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Archive for July, 2008

Charles of Avila

Yoga is not my favorite form of spiritual union. Despite a lack of flexibility, I manage to complete a modified version of this ancient spiritual practice in my Brooklyn backyard almost every evening. I’ve had a few classes in Yoga. I know enough to commune in bliss.

I stretch in a prayerful way, despite what my neighbors above in higher apartments may think of me. It feels so good to unfold a 40 year old body that is now the same weight it was in 1984– 175 lbs. I’m five-eleven and skinny again, thanks to yoga, exercise, and a proper diet with almost no carbohydrates. It has taken seven years for my soul to loosen from the horrendous grips of forced, phycho-tropic medication and involuntary incarceration at Trinitas Hospital. I am so thankful that my body feels wonderful and alive again. Even Yoga stretching has become bliss.

Meditation is best during evening hours, after rush-hour traffic on the streets has slowed and only an occasional gun burst disrupts the steadiness of the hood.

My garden is in full bloom. The yard is secluded from the rest of Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, thanks to brick buildings that surround it on all sides, offering a barrier of sorts to possible burglars and rapists. The cats are outside with me. I thank God and stretch to the sky. JFK Airport is nearby. The planes fly over me making a terrible roar as I pray. To relive my anger, I focus on the planes.

Reading is wonderful outside, in the garden next to tomatoes that are ripening. I haven’t been writing as much– not that I don’t have anything to say, it’s just that people tire of me.

Teresa of Avila– a Catholic Nun inspires me as I stretch and read, stretch and read. Teresa boasts openly of hearing voices– how terrible it was for her when church fathers told her that the voices she was hearing were that of the devil. According to her autobiography, Teresa levitated during her soul’s spiritual union with God. She describes emotions I too have felt, in such a state with God. Teresa explains how one can determine if a voice that one hears in a ‘psychotic’ way is either from God or from the Devil– according to Teresa, when one hears the voice of God there is no doubt in regards to its origin. One just knows. I agree.

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In the age of cell phones, most homes no longer have land lines. How I long for phones with chords. I miss running my fingers through spirals as I yap. Everything is cordless now. I refuse to get a cell phone. I know as one who suffered from psychotic delusions, that invisible waves emitted from cell phones affect us medically. There was a time when I could not tolerate walking by a cell phone conversationalist. I believed that the government or aliens were controlling us with them. I’ve somehow learned to tolerate the new technology of the digital revolution. Unlike my predecessors who wore tinfoil hats and believed there were chips enplaned in their dental work, I’ve learned to embrace the world around me as a man with schizophrenia. I’m starting to see now. This is more than just a mental illness– it’s a gift of vision of sorts. One must have it to understand what I’m referring to, but in any case, I know when people from my past are about to reach out to me again. I have dreams of them and days if not moments later, they call. This is clairvoyance.

Using the white pages to track down old friends and acquaintances in the age of no land lines is futile, especially when friends have names like mine—Charles Taylor. No matter what town I live in, there are always several C. Taylor’s in the phone directory. Even when I’m stalked, I never bother to un-list my name. Only bill collectors manage to find me, but once and a while, I’m rediscovered. I had a dream of one of my old boyfriends. I knew he was about to let his fingers do the walking. Even as the phone rang I knew it was him. I could feel it.

My ex-lover Anthony Owens called every C. Taylor in Brooklyn until he recognized my voice on my answering machine.

“Charles! It’s Anthony, Anthony Owens! Oh my God I can’t believe I found you. Listen, call me. I found your number on-line in the White Pages,” was the message he left last evening. “And what the fuck is this blog you wrote. I found myself through you,” he exclaimed.

I felt like I had a fan, so I called him even though I’m still angry at him for not being there for me when Shawn died.

“Holy shit, you are still alive?” I joking asked on a message I left for him on his cell. “Call me back. It’s me… the best piece of ass you’ve ever had!” I stated as I held my cordless phone near my ear. Although I was joking on my message, I was serious in a sense. Gay men lose close friends often, and it would not have surprised me if Anthony was dead. I thought the dream I had about him meant that he had died. I was relived to hear his voice again. When my phone rang at midnight, I answered it, even though I was already in bed and always cautious about picking up the phone. I know they listen in. It was Anthony Owen. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I was back there with him. On the other side, with Shawn and some others– running around naked– oh the sex. In the dream, Anthony started flying like a bird. I wondered how he got such powers in heaven.

