thanks, I would like to have my wits about me, I would like to be able to hold my self together, and skirt past that fog and keep my identity, and battle for freedom for a second or eternity, as long as I win in the end, either would be worth it.

That said, my cat is dying.

She’s 17, when she opened her eyes, she saw me first, I’ve been her mother, her father, her best friend, her care giver and her comfort.

She can barely walk 2 feet without stopping to rest, and she can barely walk without falling down. She’s unstable, and doesn’t want to eat anymore, or maybe she doesn’t have the energy to eat anymore.

She got attacked by a Doberman when she was 4 or 5, her stomach was ripped open, I mean, RIPPED open. We took her to a vet and they sewed her up and $300 dollars later I had my kitty back. This is ironic because a couple days before this occurred, we had someone offer us $300 dollars for her.
She’s a turtle shell calico. Standard short haired house cat. But beautiful colors. Apparently $300 dollars worth of beautiful.

No, she’s priceless. I will carry her into my room tonight, lay her down on my hoodie, and lay beside her, and pet her, and head bop her, and scratch under her chin and kiss her nose all she wants, until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer and when I fall asleep, I will wake up in a dream, grab her soul, and fly around our land with her, I will tell her how much I love her, more than almost every human I have met, and how I will miss her, but how she doesn’t need to be afraid, only prepared.

My grandfather was a true man of knowledge, he lived a strong simple life, and did everything impeccably. I’m certain he died right. That is, if there’s any minimal chance of anything after you close your eyes for the last time I’m sure he caught it.

My cat has led a good life too. After the initial Doberman attack, when other dogs, from pitbulls to dachshunds, when they chased her, she’d stand her ground and bitch slap them in the nose. When our cats, 10 to 13 years younger than her would start a fight, she’d beat their ass so bad they all, even the tom cats wouldn’t fuck with her.

Hmph, I love her, that much is obvious.

I spent this weekend in the bed of an old friend, long night, lots of weed and vodka, and a lazy rainy sunday in bed all day, breakfast at outback, and back to bed. Is she the most beautiful girl I’ve ever been with? No, but she plays video games and likes good music. There’s a certain ease about us, partially because she drinks too much and I take too many pills. Neither of us have really existed this last year, and neither of us wake up until we get a fix. Eyes open, vodka. Eyes open, Percocet.
It’s really a terrible mix for a serious relationship, I know that and don’t plan on making it one. But she’s a good friend, and she’s not bad at all the other stuff, but that’s less important to me than it is to most guys. I don’t really think about sex anymore.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m very good at it and have quite a lot to work with. I know that for a fact. But honestly, no one will ever be as good in bed with me as marie was. The first time we made love, we were breathless at how fluid we were together, we moved like angels and demons. The second time we made love, it lasted 11 hours, non-stop. From the hallway floor to the kitchen table to the bedroom.
Now THAT girl, I miss. But she’s happily gf’d up, and hundreds of miles away. So that’s that.

I wanna write a novella, but all meaning’s lost on me.
I sleep walk and talk the talk, there’s nothing much to see.
I’ve been victim of writers block, self inflicted.
I’m an open book, cellar door unlocked, well addicted.

This poem is shit, I know it, I’m blowing it, I’m fucking up at every turn.
I’m lazy and apathetic, crazy and cosmetic, skin deep and set to burn.
Hooked on anesthetic, organic and synthetic, Poetic and unsympathetic, with nothing left to learn.
Dreams wane prophetic, Lean diet and energetic, kinetic and pathetic in return.

I’m wandering a dream scape of frozen hopes, in limbo awaiting my attention.
I sold my rock n roll, I lost my long term goals. I’m prisoner of my own invention.

Ewewew. Too negative. No incentive to change.
So fake it till you make it and give nothing in exchange.

Just love the silence, enjoy the company.
Spend your life drifting into black.
Shock yourself with your imagination,
see how many morals you lack.

Snuggle around a fire till it’s time to retire
retreat to a bed and enter a girl.
Roll until you can’t fall asleep, consumed by your desire
While your right side waves, your left side whirls.

Close your eyes, kiss your love goodbye,
cry for the first time in years.
Hold her tight, wish for a goodnight,
wipe away your tears.

Bomb, I Love You beyond words.