When I write poetry, I am either a fool or a philosopher.
I walk into the rain
at the end of the day
and things slow down
It is the feeling one gets
when there is nothing left to do
It is the feeling I want
right before I die.
Authentic Aphorisms
1.
To be unapologetically myself
in a sorry world.
2.
To be able to express myself
even if
I am the only one listening.
3.
Struggling for fame
by being fake
makes you a slave
to popularity.
4.
Bad habits are like old friends
They come around from time to time
but I don’t have time for them.
Pockets of Loneliness
If you walk through wheat fields at sunset, across rolling hills of wonder
spotting tiny trees
here and there
like accepted loneliness
then you know
long shadows are mysterious. I have walked between this oasis and that oasis
of loneliness
and the crowd doesn’t interest me.
This strangeness
will never leave me
and all the pockets of loneliness
are filled with treasure.
King of the Sandcastles
animals are a better judge of character than human resources
and the man in the three-piece suit is snarled at
by lap dogs, bulldogs, and Rottweilers
on the way to his interview
the pigeons don’t get out of his way fast enough
as he kicks one of them into a cement wall—
it’s stunned, with one eye open
through
myopic eyelids
pink, with surprise.
a young man walks along the beach near the big city, wearing the same clothes he has worn for a week
waves whisper to him, like powerful reminders
of the strength within him that nobody else can see.
gulls land at his feet and look into his eyes
they be the souls of sailors—souls of the damned
and they bow to the young man, walking between sandcastles
a king
stepping between
temporary tides.
Kindred Spirits
I went to a fine restaurant with my best friend
on a road trip to Arizona
and the human comedy followed us
laughing
like a rabbit pulled out of a hat
too many times.
I was sitting there, eating a steak
feeling full, when I noticed the table across from us:
One guy laughing. Nobody else laughing.
It was a hostage situation.
There were a few grimaces. No genuine smiles.
They were wearing business attire, discussing work,
and one of them was acting drunk
but I could tell he was totally sober. He wore a sloppy suit
and a messy beard.
He was saying original things, and the waiter came over and asked what was wrong with him.
“Is he drunk?”
“Oh—no, he’s okay,” his colleagues said.
But when the waiter left, one of the men walked the guy to the restroom.
“Is he coming back?” My friend asked our waiter.
The waiter tried to be diplomatic.
He was caught in the typical trap of needing to please everybody.
“I don’t know,” he said.
My friend was worried, but I was enjoying the show.
They came back and it seemed like the man might act normal, but then he started touching his colleagues with a big grin on his face.
People started videotaping.
Just when I thought there would be no new flourishes of entertainment, beyond weird statements and public displays of affection
our savant turned to me and gave me a toast with his champagne glass.
He didn’t say anything,
but I got the message:
“You and me—we’re the same,”
and I agreed with him, silently.
Later,
I told my friend my interpretation
and he said,
“You don’t have anything in common with that man,”
but I silently disagreed with him.
We were kindred spirits.
the man knew it
and I knew it.
Aphorisms on Being Almost Famous
1.
I wish
I had nurtured my adolescence,
rather than trying to become an adult.
2.
I have brief moments when I experience what it might be like to be a rock star.
Usually, they involve giggling girls and being the center of attention.
I am struck by the ridiculousness of this situation.
3.
I love taking the back seat and letting somebody else drive.
They need control.
I need to watch the country go by.
4.
My girlfriend loves to lecture me on the three topics I talk about:
money, working out, and writing.
She talks about:
cats, freaks, and her job.
We deserve each other.
High Quality Imported Magic
If a man has lived with magic long enough,
he dreads the day when it will leave him.
The trail on the other side of the river was overgrown.
I needed to talk to the leprechaun king about a few things, but magical creatures don’t keep schedules, and they refuse to be told what to do.
Above all, they do not talk to anyone unmagical—I was worried that my powers were waning.
I walked deep into the woods. The leaves were falling.
At least, I could still hear the King.
A bunny rabbit hopped onto the path and turned its head and looked at me with its gold eyes.
Then it ran ahead and vanished.
The trick to tracking magical creatures is not to care too much.
I came to a pond with a running waterfall, gurgling and bubbling with song. Beer cans littered the beach—that’s when I noticed the king’s robe and crown neatly tucked under a lawn chair.
“The water is fine. Come in for a spell,” he said.
Brian dove down into the pond like a loon, and surfaced like a submarine.
“What’s the matter?”
“Brian—I don’t feel like hanging-out right now. I need an extra dose of magic.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say, but it would help me out a great deal.”
The leprechaun king stroked his beard in thought. He knew that he had me. I believed in his magic, and I needed it.
“What will you do for me?” He asked.
“Anything.”
“Will you give me your future children?”
“No.”
“I’m just joking. I’m not Rumpelstiltskin. I’ll tell you what… I’ll give you my magic this week, but you’ll have to supply me with 12 cans of beer every day for a year.”
“What brand do you want?”
“Not Budweiser…not Budweiser…get me imported beer from Thailand.”
“That’s going to cost me a fortune!”
“Well… my magic doesn’t come cheap.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Life isn’t fair!” The leprechaun said.
He had all the gold in the world—that’s what most people want, but his magic was 1000 times more valuable, and I knew it.
“How will I know when I have it?” I asked him.
“You’ll just know. Don’t worry—nothing will happen to you, and if it does, I have some friends…”
“I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”
“Why not?”
“Because, if you misplace your mind and can’t find it… that’s really bad.”
“If anybody finds out that you believe in leprechauns, they’ll lock you up in an insane asylum,” Brian said.
“I know. Don’t tell anybody, okay.”
The leprechaun smiled at me. I didn’t trust him.
But if I brought him high-quality beer, I could trust he would give me his magic—
and that’s what I did.
I might be better off if I start saying what’s on my mind.
I broke down while talking to the HR lady.
God, I’m tougher than this, I thought, but apparently, I’m not.
“We need a reference check from your previous supervisor,” she said.
“My boss was a horrible person!” I yelled. “She micro-managed everything I did!”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She made fun of my clothes. She never gave me control of the budget.”
“Do you have her personal phone number?”
“No! I don’t have her personal phone number!”
“Didn’t she write you a letter of recommendation?”
“Yes! But it was fake. She was fake!”
“Oh—that sounds like a toxic work environment.”
“It was—She fired my fiancé. She let me go. Nothing she said was on the level.”
“Well… why don’t you provide me with her email then?”
“She’s going to screw me!”
“Oh—I doubt that.”
“She will, but I’ll provide you with what you need.”
“Thank you. We want to help you become a cog in our system.”
I thought about what she said.
Fuck that!
I rest in peace, but I’m still alive.
I play the game.
I never win.
I know how to have fun.
They want to be duchesses and dukes
kings and queens,
but
I
only wish to be a fool.
I
survive on my wits
It gives people fits.
I
laugh inside.
They poison drinks
They stab the back
I rest in peace, but I’m still alive.
He has 10 problems
I have none.
Isn’t this fun. I’m an actor.
He’s the real deal.
“Do you mind if I watch the game?” He asks.
“I don’t mind.”
A meat-head jumps on another meat-head.
I enjoy it.
He switches to UFC.
A meat-head is getting punch in the face by another meat-head.
It amuses me.
He observes the strategy. “That’s wang chung.”
We decide to sleep.
“Good night.”
It is a good night.
I will pretend that I have the room to myself.
In the morning, he wakes.
I make espresso.
“I’ll try one,” he says.
It’s a peace pipe. We don’t have anything in common.
People struggle to breath in this situation.
I’m full of air.
Joe, I toast your youth.
My best friend in junior high set fire to the girl’s bathroom.
Joe
had curly blonde hair
shaped into an afro.
He was on my basketball team. Fast, his hair danced in the wind when he ran down the court.
It bobbed, like a sea anemone.
His father taught us how to blind our opponents.
“It’s not a foul, unless you get caught,” Joe’s dad advised.
“Don’t listen to him,” our coach said.
I guess, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
His mother was Pentecostal
and tried to exorcise a demon from a middle school boy.
Administrators intervened.
Apparently, exorcise is forbidden for demons—they’re lazy, and need to watch TV.
Joe set the clocks forward one hour and school got out early.
He stole surgical gloves, using them as water balloons on middle school girls.
He pissed on the teacher’s view foils and destroyed her projector screen.
One afternoon, the principal sat him down and told him he was being expelled.
Joe cried.
Shortly thereafter, his parents sent him to military school.
I heard that a 1st sergeant broke him.
Joe became physically strong from doing pushups
but his spirit left him.
By age 20, he was a nice guy—laughing at co-workers and smiling at his boss.
He pushes paperwork now.
Joe could’ve been a comedian.
Thank you, Joe
for teaching me the most important lesson in my life:
white shirts don’t want spots.
From one stain to another,
I toast your youth.
A student asked me about measuring meaning, yesterday. He’s searching for it. He has it inside himself. He just needs to find it.
Writing is that way.
The most boring situation becomes exciting when I attach meaning to it.
It’s Far Better to Fly
I’ve spent my life searching for who I am,
inside rocks, inside books
inside the limits of what’s possible and impossible,
and what I’ve discovered is that it’s difficult to change.
For a moment, it can be done, but for a lifetime? … that’s a long time
I’ve taken that step, many-a-time, but always gone back to who I am.
It’s difficult to be treated differently,
like a celebrity, but with these changes, I’m willing to deal
with the inconvenience
of being human.
What I’ve noticed about people…
They only know what’s in front of their faces,
and my face is changing
like a Greek God chiseled from stone.
I make dust every day
My nose grows longer (I’m not lying, I promise, I’m a fiction writer).
My mouth becomes kinder
My forehead protrudes like a Neanderthal
I’m primitive and cerebral—a contradiction created by my chisel.
Why not be the hero
of this hard life.
Find time to heal
Commit yourself to the discipline
of being human.
Why?
Because birds will fall out of the sky
Hawks will whisper your name
It’s not done for fame, but for the power you can hold onto for an hour
rising on drafts of wind
It’s far better to fly.
Sometimes things have life inside of them…
Sometimes things have life inside of them
They’ve been used to do the impossible from time to time
And I reach for my driving iron
with the wooden shaft
“What are you going to do with that thing? Are you going to lay up?” My friend asks.
“No. I’ll put it on from here.”
It’s late at night and I know my friend thinks I’m crazy, but I can’t see his expression in the dark.
I choke the stick with confidence and prepare for a power shot.
My swing is wide and my weight shifts like a dancer
The impact is one of the best feelings I’ve ever had.
My ball rises into the air and disappears.
“Well, I didn’t see a splash. It must have sliced into the woods,” my friend says.
We walk around the pond in the darkness and the ball is two feet from the hole.
I tap it in for an eagle, thinking…
Things have life inside of them.
They are full of memories
dreams
and greatness
They are waiting to be held by the right person
A miracle man
Someone who can make people believe.
Guru on the Golf Course
My Buddha Guru told me to close my eyes, to seal my brain.
I did as I was told.
His 300 pounds brushed against me, like a slug, with little hands.
I don’t think he’s married. I don’t think he’s gay—
he just likes to play with golf balls.
We walked onto the course. It was a cool morning, with warm wind.
Retired people were milling about like flies.
There was nothing happening.
Houses looked like triangles and squares.
Husbands were sweeping decks, while handymen were nailing wives.
It was paradise—
a good place to die.
“Do you hear it?” My Buddha Guru asked.
“No.”
“That’s because you’re not listening. Clear your mind of desire, to know the mystery.”
I tried, but when I emptied my mind, all I saw were naked women.
“With practice, you will retreat into darkness—the key to understanding.”
“Where’s the cart girl?” I asked. “I want a hotdog.”
My golf swing needed work. It got twisted, and then I hit my ball into the neighbor’s house.
My Buddha Guru looked at me and smiled.
He swung as light as a feather and nailed his ball higher than a bird can fly.
I noticed a crow lying on the ground with its mouth open.
I poked it with a golf club, and it bit me. It was only sleeping.
“How do I improve?” I asked.
“Don’t try. Those with power, don’t grab for power.”
I tried. I hit another house.
“There’s a whole fairway out there,” a suburbanite said.
Suburbanite and Sodomite sound the same, I thought.
I smiled at the man. “I’m not very good at golf,” I said.
“You’ll get better, and I’ll get a net to protect my house.”
“What’s the matter?”
It’s those other yahoos. My house gets hit 20 times a day. Last night, I had a flashback that I was playing golf with Asian prostitutes in Vietnam.”
“Mental health professionals are trained to treat PTSD.”
“PTSD? I loved it. I was standing at attention for five hours, afterward, like being 18, all over again.”
“You were gentle with that hard man,” my Buddha Guru said. “That’s why non-violence always overcomes.”
“Maybe, I understand you,” I said. “What did you get on that last hole?”
“Birdie.”
“But you hardly put any effort into your swing.”
“Act without doing,” my Buddha Guru said.
“Why didn’t you decide to go pro?”
“True power is low, like the ocean—everything flows into it.”
I started to watch him. There was something lost in his words, and my will became like the wind— effortless.
A Nice Guy with an Asshole
My mother asked me
“Why do you write those horrible words, Alex?
People will get the wrong idea of you; you’re a nice guy.”
“I know I’m a nice guy,” I told her.
“But even a nice guy has an asshole.”
My mind keeps thinking up poems
and forgetting them.
Nothing last,
especially sentimental thoughts.
The Leprechaun King Gives Me Advice
There are worlds
inside
of worlds.
The school yard, is a world.
The front yard, is a world.
The imagination, is a world.
And then, there are the worlds people don’t know about.
Getting into these
is the trick,
but most people don’t believe they are there.
I had the advantage, because I had been in some of these worlds before.
I drove to my parent’s house, listening to Mahler on the radio. The dark energy was building like a storm, and when I looked outside the window at 60-miles-per-hour, the sky was blue.
There was not a cloud in sight. It was cold, and the day promised so much magic.
Upon entering my parent’s house, I listened to the ticking of their clock. There was not a soul in sight, except my own.
I looked at myself in their antique mirror, and saw the same magic—maybe, a little tired, but still there.
I laughed, and the magic woke-up again.
There are rituals we need to perform to accept this magic.
I looked at the library of old books that I had put my nose into over the years.
I remembered…
to journey into a world, requires a total shift in thought. This is why adults can’t do it. They are thinking about bills, promotions, and relationships. Only a magician, free of those worries, can access magic.
I made myself an espresso shot, opened Treasure Island, and then heard a little knock at my door.
I opened it, but there was nobody there.
I looked into the front yard, and there was a rabbit there, looking at me.
It was brown, with white spots.
I saw a tinge of purple in its hair and smiled, shutting the door.
The trick with magic, is not to let it trick you.
Patience is the eternal weapon against the forces of darkness.
Pretty soon, there was a little knock again, but this time, I didn’t open the door. I waited…
Those seconds seemed like hours.
I took my time, got up, and walked out the door. The rabbit was already at the end of the driveway.
I followed it, as it took me into the woods.
The woods are a dangerous place. It’s where young Goodman Brown met the witches, where perverts creep along with the vines and branches, staring at suburban houses through binoculars, and where murderers finally bury their bodies.
The rabbit went into the underbrush, and I followed after it.
There was a stump. I sat on it. There was a beer standing next to it. I reached for it, and heard muffled words…
“Get off.”
I looked around, but didn’t see anything.
“That’s my beer.”
“What?” I asked.
“Give it here.”
It was an Irish beer.
A hand reach-up between my legs for it.
That’s when I stood straight-up.
I had been sitting on a leprechaun.
“King Brian?” I asked.
“The one and only…”
“Why did you knock on my door?”
“It’s been a long time, and I noticed that the magic in you has changed. It’s getting darker and more powerful.”
“I know… I have sensed that too,” I said.
“Yes, and I just wanted to warn you about walking down that path. Not many people can do it, and keep their sanity. It requires the strength of 1,000 men.”
The little king polished his crown, in thought.
“What do you propose I do?” I asked.
“You are a magician. You always have been, since I met you when you were 12. Not many people are magical. In fact, not many creatures are magical, either. It happens as often as a star explodes, or a planet dies. A magician goes to those dark worlds and collects the dust there, which offers immortality. You are nearly there. I have lived for millions of years. Trust me, it can get old after a while. It takes about 100 years to understand men, and about 1,000 years to understand women, and after that, they become a bore. I mean, all they want is money, sex, and power—and they don’t talk about anything else. My enjoyment of music lasted for 2,000 years, but after that, I didn’t know what to do. My joy is talking to you, and drinking beer, obviously.” He took a sip.
“Where is this dark power coming from?” I asked.
“It happens to magical folks when they are not where they should be.”
“Where should I be?”
“Remember when I granted you your wish four years ago?”
“Yes. You said I would have success at what I want to do.”
“There is nothing sweeter than success, but I recommend good friends too.”
“Mozart became a genius because of me, but he was a tortured soul. A true magician knows how to celebrate their success, and enjoy it with good friends.”
“You know, Brian—you are a good friend. I’m glad that I found you today.”
“Would you like to borrow my crown? You can wear it, if you want.”
“Sure!”
“Too bad. I’m the king.”
And with those words, he smiled and transformed back into a rabbit.
I smiled and walked back home—a lot lighter than I had been the day before.
The End
When you live near a river, you notice when the tide is high and when the tide is low. There are places you can no longer go—places you haven’t reached since last summer. Really, rivers don’t have tides, but the highs and lows can change from one day to the next. The river is change. The water brings logs that dam spots and bridge others. I’ve been walking this river for 30 years. I know it, even though it changes. The kinds of people who visit are always the same. They come and go with the seasons. In the summer evening, fly fishermen cast their lines, as silent as the wind. And the red sun goes down. Sometimes, I’ll spend four or five hours reading in my tree. It grows at an angle, so that you can walk into it like a staircase and when you get to the top, you can lie down and watch the sky above. The river changes, and yet, it remains the same.
We start life
looking outward
at beautiful things
beautiful people
and all the joy that can be had
before the end of the day
Then we grow older
getting hurt by words
and burned by the sun
We take lonely walks
spending time in quiet rooms
and find
All those beautiful things
Inside
Wild, Behind the Glass
I sit in my office
stared at
by middle school boys
who would’ve scared my middle school self
shitless.
They bang on my window
looking at me
behind my desk.
I am an attraction
so different
from their careful timid teachers,
and these boys
want my attention
They ignore everybody else
Their teachers don’t have anything to say
despite talking
all day.
Maybe, I’ll say something
but I never do
and they keep staring
at me
behind the glass.
People have been pissing on my time all week.
Only Buddhist Priests
and me
know this… but perhaps, I’m the only one.
It’s a lot like Socrates assuming he can’t be the wisest man in Athens.
There must be somebody smarter.
The fire inside of me is warm, and people feel it, in the cold.
I arrived at the elementary 30 minutes late.
“Are you my substitute?” A teacher asked me.
“No.”
“Are you sure that you don’t want to teach my class?”
“I just hope that today is okay,” I said.
“It will be,” she assured me.
I waved. She waved back.
I went inside. There was somebody in my office having a meeting.
I went to the library and checked my email.
My boss sent me several corrections on my paperwork.
He has braces.
When he evaluated me, he smiled.
Afterwards, he kept talking, like he liked me.
“Will you be staying in our district?” He asked.
“No. I’m moving to Eastern Washington.”
“Why?”
“I’m getting married to a teacher.”
“Oh—there are plenty of jobs here.”
“I know, but I want to become a farmer.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“Are you going to finish the school year?”
“I honor my commitments.”
“Well, there’s a lot that can happen from then until now.”
I gave him an annoyed look.
“Oh—I didn’t mean that it wouldn’t work out with your fiancé.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m looking after my parents too. My dad burned down his house.”
“Mine too,” he smiled.
His braces glinted under artificial light.
“Are you still driving that pickup?” He asked me.
“Yes. Are you still driving that Tesla?”
“I activated my free self-driving subscription. It picked me up in the parking lot, yesterday.”
“What will Elon think-up next?”
I raised my hands to indicate I was done,
and my boss backed away.
“I respect your time,” he said.
If that was true,
I wouldn’t be covered in piss.
Notorious
I don’t glorify violence
but I admire somebody
who is fearless.
In the safe worlds in which we work
people are afraid
of the boss
of the bill collector
of the power being turned off.
They never had any to begin with.
I’ve been watching movies about Rappers
My bible teacher in high school said it wasn’t music
but he couldn’t rhyme two lines together
the beat of the street
the heartbeat of the human
the wifebeater who gets tired
Rocky, beating his meat
and me,
beating my own,
while I write poetry.
Notorious B.I.G.
Tupac
Death Row Records
8 Mile
Eminem
It seems, they all have style.
The office worker slouches in his chair, plugged into his computer
like sex.
Rappers have sex with language and make sentences
a period, a comma, a question mark
goes where they want it to.
Unlike the English Teacher
who informed them of the rules,
these guys get paid.
Unlike the Bible teacher who warns men to wait until marriage
these guys get laid.
Unlike my parents who told me to live the quiet life
these guys are loud.
I don’t know…
if I want fame
or to be a gangster
or to carry a gold gun
but writing these words is fun
it carries
its own special magic.
My Drink of Wisdom: Lime with Sublime
I didn’t know what I was doing when I started reading.
It just seemed enlightening, like a jagged lightning bolt ripped through the sky, on fire
beautiful, deadly, in its intensity.
It doesn’t always make sense, the things that make us feel better, but they are undeniable,
like a deserted golf course at twilight, mixing shadows with sunlight—
a bartender mixing a drink for a depressed customer. “I call it, ‘Lime with Sublime.’”
If there is any protection for my happiness, it’s the thoughts I have in silence.
Wisdom isn’t for anyone but myself.
In a world that believes in wealth, fame, or showing off—
I stay silent.
Literature isn’t for cocktail parties.
I drink alone.
When a fool talks about wisdom, people don’t listen
and when a wise man talks about wisdom, the same.
Popular taste is disgusting.
I don’t say this with any kind of bitterness, wanting fame
I spit it out of my mouth
and go my own way.
Making a living as a writer is impossible.
It’s far better, simply to live.
the more you need
physically—the love of a woman
materially—the comforts of beauty
socially—the company of people
spiritually—the law of truth
the less free you will be.
Living a lie
doesn’t set you free
nor living without these things
but living with the least of these
will make you happy.
A man can’t be free unless he has free time.
What professionals at the top of the ladder won’t tell you
is that there’s nowhere to go
but up into thin air.
There’s no time for yourself up there, or for anybody at all.
You might fall,
any second
because
the people at the bottom
holding the ladder “supporting you”
shake it constantly
just to see
if you can keep your balance.
It’s their job
to test your integrity,
and the integrity of the ladder.
If you step away
and find your own stairway to heaven
ascending onto white puffy clouds
you will be the envy of all, which is never my intention.
I don’t like attention. I prefer solitude, walking into a space of my own.
The Spartans knew
a man can’t be free unless he has free time.
How do I know this?
I read about the Greeks,
during my endless free time.
Too Much Time
If you spend too much time thinking
like me
it’s easy
to convince yourself of the absurdity
of it all.
I might have 40 more years
and the terror
is not that there isn’t enough time
but what will I do with it all?
What is worth my time?
Most things I do
are a total waste.
Listening to people is a waste.
Sitting in traffic is a waste.
Trying to have a good time is a waste.
Going to meetings
Going to parties
Going poo
is a waste.
I have wasted more time than I care to remember.
I wouldn’t want to revisit my days,
even if I could fast-forward them with a remote control.
Being a good dentist involves drilling.
Being a good psychologist involves listening.
Being good at anything involves being good.
I want to be bad.
There are too many gray days
too many books in the library
too many people doing too many things
I want to know what to do with every day
from now until eternity,
but wait,
that would be boring.
Okay. I want 24 hours left to live so that I know what to do with it all.
You spend your time
slaving for wealth,
and one day, you lose your life.
Kings who are made
can be unmade
They are clay Kings.
The world produces all kinds of men
Seldom, do men produce all kinds of worlds.
What is of value?
Gold is a Cold Metal
A house is not a home
Being in charge of 1,000 people is a thousand responsibilities.
Being able to say something true is a bridge over an abyss.
There is no cure for a corrupted character
An ego kills without meaning to
makes people sick
gives the gift of death.
A man who can do what he loves is full of love.
People can’t see the heart of someone
Its mysteries are full of twists and turns
We are strangers to each other
and perhaps, that’s why poetry is so valuable.
There is nothing better
than checking out
The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire by Gibbon
(all volumes), sitting down
in a summer apartment, and reading.
Being undisturbed by your thoughts
while knowing, this quiet time won’t last.
Life is full of too much poetry: accidents, arguments, tragedy, betrayal, death
and so, I am thankful for the short-form poem
because without it, most of my life would be expressionless.
I compose a stanza, two lines, a sentence, waiting for my x-rays to come back
after a bike crash.
I lost my job
due to budgeting, economics, and politics.
Nobody knows how I feel
The blood inside my body rises and falls to symphony music
Living on words is romantic.
Love doesn’t last.
Love while you can
Read while you can
Write while you can
Enjoy a sunset
It might be your last
The poetry of life is that nothing is permanent
I want to hold onto these moments
but I can’t
This causes me to cherish them more.
If your life is poetry, just wait
it might become a novel.
This world is going to eat itself alive
Consumption is out of control
People swallow things and they don’t know why
When we stop consuming, we start creating
When we listen to our inner voice and use our inner resources
We realize we are enough
If we give a little, we gain a lot.
You must choose your battles and be thankful for your enemies.
Cultivate a love of fate.
Use philosophy to deal with chaos.
Sometimes this requires a journey
to escape tired routines
and reorient yourself
The maddening crowd plays games they can’t win.
They compete over artificial things.
Do not want what they want
Hide in the shadows
Magic is a disappearing act
Create beauty in the darkness
The best wisdom is counterintuitive
When we are ignored, we become powerful
and Neglect becomes our ally
Personal Philosophy
Who can tell us
if our personal philosophy
works.
Maybe it’s a sophisticated way
of deluding ourselves.
It should keep us alive, so we can live.
Wisdom is whispering inside
So, all we need
is a quiet room
to type.
That is what I want
a quiet place.
It takes time to really know who you are
You think you know, but there is wisdom in waiting
Time must be killed
but not totally.
What hasn’t died
belongs to us.
Soon,
the paths of several dreams will be covered by leaves
and we will be
left alone
standing in the woods
near the river.
Purity
is riding your bicycle
through the woods
under falling
maple leaves.
If we don’t get richer
and we fail a thousand times
If women don’t want us
and this life walks away
If we can’t see the future
and time is misunderstood
We hope for the poet’s word
Strength
from some unknown, mystical source
after our muscles have left.
Power
is so often
what we say to ourselves
and not
what we say to others.
Fat
with a smile of superiority
the big man walks with style
rosy cheeks
purple lips
and grinning.
He can’t help it
he’s luckier
far more often
than once in a while.
His power comes from words
strung together with electricity
typed in invisible ink
and screaming.
Cause of death
insanity
written off
by fame
using power
nobody else
will ever claim.
Some say it was the devil
others
cocaine
I guess he was different.
Musings on a Warm Evening
1.
The lonely men are not lonely
and the lost men are not lost
and the bum is not a bum
and the child is not a child
and time has been wiped out
disowned
and disrespected
like a painting
nobody understands.
2.
If we dance beyond
the sea
and we smell the changing seasons
and we listen to the wind
blowing through the trees
silent trumpets
will sound
announcing
our destiny.
3.
Picking raspberries
in the summer heat
next to the garden
I grew up in
gives me pleasant pleasure
Each summer
I walk through
seems like eternity
where I never get older
and now
the things that never change
remind me
that I’m changing.
Traps and Truths
Upon discovering a truth
be sure that it isn’t a trap
a trap and a truth
sound the same
and look the same,
but they’re not—
knowing the difference, is wisdom.
The Male Fox and the Female Hounds
The male fox found a green patch of grass in the yellow sun.
He yawned,
and then went to sleep. He was a bachelor. He liked to take naps. He was a red fox, but his coat was turning grey.
He had one philosophy, if foxes can have a philosophy
but it might be more accurate that they have an instinct,
although, this fox was different from most foxes.
His yellow eyes were closed. When they opened, they were full of wildness, madness, and cunning.
He trotted to the stream, and lapped-up water with his long red tongue.
Then he bit a flee that was particularly annoying.
BARKING
“No,” he thought. “I was enjoying the afternoon. Now, I need to run. Now, I need to play the game. The female dogs are after me.”
He laughed to himself, but it was half-hearted laughter. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but there was something in him that could not be caught.
He forded the stream, and crisscrossed a couple of times.
Then he sniffed the wind with his big black nose. They were a mile away, he thought.
Most foxes, when they hear barking, panic. Adrenaline floods their brains and makes them insane. They can run for miles until they get too tired, and then they curl up in a hollow tree and sleep.
The bald hunter finds the fox and pops it with his hunting rifle. Then the skin is stretched on a log cabin somewhere as a trophy… but
the male fox didn’t mind.
He was crazy. He had seen his brothers and sisters tacked to a wooden wall by a moonshiner five miles away.
He didn’t hate the moonshiner—that’s just what moonshiners did. After a drunk, they got bored and needed to kill something.
The male fox didn’t hate the female hounds. They were just obeying their master—the bald hunter.
Something set this fox apart—it might be magic, or something else. He didn’t panic. His death meant nothing to him, but his philosophy rang in his ears like Christmas bells…
“Can’t be caught. Can’t be caught,” he said to himself.
The trick of the chase is to conserve energy—to always be five steps ahead of your enemy. The male fox scrambled up the hill for a bit. Then he rested. He looked into the valley and saw the hunter with his female hounds. They were sniffing each other’s butts and baying loudly (not the hunter—the female hounds).
Execution canyon was four hundred yards away—that’s where primitive people killed the member of their tribe who said something they didn’t agree with. Forget social ostracism—they just pushed ’em off a cliff. There were skulls at the bottom—lots of them. It took a long time to kill-off all of the individualists, until the rest of the tribe agreed on everything, or were too terrified to say something different.
The male fox knew about this from studying cave drawings. A preschooler could have drawn them. They were essentially stick figures, but the stick figures were cutting off legs and arms. If a psychologist studied them, he would recommend a maximum-security facility for the child drawing inappropriate artwork.
Who cares if the child isn’t violent, makes the honor roll, and believes in God—their artwork is offensive.
A lone pine tree had fallen across the gulch. It was dead, dried, and cracked in several places.
The male fox gingerly stepped onto the bark. It gave just a little bit. The fox took his paw back and then tried again. There was no going back.
Being caught was worse than death. Death had no meaning. The fox was willing to go all the way.
“Don’t look down. Don’t look down,” he said to himself. When he got halfway across, he didn’t know why he smiled. He was old, but he was still alive. There’s a difference in being alive and being alive. He was the fox that had never been caught. He still enjoyed the thrill of being hunted.
On a cold night, his yellow eyes had spied a TV, where a car chase was going on. The fugitive from justice was going 150 miles per hour in a Mustang GT500. How many people want to be chased, but they are too afraid of being caught? The fox thought.
It’s sad, really.
There are no risk takers, anymore.
And the hunt continues…
the wild things play in the dark…
The male fox looked down. Death was not that bad. It made him feel good, just to think about it—
He carefully stepped across the knots and broken bark, until he reached the other side.
BARKING
“We’ve got ‘im on the run boys,” the bald hunter shouted. “Keep going…keep going.”
The dumb slobbering female dogs clamored to the cliff’s edge and stopped.
They backed up.
They were worried—even scared.
“Keep going…keep going!” Shouted the bald hunter, but his female dogs were cowards.
They didn’t want to die.
They wanted to sleep-in, eat table scraps, and chase butterflies.
“Damn dogs—you’re useless!” The bald hunter said.
The male fox stared at their confusion with a peaceful smile on his face.
He was not angry that they wanted his hide—it made him feel alive.
A soft breeze blew his stiff red hair, and he enjoyed the wind, the way a dog does when it gets blow-dried at the pet shop. The fox was wild, and preferred a natural hairdryer, because he didn’t like to be handled by fat women who talked to animals all day. They were crazy. If your top 5 friends are a goldfish, a hamster, a fat cat named Theo, and a rattlesnake that’s had its poison removed (supposedly)—well… that’s bound to make you crazy—not to mention, chopping balls off male animals all day.
The male fox shivered, just thinking about it. He didn’t want a crazy female, putting her hands near his private parts. The dogs in society wanted to get their balls chopped off—they asked for it—pleaded for it.
This made the male fox nauseous, just thinking about it—and that’s why he survived.
He never panicked. He always thought things through, and the more he thought about things, the more he was convinced that he could avoid the traps in life.
“Get ‘im! Get ‘im!” The bald hunter shouted, but his female dogs only looked at him, begging to be loved, begging to be scratched on their bellies, begging…
they had no concept of death.
And the late afternoon turns to midnight where the wild things play in the dark…
Never Mess with a Fire Fox
“If my bitches are useless,” the bald hunter shouted, “I’ll have to catch this fox myself!”
His thick ivory teeth gleamed in the moonlight.
He reached into the front pocket of his suede jacket, pulling-out a Cuban, smelling the manure scent.
He bit off the end of it, enjoying the tobacco taste, spitting it out, much how a rat bites off the head of a cockroach.
Then he pulled a golden lighter from his jeans and flicked the flint, igniting a flame.
The yellow fire made his eyes look evil in the dark.
His bitches cringed.
“Don’t worry babies… I have a plan.”
Meanwhile…
the male fox thought he had gotten off scot-free. He trotted into the forest to find a hollow tree, preferably, with lots of dry leaves, and when he found one, he dug into the tinder to make his nest—that was, until he smelled smoke.
His nose was a natural smoke detector.
The male fox poked his head out and saw murky trees in a fiery fog—
a red wall of flames,
that would eat him up.
He panicked, and began to run, but it seemed that the fire encircled him. He was completely disoriented and couldn’t breathe, and that’s when he heard the far-off laughter of the hunter.
“No wild animal escapes me! We’ll smoke ‘im out!”
The male fox ran along the ridge, where the fire had already jumped the highway, and out of the deadly mist came a robin egg blue Ford pick-up truck. It was driving slowly, like the last taxi out of hell.