“Charles. How are you? I’m sorry to tell you, but James died.”

I cried in the darkness of my bedroom as my current lover, B. slept. I listened to Anthony’s pain. James was Anthony’s best friend. I didn’t know James that well, but he was awfully nice. Nobody deserves to die of AIDS, especially a soul as sweet as that of James. He was a quiet and shy Black man with braids in his hair and perfect chocolate skin. A sissy, yes, but beyond just skin, he was lovely. I cried silently when I heard the news. I had a dream of James recently too– yes, vividly the memory returned as I held the phone. I listened to Anthony cry for his friend. It seemed that he wished to reach him through me. I felt like the Oracle from the Matrix for a moment before going on.

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“He was sick,” Anthony explained.

I didn’t have to ask from what illness James died. ‘Sick’ is a nice way of saying AIDS in our community, besides, a hunch I had inside already dissected the truth from Anthony’s words.

“I haven’t spoken to you since Shawn died,” I said to Anthony. “Funny you should call me now. Ain’t it a bitch?”

“I know, Charles, I’m sorry. I should have stayed in touch. I thought you would have some words of advice for all this pain. I thought I was going to lose my mind like you did when Shawn died.”

“I was in the hospital for over a month. Some weird shit,” I replied.

“I know. Do you remember when I saw you walking down 125th Street in Harlem that day? I was so worried about you. Something was so wrong.”

“Sure was. I was crazy. A little better now, but I’ve been very sad for seven years. Quite a funk. Now James is gone?”

“Yep. He got sores all over his body. His mind went. He wouldn’t call me at the end. Never heard from him for three months. I was so sad, but his burial service was nice. Lynn Whitfield showed up. She gave a speech. It made me cry. James was fierce. He knew all those people. He died in Josephine Baker’s son Jean-Claude’s arms. Oh God, Charles, I cried so hard.”

“Frank West was friends with Lynn Whitfield,” I said to Anthony. I knew those words would cut right through his aching heart and make him snap out of his delusion. I left Anthony, my boyfriend at the time for another man– Frank West. Frank was a dancer. He knew lots of Hollywood stars. Lynn Whitfield was just one. I met Lynn, Keith David, Phylicia Rashad, Benjamin Matthews, Geoffrey Holder, Judith Jamison and a host of other notables while dating Frank. In all honesty, it wouldn’t make a difference to me if any of them showed up at my funeral if I died. What does it mean anyway to have a star mourn for one? Poor James. I can see the drama now as they scattered that beautiful man’s ashes. Lynn must have given a Josephine Baker caliber performance at that viewing.

“I met Lynn Whitfied too,” I said to Anthony. ” That’s no big deal. My God, what a fag hag! That was nice of her…so what’s new in your life, Anthony?”
“I live in the Bronx now. There are lots of in-the-closet Puerto Rican men up here—the married kind. You know what I like… straight boys who like taking it up the ass.”

“Oh yes, you and your men with endless caverns,” I said. “I don’t know what you ever saw in me.”

“Me either,” Anthony joked.

“I’m 40 now. Can you believe that? My hole must have seen at least 300 dicks in this life.”

“I know, I’m 39, but let me tell you Charles, I look better than ever.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “I’m skinny again. Got fat for a while, but I’m back. Not bad for a dinosaur,” I remarked. “We are the last survivors it seems. Our species continues to go extinct. Why do you think some people live on those drugs for such a long time and others like James still go?” I asked.

“That’s why I always will love you, Charles,” Anthony said. “You always say what I always need to hear. I’m glad you are still alive and in my life, Charles. I will always love you.”

I wanted to say the same, but my lover B.was listening. He would never understand.

