Lost without Her

She is my moral compass, my muse. She is my sparring partner, and my greatest love. I have held her in my arms more times than I've considered other women. And she has held me. She has held me for comfort and for warmth. But she has also held me when I needed it for salvation, and she has drawn a small river of tears from me that would never have escaped own there own. That, is the power of a good, strong woman. She is everything I am not. She is amazing and kind and straight-foward. She means everyword out of her mouth and the words find your ears by way of her heart worn her bare shoulder. It's a wound, and a shield. My words dont come close to describing every unique way in which she is wonderful. I love her. I want to choke her. I want to sex her. I want to give "Ms. Hoodle Poodle" a 30minute kiss. And Ms. Poodle doesnt even need to return the favor to "Mr. Pee-pee," because HE KNOWS she's good for it. She has been good for it; good for everything; for so long. That is, until she finally tired of me. And every good word I say about her is another reason I feel like I will never be good enough for her. That's not her fault though. She has shown me that she loves me. She loves every part of me. Even those parts of me that I HATE, that I would do ANYTHING to get rid of. She loves those. She kisses those places. She is the only person on this planet who has made me feel...beautiful. And trust me, I'm not. I'm an Ogre. When I look in the mirror, I see a hideous beast. And for some reason, she can lay me down in her bed, undress me, and make me feel, so sexy, so attractive. I cant tell you how she does it. It's a miracle. And as soon as the lights come back on, I suddenly realize, I'm still an Ogre! And I'm lying next to this angel I dont deserve in my mind. I want to cover up. I want to run away. I want to yell at her for pretending to love me. How can she put up with that? She did everything she could and I still wouldnt just let her love me. So no, it's not her fault she left me. Or let me leave her. But I can say this: NO ONE, has ever, or will ever, get that deep inside me. And I am safe without her. But I am also lost. So very lost.

fully committed to failing

That's right! I said it! I'm a failure. But I aint no ordinary failure! When I decide to do something, I do it all the way! I'm failing like I'm trying to win a medal. I'm failing like it's an olympic sport! I flushing my life away faster than I can wipe my ass with my future. This is an insane, absurd occupation. It's one I was born to do. I am the greatest failure in the history of failing. I can make my life as worthless as a used condom thumb-tacked to my ass. Not a condom I used, either. Cuz getting laid would be some small form of success. No, just a used condom I attempted to jerk-off in after failing to score with an ugly woman. But the condom aint sticky. Cuz even though I TRIED to masturbate, I failed at that too! I am a loser. I am THE loser. And I can lose better than any of you!

ZigZag - Purple Haze

Smoke floating upward between 3 people on a bed. No, its not dirty, stop thinking that (just illegal). Its amazing to me that in 2009, you can buy gallons of liquor on any corner, AND YET, pot is still illegal. The ONLY thing pot ever did to negatively effect me, was to make me lazy and gain 20pounds in a month. I actually got caught smoking pot last night, by my mother. I was on her back porch smoking out of a crude aluminum can pipe. Normally, I'd roll a joint like a civilized bi-ped, but this was to good stuff, real high-grade "mary jane". So rolling it in a J wouldve been wasteful. Also, the 4th of July was in 2days and I was trying to conserve.
So, I'm right in the middle of taking a massive toke, and like !lightening! my mother whips back the curtain on the porch door. And thru the glass panes, she saw me! Of course, I put the can down as quick as possible and took a drag off my cigarette. I pretended nothing was wrong and waved at her. She started to put the curtain back down, as if she were going to just let it go. But her denial just wasnt strong enough. SHE SAW IT. And she couldnt deny it. She jerked the door open and asked me, "What was that!? What were you doing with that can?!"
"Nothing," I said with a guilty smile. "Its nothing, really. I'm just doing an experiment."
Yeah, she didnt buy that. Not one word of it. She stomped towards the can as I backed up, steadying myself to run, if necessary. She snatched up the can and smelt it.
"Its pot!" I came clean. "Its just pot!"
"JUST pot!?" She hissed. "I'm getting tired of your shit, Nathan! You keep it up and you'll be out on the street!" She started to go back in, then turned around to elaborate. "And do NOT bring pot to my house anymore!" That was it. She was out of steam. She waddled back in the house and left me be. I stood there laughing, trying not to cry. I felt like I was 16 all over again. But, the really weird thing about what happened was my mothers tone of voice. She sounded mad, but also sounded like she was mailing-in the performance. I thought about it. And now I truly believe, she was relieved that I wasnt smoking crack. She still didnt talk to me the rest of the evening.
That was last night. Tonight I was smart enough to come over to a friends house to get stoned. The 3 of us are baked. We're all in our own little worlds. We've all taken a small vacation from our lives. This is the way to go. Crack couldnt be a good as this. Chillin out. Getting baked. With some good friends. To hell with crack. To hell with liquor, too. I'm sticked to pot. Just not on my mom's back porch.

holding out. Guilt in motion...