The male fox had one chance. He jumped, and as he fell through the air he made friends with his fate, and that’s when he hit the hard bed of the pick-up. He was safe. The old driver didn’t know what it was back there, and he didn’t care.
The fire ended in four hundred feet at the river, and the fox crossed that bridge over troubled waters, and went home at midnight, to live another day.
The End
PS.
The hunter got second degree burns all over his arms and face and his bitches got burned really badly.
I guess,
that’s the lesson they learned—
never mess with a fire fox.
It can be hard to need a job
or to take a job
from a man or woman
who is less than you.
You work yourself up for an interview
learning about their organization, as if you care
trying to convince yourself that you do care
that somehow, your values, are their values
but they’re not.
So, this is just a con game
to get a regular paycheck
They con you, out of your time
and you con them, to make a living.
They always dress for their position
and you dress, for yours.
The difference is, you despise the clothes you have to put on
and they wear their suit, as if they are better than you
They drive a car
not to get from point A to point B
but to BE better than you.
Am I the only one who doesn’t want to interview?
I want to work hard, but I don’t want to be asked silly questions
from a panel of people who are pretending to be important.
They scrutinize
their applicants…
Did he respond appropriately?
It’s horrible to be appropriate.
Aphorisms in the Workplace
1.
If you want to stand-out at work,
work on yourself.
Change is the rule,
and the rule doesn’t change for anyone.
2.
With invisible victories, comes self-respect
If you don’t have self-respect
no amount of praise, titles, or accomplishments
will give you enough.
3.
Self-control can’t be taken away.
4.
Envy in others, is the byproduct of success
their feelings,
justify why they don’t have
what they perceive,
they can’t get
It’s the ultimate form of self-deception.
5.
When I am kind to others
and my boss accuses me of being kind
to get what I want
I don’t disagree
I want people to be kind to me.
6.
It isn’t the words that you say
or your toughness, or lack of toughness
that matters,
but who you are.
Your love, or lack of love
will change the world.
7.
In the workplace
my colleagues play games of like
or dislike
cool
or uncool
interesting
or not.
When I play my own game
everybody else is a fan.
Lessons in Persistence
1.
If you swim upstream and don’t go anywhere,
you are going to get stronger.
2.
The seeds of success are found
in the stories you tell yourself.
3.
During the 6th grade reading race
I beat the entire class and the all-time record
for most pages read
I learned that persistence
is unusual
It might not ensure victory
but it will cause an individual to stand out
It was, and still is, my proudest moment
and have I completed a Doctorate Degree.
4.
An individual develops persistence when quitting hurts more than losing.
5.
We value what we have to work hardest for.
6.
It isn’t the goal that matters,
but everything we had to do
to accomplish the goal.
7.
We are all defined by something.
If you never quit, you can never lose.
8.
When I look at winners and losers
I see what a person is willing to do.
Most people are unwilling to fail until they win.
9.
Failure is feedback
Success doesn’t tell you anything.
10.
How do I want to be remembered at the end of my life?
That I persisted in spite of all odds…
12.
People don’t understand persistence
because they all quit.
If you feel like you need success
to be successful,
you are like most people.
Persistence is something else,
entirely.
Occasionally, I think about doing things differently
painting
drawing
acting
composing music
traveling
and all of these occupations are good, but what we do because we have to
turns our hobbies into personal truth.
If you stick with something, until others notice
you will be misunderstood
praised
hated
criticized
loved
and forgotten,
but if it’s a part of you
it won’t die.
It feels too good to do it,
and you were doing it, before you ever realized you were doing it
whistling to the birds
coming up with meanings for incomprehensible things
laughing at your own jokes, that you never told to anybody,
until
you could not comprehend not doing it
and with pain and inevitable setbacks, being able to do it, is all that you have left
and the comfort of never losing it,
makes life beautiful.
What we do alone, and keep doing
becomes our art,
and it’s a world, seldom illuminated
to other people
because it doesn’t need to be.
Occasionally, these unfound truths open up
to dying souls,
if only for a moment,
and they are brought back to life.
It disturbs me, that people think I’m writing for them
I’m only writing to save myself—but if I can help them, that’s okay.
The Shoes I Wear to Outrun the Sun
My shoes are scattered in my truck.
I don’t plan for that.
My days catch-up to me.
I don’t want to be caught.
My boss is miserable.
I call him “my boss”, because he belongs to me, like a slave, while I am the master.
My shoes carry me where I need to go—golfing, running, and working, and not necessarily in that order.
I am different in different places.
My coworkers are the same. Their shoes are scuffed.
I change clothes, shoes, personalities, constantly.
My best self is hidden, completely.
I need to hide.
My magic is the last light from the sun—it glows brightly, beneath the horizon.
the slug, the sewer, and the superintendent
Do you ever sit on a public toilet and think,
100 asses have sat here today, and I’m number 101?
In society, you become a number.
I would rather ride in the backseat of a police car,
than travel with people I don’t know.
This white guy with a mouth like a chewed watermelon
kept farting in the backseat. I expected gobs of sunscreen to pour out of his ass.
He was off-white, like lotion. He spoke in a whiney voice.
“Turn here,” he said. “GPS will steer you wrong.”
I did as I was told.
“Slow down. Police watch this road.”
I was in control, but he wanted to be in control.
I did as I was told.
“You got a girlfriend?” He asked me.
“In Israel,” I said.
“How did that happen?”
“My friend set us up.”
“Why didn’t he go for her?”
“He’s just her friend.”
“Better watch him. I met my wife in a small town. There was only one other guy who gave me competition, but I wasn’t worried. She knocked on my door and we talked.”
The albino mopped his red mouth with his handkerchief. Then he began to pout.
“You know, Bill… I don’t know if you’ve read Malcom Gladwell’s book Outliers, but are you aware of the 10,000 hours rule?
“Yes,” the superintendent said.
“Well, the 10,000 hours rule is based on the concept of mastery. What I was thinking is that we take this idea and apply it to parent volunteers as a way to motivate them. What do you think about that?”
My inner voice said, that’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard, but no words came out, thank God.
“An excellent idea!” The superintendent said.
Two thoughts crossed my mind—either, the superintendent has to appease this asshole, or big changes in school districts occur on long car rides between conferences.
Both seemed plausible.
The slug opened his mouth whenever he could—to eat, to talk—and I think he would’ve shit out of his mouth if he could.
When we got to the conference, I prayed that I wouldn’t be paired-up with the slug.
The gods smiled on me, and he slept in the same room as the superintendent.
There was a trail of slime following them into their room.
I always wondered what it would be like to work with great men—
now I knew.
My roommate was from Montana. He snored.
When I woke up, I made coffee and followed my morning routine, reading poetry and sipping Joe in bed. My roommate was not named Joe.
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to talk. Finally, I found a normal human being.
I wondered what the slug was saying to the superintendent next door… but I put it out of my mind.
I walked downstairs and joined the sewer of teachers flowing towards the breakfast buffet.
These were the people molding young minds. Their faces were dead—hanging there, like loose skin.
It was all free. It was all wasted.
I found an isolated table and enjoyed some eggs.
As I’ve gotten older, I find moments that I can enjoy. Otherwise, the days become like dead skin—sloughed-off and lost forever.
Some of the bleakest human beings work for the government. There is no struggle in them, no pain, no feeling, only a sense of inarticulate loss, like a slow sickness that terminates in death.
All they have to do is wake up, do what they’re told, and hope the government doesn’t fail. These are the people who go to baseball games. Most of them don’t even like baseball, but they go anyway, because it’s something to do. They piss on their time when it belongs to them, and they piss on the government’s time. The Soviet Union failed because of these people.
Our breakfast speaker was named Mohammed. Anyone with that name has to be great, I thought. There was Mohammed Ali, and the Honorable Elijah Mohammed. This guy was a doctor, and he spoke about public education like it was a religious cult.
Finally, somebody was telling the truth.
“There are fundamentalists and there are believers,” the honorable Mohammed said. “What I mean by that is… you all are believers. You believe that all kids can succeed. Why else would you be here at this conference? Now, remember to buy my book on the way out! It’s called, All Kids Can Succeed. The fundamentalists believe that only some kids can succeed. That’s not you. Fundamentalists point to the normal curve, and suggest that there needs to be failure. Well, this just isn’t true!”
I guess I’m a fundamentalist, I thought, but then I had another thought… We all work for the government, and our government hasn’t failed yet—this is why public education is supported by an erroneous belief.
What I heard next, caused my jaw to drop. “You all have drank the Kool-Aid!”
Everybody clapped.
“But it’s your job to get everyone else to drink the Kool-Aid.”
Muhammed just came out and said it.
Our next speaker was wearing a three-piece suit.
“My name is Jose Hernandez,” he said. “Now, I don’t know about you, but it was a teacher who pulled me out of the gutter and gave me hope. I was working at Walmart for 4 dollars an hour until Ms. Smith suggested that I be her slave… I mean, para, and I said ‘No, thank you—I have this job,’ but then she told me that I would be making 10 dollars an hour! Can I get an Amen!
Spoken like a true capitalist, I thought.
“Amen!” Everyone screamed.
I thought, all of these guys are cult leaders, and they make money at it.
All I need to do is write a handful of books, speak from the podium about my half-baked ideas, and I can be a cult leader too— and get paid for it. The teachers were eating it up, like their breakfast buffet. There was a sample size of the national obesity crisis right there at the conference, and I was well on my way.
I ate when I was bored. I ate when I was stressed. And I ate to feel good.
I’m a writer, and I’m learning the vernacular of the government employee… say the same thing, 20 different ways, which is also the language of the lawyer, and your garden variety asshole.
Our next speaker, looked like an alcoholic—I didn’t blame him—he was close to retirement.
He had a name, like one of those professional football coaches—Madden.
He was mad, alright. Crazy. When he talked, he rocked back and forth. His voice went high, and then low.
“I harmed kids,” he shouted, “but sometimes it takes 40 years to get it right. Do you remember what Kennedy said before we put a man on the moon? We didn’t have the answer then, but he believed. I believe that we already have the answer for kids. We have the tools to ensure all kids succeed.”
Everybody clapped.
By the end of the conference, I felt like someone had jammed a funnel down my throat and poured a gallon of Kool-Aid into my gullet.
I nodded and clapped and tried to act like everybody else. It was hard to fake being a believer.
I enjoy thinking too much.
I tried not to ask too many questions that would cause teachers to think—that would be terrifying for them. What if they were wrong?
During the conference, the superintendent was watching me. He was worried that I might not be accepted.
But I thrive on non-acceptance.
It has been said that belonging is a basic human need, but I find that I have to give up too much to belong.
I belong to myself.
The group does not allow individuals to express themselves, or be themselves. It suppresses and oppresses originality.
On the drive home, the slug talked about baseball.
“Did you ever play?” I asked.
“No, but it gives me something to do,” he said.
For five hours, they talked about nothing.
I put my headphones on and went someplace else.
Career People
I chuckle,
inside
when they beat me to an email.
I laugh,
quietly
when they do my job for me.
I cackle,
like a hyena
when I hear them making their case to my boss about what a good employee they are.
They are wrapped up in ego, like a poopy present.
I am still employed,
but one day,
I won’t be—
and on that glorious day of rebirth
no presents,
please.
Aphorisms on Letting Go
1.
the end of a book can be satisfying
so that you want to read it over and again
or it can be disappointing
so that you throw it across the room—
I think life is that way.
2.
My mother asked me, “Why didn’t you hang-out with anybody in high school?”
My response: “Because there was nobody there.”
3.
I meet unpleasant people, all the time
They say, “Good Morning.”
It’s pleasant not to be around them.
4.
I got published, recently
and now, when I read my poetry
to my mother (God Bless Her)
she hangs on every word.
This is what it must be like
to be a New York Times Best Selling Author.
5.
The best feeling in the world
is not to care—
to look at what you have
and not feel any special attachment to it
to look at your life
and let it go
to look at your goals
and realize
that it’s not important that you get there.
6.
How many people know what they want?
they think they know,
but it’s usually what someone else knows.
7.
I’ve made an effort
not to be important.
People learn that I’m not important
and leave me alone.
It’s the most beautiful peaceful feeling
like a field full of daisies.
8.
I find it amusing
that the most out-of-control people
try to control those around them
and they can’t.
There is a life lesson in that.
9.
The most pleasurable insights
are the ones that make me free
that allow me to erase my hypocrisy.
Most people acquire wisdom to show it off
they say, “I am so wise.”
They want to teach others, rather than teach themselves.
The Women at Work
I have spent years trying to understand the female
and “no,” this is not a sexist statement
like most things we do, we do them for survival
and I have been surviving…
learning, what works
when talking to women at work.
My friend, has recently had the chance to observe me
in a large group of women, outside of work
“You are so good with them,” he said.
I don’t know if he has credibility. Can the typical male (my friend) appreciate the skills of a savant?
Now, I know what you’re thinking… the man writing this, just lost credibility. He is not the type of man who would understand women.
But wait!
Since working with women, I have realized that they are not always great, at relating to each other.
Women, are different, and
they are all the same.
I suppose, women can say the same things about men.
The first rule in dealing with women, (as a man) is to help her feel listened to
this means that you must be present,
and if you aren’t present, she will know.
She wants your full attention,
but not your over-concentration. She prefers a man who helps her to feel understood, without being too serious.
Kristen entered my office.
She was beautiful, when she was younger.
Now, the stress of her job, has frozen her white teeth into a permanent smile,
which always says the opposite
of how she feels.
Kristen pretends to know everything, because of her deep insecurities.
She dresses in teacher clothes (baggy blouses, with scarves, and jeans). She puts her hand in front of her mouth while she speaks. Her hair is straight black, and cut at her shoulders.
She walks
into my office,
timidly.
“What testing do you want me to do?” She asked.
“The core assessment.”
“You know, each test is different?”
“I know,” I said. “You can decide. I know, you know, what you’re doing.”
She looks down and smiles superior. “Okay,” she said.
She asks my permission, but she wants to know, she knows more than me.
Twenty minutes later, Kathy comes into my office. I like Kathy, and she knows it. Many people don’t like her, because, she takes no prisoners.
“She is a black widow,” the vice principal told me.
Kathy, is a leader, and the male administrators don’t like that. Kathy wears baggy sweats, because she is always gaining, and losing weight.
“You know what Kristen wants?” Kathy asked.
“No—but I think you’re going to tell me.”
“She wants to put her kid, in Karen’s room.”
“Oh, is he low?” I asked.
“No, she just can’t teach him how to write. She tries to co-teach, because she thinks she knows so much more than me, but she doesn’t teach specific skills.”
“Oh—that sounds about right.”
“You know, I have so many meetings, and paperwork to do…”
(I love to hear Kathy complain. It’s entertaining.)
Her husband lives across the state. They still love each other, but they can’t live under the same roof. Kathy is having a border dispute with her neighbor, and she calls her husband to intervene. He drives 200 miles to help her.
“He tried to fix the sink, while he was at our house, but he doesn’t know anything. He’s useless. I fixed it in under two hours,” Kathy said.
She just wants him around, and she needs an excuse.
“You’re a survivor, Kathy.”
“Oh—shut up.”
I can tell, it pleases her, when I say this.
With women, it helps if you can say the unexpected.
This is like an emotional roller-coaster that gives them a thrill.
Never tell them everything. Hint, at some kind of mystery—a story, only half told.
Betsy comes into my office. She’s exhausted. She is small and Jewish.
“Only six more months—and then I can retire.”
“Oh—that’ll be nice,” I said. I like Betsy. She’s the only woman at work, I trust.
“What did you think about that meeting?” Betsy asked me.
“Well… you know, the principal invited me, and told me not to say anything.”
“He said that to me too,” Betsy said.
“Remarkable. I guess he likes to hear himself talk.”
“What did you say to him, when he told you that?” Betsy asked.
“I told him, a meeting where I don’t have to talk, is the best kind of meeting.”
She laughed.
I like to make women laugh. I enjoy making them cry. It can be fun to make them angry.
I am a musician. I play the female. I love her music. Sometimes, she gets out-of-control
when I miss a beat, and when that happens, earplugs don’t work.
The End
a great man, a king
can be made to appear common
if you give him common work
and dress him in the uniform of a slave.
The Problem is the People
I can take them, in small doses, like pills
a little poison, to strengthen my soul
but dealing with their bottled-up egos
their swallowed-up misery
is a suicide
waiting to happen.
There are some people,
I need to get away from
it’s not so bad, if you meet with them
for 30 minutes
because you feel
so good,
when they walk away—
like having diarrhea, or pulling out a splinter.
There is no amount of money
you can give me
to work with these people.
My supervisor was so unpleasant
that I ate my lunch in my car
rather than a paid-for air-conditioned meal
while listening to her talk.
It’s an offense
to these people, that I don’t want to hang around them
like artwork
watching them
while they show off.
These people have spiritual problems
not that I can diagnose,
but whenever I feel like saying
“Go to the devil!”
they’re already there.
Bad Art
Admires Itself.
I might be vulnerable in my office.
I sit in my office
oblivious
scheduling meetings
and listening to ambient music
while I organize files.
The special education teacher walks in…
She never knocks.
“Do you know what?” She asked.
“What?”
“All the teachers were crying in the last meeting I was in.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They need to maintain some professional distance.”
She walked closer to me.
“His brother committed suicide, last year. It’s awful. Now, he watches porn all day, and jacks off.”
“That’s disgusting,” I said.
“Yes. My brother committed suicide when I was younger, but I got over it.”
“Good for you, Samantha.”
She smiled.
“I wish our teachers were more professional.”
She leaned in and showed me her tits.
“Do you know that he threatened his teacher, yesterday?”
“No,” I said.
He told her, he would kick her in the stomach and kill her baby.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes, it is. They all want to be his mother, but he’s a bad boy.”
My eyes were getting bigger.
“It’s fucking crazy,” she said. “My team is crazy.”
She got closer to me.
Her next sentence was going to be on something worse, but there was a knock at my door, and the principal poked his head in.
“Is everything okay here?”
I tried to look up, but I was staring at two tits.
“It’s fine,” she said.
She giggled and left. She retires in two years.
The special education teachers get crazier, the older they get.
Me—I enjoy being alone, more and more
but it might make me vulnerable in my office.
What do you think?
Voodoo and the Vice Principal
Belief in a higher power will not always protect you against the forces of darkness.
The vice principal leaned back in his leather armchair, eating his cobb salad. He proudly advertised his cross to the terrified boys who awaited their punishment. He was doing God’s work. Mr. Burt thought that listening and eating made him seem unconcerned with the fate of the guilty. It was important to maintain an aura of intimidation. He was a big man with a gentle soul, but his desire for advancement kept getting him into trouble. He wanted to rule with an iron fist, but the more he tried, the less the children respected him. One of the teachers, and also the worship leader at his church, sent a well-behaved boy to his office.
“What did you do?” He asked.
“Nothing,” said Doohani.
They always said the same thing, Mr. Burt thought. He swore he would pardon the next kid who confessed.
“Why do you think you got sent down here?”
“I brought a doll to show and tell.”
“That’s strange for a boy to do. Did the other kids laugh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you won’t do it again, will you?”
“I guess not.”
“Let me see the doll.”
Doohani handed Mr. Burt a female teacher. It looked familiar.
“That’s Miss John,” the vice principal said. “Where did you buy it?”
“I made it.”
“No, really?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
Doohani held out his hand for the doll and pulled a pin from his pocket with the other. Before the vice principal knew what was happening, the pin went into the head.
An all call came from the intercom. “Miss John has a splitting headache. She just fainted.”
The vice principal looked horrified. “Give me that!” He said. He pulled the needle out of the doll and immediately a voice came over the intercom. “Never mind. Miss John is alright.”
Mr. Burt realized he had real power in his hands. It is very tempting for a man who feels like he doesn’t have enough. He put the doll in a temperature-controlled drawer in his desk. He didn’t want Miss John to get heat stroke on the way home from work.
“Does your dad know about this?” Mr. Burt asked.
“No, he’s on a business trip in Haiti. He’s never around.”
“What about your mom?”
“She works three jobs as a seamstress.”
“I guess she taught you about sewing?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, who taught you about voodoo?”
“My older brother.”
“I need to speak with him the first chance I get,” Mr. Burt said. “Now you can go back to class.”
The vice principal could not stop thinking about the conversation he had had all day. Miss John was a Christian. Maybe she wasn’t in right with the Lord. He would go to confession; that’s what he would do. Technically he was Presbyterian, but he was raised Catholic.
“Father, I want your blessing and protection from the forces of darkness.”
The holy father absolved him of his sins and the vice principal went on his way.
The next day was one of those really bad days everybody has at least once in their career.
“Mr. Burt, get in here!” The vice principal knew he was in trouble. Despite years of being “good”, every time the principal called him into his office, it felt like he was back in middle school again.
“You’ve mismanaged athletic funds. Either you embezzled money or you’re incompetent. I’ll need to bring this to the next board meeting and you’ll probably be fired. Now get out of my office.”
“But I have house payments, car payments, and three boys to put through college,” the vice principal cried.
“You should have thought about that before mismanaging funds.”
Mr. Burt began to sob. Taco Time always made him feel better, so he decided to make a run through the drive-through. What was he to do? His wife might leave him. Then the voodoo doll entered his mind. The next board meeting wasn’t for another three weeks. He still had time.
Mr. Burt went back to his office and looked at his phone. Did he dare? He dialed Miss John’s room. “Send Doohani to my office please.”
The boy showed up with a smile on his face.
“You’re not in trouble,” the vice principal said. “I need a favor.”
The next week went very slowly. Mr. Burt ate Taco Time twice a day and gained ten pounds. On Friday, he found a neatly wrapped rectangular box in his bin. He grabbed it and walked into his office. His fingers shook while tearing the brown paper off. He lifted the lid. It was a perfect likeness of the principal. Did he have the guts? Well, he didn’t have a choice and he walked next door and knocked.
“Yes,” came a curt voice.
“I need you to retire.”
“What did you say? Have you lost your mind?”
The vice principal held up the doll in his right hand. He pulled the needle out of his left pocket.
The principal thought his associate had gone crazy.
“You will retire and never speak about what happened to the athletic funds.”
“To hell I will.”
“Then you leave me no choice.”
The pin pierced the principal’s heart. It felt like a never-ending heart attack.
The vice principal yanked it out and the principal caught his breath.
“You will recommend me to be the next principal.”
“Whatever you say.”
The next school year, Principal Burt greeted Bridgewater Middle School. “We are starting a new tradition in our arts department. Along with picture day, I require each member of staff to sit for one hour in the arts and crafts room. You will soon know why. It might come up in your end of year evaluations.”
Later that month, Principal Burt entered his office and closed the door. Bridgewater was the top performing middle school in the State, thanks to his leadership. He looked at his shelf that skirted the ceiling and admired his staff. The dolls stared back at him with fear on their faces while he nervously fingered a needle in his pocket.
Mummy Rap
hack the mind
like a tomahawk,
thrown
by a fat wannabe
working
at Microsoft.
ax throwing
with platinum blond big breasted
gold diggers.
I don’t dare say the word that rhymes
with that.
the DEI Doctor
would diagnose me
Racist
white walls in the office
closing in
like an Egyptian Tomb
that tortures me
paperwork, emails
bury me
I Survive
because
it’s the only motivation left to me
Death
is a triple threat
Mind
Body
Soul
Stone
I carve hieroglyphics with my fingernails, like a cursed mummy
wrapped in his own inadequacy.
Chalkboard Chills
organs gone
bones screaming
“I’m going to do it!”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t, I’m going to die!”
“You surely won’t die.”
Get behind me Satan.
Get behind me World, full of temptation.
Get behind me, nothing can kill me.
I choose life
“You’re already dead.”
Enough said.
The mystery of living
is knowing
how to survive,
especially when
you’re already dead.
They pulled my brains out
through my nostrils
like a bad cold
“I just got the chills.”
No more sick days.
Love is the only drug
worth jabbing for a vein
but they stole my heart
they took everything
Now,
the map of who I am
remains
stretched
dried
mummified
for a lonely archaeologist
searching for skin
so that he can drape me
in a middle-class museum
somewhere
nowhere
looked at
and chronically misunderstood
Words resurrect the soul
but instead
we use them to fight
good night
All I want to do is sleep
poetry puts me under
darkness waits for light
until the stone is rolled away
Then, I have to deal
with the people
after two thousand years of sleep
and I can’t speak
I have to listen to
“Museums are boring mommy. I want to go to a movie.”
I Am the Captain of My Asteroid
I remember in middle school
how I won
everything
and the year before that, I defeated the entire 6th grade class
in reading.
It’s sad to see the quarterback of the football team
at the 20-year high school reunion
drunk off his ass
and unable to hold down a job.
What shapes us?
What forms our personalities?
In-born genetic characteristics
produce clusters of traits, such as charisma
that get expressed under stress
or remain recessive.
I seem to be conservative and introverted
My friend is extroverted, which means he has a propensity to smoke cigarettes
and he has flirted with those coffin nails
due to his need for stimulation.
I can get kicked like a dog
and smile.
I have been on-top of the human heap
for moments
knowing…
I don’t need to be there.
People treat me well
and terrible
but I am indifferent to their love.
Again, when I was in middle school
a dad, told my sister
“Your brother is tough.”
He was a Green Beret, so he knew what he was talking about,
but I have also been called weak
because there’s a lot of ignorance out there.
Most people don’t see the full picture
they only see
what they want to see.
You may not have the full personality
but it’s at those imbalanced regions
where your force is
strongest.
I delight in my oblong
nature.
I am the master of my fate
the captain of my
asteroid
hurdling through space
ready to make an impact.
I am so much more
than what has happened to me.
Things that go fast, know what it is.
I am more interested in unsuccessful personalities
than
social butterflies—who love their jobs.
Grandiose men
don’t mingle with flowers—
they arrange symphonies.
I am interested in the insane
because they have permission to be themselves
It repulses me
to watch
humanity, struggling along the freeway, like beetles.
I swing wide
and divide
traffic
in my truck
going down the center lane.
I get into an argument
with my mother
about God—it’s more of the same.
“Power, is in the will of a Person,” I said.
“If you follow God, He will give you Power.”
“But all I see are powerless people
who pray.
Where are the supermen?”
My dad walks in.
“God isn’t a vending machine or Santa Clause,” he said.
“How can I move mountains?
I read self-help books and they say to smile more.”
“Be of use to your employer. Make your boss look good. That’s what I did—and I got a raise.”
“I want to do something with my life
that transcends all of this…”
“Like what?”
“It’s in a painting
or underneath an automobile
that breaks the sound barrier.
Heck, I don’t know where it is
but I have to discover that
inside myself.
It’s in an Apache Helicopter
or a P-51 Mustang
Things that go fast, know what it is.”
I’ve been told
that there are some people
who don’t reflect
(kind of like vampires)
but the kind I’m talking about
is the thinking variety.
I love to reflect
on my little triumphs
throughout the day, like how so and so
got really emotional,
and challenged me
and brought my competence into question
but how I didn’t react
and simply discussed procedure.
Being boring is an Artform
that I practice
more than I write poetry.
Nobody wants to engage with a boring person—
it doesn’t do anything for their ego.
When my boss wants to take my side, and gossip about my colleagues with me
I calmly pretend that I don’t understand (because gossip doesn’t interest me)
I don’t get emotional and judge her
I just don’t care
99% of the people I work with are women
I used to participate in their conversations with feigned interest
until one of them said, “We turned you into a woman. You are just like us.”
It was then,
that I realized
I couldn’t have anything to do with them.
If a man wants to be superior,
he must act like it.
Women with boring lives
want a reaction.
If a man wants to be a boss,
he must dress like it,
and talk like it (as little as possible).
I Got the Job!
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just don’t see the world the way others do. Money, is paper. I would rather hang-out with the janitor, than the President of the United States. Who wants to hear about foreign powers? I would rather hear about the foreign bodies in the bathroom.
If you tell people what you think, they either won’t understand you or won’t believe you—more often than not, they’re not even listening. All they hear is the internal tape going around and around inside their head. It tells them that they’re no good and then it tells them to get a better job to prove to everyone how good they are, and when they have proven themselves, they mostly turn into assholes.
I was trying to get a better job.
There were people at work who hated me, and there were people at work in my corner—the trick was figuring-out which ones they were.
Everyone was suspect.
The vice principal was checking-in with me more often. He did this during COVID when the principal noticed that I was bracing myself against the copy machine with a listless look in my eyes.
I loved to give the faraway gaze like death was near. I never said anything—those were the cases administration was most worried about.
The vice principal walked into my office and began asking me questions.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” He asked.
“No girlfriend,” I said.
“Do you want to get married?”
“Hell no.”
“Why not? The Bible says we should get married.”
“I know there’s a need inside me to be with a woman, but it’s impossible to live with one.”
“I hear you,” he laughed. “My wife treats me like a little boy, sometimes.”
“What do you do?” I asked.
“When she turns-on her shrill voice and orders me around, I pray.”
“What do you pray for?”
“That God would kill me. Let me draw you a diagram,” the vice principal said.
He walked over to my white board and drew a triangle. He did this like he was illustrating something scientific.
“You see, God is at the top of the triangle, and your wife is down here. Marriage won’t work if you don’t communicate with your wife and God.” He drew arrows to connect my wife to me and to God.
I looked at him. He was doing it with a straight face. His father had done it for him. When he was working in the church, he had convinced many young men to get married, just how the history teacher in All Quiet on the Western Front convinced his students to kill the French.
“Now, you have gotten all of this education,” the vice principal said. He motioned to my degrees on the wall. “Why are you staying in this job?”
“I’m trying to be a writer.”
“Don’t you have any ambition?”
“Not really.”
He left my office in a huff. He looked like a fat penguin in his power suit.
I liked him, and he knew it.
He would be talking to me again, soon.
Sure enough—we had a meeting together, and as the teachers were filing out, he said, “Alexander, hang back! I need to talk to you!” He told me this like a father, whose son had gotten into trouble.
He closed the door to the conference room and looked at me.
“Well… how did your interview go?” He asked.
“It went okay. I think the assistant superintendent liked me.”
“Good. You seem worried, though.”
“Yes—I’m worried I got the job.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“I’m trying to be a writer, and I don’t know if I can deal with the women at work.”
He looked at me like a man with profound insight into the female, and nodded vigorously with understanding.
Then he walked to the center of the conference room and opened a display case.
“Here, is the master schedule,” he said with pride. He was showing me this, like it was something top secret.
“I have strategically placed students with 50 percent of male and female teachers. In this way, boys and girls get a perfect balance of the genders. We know that children need a mother and a father—according to the Bible. Look what I have done!”
I admired his work.
“Now, my wife is beeping me,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”
He left while I was sitting there. I could not believe what had just happened.
The next day, I got a call from the superintendent of the school district I had applied to.
“You got the job,” he said. He went on to say many other boring things. I tried to stay positive on the line and get off the phone as soon as possible.
The vice principal was grinning at me the next day. “I got called for a reference check,” he said.
“I got the job,” I told him.
“I knew you would. You strike me as a glass-half-full type of guy.”
He was trying to say that I was a glass-half-empty type of guy, but mixed up the analogy.
It was okay.
He liked me, and I liked him.
“You can thank me, now!” He said with magnanimous fatherly love, like he had gotten me the job singlehandedly.
“Thank you, Robert! You are one in a million!”
The End
Pistols at Dawn
It was a question of Honor between gentlemen at the prep school I retired from. Back then, I was the head of school, on my way out with French lessons occupying my time rather than my governing duties. I had become tired, no, exhausted, from the continuous demands parents made on me and their children. In my last year, they were calling me a child, so that I put my head down, endured the humiliation, and walked the fine line between fantasy and reality before my permanent vacation to the south of France. The blue Mediterranean and topless beaches would be where I reentered my teenage years; it’s funny to think I spent 10 years as a monk, in a monastery. I was old when I was young and now, I am young as I approach old age. My entire life has been an anachronism.
Stranger still was the teaching staff we hired on during my last year. We had the reputation of preparing young men for Harvard, so the teachers needed to be exemplary. We had two history teachers who made dead time come back to life. The fencing club began to enact scenes from The Three Musketeers, and the teachers got so into character commanding their troops, that I was worried someone might get hurt, but the kids were having such a good time, that I thought I’d just leave things alone.
Then we had the Teacher’s Teatime on the 1st of October. We were only a month into the school year with parents threatening lawsuits due to safety violations and the history teachers who seemed to be increasingly losing touch with reality. Oddly enough, they were both married. Their wives were as strange as they were and exceedingly beautiful, and that’s when I noticed the danger. I had been drinking, which was my custom at these after-school soirees. I didn’t care how I was remembered, knowing that no principal lasts in the minds of their staff, unless they’re hated. I was neither liked, nor disliked, so my name would vanish within a year, just like the mission statements I came up with.
The history teachers were drinking brandy, which gave their faces a ruddy color, and may have been a forecast for their boiling rage.
“Sir! You are mistaken!”
“I am not!”
“Your smartphone will tell you otherwise, idiot! You need technology, whereas, I have educated myself with the right books!”
“How dare you!”
The Renaissance Man who taught post-medieval history pushed the Medieval Man who taught about the knights of the round table.
“You touched me! A smack on my honor! A duel and may your wife mourn your death, as you have murdered my reputation!” If they had access to pistols, they would’ve drawn arms in the company of their sponsors and students. As it was, the scene was so outrageous that many of the guests thought it was only a bit of entertainment, some impromptu acting, by the faculty.
The next Monday was routine, as if the events of that weekend belonged to some drunken revelry masquerading as a tea party. I even got to many of the papers on my desk when a mass email went out to all the staff at Heritage Academy. “Mr. Bills has offended my honor, and I ask any noble man to be my Second. He only needs to apply to get the job.” Moments later, Mr. Seeley responded, “Mr. Bills is a nincompoop, a third-rate teacher, and coward. He does not have the nerve to face me on the field of open combat.”
The messages even got circulated to some of the students. It was a mechanism set into motion that I was powerless to stop, like a watch that is perpetually wrong and still tries to tell the right time. Emails went back and forth with more jabs, and our students wrote an article in the newspaper giving gambling odds and reporting the best insults. “It’s only a matter of weapons… which ones will they choose?”