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The XXY File

Despite terms of the Nuremberg Code and what happened in Nazi labs, the United States Government with a small army of scientists and physicians chose African American men as test subjects for research projects on syphilis. The disease was prevalent in females too, including African American females, yet government scientists concluded there was nothing to be learned from studying females and syphilis. The source of the blue light was in Y chromosomes. The Germans discovered this law of genetics. X chromosomes are mere receptors of the light, never keepers of it. The key was in man. The Y chromosome held the key.

Pure genetic strings are necessary to unleash the warlike power of syphilis bacteria. Initially it was thought that human test specimens from the African continent held the most untainted form of blood, reaching unscathed to our beginnings. It was learned decades later that the color of skin has nothing to do with linking one in a direct route to Adam. Little variety in family strings over generations made the connection to the light possible. The light, where we all go eventually.

Josh was pure in blood, or so it seemed to scientists who believed they found a way. He, like African American men in Tuskegee, was placed in a controlled governmental study without his formal consent.

Penicillin was an effective treatment during the period the study was conducted (1932-1972), yet during the Tuskegee Project, modern antibiotics were never used. Death afflicted participants of the Tuskegee Experiment in torturous ways, in the name of God and country.

“You have bad blood,” doctors informed poor Black farm boys in regards to their treatment. The men were totally unaware of the scope of the non-therapeutic tests being conducted, acts that were outlawed in the Nuremberg Code.

Demonic cries filled the swamps of Alabama. Twenty-eight men were permitted to die without humanistic care. Their bodies were to be dissected, lights within them harvested for the purpose of a greater good, or so it seemed.

It was the insanity associated with stage three of Syphilis that scientists hoped to monitor and witness firsthand in Tuskegee. Chimps and rats cannot talk, but psychotic men do, and there was so much to learn of the bacteria.

Crosses. White crosses formed in the pupils of their eyes. Sure this was a sign. So much had to be learned, yet not even the Tuskegee project was enough. More would have to be researched in regards to sexually transited diseases. The true face of syphilis as it relates to super intelligence was reveled. Thousands of human test subjects would be needed.

HIV was unleashed as a form of national defense following the Tuskegee experiments. It was all that could be done to slow the progress of the evil following the Tuskegee meltdown.

Biological warfare is suicide. The use of such weaponry is like that of the hydrogen bomb– fallout for all is inevitable, yet, for countries like the United States, it was essential to have an understanding of the tiny bacteria that goes unnoticed for so long. They were playing with fire, but we were all burned.

Syphilis mimics characteristics of other skin afflictions. To scientists at the time, the bug appeared to be a bacteria with intelligence! Like any living reptile, fish or mammal, using the trick of camouflage, the appearance of infection generated by the bacteria takes on characteristics of other diseases affecting men within the core of their genetic strings. In AIDS, the ancient bacteria went wild, creating a firestorm within all of us that will go unnoticed until the very end.

The government never considered that one of their test subjects would not die in post Tuskegee studies. Control of the tiny demon seemed impossible. Josh was the one they hoped for– a key to harnessing the energy. A storage tank.

Josh had XXY chromosomes in each of his cells. Most have just two sets– XX for females, XY in males.

He was unlike others who died during the trials. The second round of Nazi experiments ended in far worse turmoil than the catastrophe in Alabama.

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Gilly was aware of the risks associated with entering a transient place of communal bathing. Many still believed in baptism and seekers would follow him to hear the voice of the Father. He had no choice. There was nowhere to hide but in the Bethesda pools of Harlem.

A voice of not so sound judgement whispered over his shoulder seductively. The devil made him want more. His legs moved quickly and his arms swayed in unison with his stride. The voice that nobody else could hear was whispering again. What did the demons want this time? How long would the torment keep him up and about, unable to sleep? Gilly accepted the fact that a chip surgically stitched inside the walls of his anus was implanted permanently. No alien probing was done. City health officials made the medical decision to brand him for the benefit of the masses. Gilly was made a robot sex slave.

For centuries, major religions of the world taught that homosexuality was a sin. On its knees at the end though, mankind forgot its first love.