Something sobering, about going out, into the public, even for fun. The place tonite, it was hopeless. Not a soul in the bar and this is Friday night. The owner made it so you can only smoke in back. That means, during karaoke, you have to choose between politely watching the few other singers (cuz you want them to watch you), or smoking a delicious cigarette before you nervously go on stage. What a bad place to be! No wonder no one's here. You'd think the owner would notice, but no, he dont see the writing on the wall. This bar will close soon. Then, 2months later, it will re-open with a new name. This has happened five times in ten years. Ever since it was Albo's Bar and Grill, the same people frequent this bar. The color on the walls may have changed, and pool tournaments turned, inevitably, into Texas Holdem tournaments, but this is our bar. It's right down the street. A refuse from our tiny boring lives on this tiny sad Island. We're homesick sailors marooned in the quiet beauty of marsh grass and pine trees. And once a week, when the stress of living gets too thick to swallow, we show up from our cocoons of solitude, to sing our tired hearts out in the spotlight. And though the beer flows, and the pills are thrilling, and the pot is potent, and the adrenaline is choking us; still, after all that, it can still be somewhat sobering to finally be around people of the same species. Even if there are only a few and they're all bitching about smoking areas.

what a long face to save

this day made me want to take up cutting
the sunlight was relentless, sweat steady crawling
down my face, thick as blood
traffic was a disaster, tourists rubber neckin' the scenery
and no matter how much hustlin I did, my pockets managed
to stay empty
today I dreamed about getting out, away
I fantasize about the cold, rainy streets of London
unfortunately, in the kingdom of capitalism, no good
plan of escape is cheap
you need money to do the simplest of things
even eat
this small town, this state, this season, it can all
kiss my ass
give me on shot
one hit record
one best selling novel
one lottery ticket
and I'm gone
this hot, ignorant, ridiculous place can forget me
as fast as a cash register can ring

Ive waited all day

Urgent and Itchy

eyes heavy, swollen

knees steady twitching non-stop

After 3hours sleep, the body runs off of

self-will and Red Bull and, well, that's it.

See, in hindsight,

Hiding in plain sight

Sometimes it disturbs me - how much NO ONE knows me.

And I dont just mean friends and accaintances. My own family

fails to recognize just how far into darkness I've drifted.

the remainder of this day can forget me

its noon and i'm ready for bed

woke up 4hours ago

smoked a cigarette,

documenting stagnation

the remainder of this day can forget me
its almost noon and already i'm ready for bed
woke up 4hours ago
smoked a cigarette, went to the Methadone Clinic,
stopped and got gas, took a dump while @ the gas station and
dug through the garbage for scratch-off tickets.
I found 13dollars worth of missed winners.
I traded them for new tickets and lost it all.
Then went by the atm for a 20. Went and got more
scratchies and a Red Bull. Now I'm back @ home,
7minutes before noon, with lotto tickets I'm too depressed
to scratch off, and half a Red Bull I'm too depressed
to drink. I'm DONE! Stick a fork in me! Its over!
I crawl into bed and think, "God, if I die before I wake,
my last day on Earth will be completely and utterly
DEPRESSING!" I cant die like that. I have to do
SOMETHING! ANYTHING! worth merit so this day
will not be an absolute waste. I spot my laptop and think,
Documentation! Thats what we need. I get a lil tingle in
my belly. This will do the trick. I start writing... and realize...
I have no life. This day, doesnt mean... anything. My life,
doesnt mean... anything. There is no point I can find to
anything I do. I am the personification of purposelessness.
Im a walking, breathing, thinking waste of space.
And though my fingers move, type; this is the documentation
of nothing. Wasted time. Wasted words. A tired oaf, waiting
for the mercy of death or something different. Give me a
tired, secondhand miracle. Give me something to believe in.
A reason to keep getting out of bed. Cuz I got nothing. Nothing.
Only the documentation, of my wasted life.

no tug of war

no third degree - holding solid like my ass is concreted to some soft cushion - yeah this makes no sense. NO phobias can cause this kind of exhausting life syling - Dark comedy where the cast is threatened by the thought of their characters being cut at any moment. Something sick and consoling about the idea death is waiting behind every trap door - and that one (or more) of us - could drop off in the snapping of fingers. Cut me, cure me. We're drunk, we're worried, we're taking medications like deciding on the color of aluminum siding. What? Wait! Thissg ets exciting! Not 2wweekks Be cky Suiciding - or tryiing - 200 Aspirin - one day she may get it right p - and all doctors can say is "take two Prosac and one Wellbutrin and try to stay away from th emedicine cabinet!" _ NO insurance??? Yeah, you're cured, get out and open a bed for the next confused bi-ped. Yeah, we're all dead, just walking tall aimless writing our own dialoge with one eye on the clock and our other on the 'whatever we take or do' to get us into the next moment untouc hed. this is an odd, and obscene circus - this liife! this living! with waiting and wanting and - and- everything WE are not explaining! Or not letting be explained. for shame. [next line] for shame. [next word] for shame ---

So, my dad had a heart attack...

3am, Monday, March 29th, Melvin Deen (my father), woke with chest pains. He immediately woke up my mother and they went to the hospital. After a EKG comfirmed he indeed had suffered a heart attack, he was rushed from Brunswick to Saint Vincent's in JAX, FLA. After several days recovery Melvin is now back home with more artifical doodads in his body.