Mr. Bills was fencing champion in college, so he had the clear advantage. No, this duel would be a test of raw nerves, so it would be pistols at close range. Mr. Seeley had a pair of dueling pistols, flintlocks; and it was a small wonder they were being used to fight a duel over the disagreement of facts, in the information age.
The Seconds were in my opinion, sniveling weasels: Randy, the Science Teacher and Mr. Kelley, the Math Teacher. Things were heating up, so that nobody could concentrate; the SATs were in two weeks and the practice tests were so bad, it would be a miracle if the students could even make it into the top State schools. Parents were agitated and I kept fielding their phone calls, demanding to know what was going on. It would all be over tomorrow. The dawn rose. I had upgraded my drip coffee maker to an espresso machine which emanated regal smells as I slung a pair of spyglasses about my neck. The fog made the forest road difficult to see as I parked in my reserved spot. There were already students standing on the field of battle where the history teachers were checking their peep sights.
“I will count 1, 2, 3, fire. There will not be a 4. Are you ready?” Mr. Sias asked. He was a short man, so he had to yell a bit louder. Pace it out 30. Turn when I give the command and meet your fate.”
“They’re really going to do it,” the students were whispering. I looked at Mr. Bills and Mr. Seeley. There was such iron resolve, such arrogance, such courage. It was beautiful to watch. The school nurse had the bandages ready. It was total madness; such craziness I couldn’t believe I was watching.
“AND TURN! 1, 2, 3 and…”
“Wait, wait a second,” Mr. Seeley said.
“I told you he was a coward,” Mr. Bills laughed.
“No, that’s not it, I just wanted to say you are a cheeky fellow.”
“How dare you, sir!”
“Dare me?”
“Dare you.”
“FIRE AND BE DONE WITH IT!”
Both pistols exploded and the two men stood their ground. It was magnificent.
“Since you both missed, you have the option to fire again or you can sort out your honor with swords.
“It’ll be swords,” Mr. Bills said before Mr. Seeley could protest.
And steel crashed against steel.
I couldn’t watch. I’d had enough of education. Later I was told they’d both wounded each other and shook hands. I reflected on the moment from an airplane landing in Nice. That life was behind me now. I had enough of male boobs, and I wanted to see the real thing, that is… on females, if you know what I mean?
When I landed, I went straight to the beach and the beach did not disappoint. It never does…
“Monsieur, would you put some tanning lotion on my back?”
“Wie.”
THE END
The God Phone
Whoever said, “Only women like to talk on the phone,” never met this guy.
He lived alone.
I got the sense, that he preferred it that way.
His living room (if you could call it that) was a sofa, and a Laz-y-Boy half-eaten by rats. The stuffing was coming out, like the chair’s brains. The other half of the living space, was a workshop.
There was a light-on, exposing wires, telephones taken apart, and a ham radio kit.
Dar didn’t believe in God, anymore. He told me that.
“I used to have conversations with Him on the black phone, but he disconnected me. I think it was because I was too needy, and I didn’t want to do what He wanted me to do. It was a one-way relationship.”
“Who do you talk to now?” I asked.
“Well, I use that red phone, over there… You can guess who that is.”
“Is that wise?” I asked.
“No. But it’s kinda like phone sex with a call girl. It’s addictive. He gives you whatever you want, but it’s all on credit, and it doesn’t come due until after this life. So now, I just do whatever I want to.”
“Dar is an unusual name,” I said.
“Dar is short for Darwin.”
Oh—that makes sense. No wonder you don’t believe in God. Do you mind if I have a go at the black phone?”
“Okay, but don’t blame me if there’s no dial tone. My connection with God is severed for sure. I think His angels did it—they cut the phone line.”
I picked-up the phone. Nothing. Then it began to ring.
“This is God.”
“God—I haven’t talked to you before, on the phone.”
“Well—it’s simple. You just worship me, and ask me for what you want. I probably won’t give it to you, but your heart will change by talking to me. You won’t get angry with other people, and you will begin to love our conversations. Don’t worry—I’ll meet your basic needs. The Salvation Army hands-out bread on Saturdays, if you agree to attend church on Sundays.”
“God, would you give me a sunny day tomorrow?”
“Of course, my son.”
“I’ve got to go now.”
“You’re a good boy.”
CLICK.
“It was weird to hang-up on God,” I told Dar. “I wonder if I’ll be able to reach Him again.”
“You will,” Dar said.
“Just a second… the devil is calling.” The phone chilled me to the bone.
“Yes. You want me to kill… who? If I don’t, you’ll burn my feet for 100 years… Sorry Satan, you’ll just have to put my pain on credit.”
I could hear laughter coming from the other end of the phone.
Dar hung-up on Satan.
“It feels worse to hang-up on God,” he said.
“Where did you get those phones?” I asked.
“From the basement of the Salvation Army. I never dreamed that the cosmic connection would put me in touch with the overworld and the underworld. It was amazing that God and the devil were both willing to take my calls.
I looked at the rotary phones. They were sinister. Man wasn’t meant to talk to anybody but himself.
“Why do you keep talking to Satan?” I asked.
“I figure, now that the bill is coming due, I might as well max-out my credit.”
“But can’t you ask God for forgiveness?”
“He won’t talk to me.”
“Maybe, I could put-in a good word for you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll ask Him to clear your credit with Satan.”
“You would do that?”
“Of course.”
“You are a good friend.”
The next day was Sunny. I walked to Dar’s house on foot. I didn’t believe in cars, or taking the bus. Consequently, my feet were always dirty.
Dar had some bookcases he wanted me to hang, and a kitchen table to be refinished.
While I was working away, I noticed the Ferrari in his driveway. It was big and red and three blonde prostitutes got out. I didn’t know that Ferrari had made a four-seater.
“My—that table is coming along just fine,” Dar said.
“I’m a master carpenter. I have the license to prove it.”
“Have you given God a call for me yet?”
“Oh—not yet, but that’s the next item on my to-do list.”
Dar began to fraternize with the women. His heart was as black as the lungs of a chronic smoker.
“Hello, God? Are you there?”
“Yes, my son?”
“This is Jesus. I need you to intervene on Dar’s behalf.”
“Will he stop talking to Satan?”
“Let me check. Dar, are you willing to severe your connection with Satan?”
He looked at the blond prostitutes and the Ferrari in his driveway. “I guess not.”
“Okay, God. You will send the judgement in due course?”
“Of course.”
“What if he changes his mind?”
“There isn’t time for that.”
“I got to go.”
“Yes, my son.”
Dar was about to violate the rules of evolution. He put his thing where it didn’t belong.
“Your table is sanded, and your bookshelves are fixed,” I said.
“I’ll pay you tomorrow. Lock the door on your way out.”
I left. He would have to pay the devil in hell.
To Hell
The Answer
My parents don’t have the answer
and my job doesn’t have the answer
and the half-dozen souls I talk to each day, don’t have the answer
and when I find the answer, unexpectedly
after complaining to my parents or moaning about the job while staring at their blank faces
I worship the truth, and wonder
if this makes sense to me, and nothing else does, it must have some value
Why can’t I get that, everywhere else I go?
Women don’t have the answer—though, their youth and beauty should have it
but it’s rare for her to recognize you, like she belongs to you, because she is a part of you
she is not Eve, pulled out of Adam
but a stranger, admiring her profile, in the unrippling reflection of her cell phone, where her pictures are trapped, and her friends can’t escape
and she wonders why, she doesn’t feel loved.
the answer can’t be found in church
nor is it found in nature
it can’t be given, or maintained
it is as ethereal as air
filling your lungs with fullness
in an empty world
the answer is waiting
when you walk into parties, and watch people drugging
they can’t find it
and they brag that they have it
the answer is all you need
among questions that don’t make sense
Why, did my best friend die?
How, do I create my life out of nothing?
If the advertised answers are false
and the prescribed ones
poison the soul
how do we know when we find it, if nobody else will recognize it?
Faith, my friend
can’t be explained, spoken, or heard
because
it’s a silent language.
This Monkey Mind is All I’ve Got
If I saw monkeys answering phones and sending emails
in the zoo
I would get PTSD. The monkey manager wears a suit
and subordinates follow after him or her
cowering
in submissive, semi-straight lines.
The lead monkey has something to say…
“This will be my legacy. Advocating for Families.”
The lesser monkeys listen
It falls flat
Then they go back to scratching their butts.
This monkey mind is all I’ve got. It wants to hump, continuously.
It wasn’t designed to build rockets.
Unfortunately, I’m stuck in the zoo
because I’m a monkey—I don’t have any special talents or survival skills.
I listen to Bach, to improve my mood—those transcendent melodies
lift me off my feces—and I don’t want to throw them
at beautiful people
anymore.
Maybe, all a monkey can do
is be cute
or be angry.
When we retire
they release us
into the wild
and we see the dark jungle, as if
for the first time.
We get scared.
It was always there
but we pretended to be
Kings of the Zoo, rather than accepting our Fear.
I take-off my monkey suit, and hang-it
in the closet, like dead skin.
Maybe, I’m a Monkey
born in the zoo
but I’m going into the jungle
to be a King.
I shall never return.
A Principal Who Died
She was bald
her hair radiated away,
She wore a wig.
She always wanted curly hair—
the cancer gave that to her.
She had a beer belly
that would sag,
while she spoke in front of a large audience in a booming voice—
then she took questions. I asked her one, once
and she shouted me down
because she didn’t know the answer.
There was no husband
no family
only her job
as she became
more sickly
more skinny
She dropped 12 dress sizes, even though, she never wore a dress
Her pant-suits drooped.
I met her in the hallway
and she recognized my face
We’ve never talked
“I’m going to die,” she said.
“Me too.”
“No, I’m going to die at the end of the month.”
“Why are you here then?” I asked.
“Because they need me here.”
“I understand.”
Then, she walked away.
My Close Friend, Death
there isn’t enough time
and as twilight turns into night
I don’t want to sleep
I stare at the stars, and feel
the whispering breeze
moving across the lake
the lights
in the distance, tell me
I’m not alone
but it feels that way
and it’s peaceful.
If you’re going to try,
don’t do it half-way.
Don’t care what people say
their advice won’t take you where you want to go—
You will be alone
Why would you choose this way, when friends feel good
when acceptance, makes you feel understood
where resistance
and suffering
meet you, like a close friend?
because…
your life should be an expression of who you are
and not a cheap watered-down drink at the bar
not dogs at cards
but a personal philosophy
that takes you
far
into the forbidden night
where we all have to go
and
few of us
embrace
like a close friend.
Charles, the King of Screams
He wore gold rings.
His father told him that only perverts and pimps
enjoyed bling.
He adjusted his ruby,
as if,
he was King.
There were people
at work
who wanted to kiss it,
but they weren’t worthy.
They could kiss
his ass, instead.
Charles
locked himself in his office
and drank coffee.
Occasionally, one of his coworkers knocked on his door…
“Yeah,” Charles said, in his most monotone voice.
“I need you to sign.”
“Okay,” and he did.
Then, he went back to thinking…
in his 300-dollar suit.
How could he rise above his circumstances without working?
He wasn’t opposed to work, but he saw what it did to his father.
The old man was a nervous wreck, worried about all the airplanes he had built
that might fall out of the sky.
Charles didn’t care what happened to him, or to anyone.
He prayed for nuclear war.
Lately, he tapped into some hidden power.
He felt it coming from the radio, on the classical music station.
He felt it in his blood, when he drank wine.
There was electricity in his footsteps, when he spoke in front of an audience.
He had authority
over people and animals.
Yesterday, a squirrel tried to steal his sandwich, but he snapped his fingers, and it passed-out.
A parent yelled at him on the phone, but he told her, “Everything is going to be fine,” and she believed him.
Nobody could understand him, but he understood everybody.
Soon, he was the master of the universe–
all-knowing, his power growing.
It was the best feeling, to wake up
in the morning
as Charles—
even the traffic obeyed his screams.
He was the King.
Rejection is Required
Rejection is required
for any man
to fully accept himself,
and not just one rejection
but thousands, until
only his opinion matters
like a paper boat
riding the mountains of the deep
with no fear.
Any accepted words, in a sea of disappointments
gets smiled at
with the strongest smile
ever grinned.
It has endured
through failure.
A man can’t be a man
until he knows that he is strong enough
at his weakest moment.
It’s the man who fought in World War II
and came back
without a high school education
married a woman
or she married him
not because of his possessions
but for the toughness he possessed
like Beef Jerky.
We listen to ourselves
long enough
to find ourselves,
even when the wind blows us farther out to sea
and the land vanishes, like a lost hope
like, our sense of safety.
What will we put our security in?
A ship in a bottle—isn’t a ship at all
A ship accepts the storm
and rides
what it can’t control
what it knows, might very well swallow it whole.
Rejection
is about your willingness
to overcome impossible odds
it’s the explorer
the fighter
the man,
undefeated
even in defeat.
One Step Closer to Cool
For years now, I have admired Cool
Cool, is an attitude
It’s a cigarette in the mouth (good branding, by the way)
because cool can’t be defined without it.
It’s nonchalance, in the face of death
It’s shaking hands with the grim reaper, and crushing it
It’s Cool Hand Luke
It’s boyish blue eyes, that seem innocent, but they cut right through steel, when they want to
Cool, is a kind of sunglasses
Worn, on a hot summer day
Cool, is how a man walks
how a man talks
Cool, is being threatened by somebody, hot under the collar
and not showing fear
Cool, is a style, that fashion designers copy
and most men can’t wear
It’s James Bond, letting go of control
and being in total control
It’s John Wayne
under fire
while shell-shocked marines lose their shit
and get hit
The Duke
smokes a cigarette
and says,
“This is a good place.”
Cool, is a code of silence
when the police want you to talk
Cool, sends chills down the spines of the spineless
(Now, does that make sense?)
“What’s the matter with this guy? Don’t you know you can make a deal?”
Cool, is an attitude most people are unwilling to pay for
Cool, at all costs—
the Iceman claims his peak of destiny
by living in the moment.
Cool, takes their breath away
and gives you
the breath of life.
I get dealt a shitty hand and play a royal flush.
My apartment gets cleaned
My clothes get washed
My missing library books get found
and the odd satisfying feeling
of bringing my life into order
is achieved.
But much is gained from disorder…
I live in chaos, constantly on the go
because I have a demanding job.
I eat in my truck
on the way to meetings.
I listen to Mahler (the outsider)
composing glorious sound.
My mind is a combination of 1000 philosophies,
like 1000 slivers in my brain.
At work, the special education teacher walks into my office
“I’m angry with you,” she says.
“Oh?” I ask, innocently.
“Yes—you want to be the one who makes the decisions. You never used to do that.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
She continues… “the other teachers don’t like you very much.”
I laugh. “That’s an understatement,” I said.
“Yes—and I heard about your little mix-up when scheduling that meeting last week.”
“Well, I’m not perfect, but I fixed my mistake.”
She smirked, and tossed her hair back. “You’re an okay psychologist,” she said. “I’ve worked with many in my career, and you’re just okay. The other teachers report you to administration when you make mistakes, but I tell them that you have a hard job.”
My suspicions were confirmed. Whenever I failed to dot an i or cross a t, the administrator heard about it.
He had a pained expression on his face when I walked past him in the hallway. It looked like he was trying to pass gas, but couldn’t, and he never told me about it. It was silent and violent.
Occasionally, he would sit down and talk to me—kind of like a father-son moment.
“Are you sure you still want to be working here?” He asked me.
It was a plea, for his own sanity.
He hated to listen to their complaining.
“Well… actually, I’ve decided to move on.”
The look of relief on his face was that of a man who had swallowed Beano.
“I’m going to Arizona,” he said. “What are you doing over the break?”
“I’m coming in to work.”
“Don’t you want to get away from this place?”
“I like it here.”
He looked at me,
like the job had finally destroyed my mind.
I can’t wait to write about those teachers in my upcoming novel about
women, surviving special education, and what really goes on in a public school.
Those teachers are worth more laughs, than a stand-up comedian making off-color jokes.
I’m happy with the hand fate has dealt me. It’s full of shitty cards,
and I always find a way to play a royal flush.
Why do they try to strangle your soul?
I take my soul out of my pocket
and prod it
from time to time.
It gasps
and
I know it’s still alive.
Then
I throw it through a plate glass window
and listen to it scream.
It’s a loyal frog who loves me
I heat it up slowly
in its own bubble bath.
It looks like an ugly angry child
with all of its scars,
but it belongs to me.
What does it profit a man to gain the whole world
but lose his soul?
Many have recommended that I get rid of my soul,
but I laugh at them, and pull it out of my pocket and catch it—it’s worth more to me than the whole world.
The soulless will always give the same advice—”get rid of it—it’s like an appendix—you won’t even miss it,”
but they’re wrong.
The soul must be nurtured and abused to grow strong.
Your soul needs to hear music
played from its own heart strings.
The fake world
full of plate glass windows
hates
a soul
as strong as a golf ball, struck
by a bad golfer
on a city golf course.
I have broken more windows
than a burglar (by accident, of course)
An old man walked out to me on hole number 13, holding my golf ball
“Is this yours?” He asked me.
Several lies entered my mind (that’s a side-effect of being a fiction writer, but I told the truth because of my religious upbringing)
“Yes.”
“You need some lessons. Your ball almost ended my life.”
“How old are you?” I asked him.
“I’ve slept longer than you’ve lived.”
Then he walked home to go sleep some more, I guess.
In prison, they put a man in a box
In the world, they put a man in prison
those invisible bars are real
You can feel them when you are afraid, secure, and know you are doing the right thing.
I wonder what it feels like to escape from prison. It must feel like a resurrection,
like you are born again.
The following things take on a new meaning when you steal your freedom:
Making love to a woman
Eating a hamburger
Driving down the road without a license
And I must say…
Breaking the rules is more fun than breaking plate glass windows with golf balls.
You can really appreciate life, when they try to take it from you.
Then, the police are chasing your Shelby GT500
and they just called in a chopper,
and you hit the go-baby-go.
It’s not your body that they want
It’s your soul
They want to put it in a glass jar without any holes
They’ll piss on it to preserve it
Why should we talk about the soul?
People don’t know that they lost it
They’re not even looking for it
And the soulless who know
are the most dangerous
they’ll try to squash it
they’ll put it in a strangle hold
they’ll say it’s for your own good
or for the good of others
they’ll say the soul is dangerous
because it tells the truth too much.
Going Home in Style
I suspect, that after my adventures are done
and my ambition is satisfied,
and my desire for things beyond myself
is complete
I will always be trying to get home.
The river snakes through the canyon
where the sun rises between the clouds
and blinks through the trees,
like some mysterious green giant
with magic in its yellow eyes
and leaves in its autumn hair.
I buried my memories there
like treasure, near the roots
of that big brute,
and one day,
I will dig them up again.
I am a child, forced to live in this big body
forced into work
forced to wage war
forced,
until I become an old man.
There are some adults
who want to remain adults
because they enjoy the power of professional life
but I prefer the magic
at the tail ends—
like a tadpole or a butterfly
the sunrise
with its golden promise
and the sunset—full of fire,
as it fades into darkness.
It’s true—we might die before then
and in the midst of chaos
in the uncertainty of defeat
in the possibility of cowardice
we live on.
How we live
is more important than death.
The enemy will see you
and not want to kill you
because of the style
you possess.
Style—is more than something we put on
it’s a way of doing and being done.
Still—if I die,
I want to die well-dressed.
I want to die with my smile on
I want to die commanding troops in battle
not because I was forced
but because
it’s my destiny
and my grave
above ground
will be a testament
to those who wish to live.
“Don’t play in the fire, son.”
I was in fifth grade
playing in the fire
with a stick
I had whittled
down to the bone.
It was ivory white, except for where the fire had blackened it
and
the sparks were flying into the sky.
“Knock it off!” My dad yelled at me,
and I stopped for a bit, but then I
started up again,
knowing full well,
I was wrong,
and then an ember
the size of a marble
landed on my sister
and burned her right through her shirt
and without even thinking, I picked it up
and placed it back into the fire.
My sister screamed,
“I’m burning! I’m burning!”
“What did you do?” My dad shouted at me.
“Wait, dad, it’s okay,” my sister said. “He picked that burning coal off of me with his bare hands.”
My dad smiled at me.
“Don’t play in the fire, son—okay?”
“Okay, dad.”
I’m looking at my finger now
while typing this poem
and the scar
is still there.
Pissing in the Carpool (and not telling anybody)
The special education teacher insisted that I misunderstood her.
“I love my job. I love my life,” she told me, not very convincingly.
She believed I was writing about her.
Well—
now I am.
I didn’t tell her that I have a blog—she found it through the gossip grapevine—it’s her new religion.
She follows it on Sundays,
and on every other day of the week.
Maybe, the blessing of writing, is being able to say something, without a woman talking back.
“You’re a mean man,” she told me, and
she doesn’t know that her words mean so much to me (I’m not being sarcastic.)
For a man who listens to lies and bullshit and people who believe it—a woman who speaks her mind, occasionally, brings a smile to my face—and it’s a real smile and not the fake one I wear like a cheap suit.
I don’t consider myself to be fake—I just mirror other people (for survival), and maybe, that doesn’t make me better, but if I start to get real, my tranquil life—my tranquilized life—becomes painful,
and I have grown accustomed to comfort.
Pain finds me though, like a best friend.
Eventually, I can’t take the act anymore, and my friends connect the dots for me.
“A+B=misery. Don’t you see?”
They encourage me in my quest for immortality, as I search for the holy grail of wisdom, knowing full-well that I will die, but my words will live on forever—not that I can appreciate them when I’m dead, but that they might give encouragement to a miserable wretch like me who finds them, under authors with the last name of J, in some broken-down dusty library with books that go unread with new computers in continuous use by strange men wearing baseball caps and sunglasses. They lost interest in women years ago… Now, they search for the psychedelic experience, found at the click of a button, as they tumble down the rabbit hole of technology.
Who am I?
A prophet in his hometown.
I speak to those who need encouragement—although, much of what I say sounds like hate and far worse—bile, but
I only talk about what’s inside the human body—What else is there? Can we see without looking through our own awareness?
Writers don’t have a chance. This blog will die. Women will rejoice and continue their knitting in the streets, enraptured with their TV shows and schedules and to-do lists. At 30, get married. At 40, get a colonoscopy—that’s where someone sticks a camera up your butt (I was referring to marriage.)
“Off with his head!”
Well… enough said. Let’s get into my story.
Preliminary Philosophy: People are decent to me, but decent people drive me crazy.
Indecent exposure is something to watch. I saw the homeless doing that in Portland.
We all have a fundamental belief about who we are—and then, we have a fundamental belief about who we would like to be.
Happiness is being one person.
I am a desperate man with impossible dreams, and the only way to exist is to write them down and let my imagination bridge the gaps in my soul.
I had to carpool with my co-workers, and like a 5-year-old, I could not resist pissing in the pool.
Conversations from the Back Seat:
“I had a principal who wrote me a letter of recommendation,” she said. “It was a classroom observation, and nothing more. I could never get hired with that letter. Later, he shot his whole family and burned his house down.”
“Were there signs?” The assistant superintendent asked.
“Yeah. He had a comb-over, and he was a white male.”
“Oh—that explains it.”
I was listening to a biography about the cook who killed himself, while my colleagues discussed leagues, divisions, and pacs.
What was most interesting about his story was that he gave up heroin because he wanted to do something with his life.
Hemingway used alcohol. It slowly ate away his brains, until it didn’t work for him anymore—then, he used a shotgun—that worked.
If you watch 152 games a year, you are an American. When not doing mundane tasks, you need baseball— if you wait long enough, something interesting does happen, like a bomb in a stadium.
When we got to the conference, I felt like I was going to throw-up.
My brains were eaten away by conversations, and sucked through a Starbucks straw, like a strawberry refresher.
The next day, I felt even worse. I had to listen to lawyers making jokes.
During the intermission, my co-workers tested my competence as a man.
“Do you cook?” They asked me.
“Oh-yes,” I said.
“What do you cook?”
“Steak, potatoes, eggs, bachelor food—I make a lot of salads.”
“Anything complicated?”
“Not really.”
“Oh—you’re basic.”
There were many people I knew at the conference, but I did my best to avoid them.
Sarte was right, when he said, “Hell is other people.”
I read Bukowski in the bathroom. Listening to bodily functions was better than listening to them.
On our drive home, the conversation turned to the white male again.
“During your time as a female principal did you have to overcome much oppression?”
“A little,” the assistant superintendent said. “Women have always done everything without credit.”
We were almost home. I couldn’t wait to be alone.
When I got to my apartment, I slept for 12 hours.
72 will cure anything—including flood, famine, and the nuclear bomb.
Women want a reaction, and if you don’t give her the bomb, she’ll call you “boring”,
but I don’t complain.
Peace can only be appreciated when there is no peace.
My Game
I like to listen to video game music
from my childhood.
It does something peaceful to my mind.
It reminds me
that nothing in adult life matters.
It’s a pleasant reminder
that life is a game.
I play golf
one shot at a time.
I worship the peace between shots—the silence between notes
it’s music to my mind.
the mountain inside of you
When your name is mistreated
without reverence or respect
like sensitive flesh, raked across corals
and at best—ignored
relish, the silence
like an ocean without waves
where all sea creatures are thinking of you
their gossip, is like the ocean inside of a shell
they wrap you in seaweed
and unwrap you.
Heaven doesn’t exalt itself—
it just is
and earth doesn’t change
People come and go like the seasons, like their opinions
and you are always walking back to yourself—always finding someone new
and when they try to follow you, your footsteps vanish
and they are lost forever.
They may say, “You’re not a leader!”
but they chase after you
Their competitive words betray their shaky ground—all they know is to contend,
but you have mastered the art of non-contention
Your power, is in you—not in someone else.
You laugh when they try to take from you
You laugh when they try to give to you
You don’t exalt yourself—there is no need
Your mountain stands alone
beautiful
without asking
for applause.
The Superintendent Smokes a Cigar in His Office
The superintendent’s secretary kept coming in at the most inopportune times.
Once, while he was finishing a game of online poker
where he stole the rent money
from three college kids
who thought they could outsmart wisdom.
“Do you want me to run the I90-F?” Karen asked.
“I don’t give an F… I mean, I don’t care, Karen.”
“He has more important things on his mind,” Karen said under her breath.
She had three children at home.
“It can’t be easy, with his recent divorce. What a whore. She slept with half the town, but no matter—the superintendent is a good man.”
Dr. Johannson lounged in his rocking chair. He was nearing the point of no return. He stared at his shotgun on the wall and thought of making modern art. He would need some butcher paper from the teacher’s lounge. He would sign it, swallow the steel, and pull the trigger. The only bummer was, he wouldn’t get to see how it turned out, and that disappointed him.
“Life, is one big disappointment,” he sighed.
Dr. Johannson looked out the window. The wind was whispering to him. Squirrels were collecting nuts. They weren’t humping.
“That’s right–that happens in the Springtime.”
There was a knock at his door.
“Come in?”
It was his Assistant.
“Dr. Johannson, we have three lawsuits pending review.”
Dr. Johannson adjusted his suit. It was uncomfortable. His tie felt like it was choking him. He wanted to breathe.
“Tell those parents that we’ll give them whatever they want.”
“But one of them is demanding a house with a therapeutic swimming pool.”
“How did they rationalize that?”
“It’s for her boy who no longer wants to live with her.”
“Approved.”
Her jaw dropped.
“Now, I don’t want to hear about it. I have more pressing matters on my mind.”
“If you say so, Dr. Johannson.”
“I do.”
OSPI caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. He was reading the letter. In less than 24 hours it would be headline news.
It was time to get busy living or get busy dying. Dr. Johannson took the shotgun off the wall.
“I wonder if you can hunt quail in Mexico?”
Epilogue
The border guard looked at Dr. Johannson suspiciously. He looked like a teacher, but he was dressed like a drug dealer, and that Ferrari—it was new.
Dr. Johannson gave the guard an evil grin and his eyes lit-up like a tiger. “Hola, amigo.”
“Hola.”
And the guard waved him on in.
The End
On Making Mistakes
If you’re like me, you get tired of getting it right
all of the time,
and
getting it wrong,
proves that you are doing something different.
When we get things wrong,
this is usually due to negligence, boredom, and a subconscious desire for change.
You see,
making mistakes is the surest sign that you are free.
If you can’t make mistakes, you can’t step outside of the box.
In fact, making mistakes
is the only way to learn.
If you aren’t making mistakes, creativity can’t occur.
What does it say about society, that we are intolerant of people’s mistakes?
It’s like we expect people to be perfect
even though, we know people aren’t perfect.
It’s like we want to kill creativity
It’s like we don’t want to take chances
We are too afraid of risk
too afraid of stepping outside of the mold
too afraid of getting it wrong
too afraid of what people might think
I think,
we should make mistakes (I know it’s not popular to say this, but I believe it’s true).
We live in a society that can’t stop talking about empathy, but we are the most intolerant of people’s mistakes.
We prop-up tolerance as our primary virtue, but we don’t practice it.
This is one of the reasons why I don’t like society.
I prefer my own company, because
I give grace to myself, but I should also learn to give grace to others,
because I make mistakes.
Dr. Strawberry and His Liquid Luck
The students and faculty at Woodburn High School could not stop talking about Dr. Strawberry. Prior to my senior year, nobody talked about him. He owned a couple of cats, loved playing with chemicals, and enjoyed making statements that he thought were profound.
“Let’s shed some light on the subject,” he said. Then he turned on the classroom lights.
About the only exciting thing he ever did was to ignite a bottle filled with methane gas. The explosion blew-out the ceiling tiles.
Apart from that, nobody liked him, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He loved his subject more than people, and didn’t worry about the car he drove or the clothes he wore. He dressed in a cardigan and green cords every day. His leather shoes were at least five years old. The best way to describe him was absent minded and sleepy. He was approximately 45 years, unmarried, and balding, leaving a white shiny spot where his hair used to be. Maybe the chemicals disagreed with him. There was a hint of pipe tobacco that lingered wherever he went and the smell of alcohol on his breath.
I was interested in chemistry, but didn’t think I had the aptitude. I wasn’t the only one; the entire class failed the semester exam, so I was glad I had signed on to be his TA and not his student. It also gave me the chance to study Dr. Strawberry while I cleaned his test tubes and watched the students having headaches.
“It’s a physics problem,” Dr. Strawberry said. “How can you discover the mass of the object to determine how far it will roll?” The students wrote their hieroglyphics, and Dr. Strawberry paced his classroom saying the same thing over and over. “Wrong…wrong…wrong…wrong.” It would’ve broken my spirit, but his students were overachievers, mostly Asian, with the occasional White kid who wanted to be a dentist.
When they left, I spent the last period of the day doing homework.
“Drew, you really need to clean the test tubes more carefully. If the chemicals mix, anything might happen,” Dr. Strawberry said.
“Yes sir.”
I don’t know why, but I liked him. Maybe I felt sorry for him, but he was too strange to pity. He was like an alien, without a home planet.
I was the first to notice the changes.
“Here, grade these,” he said.
“But I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Use the master key. I’ve got an important experiment I’m working on, and I need my evenings free.”
“Oh, for what?” I asked. “Do you have a date?”
“I probably shouldn’t say, but seeing as you’re my TA, I guess I could let you in; you must promise not to tell anyone.”
“I promise,” I said. He excitedly handed me a book. It was in a different language.
“Latin,” Dr. Strawberry said. “I picked it up when I was in Rome last summer. Found it in the back of a bookshop. I’ve been teaching myself to read Latin and this one concerns the subject of Alchemy.”
“Isn’t that the discipline of turning worthless metals into gold?” I asked.
“You know something.” He said this like he was surprised. “I may have found a way to turn mercury into gold, but it’s proving devilishly tricky, and I might’ve poisoned myself last night.”
“Well, be careful,” I said. “You don’t want to become mad as a hatter.”
Dr. Strawberry stopped and stared at me. “You’re smarter than you look.”
I took it as a complement. We went into the back room. Dr. Strawberry kept the mercury in what looked like an enormous thermometer. It was a giant beaker resting over a Bunsen burner.
“I haven’t been able to get the titration just right, but when I do, liquid gold should pour out of the other end. We can shape it into whatever we like and sell it to those places that buy back gold. This is pure gold, which means it should fetch the highest price. It hasn’t been diluted by governments; sometimes they mix a gold bar with ten percent nickel.”
“What are you going to do with your money?” I asked.
“Maybe I’ll buy the presidency,” Dr. Strawberry laughed.
Theoretically, it was possible. It was a limitless supply of precious metal in the hands of a man eccentric enough to believe he could win. Occasionally, the world is ruled by these types, and the outcome is always outrageous.
“Scientists have figured-out how to turn gold into mercury, but that’s kinda like blowing something up. Anyone can be a loser, but it takes a winner to put something back together.” Dr. Strawberry said this while checking a couple math problems in his lab book—it might as well have been in Greek.
Soon, the mercury was boiling and Dr. Strawberry handed me a gas mask. The mercury went through some green liquid and then into some blue liquid, and then it turned silver, melting into some purple liquid, and then excreted gold like a goose laying a golden egg. The mold looked like a pencil, a gold pencil.
“This should give Ticonderoga a run for their money,” Dr. Strawberry laughed.
The crazy SOB had done it.
“So, what are you really going to do with your money?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve always wanted a Porsche 911, but wealth is only the first step,” Dr. Strawberry said.
“Really? What else is there?” I asked.
“You can help me Monday after school. Until then, it must be a surprise,” Dr. Strawberry laughed. How could the students and staff not find him interesting? And then I started to realize what Dr. Strawberry had done. His boring demeanor and dry sense of humor were an act. Most people want to be liked, but Dr. Strawberry existed beyond the constraints of approval.
On Monday, he pulled up to Woodburn in a Porsche, but not just any Porsche; It was a 911 Carrera GT, priced at over 500,000 dollars. Dr. Strawberry entered the building with black shades and a white lab coat.
“Did you see what Kevin drove to work?” An English teacher asked. She had blonde hair and always wore red lipstick. She reminded me of a canary trapped in a cage. She was married and desperately wanted to escape.