Gilly made the best of his situation. Something was luring him to Harlem. He couldn’t remain in one place. An energy like that of a constant orgasm electrified every nerve within his body. Legs had to keep moving to keep the pressure at bay. What was calling him up here? There is no rest for a man with an electronic womb.

Running on empty and in need of an emotional recharge, Gilly was out to serve again. It is better to serve than to be served, or so he mumbled in what little sleep came drifting his way on occasion. Rarely did the lids over his eyes stop fluttering. In Harlem, the element of danger lurked everywhere, yet not an trinket of fear crossed Gilly’s racing mind. If only death were possible. If only he could be afraid again.

Lights twinkled on every corner, some red, a few green and short bursts of yellow sparks lit up the city as fireflies on a July evening. As kisses in the wind, the traffic lights appeared like stained glass filtering Sunday morning rays across empty church pews to Gilly. The essence of the dark neighborhood with lights that winked back made his heart thump deep inside. Nobody was going to hurt him because they couldn’t. He was one of twelve, rulers of a colony, an essential element to the very survival of the human race.

Erect in a pair of tight jeans he strolled across Third Avenue, not one bit concerned because he was white. Gilly hungered for seed, fresh from the offspring of Mother Africa. Only with his fill would he sleep and dream again…
 

The New York City Department of Mental Health and Mental Hygiene was monitoring activity in Harlem closely. Few still hoped for a cure and attempted to design traps for Gilly and his lights. All that could be done to help was to watch. The old world was gone now. There would be no cure and in a sense, it didn’t matter, especially to Gilly, one who had found the kingdom within.

Cop cars capped with powerful, digital cameras covered Central Harlem like the Black Plague. More like movie producers than the executive branch of the law, the police were mere youtube feeds for the rest of the world that watched what was happening, stiff as boards, locked to computer monitors like crack addicts to a pipe.

The cameras were connected through live satellite feed to a mainframe CPU in City Hall. The entire city was under close surveillance. Officials waited for the release of the blue light again. Soon it would be free.

The AIDS virus had mutated. Protease Inhibitors prolonged the lives of thousands, but thirty years later, a demon came to light through the engineering of powerful HIV medications. Signs of the deadly outbreak went undiagnosed for nearly a decade, despite warnings about the over use of cell phones.

Gilly was not only a carrier of a super bug, but he had also been a receptor of the blue light on numerous occasions. A chosen one he was, yet unlike a handful of others with similar genetic compositions, Gilly seemed not to care about the on- line fame that came with his glow within. Despite his power and dislike for the concept of government control, he worked with scientists in a laboratory, voluntarily trying to have what was in him harnessed for the greater cause– the survival of the human race. The blue light seemed to have its own mind and was found of Gilly in particular.

The Department of Health was fully aware of Gilly’s code blue status. To quarantine a carrier of the super AIDS virus would prove fatal to those who had taken Alzheimers and Parkinson’s Disease medications. Never should an evil queen with the bug and the blue light grow angry and frustrated!

Drug manufacturers learned far too late that by curing HIV, the health status of others, in particular, the elderly, worsened. The life sustaining essence of the old was stolen in broad daylight. Their souls and memories were absorbed to assist others– life donors of sorts, in the eyes of drug makers. White blood cell levels increased for some while death took over the lives of others, as if an invisible olive tree had been planted over all of mankind and our very essence was being sucked from us for a greater good. It was a rapture of sorts. Who will stay? Who will go? So many were confused when large outbreaks of death occurred like clockwork, synchronized to the anger of a few queens.

Miraculously, AIDS drugs enabled the HIV positive to absorb the power of life from others who had been taking similar mind-altering medications, those used to treat elderly people who were losing their minds in unusual high levels. Getting their light back was the only hope, but an external force, an olive tree of sorts seemed to control all of fate.

Gilly was left for dead following an experiment. His heart stopped. His existence had been sucked dry by an artificial respirator. The blue light left his dead body for only a moment. Soon after his harnessed energy had been placed inside a glass cylinder, Gilly awoke as Lazarus from the tomb. Angry at what had been done to his flesh under heavy sedatives, Gilly stormed from St. Vincent’s Hospital. Citywide, countless thousands died. Nursing homes went black. Officials were uncertain as to how long the torture that Gilly was inflicting upon others would continue and after the mishap in the lab, they were too terrified to try to bring him down.