Its been a rough few days. Coping has never been easy for me with chemical assistance. Bangin' OC's is a good way to keep my mind off the fact that my father could die any minute. Every time the phone rings, I think, "Is this the call? Is this where I find out my father is dead?" Yeah, good times.

Well, the old man is back home now. Needless to say, I havent updated my blog in a week. But now that he's ok, home and resting, and I've ended my 3day long splurge of IV narcotics, I have time to do the really important things in life: Mentally masturbating on the internet in hopes of getting my mind off my problems. LIFE SUCKS sometimes.

I saw a guy I went to school with at the Methadone Clinic this morning. He recognized me and was gracious enough to shake my hand. I said some brief but polite words and left. I dont care about anyone I went to school with. The nastogia of class reunions ranks up there with Barium Enimas. If all those assholes fell of the face of the Earth tomorrow, I could care less. The past can burn. The future is all I look to. Every time I see an old ghost is makes me want to get on a plane and fly to another country where I'll never see anyone who knows who I used to be before I realized that who I was. I used to think that because I wasnt like everyone else, it was somehow a flaw in me. Now I know the truth. Outcasts are picked on relentlessly because they scare everyone trying desperately to fit in. The fact that I'm NOT like those assholes is NOT a flaw, but a compliment. I'm not the same person now that I was in school. I dont even know that boy I used to be. He's dead. I have a son now, and a father struggling with heart disease. So when these ppl I went to school with see me and want to shake my hand because they think they know me, it makes me want to vomit. They have no idea who the fuk I am and I dont care to ever let them know. They'll see my name on a book one day, or on TV, and they'll tell their neighbors, or co-workers, "Hey, I knew him!" No, you didnt. Youve never known me. And you never will. Because you're too busy trying to be like everyone else. I NEVER want to be like anyone but me. I, am enlightened. If all you see is what's on the outside, the clothes I wear, how much I weigh, my haircut, you dont see me. And you never will. That thought alone lends some comfort to this sad, redundant life. Good times.

The Great Escape

Planning an escape from a po'duck town like Brunswick, GA isnt as easy as one would think. There are several obstacles in my way, the main one: Ive no money. At the beginning of the month I got a way of getting about $300 or $400 bucks. I can probably tear up and get another $100 or $200 out of mommy and daddy. Still, that leaves me with only $600, a car, and a shitty wardrobe - stuck on the streets of Decatur. Days and weeks of planning and this is the best idea I got: Drive my car into Decatur, pull up the first Waffle House I see, walk in, get hired on the spot, and sleep in my car out back until I can find a room for rent in Creative Loafing. I know, I know, you're thinking "Damn, Nathan! THAT is an air-tight plan! No way that could go astray!" But really, if you think about it, it DOES have a few holes in it. Anybody got a better idea??? Remember, if I dont get out of Brunswick, I'm probably going to die here, and soon. So, this is important. What would you do??

New Boy in Town

This is Nathan Deen. I was a performer once upon a time, in Jax FLA, Savannah GA, and most of all, Atlanta GA. This morning my therapist at the Methadone Clinic told me that I was an "interesting man". That made my day b/c, lets face it, I'm an insecure ego maniac. (Own it, bitch! Own it!) Sorry, REDBULL's kickin in. Moving on...

The reason I am here, writing this now is b/c of a man named Collin Kelley. He is an amazing talent who hangs out with other amazingly talented ppl. He also hangs out with me, too. Not sure why other than my boyish good looks. B/c , to quote Claire, "Nathan, your writing's kinda shitty." She told me that one night after I came off stage at Java Monkey in ATL. I went home with her that nite. I fell for her simply b/c she was the ONLY person Id ever met who felt the same way about my writing as I did, and still do. But enough self loathing. Back to the reason I'm here: Mr Collin Kelley. He has a poem titled 'Sex in my parents house' (if memory serves correctly). This poem made it into a book, an anthology of poems from poets who have featured at Java Monkey Coffeehouse. (THE longest running spoken word venue IN Atlanta. The book, and the venue, were put together by another talent and mentor: Mr Kodac Harrison. The book, Java Monkey Speaks, contains one of my poems and a couple of Collin Kelley's poems (as well as a myriad of other talented ppl, too many to name).

Collin's poem, 'Sex in my parents house' is, in my opinion, EVERYTHING modern poetry should be. Its honest and revealling, sexuall and explicit, and it works great on paper AND as a performance peice. I know b/c I personally have performed this poem to people ALL OVER the southeast in backyards and at barbeques, in bars and in beds. It, is, an awesome peice of poetry. And in my attempt to re-connect with my former Sexless Lover, I was navigated to his blog. And the only (I THINK) to write to him is to create my own blog. So here it is! My own blog. I've been on the internet since the Apple green-screens and this is my very first blog. Thank you, Collin for turning me on........to blogging. My search for you continues. Thus ends this first entry into my first blog. If you've read this far, I apologize. No flashy ending.