I could hardly focus because I couldn’t wait to get to the end of the day so I could spend time with Dr. Strawberry. In English class, Mrs. Harrington entered and talked to Mrs. Swanson. I heard Dr. Strawberry’s name mentioned several times in whispers.
In Chemistry, he was more excited than yesterday.
“Boys and girls, if you don’t mind, I’d like to turn-on the football game. It’s Seattle versus the New England Patriots.”
“We didn’t know you watched sports, Dr. Strawberry?”
“Oh, well in this case, it’s more of an experiment than a love of pig skin,” Dr. Strawberry said.
His students rolled their eyes. As class progressed, he kept glancing at the screen.
“There’s not much to watch,” the aspiring dental student said. “New England wins this game out right.”
“My money is on Seattle,” Dr. Strawberry said with confidence.
“Your money? How much did you bet?”
“100,000 dollars; I would’ve bet more, but it was all I had in the bank.”
“The jaws of his students dropped. Now everyone was watching the game, while Dr. Strawberry lectured with his monotone. He was speaking to the chalkboard, like it might whisper back, and he didn’t want to miss anything.
“Seattle just scored a touchdown!” One of the Asian students said.
“Intercepted! They just scored again!”
“It’ll be Seattle in the over,” Dr. Strawberry said like he was god offering a perfect prophesy. And that’s what happened. All of his students left the class and the only thing on their minds was to tell as many people as possible. If there is an alchemy for envy, Dr. Strawberry discovered it. He won over a million dollars on that game, and the chatter of teachers could’ve killed, “Why does he still work here? He thinks he’s better than us.”
It was the last period, and I finally had the chance to talk to him. “How did you do it?” I asked.
“Liquid luck!” Dr. Strawberry said. It’s the next recipe. You’re taking your SATs soon, perhaps you’d like some?”
“Sure, I would!” I said.
“Well, too bad. SATs are about merit and academic achievement. There should be rules for when a person uses liquid luck.”
He was a turd, I thought, but I put that behind me because my curiosity wanted to know more. “How does one create luck?”
“What many don’t realize is that philosophy and chemistry are intertwined. The Arabs were star gazers and invented the science of chemistry. Perhaps you’ve heard the expression ‘wish upon a star’? Well, based on this recipe, that’s exactly what you do.”
“Sounds more like magic than math,” I said.
“Precisely!” Dr. Strawberry shouted. If you get the ingredients right and you say the right words, the universe responds. It’s kinda like the big bang, when the universe was spoken into existence. ‘Let there be light.'”
“Well, what are the right words and the right chemicals?” I asked.
“That depends… What do you want to get lucky with?”
“Women,” I said.
“Oh, for sure; just any woman?”
“She needs to be hot.”
“Okay, I think we can do that.” Dr. Strawberry turned up the heat on his Bunsen burner, and the purple liquid turned bright red. He pulled some white feathers and chocolate out of his pockets and added the ingredients. The elixir secreted into a coffee cup, while Dr. Strawberry said some words; I couldn’t understand them because they were in Latin.
“Now drink it,” Dr. Strawberry said.
“You didn’t use the same beaker for mixing the mercury, did you?” I asked.
“Oh, yes; but you cleaned them.”
I was afraid I would go insane, but I really wanted to be lucky, even if it made me crazy, so, I drank the liquid luck.
The next day, the hot girls were attracted to me like a magnet; they just wouldn’t leave me alone, and I soon realized the benefits of being ignored. Perhaps, Dr. Strawberry was on to something. He had better things to do than be bombarded by hungry girls. It left me feeling like a piece of meat. On Tuesday, I couldn’t wait to talk to Dr. Strawberry. By this time, the faculty found out that he had placed a bet and won over a million dollars. They were trying to figure-out how to fire him. Gambling was against school policy, but he had done it off campus. However, he had been watching the football game during school hours which was a strike against him.
“Can you believe this?” Dr. Strawberry said. “I’ve been summoned to an administrative hearing; it’s a disciplinary tribunal to determine if I can keep my job.”
“Well, you don’t need a job,” I said.
“I’ve never needed one, but it gives me something to do.”
“What else is in your book?” I asked.
“Things I shouldn’t read,” Dr. Strawberry said. “Especially, in light of the current circumstances.”
“Such as…?”
“Well, the next chapter considers curses. When the black magicians were being burned at the stake, they had to enact revenge. There are three to choose from: Boils, Diarrhea, or untimely Death. It’s just too much power. I can’t play god; it’s too much responsibility; that’s why I didn’t get married.”
“They’re going to fire you; don’t you want some insurance? What about Boils?”
“What about them?”
“Most adolescents get acne; I don’t see the big deal.”
“Okay, I guess you’re right,” Dr. Strawberry said. “But first we need to make the curse, and it can be tricky and very disgusting.”
“How’s that?”
“I need you to find the kid in school with the worst pimples and swab it.” He held up a Q-tip. The next day, I waited for Ethan in the boy’s restroom. He was popping his zits on the mirror like infectious missiles. The yellow puss and white cores looked like a Jackson Pollock painting, some sick rendition of modern art. When he was gone, I swabbed the mirror.
In Chemistry class, one of the students spoke up. “Dr. Strawberry, we’ll put in a good word for you. We heard about the hearing, and we’re sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Dr. Strawberry said with good cheer. I’m sure the outcome will be favorable.”
I went to get a snack before the last period and when I returned, I heard laughing.
“Are you okay?” I asked Dr. Strawberry.
“I’m fine.”
“Let me guess… laughing gas?”
“No; it’s a sitcom. Laughter is more valuable than luck or gold, and anybody can do it!”
“What about the hearing?”
“It’s this evening. Did you get the swab swabbed?”
“Here it is.” I gave him the puss-covered Q-tip.”
“Excellent! Now let’s put that to good use.” He mixed it with the green liquid and it immediately turned brown. It passed through some tubes and ran-out into a cookie sheet. “Brownies!” Dr. Strawberry said. “Now we just pop it into the oven for 20 minutes and wha-lah!”
Dr. Strawberry knew what he was doing. Disciplinary tribunals loved brownies or anything with sugar in it. I made a mental note never to sneak donuts from the teacher’s lounge again.
That evening, I accompanied Dr. Strawberry to the Central Office to testify of his impeccable character and hidden genius. The council was made-up of neurotic obese women between the ages of 50 and 60. They all looked like toads waiting to swallow a particularly juicy fly. Their three chins and toad-like mouths were hungry for revenge. Besides, they thought themselves the queens of education, which meant that anyone who beat the system, needed to be buried under the system.
“Dr. Strawberry, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“Only that I brought these brownies for you to enjoy.” He revealed the cookie trays filled with brownies. “Would you like some?”
“Pass the trays around,” the heaviest woman said. “It will not get you into our good graces though!”
“Of course not…of course not,” Dr. Strawberry said.
“To the issue of gambling; it’s strictly against school policy,” the superintendent said through brownie covered lips.
“May I call my expert witness?” Dr. Strawberry asked.
“Go ahead and call him,” the board said in unison.
I took the stand. “I was an underachiever, until Dr. Strawberry took me under his wing. He showed me the value of chemistry, and I plan on making it a life-long ambition.”
“Do you now?” They asked.
“Yes; you must let this brilliant man keep his position! Otherwise, young minds will suffer in the Humanities.”
“I majored in the Humanities, young man!”
“And look where it got you!” Playing to their vanity was my strategy, even if I injected sarcasm.
Their smiles showed their toady teeth. “Young man, we will give you a pass because you are young. Dr. Strawberry on the other hand must face the consequences. You are terminated at the end of the quarter. That gives you 90 days.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t go well,” I told Dr. Strawberry afterward.
“Nonsense dear boy! Each one of them should have acne vulgaris by the end of the week, untreatable by a dermatologist; I alone have the cure! They call that leverage!”
The End
The Insane Man Laughs Out Loud
If you threaten someone, it means you’re scared.
People smile, because
half-of-the-time they’re scared.
The great apes bare their teeth at strangers, but when they realize it’s a relative
they smile.
The wolf does not threaten its prey—it prefers to be non-threatening.
What evolutionary advantage is there in a sense of humor?
Well… humor promotes safety. If we tell a joke, and everybody laughs
everyone can relax, but what if the joke isn’t funny? –
that’s really scary.
This is why I am so scared of people (I think) –their jokes aren’t funny.
Their jokes are too safe,
too censored
Everybody is too careful—they don’t want to offend,
for fear of their fellow human beings.
Now, that’s truthful—I am so scared of people because they are one of the most irrational creatures on the planet, and they are pretending to be rational.
Get a group of them together, and you can have a world war.
What’s worse, is that they will think they are doing the right thing, while screaming for your blood.
The best at hate, are those who preach against it, and those who talk constantly about empathy, have the least amount of it.
They are dangerous, and it’s very disturbing.
The other day, people were asking me why I was wearing a suit
and I gave different responses, all of which were true
“I want to feel the power,” I said.
“I didn’t do my laundry, and the suit was all I had to wear.”
“I just felt like wearing a suit.”
Like I said, all of these statements were true,
but if you do something out of the ordinary, people think you are trying to make a statement
or that you want attention.
I’m not offended by their ignorance—I’m terrified of it.
What can we do about a humorless society? Nobody feels safe, anymore. Their jokes just aren’t funny.
Their jokes are too careful
too censored
Nobody laughs, anymore
Nobody feels safe
Who will stop this war?
The insane man laughs out loud
when nobody else does.
Perhaps, he
will end the insanity.
Never Look Back!
to put somebody
or some job
in the past, like a memory, you forget
and never revisit
like a red convertible
with the top down, and no rearview mirror
like a land of salt, scorched with fire
and no desire
to look back
The feeling of freedom is palpable
with the wind in your face
and the road
that goes on forever
with the sunrise
to greet you
and the sunset
full of gold.
It takes courage to leave,
and once you pass stop lights and street signs
and get out of town
the world is full of possibilities.
Walking away
is not the same as quitting
because
quitters, can never leave
they sit down, and stay.
Quitting,
while you’re still ahead
is the best way,
to walk away,
and that
isn’t quitting.
When we let go of our past
we feel lighter than air
We can say “No!”
and
We can say “Yes!”
and not care.
The Cool-Eyed Gambler
the fat manager in the cheap suit
was sweating
even though, the air conditioning was on
“How much did you say he’s up to?”
“Five Million.”
“And he’s still playing?”
“Yeah. And doing quite well.”
“What is he—a gambling addict?”
“I don’t know. We’ve never seen him in here before.”
“Come on. A man doesn’t just become a high-roller overnight. What’s his game—black jack, roulette, poker?”
“All of the above.”
“Where did he get his money?”
“The mob.”
“How do you know?”
“A guy with an expensive smile was looking for him.”
“Gold teeth?”
“Yeah, and diamond studs.”
“Why isn’t he sweating? God, I’m sweating, and I’m not even gambling.”
the casino manager loosened his tie,
which gave the impression, that he was hanging himself
“If this casino goes under, the boss will have my scalp. What’s he doing? Counting cards?”
“He’s just getting lucky, sir.”
“Like hell he is. Nobody beats the house.”
“He’ll lose—the odds are against him.”
“Doesn’t he know that?”
“It looks like he doesn’t care.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He’s bagging-up his chips, sir.”
“Where’s he going?”
“Home.”
“Don’t let him leave. Offer him prostitutes…drugs…whatever we have.”
the kid radioed the bouncer
who blocked the way of the gambler
“Can I interest you in our VIP Experience, sir?”
“I’m leaving.”
“But I can help you get lucky in the next room.”
“I’m tired of betting on things that aren’t real.”
“What’s more real than money?”
“I’m going to bet on myself.”
and with that
the cool-eyed gambler
walked
out..
In real moments
you see who they are
worried
not enough
low self-esteem—
and then they put on their merciless mask
and smile.
It is so easy to become like that
there is no strength of philosophy there
just a beaten bull
without testicles.
My dream is to become something more
bloodied, from the wars
full of electric fire
that shocks people to death.
Falling Dreams
Great loves are the stuff of dreams
they change our minds like the seasons
yellow leaves, falling, from a blue sky
much is wrong about this life
So, we are living inside of dreams
Miracles
that never happen
Empty woods in winter
Fresh ideas
in spring
An endless summer,
where dreams bask in the warm wistful wind
until cold rains
and worries
win.
I prefer magic in the morning. It gives me warmth.
Quiet moments
in the morning
before the sun comes up
I don’t have much time.
I read, Death in the Afternoon.
Reading
is my dessert
before breakfast—
four eggs
sunny-side up—
I eat little suns, in front of white clouds, while I read.
I have the suns
inside of me now.
People begin their days with the news. They eat oatmeal.
It looks just as bad when it goes in
as when it comes out.
It’s tasteless, lifeless, and not healthy—
There will always be war, famine, stress, and madness.
I prefer magic in the morning. It gives me warmth.
A Green Poem
I say, we have a right
to our own
mind pollution.
Reading in bed
before I am fully awake,
is like a download of dignity
nobody can take,
like methane gas
like the depleting ozone in my skull,
things are getting hotter
I am entombed in my bed,
until I break out of the covers
like a zombie
on the way to the freeway.
I morph into different creatures
lanky, muscular
(depending on what I eat)
arms, legs
and fat
until my friend asks me
“Who are you?”
“I don’t know. I am in love with my own mystery.”
If you are reading a book,
and it takes an interesting twist
the pleasure is personal.
Waking up
with effortless love for what you do
is magic
in the springtime
rain
and dew
flooding my senses
like brown earth with watered green tips
I keep beautiful things secret, because they are valuable to me
take my money
take my time
but don’t take my poems
(I’m not even a writer)
I write
because it makes all of the wasted days,
recyclable.
The Ink Never Goes to Her Heart
The Mexican waiter takes my order, and I consider the Spanish I’ve neglected
but he’s confused. Perhaps, because he was sweeping the floors earlier
and he’s mixed-up his job with somebody else’s. The big waitress walks over
with hips the size of drumsticks and calls me “Amigo.”
I get my food, and realize
how few friends, I actually have.
Many busy people might say that I have an empty life
I spend most of my time thinking
about what I don’t want to do, who I don’t want to talk to.
Some, may consider me a coward
but if I take action
on their behalf
I am a fool.
Of course, there are different cultures
that don’t consider people like me
viable
because they have different values
that render my decisions (Definition of Decision: to cut-off all options in favor of one)
selfish,
but I don’t consider my opinion subjective
for one reason…
I can’t have it all.
There is no such thing as priorities. That renders the word meaningless
because it suggests that multiple choices can be Number 1.
There is only one priority
one mission
one best friend.
Understanding what we care about
and who we are about
is the only way to live with purpose.
So many people
are like the impulsive girl
with 20 tattoos
Each word and symbol
contradicts
the other.
This might seem to make a woman complex
but more often than not
she has a Complex.
She goes through life
making one impulsive decision
after another
based-on her feelings that change.
She is not complicated
but simple
All of her choices are superficial
like tattoos.
The ink
never goes to her heart
It only discolors her skin.
When the meaning
gets into your blood,
that’s when a person changes.
It can only happen
with an incision
a decision
a cut
into the heart of who you are
and you have to choose
what goes inside
or somebody else will.
They will harvest your organs
and leave you truly empty inside.
I won’t give my guts to anybody
I digest what matters to me
and the rest
belongs to somebody else.
The Faith of the Mountain
If you need people to believe in you,
forget about it.
Their lack of faith says more about who they are,
than you.
During your strongest days,
they will doubt you.
This is true for leaders, gods, athletes, and artists.
The crowd wants to believe, but they scream for a sign—
they are never satisfied with the status quo.
Each new miracle
will never be enough—
and when they are disappointed,
they will forget about you, and look for something else
to disappoint them.
Lost people, want to believe, but they are lost
because they don’t have any faith.
The worst is when artists doubt themselves,
athletes lose their confidence,
gods feel they have made a mistake with their own creation and wipe it out with fire and water,
and leaders wonder where they are going…
If you don’t believe in yourself, nobody else will.
It doesn’t matter how much you accomplish
In fact,
the better you do, the more people will doubt you,
and to be a good god or even an average artist
you can’t care.
Miracles never come from the crowd
they happen in quiet hours, when nobody is watching.
People join the crowd, because they have lost faith in themselves
it provides comfort, to know, they are all the same.
Eventually, the true individual transcends winning and losing
beauty and ugliness
and he learns to appreciate everything, without labels.
He doesn’t judge others
because
He doesn’t judge himself.
He looks at his work and calls it good
Winning and losing is an illusion
nobody stays on top forever
The mountain is not there to be conquered
it’s a mystery, waiting patiently
to be known.
the art, to making art
there is an art
to making art
but most people believe
if they only had the time
or a quiet space
the words would fall
into place.
there is an art
to dealing with people
let them fart, blow wind,
and express themselves.
Encourage them, in their imbecility
don’t challenge them
or question them
Allow them
to come to grips with their failure
on their own.
People need a war, but
I prefer the art of war
because it allows me to win without fighting,
so that I can make
my art.
the art, of making art
makes you a warrior
in a noisy world—
and your silence
is deafening.
The Leader, the Philosopher, and the Crowd
By its nature, the crowd is simple, and craves simplicity. It can only digest simple messages. The crowd relies on viral emotions to feed it. It does not think, because it is waiting to feel something that will cause it to act. In this way, the crowd needs a leader who can speak to it, emotionally. These emotional messages are vague, broad, all-encompassing; there must be no room for thought or nuance—otherwise, individuals will leave the crowd, or the leader will be replaced by someone who can speak to the crowd.
The crowd is always waiting, for someone to give it directions. It cannot direct itself, because it is unable to think for itself. There is no hive-mind, rather no-mind, and not in the Buddhist sense. The no-mind is a void, waiting to be filled by a leader. A potential, waiting to be exploited by someone who sees an opportunity.
A leader, understands the crowd, and knows how to speak to the crowd. He or She justifies their place by believing leaders are necessary. Often, this individual is impotent without the crowd and the crowd is impotent without the individual.
A society changes, when individuals think. A society rages, when it divides into crowds.
Most of civilization has been raging for thousands of years. Occasionally, someone will sacrifice themselves to the crowd. Jesus, attempted to save humanity. Pericles, attempted to save the city of Athens. Socrates, attempted to save the youth. All were teachers, with some political savvy. Someone speaking truth, is rarely a politician, because the truth divides people. It offends. A politician must paint with broad strokes, appeal to universal symbols (like the rainbow or the cross or the swastika), and be the spokes-person for change. They cannot afford to say something unpopular or turn anybody away.
This is why organized religion will fail—and when I speak of organized religion, I am including those institutions that don’t believe in God.
The truth is diluted by a leader to please the crowd. The leader needs the crowd to maintain their power. They cannot stand alone. They are usually short in stature. Napoleon comes to mind.
The crowd cannot be held accountable, because it is nobody, and anybody who joins the crowd, needs the crowd—the lack of responsibility.
The philosopher agitates individuals to leave the crowd. He or She inspires them to seek the truth. Thus, the Philosopher becomes a threat to those who wield power, with the crowd.
A successful philosopher is killed, a mediocre philosopher is imprisoned, a below-average philosopher is rejected, and a failed philosopher is accepted.
The Hustler
If you hustle, there is always loss
you burn a hole
where your energy used to be
a 2-minute match
a box of faith
lit in the dark.
the last conversation that spoke to me
was the one I had with myself
you can sell
you can make yourself large or small
squeeze into spaces that
rob you of air
you can talk until you are bored of talking
for a purpose that is not your purpose
you can rehash old ideas
or use them to inspire your own.
you can try to convince
or you can have the confidence that does not need convincing
desperation, demanding more
robs a hustler
something strange happens when you stop reaching for glitter
people will try to take from you
they will try to hustle you
but you don’t need them
you don’t need outside of yourself
your box of matches
lights on the inside
warming you
from the cold world
from the cold-blooded people
from those who continuously take
and use.
It’s okay to stop playing this game,
the hustler’s game.
you might not get ahead
and you might lose
you might disappear
never to be seen
again
your invisibility
feeds your fire
so, you can stop trying to burn down the forest.
War Pig
If my enemies knew
how much they have helped me
inspired me
given me
a reason to live
they would be distraught.
I mean, friends comfort me, but what good is that?
It’s more motivating to have a sharp stick at your back
Somebody, trying to jam the spear in
“Stick the pig! Stick the pig!”
Pigs are smart, did you know?
And they prefer to be clean. They have good hygiene.
It’s the stupid farmers that make them roll around in the mud.
Pigs have a heart that looks human. They have so much love to give.
And we slaughter them.
Pigs aren’t greedy; it’s the butcher who wants more fat.
We force-feed pigs crap, so we can make a profit.
Who is the pig?
My enemies sharpen their knives,
and I am well-motivated.
My bed is unmade
My office—a mess
My mind is focused.
You can’t outsmart this Pig.
I read Sun Tzu.
“Every battle is won or lost before it is ever fought.”
“Know your enemy, know yourself, know the ground, know the weather, and your victory will be total.”
“If your enemy is superior, evade him. If angry, irritate him. If equally matched, fight.”
You got that right. I’m ready for war!
War Pig—Out!
Never There
across an angry ocean of emptiness
my little boat floats
enduring sea sickness
and poor navigation
tossed by wind
whistling
from many directions
I mute my colors
pulling down my sails and my flag
it was a journey from one land to another
Now, it’s life on the sea
peaceful
in its protest
learning to love
the salty air
seagulls
screaming
above me
swirling currents beneath me
not needing to dock
in safety
it’s the sea
and
never there.
The Hidden Valley of My Heart
I’m running in a horror film
totally at peace
sensing the people
passing
through the mist
like frosty ships
cut off from time
with no reference point
in the night
light and darkness
with shades of reflected orange
in the last days
of October
where swamps
are full of fog
and feint music
floats
into my ears
echoing
the past
as I become a creature
of that unique atmosphere
where city conversations
don’t know
this hidden valley of my heart
and I long to visit
even though
my time
between visits
is long.
Snippets of Consciousness
the real problem with writing a really good novel
is
that it’s impossible to remember all of those philosophical insights
and feelings
that were happening to you
when you were experiencing them—
and all those snippets of consciousness
become like lost confetti, as if a child smashed in your skull
to see what was inside,
and all they found
were torn-up memories.
What happened,
doesn’t matter
and
Point A to Point B,
doesn’t matter.
What does matter
are all those beautiful layers of consciousness…
An artist sees reality differently
and goes in
and out of their mind
to observe and understand
what can only be seen
without their eyes.
The Forgotten Bones of The Great Man
If you uncover your destiny
like a pile of lost bones
brought back to life,
than you can become great (not necessarily good, but great).
There are great men in prison, even if they’re not good.
There are few great men in society, because they are trained to be harmless dogs.
A great man will endure
ridicule.
Society always sees him as a threat
and he will never submit to being harmless.
He knows what to do with power
because power is a natural extension of himself.
The weak man can’t make a decision about what tie to wear to work in the morning
and he asks his wife
to make it for him.
The great man can’t help being strong
He does not look to others for strength
He does not need to be comfortable
The great man puts on a military uniform like a second skin
When a farmer wears the armor of a samurai
he looks like a boy.
The great man can push the button
He can decide
for all mankind.
He,
is operating within his destiny
whereas,
the people don’t have a purpose.
The great man listens to silent battlefields…
because
they tell him where the bones are buried,
and the bones
reveal his destiny.
My Anger is like 7 Crocodiles I take for a Walk
I hold onto my anger
like 7 crocodiles
I take for a walk
around the neighborhood.
I pass Zen Buddhists
in their orange robes
and
they disapprove of me.
I pass a striking woman—
not in beauty
but more like a rattlesnake.
She reminds me of a teacher
because there are permanent stretch marks on her forehead
where she raised her eyebrows at me
one
too many times.
In public school nomenclature, this is called the teacher look.
Listen, but you probably won’t
and this is why I must write things down.
I’ve got so much anger inside of me
that I have at least 10 novels
waiting to be written
and they’re all impatient books
because of those teacher looks
and I’m
screaming
silently
inside
from my soul.
I thank my enemies for that
and
I value their gift of anger
Without it,
I would be nothing.
I’d be just like them
picking people apart and calling myself a scientist
but they know
they’re only assholes.
It’s their most distinguishing characteristic—
everybody has one, but they speak from it
act from it
contemplate it, like a navel.
One day
they’ll wake up
and realize
the production of their whole life
was shit.
My Domestic Life-Partner, Adversity
I have few friends
but there is one
who never leaves me.
He beats on me,
from time to time,
and I take it
because I know
it’s good for me.
The longer we stay together
the tougher I become.
He has caused me to lose jobs
women
and my mind.
My friend likes to see me suffer
but I don’t care.
I am not callous to the world
I feel everything.
The extent of pain a person feels
without pulling the trigger
is a true test of their endurance.
I am a poet
but
it’s not what gets written down that matters.
I know the editors
critics
and publishers
would disagree with me,
but they are in the business of making money.
I am an explorer of the soul
I do it for free.
If you want to change
create some enemies
that attack you, constantly
and they
will keep you sharp.
The best way is to insult their egos.
If you become weak
they won’t give you any quarter—it costs them too much,
and therein lies the secret to your strength.
Don’t get in the ring with Muhammed Ali, if you can’t box,
and
don’t tell jokes, unless you want to be laughed at.
Intelligence will get you into trouble,
and out of trouble.
Just be sure that you’re smart enough
because if you aren’t,
there will be no justice.
When a comedian isn’t funny,
she must fall on her face,
and
if she breaks away from the group,
they will pull her back in again.
It’s true,
you can talk yourself out of anything.
Intelligence is more influential than tits.
So,
cover them up
and wear a suit.
dust billowed behind his pickup truck
like an adventurous cloud
as the radio played music that reminded him of the country
those magic green hills
where the twilight
flickered red
and
his only companion—a book of Thoreau.
He had family,
but they were on the other side of the hills
and those comforting routines
where the old mother made salad
and asked him about his day
were gone.
New horizons,
like lost horizons
the road
was not a home
and
each new place
was beautiful
but
it would fade
in a few days—
the sun could never be caught
even though he chased
and chased it.
If he stayed in one place
it rose in the sky
with less magic than before.
The old son longed for the new sun—
it kept him warm
and reminded him of home.
My Yellow Popcorn Popper Brings Me Joy
I know that my current affair with isolation
is not a new mental disorder,
because
when I was in 4th grade,
I loved to be alone.
My mother would drag my sister to the shopping mall,
and ask me if I wanted to go.
“Nooooo,” I said.
Then, she would leave me home alone
and I would make popcorn. I still maintain
that the magic in a day
can only be
known
alone.
We had skylights
and I enjoyed watching the sun reach its zenith
while watching Zorro’s Fighting Legion
in Black and White.
My favorite part, is when Don Del Oro (God of Gold)
tells the Yaquis
“Glory and Riches to those who obey me. Death—to all others.”
He commands his Indians to throw unbelievers into a fiery pit,
and he says it with such a magisterial voice.
I spent years making popcorn and lemonade and watching movies—and not much has changed.
My dentist told me, “Your enamel is almost gone, son.”
“Oh well…” I said. “Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.”
He didn’t like that I was so cavalier about my teeth, but everyone has their pet peeves, I guess… and they feed them, and water them, and neuter them, and well… they have pet peeves, and they brag about them to their friends.
I don’t think I ever told my mother this, and she doesn’t read my blog, so I’m in the clear
but when I was in 4th grade, I ran a profitable lemonade stand in the summertime, when she was shopping.
We’re talking in the hundreds of dollars—maybe, thousands. I did it to raise money for candy, and I walked three miles to the mini mart to load-up on Jolly Ranchers, Blow-Pops, and Sour Patch Kids.
One day, the cash was rolling in, and a parks department employee in a red truck pulled up.
“Hey—kid! Do you have a food-handlers license?” He asked me.
At the time, I had not yet begun to lie, so I said, “No.”
“Well… get the hell out of here before I call the police!”
I am ashamed to admit it, but I cried.
I didn’t offer him any lemonade.
He was terrifying in his silver sunglasses.
It wasn’t until much later in life, that I understood there to be many parks department employees spread out through-out society, like disgusting mayonnaise on toast. They’re everywhere… at church, in the supermarkets, and at work.
You can’t get away from them.
They always lack imagination and believe in the rules—not because the rules are right, but because they enjoy seeing little boys cry.
It’s okay.
I went home that day and fired-up my yellow popcorn popper.
It brings me joy.
Pop
Pop
Pop.
The Art of Living the Good Life
Acting is an artform that I appreciate, and I do more acting than writing (We all do). We must act civilized and decent wherever we go.
It’s not funny when somebody at work tells a joke and then looks around the room to make sure it didn’t offend anyone. It’s like people want to break-out of their prisons, but they’re afraid to.
I think it was Socrates who said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Writing is a form of empathy, humor, and madness that can take many forms. Those who don’t examine their lives are the truly dangerous.
There is no better feeling than waking-up on a summer holiday and writing thoughts that enter your mind. People just don’t give each other that kind of freedom.
The reason why I am in love with myself is that I give myself that kind of freedom. I hear my friends say, “If I wear this, what will people think?” or “If I buy that car, will it increase my status?” These thoughts are horrible thoughts.
What are good thoughts?
Good thoughts are fresh thoughts. These thoughts are the reason for writing.
There are no fresh thoughts in the news media.
Everybody is thinking the same things.
What I am writing now
is not a fresh thought,
but a writer hopes to get lucky, anyway.
Writing is a celebration of the good and the bad in your life,
and I have been lucky to always have both.
People are dying before the age of 5. They get categorized into boxes and labeled. They never break-out.
They find their identity in their jobs. “I’m an accountant!”
They get self-esteem from other people. They don’t know what it means to live while they have a life. It is the scariest thing to watch.
Every day, I wake-up and pray, “God—help me hold onto my life. I can’t live without you.”
It is true—those who try to hold onto their lives will lose them, and those who try to be happy will be miserable.
There is only one way to live well and that is to make your life a work of art.
Everybody wants the good life, but they don’t know how to get it.
God is required,
and you have to grab onto God to have the good life.
The Parable of the Snail and the Slug
“We’re related, aren’t we?” Asked the snail to the slug. “You’re my second cousin, or third cousin twice removed, aren’t you?”
The depressed slug looked at his happy companion, safe inside his shell.
“We aren’t the same—you and me,” the slug said.
“Why not? We both make slime, and we’re both slower than hell.”
“That’s all a matter of perspective. We’re slower than humans, and it’s debatable, whether or not we make more snot.”
“But what about us?” The snail protested. “We both make slime.”
“So do human beings, but we’re nothing like them.”
“Why not?”
“We only have one foot, for one.”
“Maybe that’s why we’re slow.”
“You have a brain, even if you don’t use it very much. It must be tucked somewhere safe inside your shell,” the slug said.
“You have a brain too, don’t you?”
“What do you think? Idiot! The family man gets his kicks by sticking his pocket knife inside slugs like me. You can see our brains coming out of our skin. For some reason, snails are cute. They’re fragile. Children want to show them off at show-and-tell, and safely turn them loose inside their mother’s gardens, but slugs like me get burned, stuck, salted, and stepped-on.”
“It’s not fair, is it?” The snail said.
“No, it’s not.”
“What are you going to do today?”
“Lay-down a fresh layer of slime.”
“That’s funny—because that’s what I’m going to do today. We’re the same—you and me.”
“No, we’re not.”
The snail put his head inside his shell and pouted.
A little boy, with a wicked cute smile, picked him up. “Mommy—look-it. I have something to take to show-and-tell.”
“Johnny—don’t turn that snail loose in my garden. If it finds a female snail, they’ll make 300 babies.”
“Oh—gross. Look at that brown wrinkly slug!” Johnny said.
His shoe raised-up into the sky and the slug sensed the shadow of death.
“I’ve got to slide faster,” he cried-out, but he wasn’t fast enough, and his brains got smooshed into the soil, where sugar ants carried his grey matter into their tiny holes to be eaten.
The End, of the Slug
PS. The snail showed-off at show-and-tell like a celebrity. It laid-down a fresh layer of slime like a dirty poet. And when it was done signing autographs, it got turned loose into the Garden of Eden where it found many young beautiful female snails to have babies with, and his offspring ate all of the carefully cultivated strawberries that were not meant to be eaten by snails, and his children were as numerous as the stars and the grains of sand on the sea shore, and they enjoyed the promised land together.
So, what is the moral of this story?
Sometimes, it’s better to be cute than smart; it’s better to be loved than understood; You make slime, just the same as a slug, but your destiny depends on how the audience feels about you. There are boys who never get into trouble, and there are boys who always get into trouble, but they’re cute, and there are boys who are ugly and mean, just like the slug. They get a pocket knife through their brains. They get salted, burned, and stepped on. Prison is their eventual home, if not execution.
So, always remember to be the snail. Always remember to be loved. Always remember to be cute. Always remember that it matters how the audience feels about you.
The End
My Fear of Women and Western Society
Can we trust our fear—
especially, when it seems logical?
As soon as you are labeled by society, anything you say, is suspect
It’s the insane asylum—where doctors are right, and patients are crazy
involuntarily committed, some, are lobotomized, to make docile, and easier to control
some, are convinced they are crazy, and need reeducation therapy
Being violent and right, might be better than being docile and wrong
Who has the right to tell me I am wrong?
Society?
How do they decide?
In our present-day society, there is a fear of being labeled
Racist
Sexist
Homophobic
This fear is wielded by those who claim to be living in fear
to fight fear with fear, is the way of society
Doctors are always right, because they are doctors
the insane are always wrong, because they are insane
The same is true, for those who feel fear
in my present job, a male administrator is not allowed to correct a female teacher
because of an unspoken rule
it is danced around, like, “I wanted to be superman, but suddenly, I couldn’t solve every problem. That’s when I called our female administrator.”
He wants to say the right thing, so he is socially correct, but he is so very wrong.
Perhaps, he is worried that a woman under suspicion, might say “anything” that would make the problem larger.
This is true
Women are believed, and men are thought to be guilty, until proven innocent.
It’s dangerous to be a man, confronting a cornered woman.
Society holds its courts of opinion, silently, or not so silently
Men instruct men, on the standards
I went to dinner with some friends, and I mentioned that testosterone makes a man, a man, and nothing else.
“Oh—you can’t say that,” my friend’s fiancé, told me.