The power of thought control was increasing in those who had it. Mass deaths were occurring in places other than nursing homes now. Gilly needed relief– relief from the light, and Harlem was where he went to free himself of his great burden.

City officials were monitoring men like Gilly as they entered an ancient Turkish Bath. Baptism by the Holy Spirit is what Gilly thought of the blue light as. There were cameras inside too– in every room, insects of sorts that had a purpose in the circle of life. So much for those who followed Gilly’s calling to Harlem. He announced the outing in his blog. The bangs. The pops. Did they simply vanish into thin air? No. Gilly knew where there were now.

The police in cars did nothing as Gilly entered the underground place of concern. There was nothing they could do. No law had been broken and for men like Gilly, there were no laws or rules.

He vanished inside a cement stairway briefly, stepping casually in a well- worn yellow pair of Chuck Tailor All Stars, being cautious not to slip upon fallen leaves of Autumn that had collected in the stairwell. The colorful carpet of foliage was slick due to a cool rain that had been falling all week. He was just blocks away from the 125th subway station in Harlem and without an umbrella. He knew how to get back downtown. If the light were to momentarily leave him to enter the soul of another, he knew just where to go without asking for police assistance– the subway– the underground– a place where he could hide from the light until it found him again. The police kept their distance from Gilly as he walked down the stairs into the bathhouse.

New York City was a hot bed for AIDS in the 1970’s. A lot of men like Gilly died from wasting syndrome, dementia, rotting of the insides, and rapid deterioration of their immune systems. It was in places like Mt. Morris Baths where the virus got such a stronghold on the homosexual population, that the return of the messiah was initiated. Such exchange of bodily fluids without protection created ruin for countless thousands. Condom education came along by the time Gilly had pubic hair, and there were ways to avoid the gay plague. Gilly knew the rules well thanks to beautiful men whose earthly desires caused them to go down the hard way a generation before. Condoms were no defense for the new and improved blood born virus that had somehow transformed itself to a psychological illness. The blue light. The light that saves us all.

Bath houses were closed by the time Gilly was sexually active. This place was amazing– still like they once were. Throbbing penises and hot steam could be found in every corner– those who read his blog and got uptown first were inside wrapped in white towels, wanting Gilly to choose them first. They were all over the place. He thought he just may do them all, but remembered his purpose here.

Men who previously had no prior interest in the same sex were everywhere now. The blue light was something else.

Derek Jeter was in room #9, just as Gilly had requested in his blog. The blue ball of light. More than a home run. His baseball hero stood in just a jockstrap and a condom looking like the Messiah. Gilly wanted him.

“Take it off. You are going to die anyway,” Gilly ordered.

Derek stripped off his condom like a needle ripped from a Madonna record.

The blue light was gone for now. It was inside of Derek. Gilly felt relief immediately. He ran out of the baths like a ‘70’s streaker and flew down 125th Street in a pair of yellow sneakers. No longer was he sad for what he was causing. The old wanted a way out of life– the horror it had become for so many.

They simply couldn’t say it. They were praying for mercy and Gilly gave it to them because he was just one of a few who could hear their cries. He certainly was not going to fuck all of them, just to keep them alive!

They asked for it. Gilly put his wish list in his blog and absorbed more of the elderly demented.

“Blue light special tonight.

More God Making With the Blue Light

Mt. Morris Bathhouse Harlem

10 p.m.

Saturday Night

Madonna, stay home!”

He told everyone where he was going and what he wanted when he got there. Gilly was a carrier, one of just a handful that inevitably would be the last twelve standing at the end of time. There was nothing but blue light ahead of him now. Time to rest and dream again. Guys like Derek Jeter will always be around for times when the blue light returned to Gilly, its beloved.

Lots of them were waiting for a way out. They stood in Harlem like servants. Eventually he would get to them, but for now, it was time to rest.
Gilly got on the subway and went back downtown to his apartment on Perry Street. The blue light was away for now.