I went on… “People have been socialized to believe that social norms are created by society, but they spring from the well of biological roots.”
“That’s not true,” he said. “Men are leaders because they have oppressed women.”
This makes no sense to me.
He continued, “To say otherwise, is to be misogynistic.”
The label.
Once you are labeled, anything you say, is insane.
“It doesn’t really matter,” I said. “Knowledge should be kept to oneself.”
“That’s speaking like an engineer,” he said.
He had read a book, and believed what it said. He screened all information, based on his new belief. He disagreed with me, and told me I was wrong.
There is only one type of person more dangerous than an ignorant one—an ignorant one who reads books.
What I meant was, a man of high testosterone will immediately be recognized as a leader, especially by women.
He will be judged to be the most competent, and females will defer to his authority, even when they know more than he does
and especially when other men of less testosterone, know more than he does
this is why software engineers, or intelligent types, do not become leaders
their intelligence, is too difficult to understand.
Humans trust testosterone, which affects tone of voice, body posture, scent, and eye contact. We read body language, and not theoretical abstracts.
When women defer to a man, they signal his status, which makes him appear to be a leader.
He is highly desirable, because, women have selected him.
At dinner, my friend’s fiancé suggested the following, “I am about to be married, and you don’t have a girlfriend.”
Because he has been selected by a female, he perceives, that he must be doing something right.
But he made the following assumption: The number 1 priority for all men, is to get married, and by doing so, their status increases, because a woman has selected them. He knows this socially and subconsciously, but not rationally, the way I am outlining here.
A woman also controls him. Historically, this has been the case. A woman only does so, successfully, when she respects him. He wants her validation, and will go to war, to a certain death, to obtain it.
A woman can only respect a man who does this. It is not for his intelligence, hence—intelligence does not make him a competent leader to females.
What makes him a competent leader, is testosterone.
Social norms, today, have abolished the man’s authority, and increased his responsibility, which disincentivizes him. Many women, no longer respect men. What is the result? A majority of men engage in masturbation (or the depletion of their semen). They have been educated (by feminists) to believe their semen has no value, and masturbation is healthy.
Semen is a man’s life-force. When recycled into the blood-stream, every seven days, it fills the blood with testosterone.
Semen makes a man, a man, and a natural leader. It will increase his immune system, his vitality, and his strength. Why have testosterone levels in men been decreasing for the last 40 years in Western society?
Pornography.
Why have women become leaders in Western society? An abundance of unmotivated weak men, who have not needed to be strong. There is a reason why all major religions preach against lust. It makes men weak.
And when men become weak, society fails. It will be conquered by strong men.
Society is maintained by women, but it cannot be built without masculine men. Civilization is enforced by the female collective. Today, women can hold men accountable, but increasingly, men cannot hold women accountable. This is because women do what is in their best interest, or they think they are doing what is in their best interest. The government has deceived them into believing they do not need a man. In this way, the government exercises more control over society. Afterall, in today’s society, a man is useless and incompetent, right? Look at TV. Bart Simpson. Men are laughed at. And people will say, it’s only comedy, but jokes are funny because they are true.
Men have lost their morality, and they have been told, “it’s no big deal.” This is a lie.
Women can only respect a man, if he is virtuous. So, I am advocating for a strong Western society. And the way that Western society becomes strong, is the following:
Men turn away from lust. If a man retains his semen for 90 days, he will be extremely attractive to women, confident, purposeful, more intelligent, more creative, and he will consider God for the first time in his life. He will stop complaining about his situation, and he will tell other men, about morality that works. I know this is an unusual post, but I believe it’s an important one. True morality is logical, and false morality is insane. Western society is insane right now! If you are a man or woman, don’t argue with my opinions. Do what a wise person does, and put information into practice, in order to test it. That is the only way knowledge becomes wisdom. We learn from experience, when we test our knowledge against reality. I’m wishing you all the best, and let’s build a strong Western society.
Aphorisms on Adversity
1.
A wise owl
being chased by angry crows.
2.
If you decide to do something,
you will be tested.
3.
After you get out of your own way,
others will step in.
4.
If a mother steals her son’s Power Ranger action figures,
he’s going to use green and red markers
instead
and his imagination will be better-off for it.
5.
Adversity is the mother of invention
or the killer of quitters.
6.
When a fighter trains for the ring
he feels good.
When he steps into the ring
he feels brave.
When he gets hit the first time
he feels fear.
When he keeps fighting
he respects himself.
When he goes the distance, despite broken ribs
he knows he’s a fighter.
7.
I don’t believe in failure, as a cure
and I don’t believe in winning, as a cure
but I do believe in philosophy—
it’s the pearl of wisdom,
formed
from the grit
grinding
inside my flesh.
8.
Show me a man with his mind and his balls intact
and I will show you a man
who can endure anything.
Our educational system emphasizes the mind
and wants to cut-off his balls.
what isn’t written about
I don’t know that a person can describe
a dull day
people want to read about;
an old woman
lost in a grocery store
white hair
black pants
hanging onto her grocery cart
like she might fall
for weariness
or the talented people
who choose mediocre jobs
hanging onto hope
like a dusty dress shirt
neglected, in a black closet,
out of style for five years.
Even the ones who break out, don’t seem to break free
they can’t forget where they came from
and they are the sort who are terrified of their origins
like the cow that doesn’t want to admit it was once a whale
they all succumb to the dark hole
the ones who scrabble out of it
can’t look at the blue sky
because they are worried about falling in again.
I’ve been told that I’m a great lover of myself
and not in a good way
I feel the misunderstanding is justified
I’m the only one who can change
and I’ve been trying for sometime
like an artist sculpting their own clay
or a philosopher trying to discover their own wisdom
I don’t fit the mold
so maybe that’s saying something
but I’m still not the man who can look at the blue sky
and avoid staring into the abyss.
That doesn’t mean I’m not looking for someone who can
I just haven’t found them yet
and like great paintings that cost lots of money and hang in exclusive museums
the odds of finding that
in my neighborhood grocery store
are quite low
and perhaps,
the odds of finding that inside myself are even lower
but it’s like playing the lottery…
you can bet on a ticket
or you can bet on yourself
and I find
betting on myself
to be more satisfying.
Big Bottom Fish
Deep
in the dark river
the big bottom fish
waits…
for the plop…plop
of bait.
“Yes, sir. I’ve been trying to catch him my whole life. First, you got to find him, but wait—no. First, you got to have the faith that he’s there.”
“Jim—you sound like, you’s trying to think like a fish.”
“I don’t know about that—but I sure as hell drink like one. Give me a beer.”
The smaller man, reached into an ice box and handed it to Jim.
The fish was watching them, waiting for the line, to sink lower.
“Jim, what have we been doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… I’ve known you, since we were kids. We both worked at the Ford plant. Some of our friends went to college, but we stayed put.”
“Those fancy Universities don’t teach anything.”
“I know that.”
“There is more to know, in the river, than from the Greeks.”
“How so?”
“A river constantly changes—it eats away at itself—it rages—and it dries up. The mountains feed it with their glaciers, and when it becomes bone dry, it doesn’t complain.”
“So…?”
“Don, we are all going to die—some of us, sooner than others. Then, there’s the disease to worry about, and not being able to fish. If you want my opinion, people with high opinions of themselves, don’t live very well. Just look at the mountains right now.”
The purple peaks were reflected in the river.
“Every man must decide what he is going to do—and it becomes his destiny. It’s not so much what he does, but who he becomes, that matters. I’m a fisherman—I always have been. If there were no fish, it wouldn’t change me. I believe there are fish. Besides, it isn’t the many fish, I am looking for, but the one big bottom fish. He and me, are pals. We’re the same. That’s what you have to find in life—who you are, in something else. The fish and me are one. I’ve never been caught.”
And the big bottom fish
looked at the bait
and smiled.
The End
Your imagination is a no limit credit card, activate it!
Quitting,
frightens me
like a flat tire, on the side of a busy freeway
and no jack,
no air pump,
no cell phone,
no people skills
to get to where I need to go.
Everybody, I know
is in such a big hurry
to get to where they need to go
that they don’t notice my predicament
or care
and why should they?
The bum along the freeway
asks me
if I have a drink of water.
He’s dirty
with a full beard
like Robinson Crusoe.
It’s easy to see
he’s not like me.
There are holes in his shoes
He’s been cooked in the sun.
He mumbles to himself.
He learned his ABCs, in elementary school, just like me, didn’t he?
Now he’s stuck on the side of the road.
Is this how it starts, with no empathy?
I can take care of myself,
but I’ll have to walk
a long way
until the sun goes down.
In the twilight
I’ll get the answer, from the rays
of light
that peak
through
my imagination.
It’s like a password
to a bank account
full of numbers
that don’t mean anything
until they are swiped
on a card
and they can buy anything.
Your imagination is a no limit credit card
activate it,
and pay the debt on-time—
then you can fly on the miles
and never have to walk along the freeway again.
The Man Who Dances Alone
Take a step back
you are dancing
afterall
so pause
before the two step
and twirl
catch the room off-guard
enter the dangerous
where each foot follows a line
and avoids it
Exchange hands
and side-step feet
the beat must be neat
perfection
and everybody else
smelling their perfume
nature’s rehearsal
for the back room
or the dancer
who cuts his legs
to the music’s moan
a triumph of action
his lost awareness
to solemn stares
from those
watching him
the man who dances alone.
Life Style
Life
should give your life
style.
People are always buying clothes
something for every occasion
their cheap wardrobe
is outdated
like the clearance rack
at the second-hand store.
Better to have limited style
beautiful clothes
you enjoy
comfortable
and colorful
out of place
And, when others say
“You’re out of place.”
Your clothes say, something about you
they are finer
than the man or woman
of every occasion
who never considers
not fitting in
Your style
belongs to you
and not to
trends
events
or places
Don’t be the chameleon
in the jungle
accept
you are different.
If you like your style
your clothes make a statement
even if,
you don’t want to say anything.
Society judges itself
harshly
it’s never smart enough
or in style
because
it seeks a standard
outside of itself.
Would I choose to be anonymous
a man in a quiet room
not talked about
or the focal point
of positive and negative
criticism
tearing at my clothes
with envy or praise?
I wear clothes I love
I operate by a logic that makes sense to me
the girls gossip
saying all manner of nasty things
turning the boys against me
even the odd independent
believes them
they’ve stopped being friendly
their eyes don’t smile
they’ve stopped inviting me
I’m constantly on their minds
“His clothes have no style.”
Unlike
the old power pole
growing in the forest
covered in moss
and weathered like the trees.
Give nature time
and she will do her worst
but the invisible man knows
he once carried electricity
and he wants to
again.
Nature doesn’t spoil her children
because that makes them weak and unhappy.
If you are not encouraged
don’t be discouraged
take courage
we are all cowards
looking for a hero.
***
A sense of humor isn’t obvious
it’s a sense
like a gentle fragrance.
***
My parents wanted me to be perfect
because they loved me.
Perfection is sharp, like a diamond.
After being used as a tool, for too long
I realized, it’s better to have rough edges.
***
Fate laughs at the fortune we try to make for ourselves
but it respects
constant struggle
among uncertainty
and impossible odds.
***
Fate has all the time in the world
but we are left with only 80 years—
that is hardly enough time to traverse the globe, so we must decide where to go.
Lost and Found in the Mountains of Lucerne
at the train station in Lucerne,
the silver lake is poured-out like unicorn blood
the engine comes into the station, with a DING
I go through Neuchatel—
one of those small Swiss towns, with cobblestone streets
I walk into a chocolate shop, and order cherries, coconut, and caramel
Locals
crowd through the center of town, speaking French
the Swiss Alps tower above us with gigantic caps of snow
We are fragile, like broken wine glasses
We drink water out of plain cups
the gypsies live in the mountains, out of their vans
the natural need to expand
is inside all of us
I fly above the clouds, listening to Wagner
I look at my Swiss watch—we’re behind schedule
If we take a trip, or begin a relationship
the illusion is, we control it.
There is no need to keep perfect time.
A conversation is spontaneous
A professional party is a bore
Any life is killed at the door.
People are too afraid to be out of control
or lost
like my luggage.
A career makes us cautious
we identify with our jobs.
To lose ourselves in a small city
To be small, beneath big mountains.
Plant Goodness
I plant more inside myself
than I know.
Cancer
is everywhere.
Depression
an invisible weight.
Suicide
a state
of mind (that I don’t want to visit).
People
don’t know
that the soul
grows
or dies
in a garden.
Plant goodness.
Every beautiful thing, starts with a foolish thought
like planting seeds…
daffodils don’t debate their beauty.
If your life is empty, even though it’s full of manure
that’s okay,
because art grows out of what we don’t know what to do with
what we don’t know how to use
what seemingly has no purpose
We plant our daisies in a box
but nature doesn’t follow our order
it embraces chaos
a whisper
breathes life
into our carefully controlled routines
and we are off, to wonderland.
the freedom that blinks, “goodbye!”
there are rivers that flood my mind
like taps
I can turn on
and off
and the worst, is when the kid
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
got his thing blown off
and the worst, is when Hemingway put a shotgun in his mouth, instead of a Cuban cigar
and the worst, is being somewhere you don’t want to be
and doing something you don’t want to do
and the worst, is being married to somebody crazy
and wondering
if you’re crazy too
and the best, is when the day shows up
and winks goodbye
and you can sleep easy,
and not worry about why
I walk down hallways full of people
and
they’re all going to die.
Will I go first,
or will I live for 100 years?
Many
want careers
I just want the sunrise
and the sunset
and the freedom
that blinks
goodbye.
Tree of Life
As beauty leaves the woman
and talent, abandons the man
they become gray
like old photographs
that say, who they were.
Maybe, you never had it
those shiny leaves
dancing in the breeze
full of color.
There must be more to life
than nature.
The human condition
is cut down, and forgotten
like a tree, turned into firewood.
Why place your hopes
in exciting leaves
that fade
or in the sturdiness of your trunk?
When we are young,
we are full of possibilities
gradually, then quickly
rolling into a quarry
of forgotten rocks.
Few of us, get sculpted into stone
and our best pieces
might’ve been cut away
Who is to say, what to keep, or to be gotten rid of
but the artist
understood by their art,
or stolen from someone else?
Your life should be art
and not the other way around
How do we deal with the inevitable decline?
We want to believe, our colors shine
in the everlasting light, that doesn’t hint at twilight
but our tree, is not to be forever
the only religion is to be young again, in this faulty philosophy.
If you admire the past
you really are old.
What comes out of you?
If not beauty,
then what?
to be a child
with joy
for each new thing
because your value
isn’t what you know.
Just as Wild
These train tracks
don’t lead to the station anymore
they aren’t traveled
except by me
they follow a river
looping high into the mountains
Above
ordinary destinations
rusted trestles
bridge
great divides
as I step between the ties
avoiding empty air
where white water rages
beneath me
blocking out nature’s sound
I move through geologic time
reconnecting
to what my grandfather knew
overgrown paths
make this once known land
a mystery
Cut through the wilderness
and wild again
Now
only the animals know it
as I
walk into their midst
just as wild.
Evolution
Evolution wants a sudden shock
lightning in a pool of goo
a death-row inmate, released from his body
marvelous magic of spirit and awe
a placid blog
a volcano rises out of the swamp
fire and water consume each other
steam
what a hazy dream
a methane out-gassing of monstrous thoughts.
lost
in a black hole of despair
or lost
down the rabbit hole
of imagination
lost
in addiction
or lost
in the crowd
Needing to get lost
and not be found.
Needing to be forgotten
by those who don’t care.
Needing to hear the ocean
that laughs
without memory.
Needing to drown false humor
of dry white walls and pale people.
Needing to find
what cannot be found.
You can’t help it,
feeling awful in the presence of others
It’s a sickening feeling
that makes you want to go into the hallway and retch.
Words flow underground
like a river
when a man stops speaking
and when he sheds his second skin
the third is tender and colorful
The purpose of art is lost by those who want to be entertained
Art should be Active
Not Reactive—an explosion
inside the soul.
Late Shower
intelligent people
are late
slow people (stupid people)
are on-time.
I have always been
punctual
but now I’m getting smarter.
As I delay the day
because I have something important to do
I never have doldrums
It’s rude
but I would rather be late, and enter the storm
than wait for the winds to blow.
Starting a movie in the middle
is where the action is.
Maybe, I’m the main character who gets executed
so it makes sense
to appeal my case, and buy more time.
I write in the early mornings
one poem
two poems
I can feel the sweat of yesterday
like a grimy film
that I need to wash-off
three poems
Inspiration is more important than getting clean
This might be true for drug addicts.
I conjure a story out of my sub-conscious
and then I break
Shower
The rain on me
is creativity
and then the words really flow.
My story is telling itself
I’m supposed to be at the library
My tee-time is in one hour
Then, I need to meet my friend
and visit my mother
Being late for things
is go go go
Life is never slow
if you are always Late.
Maybe my time has past
Maybe my time has past
Nobody really knows if this is true
The old David picks up stones
and throws them at Goliath
just to see if he can still do it.
There is a man who has not resigned himself to his routine or his reputation
He isn’t defending anything
because there is nothing to defend.
He decides to leave his old life behind
wandering where others won’t
and going back to the start
to become a child again.
He abandons dignity
to become undignified
and sees the world through new eyes.
Every leap
gives him new life
because he knows it cannot be possessed
Only expressed.
A young man asks him, “Why are you sailing around the world at 72? You might die, there is a 9% chance.”
“I have a 9% chance of dying in my bed. Whether that be on a bed of corals or a bed of cotton, I know what I must do.”
And he pulls up his anchor to sail into the sunset of his life.
Old Man, Young Man
Oh, to be old and useless
Sex drive dried up like a gnarled fruit tree
to read books at night with no particular aim
and enjoy the random floating patterns of butterflies
during the day
to feed the birds and gain that special pleasure
as each piece of seed is plucked up
like tiny bits of grain
to feel no pressure, and no expectation
to be young again, right before the end
park benches, and sunsets
Romance, with the one who has already left
Oh, those days can be the loneliest
or the freest
Sublime, in every sense of the word
Not to write poetry for any ambition
but because it’s something pleasant to do
to be alone with one’s thoughts
and the content, more amusing
than the thought-creators of daytime television
to enjoy your pen and ink
life was over in a blink
and those last days are long—
they must be lived differently
than all the days before
An old man can appreciate how a cat walks down a sidewalk
Everybody, loves a dog
and this old dog observes the subtlety
of the wind in the trees
and the whisper of God,
calling him home.
Wavy Trees
Wavy Trees
Wave at Me
I sense their wisdom
Some
have been alive
longer than me
I look up
at their broken limbs
groaning
in nature’s mirth
Somehow
death and dying is okay
under falling leaves
and life is that much better
We break into pieces
just like trees
and fall to the ground
Nature accepts me
like family
under her mantel
and
I say goodbye
wavy trees.
Living in My Laptop Screen Saver
I see these scenes on my laptop screen saver—
old forest paths, through gnarled trees, with the sun shining through
like a train
about to enter a tunnel
butterflies and bugs, swarming in the afternoon light
like fireflies or fairies, moving to some kind of music
Beethoven or Bach, perhaps
and the magic is there
only for a moment.
Nature is full of her miracles
and it is my desire to live there
One can hear the roots sucking up water
and the woods growing in wisdom.
then I drive through suburbia
and see the same cookie-cutter houses in a row
and neighbors
always doing something,
nothing
keeping busy, trying to ignore the futility
but the city in the woods is different
it hums in perfect rhythm
one feels wise, just by being there
visiting the ponds and Cedar groves.
Art is beautiful because we don’t know why.
the air is crisp
the leaves are full of flame
falling from the fake tree
like freedom
blown away.
Friends
come to me
few
and far between.
It’s not that people are bad
I just see their spots,
their imperfections
their fire, their color, their transparency, their lack of light
falling
in the twilight
and I’m not looking for a perfect leaf.
They are raked into piles
and burned
Their incense smells bad
It’s different
than when I
burn a leaf
with a magnifying glass.
I see myself, in the smoke
my imperfections
and
I’m surprised,
when the leaves I admire
keep me around
pressed between the pages of a heavy book.
Any subject that can be nailed down
any person that screams
any beauty to be found
under the deep blue sky
belongs to me.
It’s a painting
I walk into,
with music, like the wind
that calls to friends
who don’t know my name.
They whisper, all kinds of things
behind my back
and we don’t fall together.
I drown in a pond, by another leaf
matching my five points
and our colors are worth more
together.
I test the leaves
they blow away from me
I’m not trying to be attractive
but I long for that surprise
that lands on me
that follows me home.
It’s a lot like life
You know it, and it’s gone.
We don’t make love, to understand it
and
art is beautiful,
because we don’t know why.
There is beauty in a black night
There is beauty in a black night
to feel alone and not be lonely
to love what is hidden
and not need to find it
mystery
and imagination
working on reality
in the dark
red lights
green lights
lights with different meaning
walking
under electric messages
telephone wires
speaking love
selling nonsense
shouting hate
or whispering prayers
above the sound of my feet.
Then I stand still
And the night is really beautiful
Every sound has stopped.
Maybe,
the best feeling
is when someone looks at you
because of your failing
and doesn’t understand
why you succeed.
They are perfect
because they have done everything right
they dotted their eyes and crossed their noses in disgust
at you
and
their world adds up to nothing
and
despite the many problems you have
that they constantly point-out
like
not having a dishtowel in your apartment
or
garbage all over the floor
you go on living
in fine ways
that don’t add up
(Poetry doesn’t make sense to most People)
and
the best rule followers
are taxed
with more rules
and those who live by them
want others to do the same
and
occasionally, a rebel realizes there is nothing to rebel against
and they just go on doing
what they want to
independent
of rule-follower protests
and their power seems extraordinary
to the waves of indignation
but
the rebel
hardly seems to notice
because they are having so much fun.
He Had Low Self-Esteem
there are so many things I want to write about
but it feels like my mind is blown in half
and
that’s what I get
for trying to have a social life.
I went to a 2 million dollar home last night
and the young man
had a beautiful wife
an airplane
a BMW
and a motorcycle
He’s only 27.
“I don’t get jealous of most people,” he said.
I was feeling self-conscious and nauseous
I met a couple clean-cut young men
and we talked about church.
Then we played a St. Patrick’s Day trivia game
that I didn’t understand.
I was beginning to feel inept
I was breaking-out in cold sweats
“He’s a poet!” I heard my friend shout.
Suddenly, 20 eyes were watching me.
I don’t know how I got out of that one
I reached for some green peas
(all the food was green—that might be why I was sick)
Then, Karaoke broke out.
I stood there, watching the madness
when our host came over.
“You don’t like Karaoke, do you?” He asked me.
I smiled.
“Can I make you some tea?”
He led me into the living room and we began talking about my fear of marriage.
“You just have to find the right one,” he said wisely.
We got onto the subject of God, and my friend walked in.
“We got to go,” he said.
On the way home, I told him that I wasn’t feeling well.
“You’ll get over this rough patch,” he said. “It’s important that you socialize and get a better job—otherwise,
you could end up like that guy at church who strangled his wife to death and cracked her head with a hammer. He had low self-esteem.”
I thought about what my friend said…
Spending time alone was dangerous, and socializing made me sick.
There was no way to win.
Birthday Suit
I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin
the werewolf
is trying to claw its way out
the alien
wants to be understood
the child
doesn’t know where time went
the man
is dressed in clothes that don’t fit
the many layers of skin
that die
and get pealed back
Ugliness
and Beauty
deep within
I get cut and tired
I am more than wrinkles
that won’t vanish
I’ve been burned
and not by the sun
My freckles
are constellations
and if you try to connect my dots
new spots
appear
My birthday suit
stretches
but it doesn’t show-off
my character.
I’m Alone
Lonely Hearts,
like unread Library Books
want to spend time with me,
but I say, “No.”
There is a reason why
you are lonely
why
you are unread.
I don’t want to hear your story
I have my own to ponder.
The forgotten books of wisdom
are forgotten for a reason.
The great books
that aren’t read
aren’t great.
There is nothing sacred.
We can’t love, what doesn’t speak to us
I can, but…
the seconds are stolen from me.
People who don’t appreciate Poetry
are honest.
They are waiting for what poetry is supposed to do
The lonely heart knows, it’s them—
and this truth
hurts even more
than an arrow that pierces straight through.
They are angry, they aren’t read
and then,
they hate to spend time with themselves.
A good book can be read for hours…
I’m alone.
Aphorisms on Letting Go
1.
the end of a book can be satisfying
so that you want to read it over and again
or it can be disappointing
so that you throw it across the room—
I think life is that way.
2.
My mother asked me, “Why didn’t you hang-out with anybody in high school?”
My response: “Because there was nobody there.”
3.
I meet unpleasant people, all the time
They say, “Good Morning.”
It’s pleasant not to be around them.
4.
I got published, recently
and now, when I read my poetry
to my mother (God Bless Her)
she hangs on every word.
This is what it must be like
to be a New York Times Best Selling Author.
5.
The best feeling in the world
is not to care—
to look at what you have
and not feel any special attachment to it
to look at your life
and let it go
to look at your goals
and realize
that it’s not important that you get there.
6.
How many people know what they want?
they think they know,
but it’s usually what someone else knows.
7.
I’ve made an effort
not to be important.
People learn that I’m not important
and leave me alone.
It’s the most beautiful peaceful feeling
like a field full of daisies.
8.
I find it amusing
that the most out-of-control people
try to control those around them
and they can’t.
There is a life lesson in that.
9.
The most pleasurable insights
are the ones that make me free
that allow me to erase my hypocrisy.
Most people acquire wisdom to show it off
they say, “I am so wise.”
They want to teach others, rather than teach themselves.
you can know something
you can feel it in your bones
and yet, nobody you tell
seems to care.
Maturity
I laugh at hidden jokes that people are afraid to tell
Their lives are full of bad humor that I wish I could read about.
When a book is banned, it gets stolen off the shelf
Sometimes, I’m insulted, and when my mind goes to amusement, rather than anger
I sense my own humor, seeping out,
like maple sirup on pancakes.
Women talk about freedom,
but they carry a little mirror with them
wherever they go.
Men get stronger at the gym
as they grow weaker of soul.
I want to live long, but I would rather live well.
I saw an old woman, smoking a cigar in the park.
She smiled at me through broken teeth.
She was beautiful.
Maturity
can make a wine very fine
or it rots.
I lay in bed…
I lay in bed
praying for genius
I lay in bed
smoking an imaginary cigarette
I lay in bed
and there’s nothing there, but a blank ceiling.
I just love thinking, or not thinking
waiting
for something
to pop
inside
my empty head.
Writing with ambition
is the surest way to fail.
I lay in bed
gathering my strength
I lay in bed
and the pillows are soft against my head
I lay in bed
and I wonder why people go to war
They must not be able to lay in bed
What does it mean to throw away time?
I have wasted my life
going to places
that don’t want me
listening to people
who don’t need me
What you give away
you don’t need.
It feels good
to lay in bed
and not need
anything.
As a young man
I was in search
of a wise old man
but he was impossible to find.
When I got older
I became wiser
and learned
the world is run
by old fools
walking and talking
as if
they are wise.
One must find wisdom
for one’s self
because
Wisdom is true Wealth
Piles of gold, just sit there
whereas wisdom
can never be spent.
a 10-minute poem
When you’re running up hill
it’s blood and sweat and agony
and every bone in your body wants to quit
but then, there’s the top
and I laugh and enjoy the view
and on the way down, I offer encouraging humor
to the people on the trail…
“You’re almost there.”
I begin to pick-up speed
on the way down, and I’m flying
“It’s a lot easier going down!” I shout to the Korean Brothers who almost witnessed my demise.
“Have a great day!” They say.
I am the King of the mountain
running down it. I feel like I’m 12 years old—made of rubber.
The victory is there—it’s so easy—so if you’re running up hill
and think you’re going to die, keep going.
It might be, that you will
or, you will gain momentum
on the way down.
40?
That’s the peak
it’s downhill from there
and that’s a good thing.
The Magic Inside Your Mind
Whether you water your brain with
acid rain, or fair weather
is up to you.
Is your mind a desert,
like a Martian landscape
or a jungle of dusty books?
A willingness to turn-off distractions
and plant seeds
is the foundation of any writer
and the worlds of imagination
created inside my brain
are like canvases of invisible paint.
A friend told me… “You have this faraway look in your eyes, like you’re not even here.”
and she was right.
I am light-years away.
My mind is limitless…
Once you discover that
there is no problem too great to solve.
You can move mountains with your mind.
One of my brainstorming strategies is to let it rain.
I think of all the plot ideas and characters I would like to read about
and then I get started,
thinking about:
graveyards, airplanes, lonely old men, motorcycle races, gambling, duels, murder, suits of armor, deviant minds, girls at the beach, and eccentric geniuses.
People exercise what’s obvious (Muscles), but they don’t consider the magic inside their mind,
like a cake, or an iPhone.
They don’t know they have the power to bake, or to send a message telepathically–that’s what writing is.
They don’t know the pleasure of dipping a bucket inside a deep dark well
that never runs dry,
or
falling down a rabbit hole.
Mostly, people aren’t creative because they don’t try.
They don’t observe people, or listen to what they say.
They are neurotic–thinking the same thoughts, over and over, again
every day
like grocery lists
or bills
or boring items that need to be crossed off,
rather than unlocking their sixth sense.
I am not an entrepreneur,
but I plan to be in business for myself one day
not for material gain
but for the freedom that comes from living inside my own mind.
We Need Bad Art
Artistic expression
like any conversation
is a shot in the dark. One wrong word said,
and the awkward silence is deafening,
but
I don’t think this is an excuse to stop talking to people,
or stop drawing—even when your lines scratch the page, like a kindergartener.
If you make a mistake, accept it.
If your work is ugly and without talent, keep doing it—
You might create something that the talented people cannot. Most people quit artistic expression and stick to their bad conversations. We need bad art, in the same way that we need good art, if only to feel better about ourselves when we are trying to create.
We should not give up on our craft and we should not give up on people. It can be difficult to break-through the ugliness, but there’s a person in there.
People look at beautiful paintings and don’t know how valuable they are until they see the price tag.
We look at people in the same way. Are they popular?
Kindergarteners are faster at learning English than adults
because their minds are open. If we step away from our careful lives
we realize what we suspected all along
we are far from perfect. Stumbling in the dark is a thrill, even if
we don’t dance gracefully. We can’t think in terms of Mastery or Genius.
Our most noble efforts are attempted in the face of certain defeat—
My self-portrait
looks like a monster (unintentionally—of course)
My poetry says countless offensive things,
until my meanness
makes me laugh. I do it more to entertain myself—probably, because I don’t want to be mean to people in real life.
People live tidy lives. They live too carefully.
They are worried about what could happen if they express how they truly feel, so they say the same things (over and over, again) and they do the same things (over and over, again) until there is nothing new under the sun.
Eventually, art falls apart, so why worry about how good it looks?
We are all moving towards ugliness and decay.
I can’t remember a conversation I had last week.
People protect themselves from bacteria, bad people, and bad experiences, until they are afraid of an awkward conversation, a threat, a fight, an infection, or locking their keys out of their car in the desert.
All of their constricting efforts
take away the breath of life. So,
Breathe.
Create.
Don’t worry about it.
Life is ugly,
and it can become beautiful.
Your art is an expression of that.
His Hand Was Shaking.
I was hoping for talent, but I got a ticket, instead
the cop
walked up to my truck
with his hand on his sidearm.
I didn’t blink.
He wore sunglasses.
“Do you know how fast you were going?”
“111 miles per hour,” I said.
“That’s reckless driving. I didn’t think you were going to stop. Five more minutes, and it would’ve been a felony.”
I thought about what he said.
I was five minutes away from being a hardened criminal.
He wrote the ticket, and passed it through my window.
His hand was shaking.
“200 dollar fine.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
He looked at me, like there was something wrong with me.
I never felt better.
Never Call His Name, Again
that monster
that hides
in a deep dark closet
comes out, to say “hi” to me
time and time, again
he wants to be my friend
but I don’t want to
and
eventually, he keeps to himself
like one of those coats, hanging himself
in a deep dark room
gasping for air—
and I’m the only one who can give him life
but I don’t care
I want him to die.
He whispers to me, across the room, at midnight
“Please, let me be your friend,”
but I pretend
he’s not there.
“Come on, I’ll make you feel good—remember when we used to hang-out?”
I remember…
I wish
I didn’t.
He used to tell me, nobody would be my friend, except him—
that he was good, but with a bad reputation,
and chronically misunderstood.
One day, I realized
he was lying to me
and it was all I could do, to avoid him.
He was like a puppy
who wouldn’t leave me alone,
licking my hands,
and when I didn’t pat his head
he bit me.
I didn’t know, he was a dangerous dog
because I made friends with him, years ago.
It turns out
all he wanted
was my blood.
I called him, yesterday
and he bit me, again.
I kicked that dog
into my deep dark closet
and
I’m
never
calling his name
again.
The Battle for My Body
Each summer,
I try to trim the fat off my body
with exercise
with protein shakes
with vegetables.
Women want a hard body
and they won’t look at a flabby one
Trust me, I know.
I’ve been at the pinnacle of performance
and into the depths of anonymity.
It feels great to have the sun on my shoulders
playing golf and going for bike rides
in the summertime
to be the bronze man
to be desired by women, and respected by men—
that takes work, among, all the other jobs I have to do.
Teenagers have a metabolism, and nothing but time
while I have a limited window
to make myself look like a limited edition show-piece.
I have never been obese
but I have flirted with the idea,
and I don’t want to be huge.
Basically, I’m doing this for myself
because it feels good, to look good
to be lighter, like a feather-weight fighter.
Even in my peak physical condition
I contemplate the absurdity—spending countless hours each day
doing repetitive movements
lifting tons of weight, with no purpose, but to tear my muscles
and burn fat. Doing all that work, for no pay. If people were paid to do it, they would quit,
but it’s a teenage satisfaction, most adults don’t know
because they won’t walk anywhere
or go to the gym.
I remember…
when all I wanted to do was to get a 6-pack and big biceps
and I did
I took those guns for granted
and that washboard, was never used to wash clothes.
My favorite history professor described physical exercise and dieting
as the mortification of the flesh. He was over 300 pounds.
Not me.
There’s a movie I like to watch
where the warden has gotten fat, during his comfortable career
and Kirk Douglas is a 70-year-old inmate
full of life and fit.
He gets out of prison and hooks up with a 30-year-old woman in spandex.
You can be free,
but if you don’t have the body
it doesn’t feel half as good.
It’s no joke:
you are your body
treat it like a temple
and sacrifice your flesh
to the gods of pain
Your brain will work better
Your body will live forever
Women will want you more than ever
You are Atlas,
the god
unwilling to shrug—unless
it’s 30 reps, with 45 pounds in each hand.
Average People
I know average people
and below average people
the averages
are rising and falling
like trees and leaves
Skyscrapers
and atomic bombs
whole cities leveled
without
empathy.
The very below
cry-out for a drink
the basic necessities
because they can’t help themselves.
It’s an average world
with average ambition.
We don’t see the failures
only the winners.
Above average
is one small step
and hardly worth taking.
“You can have a good life”
are the words
we live by
and this mystery
we might have, slips away.
It’s a big fish
or a woman
in a white dress.
It’s a girl
you got close to
but never married.
10 years later, you see her
like it was yesterday.
The average man or woman
doesn’t know each other
Even the famous
are forgotten in a year.
Self-destruction is acceptable
as an average life
nears the curtain.
It’s played out
There is no more time for acting.
trying to be normal
trying to be normal, when you’re not normal
is a horrible thing, and the more you try
the more people suspect
you’re abnormal.
Normality
is a curse, because it doesn’t exist
and most people
are trying not to exist.
If you blend in, like beige paint
the walls close in, and anything you say
neglects your soul
because it comes from a filtered place
full of parasites.
I have this dream
of being larger than life
but life constantly tries to weigh me down
while I fly above the trees
in my hot air balloon.
I understand people,
but I don’t understand them
Why do they choose to live the most basic existence?
If you’re going to do anything worthwhile,
do it with style.
The years break
like waves
on the shore of no-more.
It would be horrible
to live your whole life inside a book
and that is why
a poet must live
on the outside.
A Disclaimer
A disclaimer: I’m not crazy
but can you really trust someone who says, “I’m not crazy”?
I mean, it’s similar to when a woman calls you dangerous
and you say, “I’m not dangerous. No, really—I’m not dangerous!”
And then she pulls-out her pepper spray.
Lately, in my life
I’ve been able to be more like myself
and it frightens some people.
They are worried about where my fictional characters come from
inside, the dark recesses of my imagination
or,
where my strange philosophies come from
that I espouse.
If I say, “No—I only write to entertain, honestly.” Am I being truthful?
Truthfully, I don’t even know—
I love to play with ideas, and ask the same question
over and over again
“Why?”
People, who are afraid of fiction, don’t read
I am afraid of people
who don’t read—
they believe they have all of the answers
and they are quick to censor,
or to take offense.
My critics
come from
under bridges, where they make their homes
and they say, “Who is that, crossing my bridge? You have to pay a toll. You can’t say that. I’m offended.”
It is laughable, really.
My critics
come from churches—
their love is conditional
most of the love, in the world, is conditional.
It is difficult to explain myself in ink
If I defend my good name, and say, “I’m a good guy,” I am being defensive, and I am guilty—certain sure.
I ask myself…
“Why do I need to defend myself?”
Why do I need to belong—
to be accepted—
when all of that has a price?
This world can kill you in a million different ways
the battle is for your mind
your self-expression is gone when you don’t have a self
They will try to take that from you
In my undergraduate abnormal psychology class, the professor told us a story
about an experiment that went bad
when Research Psychologists feigned insanity
to get committed into a psych ward.
Then they started acting normal, and asked the doctors for their release,
but they were suspected of being insane
and they weren’t allowed to go home.
They were trapped
for months
and no amount of explanation
could prove their sanity.
That was the experiment
and it took doctors from the outside
to convince the insane staff
their patients were sane.
This story horrified me
but it gave me an explanation
for how people think:
social conventions
labels
religion
positions
clothing and dress (A patient wears a straight-jacket and a doctor wears a uniform)
these monikers
dictate,
who is credible, and who isn’t
Most people don’t have a clue
like lost detectives
who believe what they are told
who the murderer is
When you think for yourself
and actually find-out
it’s an uncomfortable truth.
People are blind to reality
unable to escape
their prisons
where they hold themselves captive
in their own minds.
(Being) Kind
a spirit of kindness is a blessing
I don’t think people know
how far kindness will go
the spirit is enough
it doesn’t take stuff, to show you care
I feel blessed
to connect with someone
in a meaningful way.
If you want joy
practice kindness
If you want to be loved
practice kindness
Kindness comes from God
and if you don’t know God, it will be difficult to be kind
If your spirit isn’t right
the things you do, will be wrong
any wisdom you have, won’t work
you won’t understand what kindness is
because kindness isn’t a fact you can memorize
You carry it with you
wherever you go
and people will love you
because you have it.
It doesn’t even need to be given
It follows you, like your spirit
There is a time, when a man chooses who he is going to be
I am going to be kind
kindness is a symptom, of a much larger
(Being)
If we become like God
we will have what the world needs
a desired disease
in abundance, that everyone wants to catch
and if we practice kindness to feel good
we won’t have it any longer
than a fleeting feeling.
So, follow God
we’re all imperfect,
and in our worst moments
God’s spirit,
will set us free.
The Answer
My parents don’t have the answer
and my job doesn’t have the answer
and the half-dozen souls I talk to each day, don’t have the answer
and when I find the answer, unexpectedly
after complaining to my parents or moaning about the job while staring at their blank faces
I worship the truth, and wonder
if this makes sense to me, and nothing else does, it must have some value
Why can’t I get that, everywhere else I go?
Women don’t have the answer—though, their youth and beauty should have it
but it’s rare for her to recognize you, like she belongs to you, because she is a part of you
she is not Eve, pulled out of Adam
but a stranger, admiring her profile, in the unrippling reflection of her cell phone, where her pictures are trapped, and her friends can’t escape
and she wonders why, she doesn’t feel loved.
the answer can’t be found in church
nor is it found in nature
it can’t be given, or maintained
it is as ethereal as air
filling your lungs with fullness
in an empty world
the answer is waiting
when you walk into parties, and watch people drugging
they can’t find it
and they brag that they have it
the answer is all you need
among questions that don’t make sense
Why, did my best friend die?
How, do I create my life out of nothing?
If the advertised answers are false
and the prescribed ones
poison the soul
how do we know when we find it, if nobody else will recognize it?
Faith, my friend
can’t be explained, spoken, or heard
because
it’s a silent language.
Scott’s Bird
If there was any consolation to Scott
he had
a secret ambition
that he kept inside his shirt pocket
like a baby bird.
He fed it
worms of disgust
that ate
his rotten days
like corpses
that could no longer smile.
The worms lived in those days
and his baby bird was well fed.
Everybody wants to be a leader
to press the button.
Significance
at the end of a finger
like a sliver
pulled out
and worthless.
Scott decided Not
to be a leader.
There was too much trickery involved
All of them were servants
for the greater good.
That meant
they had to scrub the toilets
and clean the carpets.
If he protested
the actual leader
would say, “Don’t you want to be a leader?”
He was dressed in an expensive suit
and spoke to 500 people.
After his speech
he kept his distance
from the average man
but accepted the praise
of 80% of the women.
Scott fed his bird.
The leaders offered significance
to the crowd like candy
and had 99% of mankind.
The 1%
cannot be controlled.
They are dangerous
because they are useless.
Their significance comes from
strange
misunderstood things.
HR
is suspicious
of this employee
Never Employee of the Month
Always
on time.
Scott’s bird
cannot fly. It’s paralyzed by fear
and taken care-of by Scott. It has no worldly purpose.
“Don’t you believe in the fight?” His neighbor asked him, while
spraying his black BMW
with his green garden hose.
“I guess I do,” Scott said.
“History doesn’t make sense
without leaders, but I hope they both lose.”
The vultures circled overhead
while Scott fed his bird.
It’s easy to die
and difficult to live.
The birds are quiet now
Something has silenced their song
The worms devour the days
while Scott smiles.
Why is he still happy?
Too Late
It’s too late
to write that novel
you were going to write.
It’s too late
to call that girl
you were going to call.
It’s too late
to get in shape
because you are too heavy
to walk.
This may depress you
but it’s a real warning
even if,
it comes too late.
What they don’t tell you
is about the ones who try.
It’s too easy not to try
And too hard
to fail.
Failure,
comes with trying.
Trust me, I know.
I am so used to rejection
I expect it
and to those morons who say, “You get what you expect.”
They don’t have a clue.
They haven’t really tried for what they want to do.
If you get what you want, easily
you should be
suspicious
of that.
It’s probably,
what somebody else wants.
Morality, Fuel, and Courage
1.
Morality
is convenient for most people
It changes when the situation demands it
It allows people to judge other people
and to hide from who they really are.
2.
Fuel
is the basic element for energy.
If a man lacks motivation, he should change from Unleaded to Premium.
My anger fuels me to write. I would rather write than ask for forgiveness.
My curiosity fuels me to write. I would rather be ignorant and curious than have all the answers.
My love fuels me to write. I would rather get my heart broken by loving than to not have the ability to love.
3.
Courage
requires a man to look at an impossible situation and see the possibilities.
If a man lacks courage, nothing will save him—
not intelligence
not morality
not motivation
He will hit a wall and be useless.
The way to have courage is to have uncompromising principles that have more meaning than life itself.
On Writing, Reading, and Creative Insanity
Discipline is necessary to complete a novel
but it must be cultivated
and not controlled, like an unruly child—
it is the love for your craft, and the love for your child
that will mature them into adult fiction.
Emotional obsession is the way of great artists—
You must love your baby,
return to it
feed it
think about it
and even when you aren’t thinking about it,
it crawls and plays in your subconscious mind.
***
Abraham Lincoln cared about his education
more than people with iPhones ever will.
He walked 5 miles to borrow a book.
It took him great effort to read.
Now,
young people have given-up on the printed word,
even when they could press DOWNLOAD.
***
Since I was a boy, I have admired people who were somewhat crazy—
not complete lunatics
who didn’t know where they were at,
but the kind who got a thought in their head
and went ahead
no matter how crazy it sounded to other people—
Whenever I do something like that,
I am always asked (usually, by a woman) “Why did you do that?”
and I answer, “No reason.”
but they don’t believe me
because that would mean I was crazy—
(You have to have a reason for everything, I guess)
What’s crazy
are the lives people live, or don’t live
before they die.
***
Cultivating a creative obsession
is the way I wish to live my life.
I go to church,
and the people who profess to believe in God
look dead
They go through religious rituals like the walking dead
It’s a horrible testimony
They focus on being good—rather than knowing God
I want my eyes to be on fire.
the ghost inside the uncommon man
the uncommon man, is frequently called
common
he is called names, until he doesn’t answer
to them
he is deaf, to the crabs that scream
in boiling water
he isn’t red with anger
he climbs out, because his name
is synonymous with his goal
he has chosen his value
and his value, is in direct proportion to his path
towards salvation
If a man thinks, books are common
he would be correct
Why write one?
For the same reason, that form isn’t function
that a Bible
is more than just stories
If you want to hand somebody
something
don’t give them tired words
I listen to them
to go to sleep at night
there are plenty of those…
No—hand a nobody
power
hand a somebody
salvation
hand hope, to anybody
who reads these words
words matter
because we don’t live without them
we don’t exist
on bread alone
whether it’s a wasted life, or a worthwhile one
depends on the words you tell yourself
If you believe them
it’s
a certain kind of faith
it’s the ghost speaking to you
between possibility
and impossibility
You must answer the call
Don’t hang-up
it’s the conversation you were meant to have
You’ve been waiting your whole life
for the phone to ring.
Who I Want to Be?
A river of black espresso
drips off my bed. I have been waiting
for a long time…
drip
drip
rhymes, won’t get it done
crying, those caffeine tears
into my pillow.
I can’t sleep.
This neighborhood, isn’t bad
even though
magic
might be found
behind the mountains.
Mortgage interest rates increase
The Economy goes bad
A smart man would do something
but I don’t want to evolve.
I’m a stubborn fish
that won’t
walk
for fear of being a fish out-of-water.
My pond gets polluted
the algae die
the water becomes salty
it begins
to dry
I might die
slowly,
in my environment
I don’t want to escape
institutionalized
Writing
for some imaginary hope.
My friend is trying to make life work-out for him
while he, works-out
in the gym, with perfect body
at last
and
30-something women with tattoos
staring at his muscles
with lust
but he is too pure
His plan is too perfect
a 23-year-old girl
a cushy tech job for the government
a reunion with family
a real estate empire.
He has been trying and failing for a year
I am one with the Tao—I don’t believe in trying
Somehow, I see the people with their big houses
large salaries, five kids, short vacations
to Barbados
and lifestyles
that all seem stressful.
Nobody is staring at me
My favorite things are free
good books
good company
and no dirty looks.
If you have to wade through the swamp
to get to green fields,
I don’t know… It might be worth it
But there is always another swamp
to wade through.
Most people are swamp people
They spend half of their time in the swamp
to get to where they want to be.
What if, there is no place to be?
To be?
or not to be?
No time to be, anything.
We are chasing the wind
unable to appreciate
where we are.
Ambition, is the slave-driver of humanity
We drive ourselves
insane
on the road
to endless destinations.
As for me, there is nothing more satisfying
than a good story.
My character
is not where I’m going
it’s who I want to be.
A Cool Sikh
The mad rush of the world
is put on hold,
like an angry subscriber to Cable TV
while the East Indian Sikh
smokes a cigarette,
and pretends to consult customer service.
In 3 minutes, he’s fine
to listen some more,
while the angry customer
is never cool.
The East Indian Smokes Cools
as calm as can be
and addresses the blunt American accent
with English flourishes
mixed with Hindu wisdom.
“My internet is slow!” The American yells.
“Oh—sorry, sir. Let me consult our happiness engineers…”
“Don’t put me on hold, Damn you!”
The Sikh smokes another cigarette, and smiles.
He is a writer, recording his philosophy, in his mind. No words get written down.
He is threatened 30 times a day.
Quality assurance is notified,
and the call is monitored, for a performance feedback review
but all the cable company can hear
are swear words,
coming from the angry American,
and the Sikh keeps his job for one more year, at least.
He is a follower of many traditions
many religions,
much wisdom.
He doesn’t get what he wants
but he has everything else.
He enjoys himself, sitting
in his sweat-soaked chair
in some anonymous cubicle
in the dungeons
of nowhere.
He enjoys the angry Americans.
Perhaps, in a next life, he will be a poet.
There are always angry people,
but the Sikh doesn’t let that
get in the way
of him being cool.
Be Careful Who You Pray For
I prayed for my friend in Florida, yesterday
I think he’s demonically oppressed
And I don’t know if spiritual beings can travel through a computer screen
but it feels like they jumped onto me, today.
They keep jumping up and down
like I’m a trampoline.
They’re tempting me, and trying to wreak havoc on my life
like a fat cubicle worker
who just ate
a big bean burrito.
I prayed for myself
Said the name of Jesus 50 times
and Chanted the Lord’s Prayer.
I don’t think I’m possessed, just oppressed—
although, you might be a better judge of that
than me,
at this time.
Please Pray for me,
but before you do,
Pray for yourself.
What harm is there, in Prayer?
That’s what I said, before I prayed for my friend in Florida
and
It’s been down hill
ever since.
If you hold onto a beautiful thought,
it will wilt
because the emotion behind it
fades.
It must be written down—
that is the only way to capture it
for a brief moment.
There are many Readers and few Writers…
The young man wanted me to give him some advice about writing
he found out, I write every day
“What’s your secret?” He asked. “How do you stay so disciplined?”
“It’s not discipline,” I told him. “It’s love.”
I wake-up at the beginning of the day, and I ask
“What matters more than anything? I’ll do that.” That way, when I’m lying on the pillow at night
I’ll be able to sleep.
Each day, is stolen from us, or it belongs to us
I am a greedy person, so I think philosophically about my possessions.
Earlier,
a young man asked me what he could do to cure his depression
He’s on anti-depressants and he checks-in with his psychiatrist
I told him to focus on the little things
that he can control: vitamins, exercise, sleep, friends, and retention
He told me, he can’t retain, because he has a girlfriend
He knows I don’t have a girlfriend,
and I’m retaining.
It’s a defense mechanism and a blind spot for him
that renders change, impossible.
The other guy in our group told us,
he wasn’t as Godly as we were.
He’s a mediator—
a guy who wants everybody to get along.
Here—I am giving some honest life-changing advice
and they want to agree to disagree
They don’t get it.
If something works, and you do it,
you can’t deny it.
If you offer theoretical wisdom
to somebody
they almost always deny it.
I have quit trying to help other people
I help myself, mostly
because that’s where I have the most influence
I can see the changes—
intimately.
And occasionally, I am called, “Selfish!”
I am the kind of fish who doesn’t swim in schools
I swim in the dark water
I look for men who can give me advice
at the bottom
I take it.
They,
are in the black
they find their way by wisdom
They don’t venture up to the clear water
where the little fishes want to be taught
There are many readers
and few
writers
who do
anything about it.
A Black Swan Flying at Midnight
I have an idea for a self-help book
It will take the timid office worker
and turn him into a superman—based on my own ideas
researching the most deviant amongst us (Cult Leaders, Serial Killers, and Madmen with Vision).
I am not interested in controlling others
I want to control myself.
The answers are in the library.
Recently, I found hidden knowledge
It’s amazing how many people are seeing, but not perceiving
hearing, but not understanding.
I discovered a secret, and it’s changing me
I am becoming more intelligent
I know what you’re thinking… this guy has delusions of grandeur
that’s okay, because, if we don’t believe in ourselves, who else will?
People can’t prophesy a black swan flying at midnight
I have become that graceful creature
from the ugly duckling
I once was.
It’s hard to accept all the wasted time
like building a house without a foundation.
Now, my strength comes out of nowhere
to lift a car off a grandma
or play notes, without my mind
I was lost.
Now,
I am found
in faith.
I see others, and they don’t see me.
I know, the Power
inside me.
Though I am silent, I get stronger
like waves, crashing on top of me
the world only knows a winner
so now, it is time to win.
I don’t care about victory
I want to test my philosophy, to see if it is real
against the fighters
who shout me down.
My voice speaks,
without saying anything.
A man who has escaped hell (and knows it)
will be content
almost anywhere. It’s strange for me to see unhappy people.
I am happy
going to the grocery store
I am happy
because happiness never lasts
I wonder why people insist on being miserable?
They have a thousand reasons why,
but I would rather be insane
than acknowledge their unhappiness.
They don’t have enough deprivation.
If they feel unloved,
they should buy a dog
and take care of it.
If they feel overworked,
they should do hard labor in the sun
with a boss who drinks lemonade
and can’t wait to fire them.
If they complain about their friends,
let them spend time alone.
What makes us happy
is not getting more,
but appreciating less.
When you don’t have anything
to lose—
you can finally start living.
All a writer needs
is his mind
and a lifetime of experience.
He knows he is strong
when he acts that way
and writes it down.
Secret Rooms
I like to keep myself
to myself
This principle, isn’t intended to hide skeletons in my closet
but it is part of my skeleton
part of who I am, that I don’t want other people to see.
We become like the people we admire
but the real mystery, is why we admire them.
I can write something down
from my soul
and they won’t know me—though, they think they do.
I admire the man who does what he wants
He makes up his mind
to do it.
This is why I admire prison
where the guards have a man, locked in a box.
They are paid, to work in prison
and only he, is free.
His captive state, is temporary
This is what I find seductive—
that a man, can decide, his fate.
If they follow him, into his imagination
they will get lost.
It’s a rugged land, with volcanoes
that only he
can negotiate
strewn with flint, and obsidian glass.
He plans
patiently, with his candle
in his castle, with a secret room, behind the bookcase
where his safecracking tools are kept
where he takes his partner,
to steal the truth
and deeper still, is another room.
How many men, die with a secret?
they are the origins of trees
of magic
That’s what this man is
Impossible
He doesn’t negotiate himself
with anyone
There is something there
in the darkness
that wasn’t there
before.
Your life should be like
those last few pages of a good book
that you want to read.
You know it’s going to be over
but you also know, you still have a few pages left
and the ending
is the best part.
Poetry is a lonely by-way along the freeway of humanity.
I’ve been reading many self-help books
lately
I guess, I need help.
I look at my co-workers—
they definitely need help.
They look at me
with sour faces.
I say the right things
at the wrong times.
The principal talks about how to craft an email to build trust—
how not to use trigger words
how to be politically correct.
“Can you build trust with an email?” I asked him.
He didn’t know what to say.
I have always said what’s different
and that’s why I’m a poet,
I guess.
I’m tempted
by glory
but my way, is actually a lonely by-way
along the freeway
of humanity.
I don’t want to live under the bridge
but my kind
usually does.
My brother-in-law
is a lot like me—always reading books
but believing them.
The difference is
I don’t.
The more knowledge I listen to
the more convinced I am
that nobody knows anything.
Why should I care
what they say?
You know when something has the power to change You
when you can’t stop reading it.
How many books have I put down, like a lost cause?
Eventually, snowflakes
get lost
in the blizzard that blinds you.
Beauty is in the simple small things
Not in heaps
of brown snow
along the freeway.
A Lonely Life
A Lonely Life
can be yours
if you choose it
but there will always be those
who know a solitary man when they see him
and they will make it their duty to ensure he is not alone.
I’ve been watching the street from my apartment window
trying to make sense of the traffic down there
It takes great effort to do anything
and most inspiration dies before it is born.
Still, the idea of doing something beyond doing and undoing
captivates me
I’m waiting…
Just waiting
And not avoiding the waiting place
Time runs slow here
I’ve gotten rid of clocks
I listen to the silence and watch the natural light go down
I sleep
I wake
I wait
And the silence is like a symphony
My soul waits for the right sound
And soon I will get things done
But I’m just going to listen a bit longer…
Smoking in Bed, and My Apartment Fire
I incinerate myself
with my own gasoline, with my own match
with my own love, or lack of love.
My fire burns me
like a roasted skeleton, with one arm
reaching into the darkness, for what?
The firefighters will classify me
as smoking in bed
even if,
there’s no cigarette.
All of us are dying to know
what will set us on fire.
We are so wet
no spark, can catch.
damp, dreary, lives
with no hope.
We give fire to our insides, like an infernal suicide
reborn, from the ashes, of our phoenix passion
We can fly, like our sparks, floating to heaven
Hell reaches the gates of the Gods
like smoke
like Samson
crying-out, for one more chance
“I will avenge my enemies!”
If you strip-away
your tender tinder
like the barking mad bark
of a redwood tree
you bleed from the inside-out
a selfish sacrifice of dried blood
You warm the world
with your forest-fire passion, fueled by the ages of slow growth
all of your rings, burned up in an instant
incense
making sense
of our material
existence.
In Search of the Perfect Routine
I believe,
all problems
can be solved
with a perfect routine.
I have been searching for this
like the elixir of life, my whole life.
Carefully planned routines, have flaws
that must be perfected.
Waking up early, is important, but if you don’t have energy
it is the worst time of day
to be awake.
A lack of energy is due to poor diet, not enough exercise, too much exercise, the changing seasons, too much stress
not enough stress, a lack of inspiration (due to not reading, or not living life)
too much inspiration (because of too much reading, or too much life, i.e., too much stress)
the variables for a perfect routine
are like chaos
with exponential moves.
If you can control this game, before it begins
you can control life
like God.
It’s impossible,
but I love to play, probably because
it’s impossible.
The reason for the perfect routine
is satisfaction.
It’s a feeling of deep accomplishment
regardless of what the day tries to do to you.
If you are able to kill time in the evening, laughing at your favorite TV show
for a thrill, because you are really laughing at the day
You Won!
You did what you wanted to do, like your last hour on earth
Sorcery or Magic or Wisdom
is being able to control yourself
and
create the world around you.
What if
you envision, the perfect day
and it happens, just the way, you thought it?
Suddenly,
life is not happening to you.
To be a great sorcerer, is to expand your universe
Begin
at the smallest point of light
in your imagination
Then, you can do anything.
The Power of “No”
Saying “no”
is the most important word—
not because of the bad things we need to avoid
but the control,
“no” gives to us.
I’ve lived my life in the flow
for too long
It’s time to say “no”
It’s impossible to make sense of this life
if we don’t stop.
Trading one problem, for another
one success, for a multitude
trading lives, when none of them belong to us
Saying “no”
is the clearest answer to who we want to be
it gives us clarity—authority—a special sovereignty
a BIG life, controls us, if we can’t say “no”.
“No” gives us our individuality
Detours
don’t leave us feeling lost
if we say “no”.
“No” is a triumph of the human spirit
and the beginning of strength.
Desire,
comes from not being able to say “no”.
“No” is possession, without holding onto anything
It is the final word
the line in the sand
History is built on it
the power
to say “no”.
Baby Philosophy
the sullen babies
look at me
I have escaped their play-pen
they cry, they’re angry
at my
freedom.
It takes talent to write a great line,
but it takes even more grace
to escape, unscathed.
I dance to my own drum
my
baby-drum.
I laugh, a baby-laugh
I coo
they have gone poo
in their diapers.
“You crapped your shorts.”
“No—it was you.”
Baby Philosophy: Be cute, always be cute
and then,
you can be an evil genius.
In the Land of No Man
As I get older, the basic necessities, are appreciated, even more
like being able to lie in a warm bed, and listen to the street sounds outside
I hear yelling and horns honking
neighbors arguing and political demonstrations
I know, I don’t want to be a part of that.
I start my day reading Thoreau or Bukowski, and sometimes Nietzsche
the librarians know me by name
I’ve discovered Sherwood Anderson’s Short Stories
and I’ve enjoyed some D.H. Lawrence. There’s philosophy in literature
lives, writing about other lives.
In the world of work that I go to
everyone is panicked, and they keep playing these games of importance
they pretend to be leaders, but they don’t have anything on the line
they are actors, some of them, master pretenders
and the ones who care, don’t get very far.
Sometimes, I think their lives are a big act
to signal to others they are good. I don’t care to be known as good or bad
What I show the world, is what they believe
and knowing this, makes me sure, that I must know myself—nothing else matters.
People are caught up, like fish, that swim together in schools, like sheep, that don’t know any better
they are dangerous because they aren’t dangerous
they are easily led
to slaughter or to slaughter
without knowing why
because their why
is given to them
like scraps
to pigs.
I read their Facebook conversations
their compliments and distain, for each other
Even through well-articulated words
there is a hollow echo.
I love the sound of my own music
I love the thought, that their misunderstandings, don’t matter
that a purpose beyond their contrived lives, is salvation, that only I can know
It can’t be proven, because it is my own self-belief
I write for me—I try to do it perfectly
It’s the one thing I have—a kind of purity
not done for external gain
but to satisfy my internal thirst.
My vision of paradise, is a home library,
a piano in a cabin, in the deep woods
where only the wind knows my name
I’ll keep living
for myself
telling stories
that I need to tell
while the moon
is waiting
on a frosty night
in the land of no man.
You are wonderful!
There are no excuses not to do.
The whole world
is waiting for you.
All things will happen
the way
they were supposed to.
So,
Be imperfect.
Be unafraid.
Marvelous you.
Why?
Why is it
that when we think we need something more than anything
We don’t get it
And when we’ve learned to live without it
for so long
it shows up
unasked
It’s then
that we question
if it’s even good for us
We quit caring years ago
and we kept on living
for reasons that can’t be won
Still,
we can invite these things inside
and accept them
for what they are
unnecessary
They become the things that others look at
when they see us
and their desires creep in
until they want what we used to want
They’ll strive and stop
but someone
like you or I
might continue
and they’ll forget their yearnings
in time
gaining
a reason why
Hoping to get Struck by Lightning
Dreams
are like clouds, moving across an unfriendly sky
the sun comes out and they vanish
with the first daylight of reality,
into seas of blue and gray and pinks hews.
The dreamer gets rained on, continuously
while practical people open red umbrellas and rush indoors.
The dreamer stands in the cold
because the weather will change
as puffy clouds turn gray
as calm days bluster
as magic booms and lightning drops
like God took a piss
from an oasis
and missed
hitting the artist, instead.
Sometimes,
getting pissed on
by God is good luck.
It’s a continuous stream of gold,
like a rainbow
from a heavenly dick.
You missed getting hit by it
because you ran
inside.
The artist stands on the outside
waiting for the sublime.
I’ll take it,
standing in that pool of piss
Don’t drink the water.
No
Greatness doesn’t last forever,
and
Yes
it only lasts for a moment
like leaves that lose their green
or the sunset that misses the sun
but the gold that glitters in our memories
is still there.
I would rather be a James Bond Villain…
I would rather be a James Bond Villain
than a good father—the villain can do what he wants
the good father can’t get anything right
he dreams of being James Bond, but he gets lost in the city
and he’s afraid to walk across the parking lot at night.
I would rather be a James Bond Villain
he lives on an invisible island, where he conducts science experiments to sterilize men
so that he can impregnate the world with his own creativity—and give birth to offspring
more numerous
than the grains of sand
on his private beach.
Beautiful women are there,
in their underwear, just waiting for him, while he takes his time, makes an espresso shot, and contemplates
the day he defeated James Bond.
I would rather be a James Bond Villain
counting my gold bullets
realizing
there is nobody worth shooting.
If you’ve ever been the bad guy, you’ll know that “good people” are not so good.
I would rather be a James Bond Villain
petting my Persian cat
its fangs protrude like a bat
Then it yawns
and
I yawn,
and type this poem
about being a James Bond Villain
knowing
there are several people
who will read it
and hate my guts.
Too Tired to Pray
One day, I won’t wake up
and that’ll be okay—
all the missed opportunities won’t matter
A strong will isn’t enough.
It takes God, and
God is floating in and out of me
like a feeling, like a magical feeling that doesn’t shine on me very often
and the bad days come, and God is absent
and getting out of bed
where I will die one day, doesn’t make any sense at all
I’m already there
God is nowhere
to be seen.
But then I have another feeling
Is it God?
It’s not me. There’s so much power there,
floating up
out of the depths
of nowhere—
a surge of strange emotions—
dark
superhuman
feelings
like an angry dog
that’s been kicked too many times
like a black dog
full of bad luck, cursed luck
I feed on it
because it’s still luck.
I take care of it
because I am its master.
It thinks I belong to it, but
I’m only waiting for it to come when it’s called
and
the world thinks that makes me weak,
but when the sun vanishes, they are afraid
and when the darkness comes
I live there
waiting for
those strange feelings
to overtake me
to dominate me
so that I can throw-off its snares
and explode with light.
I am the sun,
but I don’t shine for everyone.
My Theory of The Golden Boy
“Do you believe in the golden boy?” I asked my friend.
“What’s that?”
“You know… he goes through high school, getting straight A’s.”
“I got straight A’s,” my friend said.
“And all the girls love him.”
SILENCE.
“And he’s got the golden touch. He makes his first million before the age of 21.”
“Sounds too good to be true. Why is he golden, again?”
“He does everything right. He helps the old lady across the street with her groceries.”
“Is this Karma?”
“It could be. The neighbors love him. He volunteers to help the red cross.”
“You see, that’s how I know your theory is shit. The red cross helped the Nazis escape to Argentina in 1945. They smuggled Hitler out of the Fatherland.”
“Hitler shot himself.”
“No. That’s what he wanted you to think. He grew old, smoking a pipe made out of a fibula.”
“You’re disgusting. I think we got off track—we were talking about the golden boy. He’s got blonde hair, blue eyes, a bronze chest, and a white smile.”
“So, he’s actually golden? From the sun?”
“Yes. And he’s MVP of his basketball team and golf team.”
“Wait. Weren’t you the MVP?”
“Yes.”
“And you got straight A’s?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re declaring yourself to be the golden boy?”
“I was, for a moment, but now look at me.” I showed him my white pasty chest.
“Ugh.”
“I lost the magic—the Midas touch.”
“How do you get it back?”
“Well… that brings me back to my theory.”
“What’s your theory?”
“If you do everything right, your life falls into place like a perfect puzzle. Most people have several missing pieces, and their lives don’t come together.”
“Wow, what a great metaphor.”
“I think so.”
“How does a person become perfect?”
“They submit to God and say ‘no’ to the world.
“And they can become the golden boy?”
“Sure.”
“How long does it take to get a fresh coat of paint?”
“3 months.”
“And you came up with this on your own?”
“Yeah.”
“You have brain damage. Are you sure you weren’t exposed to lead, instead?”
“I’ve been having memory problems.”
“Well… that’s what I thought. Your skin is turning gray.”
Aphorisms on Ambition
1.
there is no better feeling
than feasting
on your own words
as they come out of your mouth.
2.
Genius might be the ability
to use grains of sand
efficiently,
like lying on a beach.
3.
Ambition
gets in the way of love
Love
leads you to ambition.
4.
It can be difficult to want something bad enough.
Wishes are like Butterflies
that float around.
Desires are like Deer
that run away.
Ambition doesn’t know what it wants
A lion is willing to kill anything,
if it’s hungry enough.
5.
If a man plots out his life
and he plots out his stories
and he plots out his process
he is unstoppable.
6.
Spend enough time alone
and you see things
differently.
What isn’t clear, becomes obvious.
7.
It feels good
to walk confidently
in your own direction.
A Pinata Poem
“Any day above ground
is
a
good
day,”
I heard an old man say,
but can you walk into the warm sun like a cool cat
or dance to Mexico wearing a sombrero
or fly above the clouds in a biplane that leaks oil
or listen to a comedian who isn’t funny
or swim with sharks
or hold a city hostage
or eat pizza and not gain any weight
or learn something new from a teacher who doesn’t know anything at all?
Perhaps these tasks
are frivolous,
like a Pinata
with its sweet brains
scattered all over the floor.
Murder is a young man’s game
like baseball
and
these old men don’t understand what might’ve been
if they had only taken a shot and made a killing.
Ignorance is a hollow head, and this is nature’s way
of allowing
losers to rest in peace
without regret.
Rings Grow on Trees
Sometimes luck finds us, and the best kind finds us when we are young.