“I’ll be back, but for now, she’s your’s” Gilly wrote in his blog as he logged off to his following.

“Take your time, Gilly. Take your time. We will take care of him for you while you are away in a far away land,” they commented.

Derek is still in that bathhouse. Madonna sings there, trying to lure him back. She opens for Bette Midler in the ancient Turkish Bath. Derek no longer hits home runs be he plays the field in room #9.

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DSMV- V

Enough is enough. I stormed out of the office today. Another surprise desk audit awaits me tomorrow. Mr. Palmer from Human Resources is coming to the Youth Counseling League to interview me regarding a “recent incident at the Youth Counseling League”.

Surely they are coming to fire me, I pray. But I will not be there. I’m calling in sick. My employer needs to hurry and answer the third complaint I filed with the New York State Division of Human Rights against them. I got my copy in the mail yesterday. A new control number has been issued. It was jointly filed, one copy going to the Federal Branch of the Equal Opportunity Employment Commission.

On this filing, I made my complaint simple: “Excessive desk audits (3 since January 2008). Respondent implied that I stole more than $2,000 in petty cash funds.”

The e-mails were poor judgment on the part of my employer– “Your petty cash account stands at $4,000. You should have submitted receipts for the outstanding $2,654.00.”

For the last three months I have been subjected to “surprise desk audits” – a tactic by my employer to retaliate, in my view, for accusing them of disability discrimination. Why now were there questions regarding the balance of my petty cash fund? Quickly, under paranoid duress, I filed another complaint with the state, alerting them that my employer is harassing me again.

In all fairness to the State of New York, I was granted a hearing several months ago, in response to the complaints I made. My bosses were summoned to Harlem to the top floor of the Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. state office building. They had powerful attorneys with them. I was alone. It was at least twelve against one. However, I won. I got them there. I made them talk– thanks to the Division of Human Rights.

Unfortunately, after the state dismissed both of my previous filings, the Jewish Board came after me like a pack of wolves. They’ve been persecuting me ever since. Constant surprise “audits” plague me like an STD every day–

“Let’s count your money, Mr. Taylor,” Officials from the Jewish Boar announce as they walk in on me– busy doing my office manager job. “Oh, it looks like something is off here,” they giggle. They want me to get pissed off and leave. I won’t. I filed another complaint after they made the mistake in an e-mail to imply that I stole or mismanaged funds.

I showed everything to the state in my third complaint– the paperwork indicating that indeed, all $4,000 had been spent on the Teens on the Town program of the Youth Counseling League.

They chuckled, as if to imply, get ready, we are coming for you.

An early morning e-mail alerted me of the meeting with HR tomorrow. At least they are coming to my office at 386 Park Avenue South. Perhaps they are simply trying to offer an honest response to the state of New York in regards to my formal complain of undue harassment. Who knows. I told my boss, Janet Johnson– “I’m leaving. I’m going to St. Vincent’s.”

Several years ago, I was ordered to attend and take minutes of the Board of Directors of the Youth Counseling League.

“Joan, I can’t,” I said to Joan Adams, the director of the program at the time.

“Yes you can Charles. I’m going to make you better,” she insisted.

“Joan, I love you, but this is too much. I had a mental breakdown before working here. I simply cannot. You’ve heard from Mary Pender-Green, Chief of Social Work Services, that Charles Taylor is bi-polar. That’s none of your business Joan. I came here for a job, not treatment.”

“You are going to do this and I got you a $10,000 raise. Your writing is a gift, Charles, you must use it.”

“Fuck you, Joan. I’m crazy. There is no hope. I cannot take those minutes.”

“You will and you’ll like it.”

One day, after being scolded by JBFCS Board Co-Chair, Joyce Cowin for not reminding members of an upcoming meeting two days prior, I was reprimanded for informing Ms. Cowin that I was being overwhelmed and had an illness. Shortly after I read that bitch, my pay was suspended. Sure, I called Joyce Cowin a money grubbing whore, but in reality, JBFCS had no right to make me write again, especially after I had called three prior meetings with members of senior management to express my mental illness and my desire to survive in life without the assistance of drug company invented prescription medications.