After reading Treasure Island, I had a habit of rowing to small islands and digging big holes for treasure; just because I hadn’t found any yet, didn’t mean it wasn’t there. It’s not about the treasure, but about the hunt; finding a map in an old book and understanding the riddles that can take you on an adventure. Strangely, if you think this way, treasure comes to you in different ways. And this is the story of one of the treasures I found without looking for it.
I was 12 years old, and many believe this is when boys become men, but rather than competing with my peers, which always left a winner and several losers, I began to have faith in foolish things. I didn’t have much choice after the events of that summer and every summer after it.
I loved to climb trees because the woods looked different up there. People walked under them and didn’t see me. It was a different world, blue skies, green leaves, and time slowed down. Sometimes, I took a book and read, but this one particular day, I decided to climb the tallest tree in the forest.
The wind blew hard, the higher up I got, and at a certain point I realized that if I fell, I was going to break more than just my arm. I was so high, that the other trees looked small. In the last crook, between two branches, at the very top was a patch of moss. I don’t know if it was faith or something foolish, but I reached my hand up, expecting to find something there, and sure enough, I felt cold metal. It was a ring.
I stared at it in the sunlight and I knew it was special, even as the day began to fade. I put it in my pocket and then realized I had to climb down. I had a mild fear of heights and after being terrified of falling several times, I finally made it to the ground. The solid earth never felt better and I walked home by way of the river. I put the ring on my dresser and watched it at night, and I couldn’t believe it was there in the morning.
Later that afternoon, my best friend invited me to the county fair and before I left, I decided to take my ring. I looked like I was married, but nobody noticed. A carnie was taking kids’ money, left and right. “Give me a dollar and make ten,” he said. My friend gave him a dollar and he shuffled it with his cups. “Which cup has the money?” He asked.
“That one,” my friend said.
“I’m sorry, but you guessed wrong.” His voice had an annoying quality and the sides of his mouth, a spiritual sickness; they curled in an unpleasant way, even when he won, maybe especially when he won.
“I’d like to have a go,” I said.
“Okay, but nobody beats this shuffle.”
He twisted the cups and then shifted them and then double shifted them again. I knew where the money was, but when I reached out for the cup, I felt pain in my finger. It was my ring finger and maybe the ring knew better than I did. I withdrew my hand and as I reach for the cups again, I felt a warm tingling sensation.
“It’s the one in the middle,” I said.
“Impossible. Nobody beats that shuffle. 100 dollars says you can’t do it again.”
“Deal.”
My friend’s mom got really excited as he twisted and shuffled the cups in the most convoluted way. He picked them up and put them down. He showed me where the money was and then made it disappear again. Then I reached for the cup where I thought the money was, and again, the pain was excruciating.
“Wait, what are you doing?” He asked.
I reached out and felt the same tingling sensation. “It’s the cup to the far left,” I pointed.
“How did you know that?” He asked.
“I guess I have faith in foolish things,” I said.
THE END
I’m not a Male Feminist
I watch the beauties
walking
through the grocery store
sitting
in quiet coffee shops
alone.
I know their names
I am a dismissive man
“Do you ever talk to them?” My friend asks.
“No, and I don’t need to.”
A face tells me more than a thousand truthful words
Words are deceptive, tools invented for lying
Some men, wait forever, to know a girl
but by then, she might as well, represent all women
time is an investment, usually spent, unwisely
What is a man to do, when he finds out her words are empty?
Feminine statues are buried under layers of hurt
I met a woman once
who I tried to talk to
but it didn’t work
there was adventure in her smile
fire, flowing up, from somewhere
Feminism is a lie
women who believe in it, need it
without it, they have no power
Feminism is the mob
the strong woman
does not join movements
she moves
Men can’t help themselves, but watch her
Few try to talk to her
she’s intimidating
I like that
My friend told me, I don’t want a strong woman
I want a sweet woman, a submissive woman, a traditional… fill in the blank.
We diverge on this point
I want a confident woman
And I’m not a male feminist.
Mr. Bamford Stares at the Wall
there was this hole
in an old
abandoned building
where Mr. Bamford used to sit.
We would look through that hole, into his dingy apartment.
I was in 3rd grade
and
Matt was in 2nd.
“Why do you think he just sits there?” I asked.
“I don’t know why,” Matt said.
Mr. Bamford was tall
He sat in a leather La-Z-Boy
with the yellow stuffing coming out.
It was a wide-open room, like a barn, with the sunlight shining through two open windows near the roof.
We could see the back of his bald head, as he stared at the opposite wall.
There was a small table near his chair, and a brown beer bottle standing erect.
the private school owned the building
but didn’t have a use for it.
Mr. Bamford came and went
in his little white pickup truck,
and I always wondered why
he chose to live like that.
he wasn’t married
he hardly worked
he lived for free
in that big building
and didn’t talk to anybody.
It wasn’t until much later
that I understood why.
Dr. Halifax and His Love for Ice Cream
I went for drinks with my professor. He was interesting, in a boorish sort of way. His office was no bigger than a closet, and in his plywood cabinets, he had great books, stuffed, every which way, with notes, unceremoniously stuck between the gold pages.
He poured us ginger ales, mixed with hard liquor. If I was a female, I might’ve been tempted to think Dr. Halifax put something in my drink, due to his aura of perversion. One gets this way from too much female companionship or too little—I suspected Halifax had too little, but I didn’t want to make him self-conscious, so I didn’t say anything.
What Halifax had was an unarticulated desire—beyond the quest for knowledge. Most people who search for this, blow their brains out, but Halifax hadn’t yet and that’s what drew me to him. He had that twitch, like suicide could descend on him, at any moment, like Tourette’s, and he would see a frog, and say…
Well, no need to be profane.
“Dr. Halifax, why do you teach in a university?”
“To hear myself talk—why else?”
“Isn’t that a waste?”
“Yes. I’ve read more books than I care to read—and they all point to the same garbage that doesn’t explain the garbage.”
“Such as…?”
“That we are here for a reason. I can’t identify one, outside of the absurd.”
“And yet, there are men who do great things.”
“Yes—this is true—We call them outliers, but they’re still within the range of probabilities.”
“It’s impossible to remove yourself from statistics.”
“Not quite.” Halifax pulled out his gun. “I don’t do it because I like to eat ice cream.”
“Besides death—what would allow someone to stand on the outside?”
“To become, not quite human.”
“You mean, like a spiritual being.”
“No—more like a magician. The magician is a man, who transcends death.”
“How does he do that?”
“Through language—He writes his name into history and becomes immortal. Perhaps, immortality lies beyond words, but I haven’t figured that one out yet.”
“What is a man?”
“A mortal.”
“What is a woman?”
“A pain in the neck.”
“What would you do if you could live forever?”
“Eat more ice cream. I’m going to Baskin Robbins. We can continue our intellectual conversation over 31 flavors.”
“Maybe words cloud the simplicity of life,” I said.
“You’re wiser than you look.”
The End
Cinderella Man
My ambition is the summer sun
and the luck of the leprechauns.
My ambition is a gothic house
full of books.
One,
opens a door.
My ambition is a beautiful woman
with a laugh, like silver and gold.
My ambition
is to do
what I never thought I could do
Mountains, Memories, and Miracles
that make me a man.
My ambition
is to achieve my destiny.
Many, don’t believe they have one.
My ambition is to find the magic in music
the color of spring
the reality
right beneath the surface
of our grim grey monochrome existence.
My ambition is to find the land of the fairies
and not the one on capitol hill.
There are worlds we don’t know about
and
I want to discover them.
My ambition is to transform into an artist
from that slow spongy caterpillar
that eats leaves, gets fat, and goes into his cocoon.
My ambition is to break out
and fly.
When there was nothing in my life, but flowers and time and sun
I felt warm, because
each new day held my ambition
like morning dew
on lucky leaves
and I watched the sun, descending slowly into the sky
through the deep green woods.
I wouldn’t trade that time
for city buildings
meetings, suits, or clocks.
Those kinds of things
make me appreciate my ambition:
a quiet room
where I can type
and listen
to the street sounds, outside
to the people
to the world, full of ambition
and so am I,
but
I just hope
I make it home
before midnight.
I Can Do Anything
from Orion’s bow
I watch the golden day
like a cheetah on the savannah
running fast
I don’t regret the past
I don’t regret my many selves
stacked and spliced
like cards
shuffling, into, the next hand
to predict
a most interesting future
the city, from far away, is beautiful
and the world, from outer space, is calm
wars and waves, go unseen
like a silent killer
like a quiet death
like an invisible agony
like a rogue, out of nowhere
we wonder at the days, that we lived
thoughts of who we are
among women, at the lake
those beautiful bathing suits
wrinkling stripes and polka-dots
inching into curves, like shoe strings
it’s good to be a man
I could fuck this angry world
but I watch it, instead
and my eyes see more
than my body will ever feel
the weakness in me
will be overcome, with a pure spirit
I long to laugh, with a light heart
free, of all dark feelings
just a smile
and my belief
I can do anything.
When the White Man Stands His Ground
Espresso shots
then gun shots, outside my window
I think this once safe neighborhood
is beginning to get interesting.
I pick a quiet place to type
and then the police come.
I have heard countless black people screaming, “White Flight! White Flight!”
But I’m not going anywhere.
I am too interested in violence, race relations, radicals, and people of all colors
who hate.
I see beauty, in a murderous German Shepherd
and when the chips are down
and the bombs drop—
we will see who people really are
the moralizers will be murderers
quiet thinkers, will get out of town
I will be in town, still
because I have a death wish
It’s the Hemingway phenomenon:
do what might kill you, and you can grab genius by the balls
it comes, when you don’t try
like looking at a woman, in a flower dress, on Sunday.
It’s totally different
when your eyes are prepared for lust—
it takes more than flesh
to penetrate
the myopic gaze of a pervert.
Unsuspecting beauty, draped in purity
is more of a turn-on
than the woman who practically shows you, her junk
and that’s what it is
there’s nothing there
but hook-ups
that do far worse to a man, than if he put his dick in an electrical outlet.
The man who does—
does it again, and again
and the woman, doesn’t power him.
She drains him of all his self-respect.
The espresso tastes good right now
as I think of my interest in strange people
They all require a personal philosophy
that’s different from the propaganda
most of us believe.
Like,
the killer who goes about his day
knowing, the police will kick-in his door, someday.
Men have turned themselves in
for lesser crimes
because they couldn’t take
the anxiety.
What gives a guy his balls,
to do what he wants?
There is a man who could write the next great American novel
but he chooses to lay down the line,
honestly.
He doesn’t experience great things to put into a great novel
so he writes about the stink
coming from his soul.
I’m not going to run from who I am
even when it hurts.
I’m going to stand
my ground
until the flood waters come
under a sea of disappointments
where the crabs pluck off my toes
one by one
and the oysters make pearls from my pain.
Nobody can hear my suffering
as the fish nibble away
at my tender white corpse
where the seaweed sucks me down
and the clown fish laugh.
We Keep Looking in a Maze of Our Own Wandering
The library was old,
but they had made it new.
It didn’t look better,
but it was bigger.
It was wide open,
and see-through.
Patrons mostly sat at computers.
They looked for jobs,
or played video games.
Attractive 20 somethings sat by the windows on the south end, overlooking the road.
The old and infirmed and unwanted spent time in the north.
They talked about scotch and the news.
The whole place was segregated by something I couldn’t understand.
Society.
I had time to kill;
the days were too long.
I was so desperate for something I couldn’t define or escape from.
Mostly, I worked the job and wished to be somewhere else,
but when the job ended, I didn’t want to go anywhere.
I walked the rows of books and opened them.
Nothing was new.
I looked at the people.
Most of them wanted something.
I wanted something.
Later,
I went to a party where they were trying to have fun.
They drank,
but the whole experience was very sobering.
The answers are just not there
and we keep looking in a maze of our own wandering.
be a student, MAN
Life has something to teach you
and if it warps you
you’re probably a good student
most students don’t learn
they hate the school of life
they hate the idea that there might be patterns
Patterns never make a perfect picture
they create this haze of incongruity
a poor patchwork quilt that somebody forgot to finish
I hate teaching
but I love being a student
why?
because teaching rarely offers any insights
you’re so busy talking
and communicating
that the part of the mind responsible for survival
shuts off
I’m a survivor
I always have been
I am searching for a way to keep my body alive
my spirit alive
my mind working
so that it can solve the problems before they happen
so that I can stay out of the traps
so I know how to respond to stress
and religious doctrines
and 9 to 5 jobs
and parents
and siblings
and women
and bosses
and disagreeable coworkers who have boring lives punctuated by question marks and colons
where their crap pours out onto other people
I have found a way of looking at life
no longer seduced by honey
because it’s sticky
and it belongs to insects that sting
I have been careful in my decisions
and I usually cut-off every option
because I realize it’s almost all bad
for me
Few people realize the “for me,” part
they think… because other people are doing it
they should do it
what morons
how miserable they must be
I can see a problem a mile away
but they’re usually within 6 feet
I don’t hate humanity
I just keep my respectful distance
I even give to charity
but I never give a charity organization my contact information
Basically, the more you can do without
and live your life
the better chance you have of being happy
let the woman who collects problems, the way she collects kids, get the promotion, and advance
into the miserable swamp of prestige
How will you account for your life and the time you wasted?
When someone suggests you need more
walk the other way
In fact,
the best philosophy a person can have
is to walk the other way
walk in the opposite direction of the crowds
pay attention to the stragglers
listen to them
ask them questions
they will most likely be subnormal
but a few of them might have something to say
be a student, MAN
be a student
never be a teacher
I know these two roles seem the same
but there’s a big difference
learn it
never stop learning it
it will save your life
and you will have a life
that’s all your own.
Know your life
while you have it
cherish it
don’t listen to anybody who says you shouldn’t
they don’t have a life
it belongs to someone else
it belongs to the world
YOU
BELONG
TO
YOURSELF.
Aphorisms on Living Without Regrets
1.
Maybe, the best thing about writing
is doing it.
2.
Ambition, is striving after something
that isn’t there.
3.
If you really want to do something, you will.
4.
I appreciate people more
when they don’t laugh at my jokes—they’re unpredictable.
5.
People should be free to do whatever they want—especially, to unleash joy at random times.
6.
Rejection is beautiful because I know somebody is being honest with me.
7.
How we feel about something
is largely to do with how we interpret it. This has its limits though.
When they’re whipping me
I can get pleasure from it
but I prefer not to associate with sadists.
8.
People hate to be hated, but some people love it.
9.
I think “Being Nice” has much to do with wanting to avoid trouble.
10.
If you don’t care what people think, they will show you that they care.
11.
People hate it when they think they have you figured-out, but then they realize
they spent years miscalculating.
12.
Saving money is the same as saving potential. People die with money in their bank accounts.
13.
Anything can happen, at any time. Accepting this, and preferring this, is the first step to freedom.
14.
People feel trapped because the alternatives to being free are too painful.
15.
I have never felt better than when I walked away from things that I tolerated for too long.
Pretend Today
As kids
we pretend to be superheroes
and when we get older
we pretend to be ordinary
Why?
Who told us to act that way?
It might have been parents, teachers, and bosses
They pretend so much
they don’t know who they are
but they think they do
and that’s all that matters
We have to become things
in life
Education and Work
mold us
into necessary actors
and the script
doesn’t serve us
It was written by people
without imagination
who hate the individual,
condemning unscripted footsteps.
If you can survive
without direction
you can pretend to be anybody
and the more often you act a certain way
you become what you want to be
We never are anything
We only pretend to be
So, why not pretend
today
Sluff off the poisonous skin
of mediocrity
and become
your superhero.
My Elevator Rising
My elevator rising
from urine-soaked streets
from crowds that don’t listen
from the lost
clinging to their mothers
asking, “why was I born?”
cables rusty,
splintering
threatening to drop
the next oversized ego
and there is only enough space
for one wanting
promotion
willing
to suffocate
to see the skyline
wanting to know
penthouse platitudes
of supermen
My elevator rising
grinding steel against steel
resisting the weight
of my fragile ego
threatening to break
Most who take this suicide ride
get stuck
between 3 and 4
as the melancholy mechanisms tighten
friends, disbelief and empathy
parked in the basement
as the sky lift stops
regrets set in
I could have been walking in the streets, among people, sharing penthouse dreams
but I got into this box
where I can’t breathe
no servicemen
no one listening
just a skeleton in a sauna
praying…
for My Elevator Rising
CLUNKING
squealing,
pealing sounds of cable
as my momentum breaks the trap of mediocrity
like lightening thundering up from the depths of nowhere
charging to heaven
without breaks
leaving my heart behind
feelings that made me human
now I’m screaming and I can’t hear
because of my elevator rising
like a jet engine
burning
as I reach the top
seeing the people and the places down there
friends I had and the many friendless faces
this view is something to see
the risen are dead
and I’m the only one here
while I write this poem from the penthouse
philosophizing.
Aphorisms on Juggling, and NOT Dropping the Ball
1.
I only have simple words
for a simple life.
What happens when it gets complicated?
2.
I imagine
the leprechauns are on my side,
but magic is a fickle friend.
3.
I end-up in social situations
where I am supposed to say the right things
but I say the wrong things,
again
and again
because they sound better.
4.
I don’t know why, but women
usually women (probably because I am around them more often than men)
want to bring me back to earth.
I don’t say where I am
but they know
and they don’t like it.
5.
It’s the subtle things that kill you—
a look, a casual remark,
a day, when the sun goes down,
and no gold is found.
6.
A man ought to have a purpose
a dream
a willingness, to risk it all.
7.
If people don’t see my greatness
but I do
and I walk in the footsteps of the imaginary man
I will find him.
8.
Spend enough time in the wrong place
and you will know, instantly
where the right one is
when you find it.
9.
If a meeting has no agenda,
people talk about their own agenda
and it’s always
how much they know
and how great they are—
a total bore.
My Place
There are places that I go
that are special only to me.
I know, because I’ve brought friends there
and they always tell me, “No, it’s not that great.”
Everybody has a boundary
A place where things become less familiar.
When you reach it
you don’t quite know where to go.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the same place
even when I’ve had chances to leave.
I’ll force myself to visit other places
but I usually can’t wait to get back home.
The strip of land that belongs to me is four miles wide.
It extends from one library to the other.
There is a bike trail that connects them and a river that flows past my house.
The golf course it full of memories. It runs next to the highway.
I see the highway man looking for golf balls. And I wonder about him.
There are so many people like that
who I know, but I don’t know.
And perhaps, it is better that way.
I admire the people…
I admire the people
who don’t do anything
it seems that people are
doing…doing…doing
but much of what they do
is stupid
don’t get me wrong
some of it matters…
and you always know when you’ve exerted yourself
in the right way
it’s when you’ve helped someone
who needed it
but there are also annoying people who help others
who don’t need it
Most of the time
you’re killing yourself
slowly
until there’s no life left
it takes courage
not to do anything
to recognize the hopelessness
of it all
if you wait, and nothing happens
there might be some truth in that
it’s so easy to do what others do
and get caught up in their games
they can’t win
and you can’t win
You can spend decades
paying off a house
or never paying it off
the end is approaching
sooner than you think
Why not think
rather than do?
you might not do anything
you might be a loser
in a game
they say, “you have to play.”
but your identity isn’t in doing
it’s the one
you give yourself.
The Banality of Evil
I remember
the day I got hired
at my first government job, and I thought
my dreams are average now.
I’ll need to find an average woman
move into an average house
buy an average car
and be thankful
that my average life
is far better
than those bombed-out houses
in the Soviet Block
maintained
by
big Russian women who always carry meat cleavers on their person in case of rape.
Most of them
don’t have cars
let alone, three meals a day.
I might meet my future wife, someday
and say, “My life is average. My dreams are dead. Would you like to be a part of that?”
It won’t work, even if she’s average
and that’s why
I write.
A hopeless depression locked me in
until I discovered the door to dreams.
It’s between my eyes.
I went to work
and pretended to be dull
like a paper-pushing pencil
that couldn’t write.
I fit right in
with the bald psychologist
with three white hairs
growing out of his chin.
He also played golf.
I learned how to act
like a bureaucrat. It’s easy
Just say, “Yes!”
all the time.
Now I understand the banality of evil
Have I become like Adolf Eichmann?
But I don’t think he was a golfer or a writer,
so I feel much better about myself.
The Laughing Lighthouse
As beauty fades
and we no longer have the desire to repent
and the places we knew
close
and the people who smiled at us
die
and the shadows of ourselves
no longer show up
under the sun
lost photographs
and memories
are all that we have left
and I don’t know about you
but I will walk
where I have always been
and do
what I have always done
unapologetic
for what little time
I have left
Big waves
bigger than me
wash out
to a horizon
where a lighthouse
looks at time
with a twinkle in her eye
and fire in her belly
laughing at a good life
where the hills of Catalina
and the harbors there
hold heaven in their hands
before natural rhythms
are released
under a lonely moon
and we are carried
to the deep.
Life, Every Five Minutes, Or Death.
there was the thing in the sky
that was going to kill us
a great glowing rock
knocked into our orbit
by God’s pool cue—
a random accident
a fateful
conclusion.
the scientists didn’t know if it would kill all life on earth
but it was going to make it difficult to breathe
Anyhow,
plants in caves
might live
and bats, too
if enough insects survived
but you and me
forget it
the president was safe
and his family
a few super-models who couldn’t think very good
they would maintain the symmetrical beauty of the species
intelligence is undesirable
in men
and women
the more intelligent you are
the less likely you will reproduce
I know people believe the opposite is true
but intelligent folks
think things through
sex
is not a forgone conclusion
but a potential problem
that must be solved
there are many unpredictable problems
that could arise from it
like a chain reaction explosion
that creates life
and ends it
the species is selfish
and wants to reproduce
competitive
in nature
running the race
of the human race
faster.
Intelligence
runs slowest of all
because it thinks too much.
You start thinking about your body
and how it makes you a slave.
Most people don’t like intelligence, especially the opposite sex
because they don’t understand it
and people hate
what they don’t understand
they are pleasantly oblivious
to their ignorance
and they think they know everything
or at least,
everything
worth knowing.
So, beauty counts
and nothing would be beautiful
in a couple of days.
The houses that all looked the same
with the people dressed the same
would be covered in dust
like a dirty snow-globe
or a bunch of communists
out of Thomas Moore’s Utopia.
My buddy Scotty was trying to get laid
but even with 36 hours left
no girl wanted to sleep with him
there was no reason
because there was no long-term plan
no long-term future
Scotty was a data-analyst and he had lots of money
but that didn’t matter
Even the prostitutes wouldn’t accept money for sex
they had enough cash to witness the end of the world.
Solar eclipse freaks
were going to Nevada
to witness the impact.
I was stuck at home
with my ailing mother
who frequently complained of her memory loss
it started when I was in 5th grade, and 30 years later, it was true
she only remembered stuff from 20 years ago, and the last five minutes
so, she kept asking me about the object in the sky
and I had to explain to her that we were all going to die
and she kept saying, “It’s beautiful. Oh, God is wonderful to give us something so beautiful to see.”
“But it’s going to kill us, mom.”
“What is?”
“The asteroid.”
But by the time it registered that she was going to die
she forgot all about it
and I decided to start smoking
not that I thought it would help
but that all my favorite authors smoked
and I wanted to feel like them
but it was terrible
It made me realize
the world is full of things that won’t be missed
it takes something special
to have an impact
What most people reach for
is only a novelty.
I watched the stars
with the big one in the sky—
not much is better
on a black night.
You realize
you have to make the journey
alone.
Why is Everything So Difficult?
It rains, when I don’t want it to
and there are no red umbrellas,
to keep the rain off
Only clouds
smiling at me, like shifting monsters
that blot out the sun
with their bad moods and angry comedy.
Why can’t I call my insurance man and get a cheap policy?
Instead, I get a bitchy woman, who tells me, “We don’t do that.”
It can’t be this hard
to get what I need, in modern society.
If I lived in the wild,
I would coat myself with honey
and wait for the Grizzly Bears.
Black and White Thinking
I know people of a higher quality of mind disparage black and white thinking, but it has its uses. If we always operate in the gray and refuse to draw any lines, it becomes difficult to define boundaries around ideas and things. Making distinctions is discouraged because they limit possibilities and creative problem solving; however, they can also bring order and efficiency to any situation. We are discouraged to think or speak with absolutes because it is thought that absolutes do not reflect reality, but someone who genuinely believes in absolutes will do things differently than someone who thinks nothing has finality or purpose.
I would venture to guess that all great artists, philosophers, and scientists who have contributed to the canon of human knowledge were striving for some form of perfection. If they were unable to draw thick lines, clear distinctions, and trust their observations; they would not have gone all the way. It is against the grain of the human psyche to care about things that cannot be seen or understood.
There are a lot of you who are working in the gray. There is no finished product and anything that is created will quickly disappear. You may be able to measure the worth of something based on the judgement of time. If a well-defined idea sticks around, it probably speaks to generations. It is absolute. There is no doubt that people respond to it.
Certainty and stability bring peace into a man’s life and pressure and pain have the tendency to clarify. If a man has endured continual hardship and avoided the traps of life, I will show you someone who can have genuine peace. I walked by the community park this morning and saw two things that inspired these thoughts. One was an old man walking his dog alone. He and his dog smiled at me when I passed by. I kept walking and reached the play park. There were 16 mothers with crying screaming babies in strollers talking to each other. Half of them were staring at their smart phones with wrinkled expressions of stress. My advice to any man is to never be deceived by the gray; it helps to observe reality.
Convince Me
Why is it that the human race always tries to convince me?
Drive this car
like me
like her
buy this house
care what I have to say
politics
“you’re either for us or against us.”
“I am for myself.”
“you are so selfish,” they might say
for the most part, I just want to be left alone
but being alone
is not okay
they don’t understand it
not knowing
the pleasures of solitude
I could spend my whole life
alone
by a big blue lake
it’s not a waste
and
the spiritually sick
talk about empathy
constantly
or their love for their fellow man
and don’t forget women
to say “man”
is offensive
Everything about me
is wrong
and everything about them
is right
Empathy?
their vacations are captured
in pictures
their lives
held prisoner
in photographs
documented
for other people to see
while I go on living
without traces
unseen
in the rich gold and orange fiery blackness
of my summer sunset.
Salvation Sky
This is where I get off
I won’t become what the world wants me to be
What’s safe,
is gone
2 AM silence
speaks to me
like darkness before the dawn
before the man becomes a man
and everything I am
is forgotten.
I pursue things I can’t see
and fall in love
with ethereal air
Society labels me
and I just don’t care
I won’t live
where I belong
I won’t do
for the greater good
I walk alone
into the wild
of my heart
feeling
shifting passions there
dangerous
mixing
mysterious
emotions
like uncharted wilderness
god help me
I’ll walk out
into the wide-open world
though,
I prefer the ocean deep
where waves whisper
to me
so distant
until a word
compels my body
breaking through the surface
to my salvation sky.
On My Love of Learning from Great Men
I find that I can only fully appreciate the day when I lie in bed and read. I know the time is well-spent when I haven’t been traveling or participating in useless conversations or sorry debates on topics that I don’t care about. I wonder about the usefulness of knowledge. Much of the life lessons from history repeat themselves.
Nietzsche
As Nietzsche put it: A professional man becomes ill and bed-ridden, and during that time, he realizes that he has become sick of his career. It was a sickness he wasn’t aware of, until he became sick. Being perpetually busy is a sickness that infects most professional people.
Thoreau
Thoreau said: that a man puts his head down and goes about his work, and in his later years, he only realizes that he wasted his life. He should write poetry, if he wants to be a poet. There are many men who want to be poets or artists, but they save-up those desires for a later day that never arrives.
Ray Bradbury
There is a Twilight Zone episode about a man who loves to read, but never has enough time, and he gets locked in a library during an apocalyptic event, and steps on his glasses. We are all stepping on our metaphorical glasses when we don’t read. As Ray Bradbury put it: there are books out there, but do people read them? We have a command of the English language, but we don’t use it. What good are home libraries, if we don’t pull those books off the shelves and read them?
Hannibal
Great men, like Hannibal, exercised strategy, coupled with planning, and decisive quick action. He took his 37 war elephants, and roughly 60,000 infantry/cavalry through Gaul (which is modern-day France) and fought his way to the Alps. They were covered in snow and avalanches during the month of September, and he crossed anyway.
When he arrived in Rome, more than half of his forces had perished, and he went on to kill the Romans.
When Hannibal was a 9-year-old boy, his father was going-off to fight, and he wanted to come along. His father told him that he was too young, but Hannibal insisted. So, his father grabbed him and took him to the temple of Baal, and picked him up, as if to throw him into the flames as a human sacrifice.
“Do you really want to kill Romans?” He asked his son.
“Yes father, I do.”
“Then promise me that you will fight the Romans for the rest of your life.”
Hannibal promised, and his decision became his destiny.
Contend to Find Contentment
Contend
to find contentment
where others
want control
Turn circles
in your center
and don’t challenge straight lines
Dance differently
than linear types
and find freedom in things that are free
library books
and company
You can
live without
and have within
Take pride in the journey
You are a contender of contentment
a chameleon of change
enjoy your colors
while you have them
Wave them brightly
courageous
soul.
Changing Lanes
Traffic washes around you
rain drops pelt your windshield
the radio man chatters
as you shift into next gear
checking your rearview mirror
and gunning the gas for the opening
Take life from here
one car at a time
down dark tunnels
across windy bridges
through gas-dry deserts
and into dead valleys
where you lie
in a soft bed
staring at blank walls
waiting for the endless sky
to unfold.
Love and Writing
might be the same thing.
On Love
I’m in Love with Nancy Drew
Nancy Drew laughs in the sun because I just bought her a bicycle.
We walk down sidewalks together.
I need to write my novel, but it’s so much more fun
to solve mysteries with Nancy Drew.
Cats Have Opinions
I get confused. Fiancé or Feline? I pet her.
She purrrs. Her tail bounces back and forth
in her hot yoga pants. I choose my words
carefully.
There’s a way to talk to a cat without getting scratched.
“Meow,” I say.
“Hissss,” she comes back.
“I guess,
I said the wrong thing?”
“You did! Stop talking about work!”
“Oh—what should we talk about?”
“Us.”
We go for a walk.
A man who takes his cat for a walk is either a serial killer
or a Nutter Butter.
People give me a wide birth
while I carry-on a conversation with my cat.
She loves me
as long as I feed her,
pet her,
and exercise her
in the right ways.
We have an understanding.
Why didn’t I get a dog?
They are too easy to train.
Cats,
have opinions.
A Homo Poem / Meaning: A Same Poem
I am left here
alone again
with my thoughts
only my thoughts
and what could be more perfect than that?
The fear of the mounting forces against me
of God
and the endless war
is no more
in this tiny room
where the magic happens.
I have pursued love
my whole life
but what I love
and how I love
and with whom I love
is criticized.
I laugh at their glazed faces
like donuts
that all look the same.
I laugh at my own humor
thankful
that I have found joy.
I laugh
at the matchless grace of who I am.
If there wasn’t sorrow
or meanness
soaring above
naked November trees
I wouldn’t know
my spring leaves.
I laugh with nature
where the bubbling brook doesn’t judge me and green fields welcome me
where mountains are my mirrors and woods are my home.
Baby, unfortunately, I write Poetry
The men on the golf course shout, “Hey—I saw you out here last Friday.”
“Yeah—” I said. “This is my cardio.”
“I bet that’s what you tell your wife.”
“That’s a good one.” I’m not married, but I have learned not to tell the men on the golf course I’m still single.
You see, there are things that you just don’t say
like, I dropped out of high school
or, I don’t have any parents
or, I’m unemployed. There’s shame in that, but only if, you believe it.
I just let them go ahead and think, what they think
that I’m a well-adjusted young man
and I am
so, no need to mess with their mathematical equations
for normalcy. I’m 35, and the women I have known, haven’t been right
or, I haven’t been right for those women.
The one I could’ve married was a Mormon, but I couldn’t believe in that
and I am too much of a rule breaker to fit into any organized religion—
I look like a Mormon, but underneath
I am a raving poet.
I dated a girl from El Salvador who was masculine
I learned Spanish and became friends with her brother
I asked him about determinism or free will and he said, “A man makes his own decisions.”
Smart guy—he pours concrete for a living, and he is wiser than most of the people I met in university.
The last woman is the girl I never went on a date with, but I have always held out hope. I don’t know if we could have a good conversation, but words
are overrated. I have never been around a woman who was so full of mischief and delight.
She is like a cat, that stares at me—wondering…
what my next move will be
Baby, unfortunately, I write poetry.
Fundamentals
I spoke to our Priest with my fiancé,
and he lectured me on the doctrine of the Holy Catholic Church.
I listened to him.
His dark eyes sized me up. I was a misfit, curious about what he believed.
“The bible says the husband is the head of the household,” I declared.
“Oh—you’re a fundamentalist,” he said.
“No, I’m not a fundamentalist.”
When I asked him questions, he didn’t answer them.
Suddenly, my fiancé accused me of projecting my beliefs onto everybody.
“He thinks a principal failed as a poet because he found a creative outlet in administration,” she accused me.
Our priest was losing his impartiality—or was it only my imagination?
“Us Catholics need to stick together.” Did he say that?
My fiancé looked annoyed with me. That was obvious.
I was afraid of her, but I didn’t know why.
Our priest asked me why I was afraid. I couldn’t tell him.
I was getting the strange sense that I could never break up with her—that I was trapped
like a bird in the coils of a snake.
She might speed across the mountains and knock on my garage door.
Now, my fear of being found out as a writer of questionable content vanished.
I prayed to be exposed.
Brian the Terrible
My girlfriend was crying on the phone, again.
“I can’t go to the training,” she said. “My ex-coworkers are there.”
“Fuck those people!” I suggested. “You’re a great teacher!”
“No—that’s how you think about things. I just want peace. I want to be left alone.”
“I too enjoy being left alone,” I said, “But for some reason, the game of life puts me in constant contact with people I don’t want to see.”
“You’re making this about you,” she said. “It was traumatic for me to lose my job.”
“I know. Can you go to the training and avoid those people?”
“No. Dam will be there. He’s on his high horse about being a sped director.”