It was the pen that caused my psychosis in the first place. The inability to stop permitting words to flow from the top of my consciousness drove me insane. JBFCS had no right to force me to write again. Now look at me!

“Fine Charles,” Janet Johnson, my boss, replied as I left the office today on my way to St. Vincent’s, as if I’m the crazy one.

“Do you need assistance,” Maria Barreto, social work supervisor asked.

“No thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope.” I said on my way out the door in a pair of grass green flip-flops.

I stormed down Park Avenue, crossed over to sixth a 14th Street and marched my ass into the outpatient psychiatric ward of St. Vincent’s Hospital. I was mandated to receive treatment at St. Vincent’s following my involuntary incarceration in Elizabeth, NJ.

“You were treated here for six months. What happened?”

“I’ve been off my meds for seven years now, and never felt better. Listen, you need to do something to get these lunatics off my back at work.”

The Psychiatric Evaluation went on for an hour and a half. The social worker asked me to spell things backwards, and remember certain items that she would repeat back to me, later in our conversation. If I happened to miss anything– well, we know what that means…They could keep me there!

I’m pleased to report that I answered all the social worker’s questions, posed to me during my mental status evaluation. I even spelled SHREWD backwards. Try it right this second, without looking at the word in the sentence. I just knew they were going to keep me today.

“Oh yes, I’m much better. I no longer walk barefoot down the streets of New York City screaming ‘the end is near’ with bloody feet.”

Someone knocked on the office door. She seemed angry at whoever was knocking at her door, but excused herself and answered.

She vanished for at least ten minutes, returning to ask me to repeat the words “Sofa, Blue, Bookshelf” to her, the words that she had advised me earlier, would be tested on me later. What does that mean, exactly? I asked myself during the interview. What kind of shit is this? I mean really, what if I had replied, Sofa, Red, Bookshelf? Does that make me crazy?

I was hoping to get a letter of excuse from my job for about two months. I want to cash in on all my sick and vacation time I have gathered over seven years, with very little sick time taken. How ever, I had yet to meet the psychiatrist for possible medications…

“I’m not taking anything that makes me 250 pounds or has severe side effects,” I insisted to the queer shrink.

“I recommend Abilifly. Very little weigh-t gain. No blood tests necessary.”

“That sounds good– I saw the commercial,” I replied to THE SHRINK.

“However, I must warn, it causes hand tremors in the limbs,” he advised.

“You must be out of your God damned mind,” I snipped at the man in white who was obviously a bottom homosexual. A real fag. Limp wrists and the works! The type I have slapped to the side inside of bathhouses and such. “I’ll sue those fuckers for every dime they got. I need a letter from you indicating I was here today. I don’t want your fucking pills. Get off my dick, bitch!”

For a moment I thought he would have me committed. But he didn’t. There was a side to the fag that believed me– what I keep saying and writing about in regards to the Jewish Board, the “mental health professionals” and the topic of Spiritual Emergence.

The SHRINK didn’t arrest me. He let me walk out of there. Despite, what became apparent to me after the suggested medications thrown in my direction today.

There is nothing Bi about me. I’m schizophrenic. Despite my attempts of arguing with the “professionals”, they still insist that what I had after Shawn died– that “psychotic espisode” was in reality, a manic one.

“Look. I believed I was God. I felt the Holy Spirit come into me,” I said to the social worker who did my assessment today. Still, she had no right to answer the door twice. What kind of treatment is that– to have one’s psychiatric evaluation interrupted twice.

“Do you believe you have special powers,” she asked.

“Of course not,” I squeezed through the gap in my teeth, realizing that some of the material I have written over the past several years in the this literary forum is sometimes immaculate.

“Tell me more about your psychosis.”

“It was like being on ecstacy, but times ten. I keep waiting. After seven years it still hasn’t come back. Perhaps I’m not manic depressive. Perhaps I have schizophrenia,” I said to her.

She didn’t say anything. She kept typing and answering her door, as if, from the outside, aliens were trying to interrupt our session.

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The Second Coming

Josh was aware of the risks associated with entering a transient place of communal bathing. Many still believed in baptism and seekers would follow him to hear the voice of the Father. He had no choice. There was nowhere to hide but in the Bethesda pools of Harlem.

A voice of not so sound judgement whispered over his shoulder seductively. The devil made him want more. His legs moved quickly and his arms swayed in unison with his stride. The voice that nobody else could hear was whispering again. What did the demons want this time? How long would the torment keep him up and about, unable to sleep? Josh accepted the fact that a chip surgically stitched inside the walls of his anus was implanted permanently. No alien probing was done. City health officials made the medical decision to brand him for the benefit of the masses. Josh was made a robot sex slave.

For centuries, major religions of the world taught that homosexuality was a sin. On its knees at the end though, mankind forgot its first love.

Josh made the best of his situation. Something was luring him to Harlem. He couldn’t remain in one place. An energy like that of a constant orgasm electrified every nerve within his body. Legs had to keep moving to keep the pressure at bay. What was calling him up here? There is no rest for a man with an electronic womb.

Running on empty and in need of an emotional recharge, Josh was out to serve again. It is better to serve than to be served, or so he mumbled in what little sleep came drifting his way on occasion. Rarely did the lids over his eyes stop fluttering. In Harlem, the element of danger lurked everywhere, yet not an trinket of fear crossed Josh’s racing mind. If only death were possible. If only he could be afraid again.

Lights twinkled on every corner, some red, a few green and short bursts of yellow sparks lit up the city as fireflies on a July evening. As kisses in the wind, the traffic lights appeared like stained glass filtering Sunday morning rays across empty church pews to Josh. The essence of the dark neighborhood with lights that winked back made his heart thump deep inside. Nobody was going to hurt him because they couldn’t. He was one of twelve, rulers of a colony, an essential element to the very survival of the human race.

Erect in a pair of tight jeans he strolled across Third Avenue, not one bit concerned because he was white. Josh hungered for seed, fresh from the offspring of Mother Africa. Only with his fill would he sleep and dream again… to be continued…

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The Gay Godfather

We can pass. Father and son. Arden is light-skinned. When we are out together on the streets of New York City, running from hot dog stand to Circuit City in search of the newest Play Station games, salespeople, street cart vendors and cashiers at department stores just assume he is my son.

Arden’s got a mind of his own and quite honestly, looks a little like me, in strange Cacuasian way. An eleven year old who lost his father at ten is like an adopted son to me now. The facts are unspoken, but yes, Arden is the son I never had biologically and he even has my nose.

He passed school this year. He’s heading into middle school next Fall. A friend of his mother gave him a $25 Visa gift card as a grammar school graduation present. He came over this weekend, wanting to spend it.

Arden’s big brother Bradley has been my lover for 7 years know. I’ve known Arden since he was 4.

Off we went on the G and L trains to Union Square– in search of an Ipod first, but nothing caught his ear or eye.

Arden insisted on going into watch shop instead of buying a music playing device. He purchased a watch with what he imagined to be a real credit card. The cashier swiped his $25 gift card. The price of the watch after tax was $27.55. The computer attached to a cash register denied Arden’s purchase.

Perhaps the Visa Card given to Arden by a friend of his mother was already used. Maybe she thought Arden would just want to pretend with it.

Perhaps Arden was just pulling my leg, trying to get me out of the house, knowing that I would pay for the watch when we both learned in front of a long line in a watch shop that the card was already used.

The black cashier picked up the phone in her station and called her supervisor immediately.

“How do we enter for a Visa gift card.”

Arden and I just looked at each other. He knew I would pay for it if the gift card was a fake.

“Oh, enter it twice,” the sista said into the mouthpiece of a plastic white phone.

“It’s alright. You’ll owe me $2.55 in cash. The card is only worth $25.”

Before Arden could say ‘Dad’ I reached into my wallet and helped to purchase his graduation watch.

He looks just like a rap star and I’m so proud of him.

“Thank you, Chals,” he said as he left for home today. “I’ll never forget you for taking me to buy this watch.”

I hope he doesn’t. He’s growing up so fast and time is all we have.

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