“He isn’t your boss, anymore,” I suggested. “He doesn’t mean anything to you.”
“I’m not like you. I care about what people think about me.”
“Fuck them,” I said.
“Maybe, I’ll go to the union representative and say I need to take a sick day so I don’t have to go, but my principal is forcing me to go.”
“I see.”
“You’re not making me feel any better about this. I might get fired.”
“Baby, it’ll all work out.”
“No, it won’t!” She shouted.
I listened, helpless to say anything to make her feel better.
I thought about those people.
I had lost my job too.
How little I cared about them.
If I saw them, I would say, “I don’t really want to talk to you. Let’s just pretend to talk to each other.”
And they would think I was crazy.
“Baby,” I said. “Those people are miserable. You’re going to be married, and you’re doing well in your job.”
She unleashed more tears.
“God is on your side,” I suggested. “King David prayed that his enemies would be destroyed in the psalms.”
“That’s why I’m having problems,” she accused me. “You’re praying that God will torment them!”
“Oh—no. That’s not true. I have the leprechauns to do that.”
“What?”
“If the leprechauns are on your side, you don’t have to worry about assholes.”
“You’re so strange,” she accused me.
“Brian has been up to no good, lately,” I admitted.
“Brian?”
“He’s the king. We share a beer together, occasionally.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Listen, those people are harming themselves by being mean. Brian visits me in my dreams and tells me about his schemes.”
“Okay?”
“He’s given Dam athletes foot. The guy works out too much, and believes it’s because he needs a new pair of shoes, but Brian has been putting itch powder in the new ones. I tell the king not to do it.
“You’re crazy.”
“Brian and I go horseback riding together. He’s a friend I care about. All the rest can go to hell, but I know they’re already there.”
“You shouldn’t say that.”
I listened to her for a couple more hours. It was close to midnight when we got off the phone.
I remember working with her coworkers.
One of them was bald. His face reminded me of a human penis.
I sat down and asked him, “Is this seat taken?”
He stared at me, got up, and moved to the opposite end of the room.
He was disturbed by my question.
And then I smiled at him.
Come to think of it,
this is the best way to deal with people
you don’t want to see.
Asshole in Love
My anger is bubbling over
like a magical brew.
Co-workers read scary emotions on my face, like bad news.
I’ve been writing, again.
I have insane strength, now.
My girlfriend calls me up.
“Our wedding is three months away.”
“I don’t want to get married,” I said.
She cries. “Why not?”
“It’s too soon.”
“I’m trying to be perfect for you.”
“I know. I’m just not ready.”
“What will make you ready?”
“Nothing.”
I’m hurting her without meaning to.
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know. It has nothing to do with you.”
“How can you say that? I want to share my life with you.”
I play video games while listening to her cry on the phone.
“Honey, it’s been 3 1/2 hours. I need to hang up now.”
She sobs, “Don’t you love me?”
“I love you. I just can’t reassure you all night.”
CLICK.
I get a text.
You hung up on me? We’re through!
I go back to playing video games.
She’ll call me in the morning.
I
know
my girlfriend
only
listens
to me
half of the time,
but I don’t need to be understood.
I am a mystery, even to me.
Life is a mystery, with a black veil.
She
enjoys talking to me
and that’s enough.
I enjoy the birds, and
the mystery.
Can you blame me?
I sucked it up through a straw.
My girlfriend’s mouth is connected to mine, like a suckerfish
Our love-making grows intense
We watch movies into the late evening, kissing
while my parents are asleep.
First the lips, then her mouth, then her neck
I touch her torso, feeling her warm skin. She puts her hands on my chest
I grab her ass, feel her cunt. It’s wet, through her black shorts.
Her pelvis begins to thrust at odd intervals
like a misfiring engine, like a piston that wants some grease
Then, I lose control
She smiles at me, satisfied, at my release
as her saliva glistens
on her perfect pink mouth.
I am in love with her, and she is in love with me.
We were at a landmark restaurant where we shared tall ridiculous drinks
One—the color of Pepto-Bismol
The other—blood red.
We talked about our future—
while I thought about the moment
“Nothing lasts,” I said
“What?” She asked
and then
I sucked it up through a straw.
My girlfriend entices me with sex.
“When we get married, you can put it in my asshole if you want,” she said.
“Uh.”
I have spent years getting sex outside of my head
and now
she jams it in.
She has a bellybutton ring,
and a diamond stud for it
that she polishes.
“Do you feel comfortable talking about sex?” She asked me.
“Sure,” I said, “but we need to talk about finances too, before we get married.”
“I’m okay with that, as long as we get to discuss the fun stuff. When you’re done visiting me, I always like to take off my clothes and walk around my house naked.”
“Um.”
“And when we’re married, I won’t have to wait.”
“Baby, I’m getting turned on right now.”
“I’m so tired,” she said. “This day wore me out. Did you find a priest for our wedding?”
“I emailed a new one. The last priest impersonated a member of the royal guard and tried to meet the Queen. I know that you wanted him to officiate our wedding, but it’ll be a roller coaster ride if we use him, and I doubt he’s reliable.”
“I prayed about it,” she said, “and let’s look for a new one. My aunt was on his hiring committee, but they didn’t Google him first, probably, because the youngest person in their congregation is 71.”
I wondered if her aunt had ever considered doing an internet search on me?
The word has gotten me into trouble on several occasions.
I’ve lost jobs
and girlfriends.
I’ve even come close to losing my mind,
but I never considered quitting.
How beautiful is the silence.
I can hear my heartbeat
I can hear the slow-moving hands of a clock
I can hear the raindrops on the window sill
I can hear my roommate blaring his radio
I can hear my neighbor’s chainsaw. It’s December.
My girlfriend sends me a text.
I’m an ignorant selfish bastard.
Oh well.
At least I have my thoughts.
Handyman
I was cutting my girlfriend’s lawn
while she put out a wild-land fire.
She has battery-operated mowers
that die
if they have to swallow too much grass
the green juice and yellow puke coat the blades
and they begin to go “ca-chug, ca-chug,” falter, then give up with an electric beep.
They’re tapped out.
I’m teaching graduate students now, but find myself inside her white-picket fence
sweating.
Does she realize that I hate being this kind of man?
If I can’t rise above absurdity, I’m trapped.
Writing helps me do this.
We were travelling to Spokane, and I saw a friend of mine, advertising himself as a politician on Facebook.
This is how it happens, I thought— when there is no imagination.
“Welcome to Moses Lake. I just spent the day with Mayor Humphrey. Let’s make our community proud by making it safe for our children,” he said.
I sighed.
“What’s the matter?” My girlfriend asked me.
“Oh—it’s just somebody I knew who became an adult.”
“Somebody who stepped up,” she said. “Unlike your other friends.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that he’s an asshole. I know who he is.”
She looked at me, like she didn’t understand me.
Unromantic Love
Girls were giggling
in groups
of 4 or 5
while I
was reading a book
reflecting
on blue skies
not worried by much of anything
except,
what show I might watch when I got home
or whether or not I might walk
through the woods in the summer evening.
Why does the world have so many problems? I thought.
The answer is obvious.
The world is full of people.
I wondered why
women didn’t like me.
I stared longingly
across the parking lot
at those girls of 4 or 5
with their backs turned against me
unable to get their attention
not knowing
I would spend my entire life
alone.
After 30, I learned to love it.
Their love was something I couldn’t comprehend.
They wanted attention, but not from me
and as the years waned
like tired wilted roses
I learned to love
their lack of love.
They left me alone
with smirks of agony
and when
a girl told me
she loved me
at 40
I didn’t believe her.
She had been rejected by several guys
and thought I was old enough
and desperate enough
to hold onto her
but I held onto my solitary life
instead
because it kept me alive all these years
in cold stormy seas.
I walk through life, waiting for a cat, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk
It looks at me
and speaks. It knows me by name, following me through the woods, taking up residence in my garage.
I feed it milk from my imaginary girlfriend’s breasts, while it kills rats, like a serial murderer.
What good is the cat?
It hunts my soul. It finds me like a shadow at dusk.
A middle school runs like a train schedule, with bells and announcements.
Churches are holy, holy deserted, and the cat walks around the corner of the abandoned building,
finding me naked,
searching for spiritual clothes.
I looked outside my evening window. It was a blood moon.
“You like to poke,” my girlfriend said. “And you laugh at your own jokes.”
“Somebody has to,” I admitted.
“But you’re not funny!”
“I think I am.”
“You hurt me!”
“I didn’t mean to. Tell me, baby, what do I say that bothers you?”
“Everything!” She screamed. “Like, you make fun of special education teachers.”
“I do not.”
“You said they’re all crazy!”
“Well, I think they are.”
“I’m a special education teacher!”
“You’re the kind of crazy I love,” I told her.
“You see, I hate it when you generalize. “When I said I wanted a Rav 4, you said, ‘You’ll fit right in. That’s what teachers drive.’ I hate it when you say things like that. I’m an individual!”
“I know that, but I notice patterns, similarities—it’s like teachers learn from each other, or something.”
“You don’t know anything,” she said.
I looked outside my evening window. It was a blood moon.
“I want to FaceTime with you,” she shouted.
“I’m too tired,” I said.
“Oh—come on. I’ll wear my see-through t-shirt without a bra. I’m getting out of the tub.”
“I have to wake up early,” I said.
“To write?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes, I think your writing is more important to you than me.”
“It’s a priority,” I admitted. “But you’re also a priority.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. You can only have one.”
She used logic against me. I hoped to confuse her with words.
“Are you coming to visit me?” I asked.
“I don’t know. My dad won’t let me.”
“The temperature is 45 degrees over the pass. You’ll be okay.”
“Okay, but he’ll worry. Your safety standards are low. You told him that you like to lose control. He told me, those tires on your truck are like inner tubes.”
“But you just bought a 4-wheel drive Rav 4, baby. You’ll be okay.”
“It’s also that time of the month…”
“There’s a lot of rest areas through the mountains. Just plug it up, and bring diapers.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“The women’s restrooms are always nicer than the men’s—probably, because women aren’t complete animals.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said. “Would you give up your writing routine for morning sex?”
“I might make that sacrifice,” I said. “Now, I’m going to bed.”
“Good night. I love you.”
“I love you too, baby.”
I doubt Benjamin Franklin cared much about money,
and then they put him on the 100.
He would rather be flying a kite in the park.
I rest in the bed of love
thinking of the things that bring me joy.
To cut loose from heavy worries
and float into the clouds of my imagination.
Fox Hunts
Casual Strolls
A world without time
and many anachronisms.
Love, Life, Death
Spring, Summer, Fall
I walk between yellow leaves
loving it all.
Long-Distance Love
I have a fiancé 10 years younger than me
beautiful, thin, and ivory.
She swims in the summer breeze like a daisy.
I dance through hula-hoops of my mind
pushing infinity up the sidewalk in the summertime.
She gladly gives herself to me
like a dandelion blowing in the wind—
all that pale earth
waiting for a smiling seed.
There are so many meaningless moments in life
tossed by fate, turned by power
but I have this beautiful flower.
(Do I sound like a 40-year-old bag lady?) Oh well.
I smell her. She works five jobs. One of them is at the library.
A homeless man has been stocking her. He whispers perversions in her ear.
“I had a girlfriend once,” he said. “She was blind—couldn’t read. I gave her a cheese-grater for her birthday—told her it was brail—her fingers bled.”
“I’m so traumatized by what he said,” my fiancé cried.
“That’s what happens to men without women.”
“Don’t you have any sympathy for me?” She asked.
“Yes. Although, he got arrested. Do you know how many women have tried to arrest me?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“I’m going to say what the good boyfriend is supposed to say,” I said. “Get a taser.”
“I want you to protect me.”
“Well, I’ll have to get a taser then. My sister has always been warning me that I might get raped on my runs. My brother-in-law suggested that I get a bean-bag gun.”
“Don’t bring that to a gunfight. I live in a small town. All the men carry guns.”
“I forgot. I still live in Seattle. Pepper spray—that’s what I’ll use.”
Let’s Talk About Our Relationship
My girlfriend told me,
“All the stories you share makes the people in them seem insane. How can I trust your judgement, if you spend time with crazy people?”
“I spend time with you,” I told her.
“I know that! And I’m wondering what kind of stories you tell about me.”
“Listen,” I said. “I just tell the interesting parts. I observe glimpses of mischief—twinkles in the eye, irony in iron. I have to make life interesting. Just the other day, I heard a teacher say, ’When you get to be an adult, everything is boring. You learn to pay your bills, and to take the trash out. That’s what life is all about.’
She said this to a student. Can you believe that?”
“But I don’t get any sense of reality when talking to you.”
“I could tell you all the boring stuff,” I said.
“No, I don’t want that. I just want to be able to tell the difference between your facts and fantasy.”
“Sometimes, I can’t even tell,” I admitted. “My imagination colors everything.”
“When I was a kid, I got accused of exaggerating. I grew out of that, but when I became a writer, that part of me came back, like a weed.”
“But your friend, the night custodian…? Is he crazy?”
“No, I don’t think so. Everything I said about him is true.”
“What do you say about me?”
“That you’re pretty. That you save people’s lives. That you fight fires and live on the edge.”
“That’s not so bad.”
“Here, let me show you a picture of the night custodian, wearing his $1,000 dollar suit.”
“He looks like a secret service agent.”
“That’s because he is. Just joking. He gave me a bunch of movie recommendations:
There’s this movie about these children with white eyes. A guy gets barbecued alive. There’s this movie about a monkey trained to provide hospice care, but it goes ape on an old lady’s ass. There’s this movie…”
“Stop! This sounds insane!” My girlfriend screamed.
“Okay, I said. “Let’s talk about our relationship.”
I’m Marrying a Crazy Cat Lady
My fiancé owns three cats. I asked her about the breed.
“Tabby,” she said.
I looked it up, secretly. It’s the most popular cat.
She hates it when I use Chat GPT for answers instead of her.
I prefer the Manx.
Siamese yowl.
Persians kill.
Maine Coons eat too much.
I haven’t asked my girlfriend about the combined cat bill.
Milo has bladder issues and requires special food. He gets kidney stones. Left untreated, he’ll die in 48 hours. Even with death hanging over him like a black cloud, he tries to escape the house during a rainstorm.
He’s unsuccessful.
You see, my fiancé is a great big female cat, skinny, fast, curled up on the couch in her pink underwear, lazy, purrring in my ear, while she licks, strokes, and rubs her tail against me.
In fact, I haven’t left her house in a week. It’s raining outside.
“God, I want your pussy.”
“Not until we’re married,” she said.
Lola grooms me. She’s been rescued from being run-over twice. In a week, she gave birth to Sparky.
He eats electrical wires. Whenever I pet him, I get shocked.
I’m told the male cat has a hook for a penis. When it goes in, it won’t come out until he…
Cats.
They shit in the bed, if left unmade.
They piss on the floor, if you don’t come home.
Can’t live with ‘em. Can’t live without ‘em.
Remove the “n” and you’ve got Cats.
She saved my life.
I take comfort from writing words
the way a cat
enjoys a nap.
His strength doesn’t come from cat food,
but in his ability to kill.
We have gotten far away from instinct,
by denying our natures.
Mine,
is to write words.
Yours,
might be to read them.
Sparky—a.k.a.—Little Guy, is a big stupid cat.
Beautiful, but not too bright.
Yesterday, my fiancé couldn’t find him.
24 hours later, she was undressing in front of her closet
when she discovered him
with all four feet sticking in the air.
He was sick.
She nurtured him back to health.
My fiancé is an EMT, Firefighter, and Special Education Teacher.
Animals, Children, and Adults don’t have a choice to be ignorant or to die around her.
She brings them back to life
with her sweet kisses,
teaching them things.
I’m her best student.
She saved my life.
the lives of the romantic poets weren’t all that romantic
Byron was a compulsive dieter—
a fat man trapped in a skinny body.
A psychic prophesied
that his 37th birthday
would not bode well.
He died
at 36.
It might’ve been his love affairs
with girls and guys,
or his desire to become a girl, that did him in
or the fact that he had a clubbed foot, and couldn’t get enough exercise,
despite riding horses all day.
His poetry needed a hero, and at the end of every poem, he became it.
Shelley talked endlessly about the hidden mysteries at the tops of mountains, but he never went up there to find out.
Blake was for free love, but he shackled himself to his wife for over 30 years.
He talked endlessly of doing
experimental drugs—hallucinogens,
but the hypocrite never even
consumed alcohol.
Coleridge discussed the senseless killing of the albatross—
a foreshadowing of French existential thought, articulated by Camus, in The Stranger
who,
died in a car crash, in the 1960s,
due,
to random chance.
How poetic.
I’ve been thinking about the romantic poets.
I consider myself a romantic.
God help me.
Natalie
Side-swiped
Taken out
Looking at
black eyelids.
Opening them
Laying in a wheat field
Staring at blue sky
Did I die?
White Puffy Clouds
Upside-Down Heaven
A woman
giving me mouth to mouth
in her tight uniform.
If I’m not dead,
let me be here
always.
Natalie,
I love you, baby.
My History of Creativity
My Girlfriend keeps calling me.
“You exaggerate everything!” She said. “That’s your problem!”
“Perhaps.”
“Just because you’re calm, doesn’t mean you’re not angry!”
I feel heat coming through the receiver at me.
“You talk about people as if you’re the center of the universe. Well, I have news for you, they have lives too, I have a life!”
“Uh-huh.”
“People just don’t care as much as you think they do!”
“I don’t know, babe. Those bitches at work were rabid. They tried to get me fired.”
“That might be true, but I’m sure it wasn’t that bad. You’re a poet. You exaggerate!”
“You’ve been listening to my best friend. Even he doesn’t appreciate my situation.”
“Your situation?”
“Yes.”
She went on to tell me that my ex-boss didn’t have it out for me—and that nobody cared as much as I believed they cared,
but those bitches continue searching my blog,
and future employers try to find the dirty stories I’m famous for.
I take showers with my girlfriend to wash the dirt away, but I still feel dirty, for some reason.
I rest on her coach, trying to recover, while writing another poem.
“Do you want to have sex in the shower again?” She asked me.
“Baby, I’m depleted. Besides, I need to go for a run.”
“Well, we’re not having sex then. I don’t want your sweaty penis in my mouth.”
If only she knew
my history of creativity.
Medusa’s Split Ends
there are more motivations for writing
than Medusa’s split ends—and I’ll tell you something strange…
ambition gets in the way of love
ambition is what we want
love is what we give
the goal should be to give it all
there is nothing purer than to give without expecting anything in return
If you love what you do, nobody can take that away from you.
Your fate is sealed with the stamp of love, but I’ve never been able to love, 100%.
There are no guarantees that you will be loved back, or loved the way that you love
Still, the courtship continues. Some will love for a lifetime, especially if that love is lost.
To love, and go unloved
and never become bitter
To be undefeated
in romance.
To be jousting with windmills
riding your black stallion across cold plains
below
fiery sunsets.
My girlfriend tries to convince me that I’m strange.
“You’re not normal,” my girlfriend told me.
“I’m at the edge of the bell curve—still normal, but not quite,” I said.
“Where do you come up with that?”
“I don’t know… I’m a writer.”
“You have trauma.”
“What?”
“Bad things have happened to you.”
“I know that, but that doesn’t mean I’m traumatized.”
“You need to see somebody.”
“Like who?”
“A psychiatrist.”
“No way. They’re quacks.”
“How can you say that? You’re a psychiatrist.”
“I know that, and if I need therapy, I’ll do it on myself.”
“How about a priest?”
“No.”
“You act like you don’t want to get better.”
Then she tried to convince me that I had swallowed a toxic philosophy.
“It’s hurting me!” She said.
“Oh, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know you don’t, but what you believe about women is offensive.”
“Well, this is what my experience has taught me.”
“You have trauma!”
“I call it wisdom.”
My girlfriend sensed she was wearing me down.
“If you ever want to get married, you’d better work on your issues!”
“Come on baby, I love you! But I really need to sleep.”
“If you do that, it’s the same as if you hung up on me.”
“What?”
“Yes, you can’t cut me off!”
“Well, what am I going to do? I need to sleep. I’m upset. I’m going for a walk.”
“Oh, good! I’ll get to talk to you a bit longer!”
“No, I can’t have you inside my head. I need to calm down,” I said.
She tried to make some jokes about me being strange, but it didn’t work. I was too tired to laugh. Eventually, I got off the phone—although, I can’t remember how.
The next morning, I was catatonic. I enjoyed the day in relative peace. I didn’t say anything, or talk to anybody.
When my girlfriend called at 5 PM, I didn’t pick up.
She sent some angry text messages, but I didn’t read them.
I smiled,
and went to sleep.
My girlfriend doesn’t think I’m funny.
“Oh, you can be goofy,” she said, “But when you try to be funny, you make me mad.”
I make my case like a lawyer with lost luggage, late for his plane.
“Dozens of people tell me I’m funny,” I said, “But I understand my humor isn’t for everyone.”
“You have to be animated to be funny!” My girlfriend said, with Bugs Bunny glee.
Her bouncy white ears betrayed her belief that she was funny, or funnier than me.
“Have you been watching Warner Bros Cartoons?” I asked her. “There are all kinds of funny. My accounting professor turned on his light with a laugh and said,
‘Let’s shed some light on the subject.’”
“That’s your style of humor,” she said. “You’re not funny.”
“I can be. If you look at a doorknob long enough, it becomes interesting. That’s Zen Buddhism.”
“What? You really are strange.”
“No. You just don’t get me. People dismiss what they don’t understand. A higher awareness understands everything beneath it, but a lower awareness can’t comprehend it.”
“You’re not funny.”
“We should go to open mic night at a comedy club. I bet I can get the crowd laughing.”
“No. You can’t! I think you have Autism.”
“You think I have a disorder?”
“Yes! And then you write down our crazy conversations for the world to see. Now, people think I’m crazy!”
“Words don’t lie, baby!”
“That’s an oxymoron, moron!”
“Listen, I feel that our relationship is on the rocks. We are fighting constantly. Are you still going to therapy?”
“You sound like a professor when you say that. Why can’t you be normal?”
“Because I’m unique.”
“If you want to know somebody special, my cousin died last week. He made 1 million dollars a year and was a pillar of his community.”
“His life scares me,” I said. “I don’t want to support society.”
“If you don’t put down roots, nobody will respect you.”
“I don’t want their love—”
“Why?”
“Because they demand that I love them back.”
The cat lays by the fire, untroubled by questions.
I don’t know what cats think about
but I doubt
they ask,
“What’s the point?”
Norman Mailer was afraid to ask
because he created God in his own image.
Don’t believe me—read his last book.
Scientists say, “Humans are too smart for their own good.”
They ask existential questions, and then design existential weapons.
80 million people were killed in World War II, alone.
The cat can kill,
but it would rather sleep the day away.
It’s too lazy
to systematically slaughter
every mouse
in the field.
Princess enjoys the fire. She’s a Persian.
Her companion of 17 years, died.
Diddy was a terrier. She hated him while he was alive.
Now, she yawls at midnight, lonely, for the little dog she bullied.
Grandma’s husband died, after 66 years of marriage.
“I wanted to strangle him one week, and love him the next,” she admitted.
“That sounds awful,” I said. “I’m engaged.”
“Now, I just wish he was here,” Grandma cried.
If you don’t know the answer to “What’s the Point?”
Don’t ask.
The cat lays by the fire,
untroubled by questions.
I know the answer.
Purrr.
My girlfriend caught me, running.
“I can’t talk to you when you’re exercising,” she said.
“Okay—can I call you in 30?”
“No.”
I kept running.
“Stop!”
“Baby, I’m in the zone.”
“You’re such a gym bro!”
“I don’t see it. I’m running outside. I don’t even like the gym.”
“Can you just walk for five minutes?”
“No. If I walk, I fail.”
“What are you running from?”
She hung up on me. Then she called me back.
“Did you hang up on me?” She asked.
“No.”
“I’m not going to give you sex,” she threatened.
“Good. I’ll keep my life-force to myself.”
“You mean, life-farce!”
“Good one, honey!”
“You’re such an asshole. You don’t make boundaries for your best friend—and he’s going to kill you. I love you!”
“He loves me!”
“He pushed you off your bicycle and put you in the emergency room!”
“I wasn’t going to tell you this, but we’re going bike riding tomorrow!”
“Why would you tell me that? You terrify me, and you terrify your mother!”
“I couldn’t resist.”
“You’re reckless.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“What does responsibility mean to you?” She quizzed me.
“To respond with ability,” I said. “To be a confident problem solver. To consider others when making decisions.”
“Give me some examples.”
“To be financially responsible.”
“What about spiritual responsibility?”
“Yes, that too.”
“I don’t mean to quiz you, but I need to know how you make decisions.”
“Okay.”
“Well, how do you make decisions?”
“By considering multiple options. By listening to others. And talking to God.”
“You are spiritually responsible,” she admitted. “I’m so lucky to have you.”
“And I’m lucky too! I love you!”
Their soul wanders away, looking for love.
Often,
the things people say,
“don’t matter”
are the only things that do.
People want to cross-out
their heart and soul
because they don’t know what to do with it—
they are ignorant, they can’t see it.
They pay attention to:
oil changes, bills, dental appointments, and groceries,
crossing them off their lists.
“Look at how much I accomplished today!”
Their soul wanders away,
looking for love.
Why do crazy bitches love me?
“Doctor Johansson, I wave to you every morning, but you never wave back.”
“I know… I know… My mind is thinking about 20 different things.”
Later that day. “Hello, Doctor Johannson.”
“Hello.”
“How’s your day?”
“I have lots of paperwork to do.”
I walk away.
I don’t even know her name.
“Hello, Doctor Johannson. Hello, Doctor Johannson.”
I wake up in a cold sweat.
Her toady face smiles at me.
It’s Saturday.
It’s Sunday. I pray. “Dear God, protect me from this crazy stocker bitch.”
It’s Monday. “Hello, Doctor Johannson.”
“Hello.”
“Did you have a good weekend?”
“Yes. I went hiking.”
“Where did you go?”
“Cougar Mountain.”
“Oh, did you see any cougars?”
“No.”
I leave.
I come back.
“Hello, Doctor Johannson.”
“Hello.”
“Why do you hike so much?”
“My best friend and I are enjoying bachelorhood before it’s over.”
“Oh, do you have a fiance?”
“Not quite.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, can I see her?”
“I left my cell phone in my office.”
I leave.
I come back.
“Doctor Johannson, when are you going to propose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, talk to me about it and we’ll figure-out a plan.”
I go to use the restroom, but there’s a woman in there.
“Oh, pardon me!”
“Doctor Johannson, you should be ashamed of yourself!”
I stare at her.
Ramen is leaking out of her mouth.
The bell rings.
I leave work.
I turn right.
I turn left.
A red prius is following me.
I hit the gas.
My pickup breaks the traffic laws.
The bitch is trying to figure-out where I live.
“Doctor Johannson. Doctor Johannson.”
I scream.
Why do crazy bitches love me?
We’re Getting Married Next Month
My girlfriend told me about her ex-boyfriends in bed.
“Andrew, hasn’t aged well,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yes, he was my first. I took his virginity. Now, he’s bald and has a pot-belly. His excuse to get away from me was to join the army.”
“I see. Who was your next?”
“Nick,” she said matter-of-factly. “He was a Mormon, and still clings to his faith. He was my boyfriend who was abusive.”
“What happened?” I asked her, with concern.
“Well… he started to choke me during sex, and he wanted to do other stuff—you know, with my asshole. Then, he met a Mormon girl and told me he couldn’t get married because he needed a virgin for the afterlife.”
“Oh—bad luck,” I said.
“Actually, it was really good luck that I got away from him.”
“Who was your next?”
“Riley. My mother liked Riley. His mother and my mother were friends. He was a senior in high school when he proposed.”
“And…?”
“I accepted, but then I talked to my friends. They told me it would never work out because we were too young. Riley joined the army anyway. It changed him. It was sad to see his kind personality turn into a killer.”
“I’m seeing a theme here. You’ve had bad luck with men,” I said.
She nodded, vigorously.
“I moved back to Grand Coulee where I met a guy who owned cows. You can smell the shit for miles. Well, I broke up with him and started to drink. By that time, I was getting discouraged. The owner of a Thai restaurant took a liking to me. His wife slept with the maître d’, so I slept with him. Apparently, I reminded the guy of his wife. He cried after sex. Well, he was 20 years older than me and decided it wasn’t good for us to be together. I decided to throw myself into my career—head first. That’s where I met Justin. He was a history teacher at my school. We became friends, and then started sleeping together. Justin bathed once a month and slept in the nude. He drank scotch and had commitment issues. Eventually, I moved to Pullman for a job and he stayed in Grand Coulee. Justin shacked himself with a Native woman and we broke up. Then, I met you. We’re getting married next month.”
The beaten cat lives forever because it hunts the human soul.
You have to be Deep
to
dig
Deep,
like a well
that
goes
down
into
your
soul.
Shoveling Souls
is a rare profession
because
it’s an invisible art
like the emperor
with no clothes.
People don’t invest
in what’s not there.
Faith,
Value,
and Dreams
are only dust
scattered by the wind.
The eternal profession is the one I want—
an investment, that never blows away
and like the invisible wind
it must be a force
that moves ships
like a hurricane.
It isn’t enough
to be calm, to be
becalmed.
I must know the power
within
shocking me
with
ideas
that
can’t be seen.
I worship the beaten cat
with ear torn off
hit by a car
and bleeding
inside.
When his organs fail
something
keeps it alive—
a style that smiles at death.
It doesn’t live for approval
or need other cats.
Perhaps, nature has selected it for extinction
because it’s too big to sit-on human laps
it’s not cute
its balls are too big
it doesn’t purr when petted
Children stare at it
in prehistoric picture books
It walks in the moonlight
and the firelight
It walks wherever it wants
It’s valuable, for its diamond eyes
It’s wilder
than anything.
That’s why nature knew it was a contender
and tried to knock it out
in the first round
but it goes the distance, anyway.
How does a cat like that
come back
from a beating like that?
What keeps you alive?
Your heart.
How do you know?
Your mind.
The beaten cat lives forever
because it hunts the human soul.
The Woman
Brown hair
Brown eyes
Wilder than a pussy cat
She taunts me
She flaunts her smile
I try
to pet her
She controls me
with her mouth
Approval
I don’t give a damn
She puts her claws into me
and stretches her backside
into my face.
She wants me
“Get off!”
I slap her down
She hops onto my lap, again
and kisses me
with her sandpaper tongue.
With this Woman
it’s impossible to have an intellectual conversation
but do I want to?
I dominate others, with what I want
She uses me, and discards me
then hops off.
She prances
and then
looks behind her.
I don’t have any words left.
Why does she stick around?
She’ll leave
just as quickly as she came.
I’ll say, “Here kitty kitty…”
and she won’t answer.
My girlfriend assured me, that if I marry her
I can take a year off and write—spending my savings on survival, while sleeping in her house.
It goes against my instinct to give up my freedom
because
the money I saved, I slaved for—
“I can’t take a year off,” I told her. “I need a job.”
“I thought you wanted to write your novel.”
“I do, but, if I spend enough time away from people, I forget how they really are, what they’re like. Working with people is the only way to study them. Otherwise, their politeness is smeared on too thick, like mayonnaise. I hate mayonnaise. I need the truth.”
“You’re really fucked up.”
“Probably.”
My girlfriend is worried about my judgement.
“You have a Ph.D., so you should be rational,” she told me, “but the stories you tell make me believe the people in your life are horrible.”
“There are many sides to their character,” I told her. “I choose to talk about the most interesting parts.”
“But why are you so negative?”
“I don’t know. My stories inspire different feelings in different people—horror and humor—mostly—sometimes, at the same time.”
“Well, you talk about writing, constantly.”
“That’s because I’m not writing,” I said. “I have to wake up at 5:30 in the morning, just to make it to work on time. My commute is dangerous. I get tickets, even though I drive conservatively. The police are everywhere—at the grocery store, in the neighborhoods, on the freeways—it’s hell. I have meetings that last until 7 PM. I left a meeting early, today, just to be able to talk to you. I’ll probably get into trouble.”
“When are you coming to visit me?”
“This Friday, but I’ve been checking the weather reports, and there’s going to be snow, so, I don’t know.”
“Well, I keep looking at this ring you gave me. It’s so pretty. Has it been sinking in yet?”
“What?”
“That we’re going to get married, silly.”
“Oh. Yes. Every time I wake up, I think, ‘Oh shit.’”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I guess not. I just worry about making major life decisions.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Some guys see a hot girl and put a ring on it. I see a hot girl and spot a walking problem.”
“You really need help.”
“I know. I’m willing to see a priest.”
“Father Mike is available.”
“Okay, we’ll talk to him. I don’t know how I’m going to share my life with somebody. I’ve been a loner for as long as I can remember.”
“It’ll work,” she assured me.
“I might need to take some time away from you to get my writing done,” I said.
“You do harp on that.”
“It’s my favorite instrument, besides my other organ. Listen, I was in a training today, and there was a guy at my table who was ex-military, with a full beard, wearing a cowboy hat. I guessed he was the shop teacher. Sure enough, he was missing two fingers on his left hand. He had a tattoo of an elephant’s trunk, running down his middle finger.
‘I got 10 Cortizone injections into my spinal column, yesterday,’ he told me.
‘What happened to you?’ I asked him.
‘Fell out of an airplane,’ he said. ‘At 800 feet, I pulled the rip-cord.’
‘How much time do you have, after 800 feet before you hit the ground?’ I asked.
‘Seconds. If you wait any longer, you become a red spot.’
The other shop teacher smiled at me in a furtive manner. He’s trying to be friendly. He hasn’t realized that most workplace interactions are bullshit.
The Multilanguage Latino teacher swung by and flirted with him. She’s got a tiny waist, and an ass shaped like an upside-down heart, where she receives a lot of love.
‘Sorry, I lost your number,’ James Dean told her.
She’s been trying to jump my bones, too.
Mr. Dean is too cool for her, and he’s married.’
“Stop!” My girlfriend shouted. “Why do you tell stories the way that you do?”
“I don’t know,” I said, honestly. “I guess, I observe people in the wild, and I write about them. I’m like a scientist, or a social worker, or like Jane Goodall.”
“Or a psychologist?” She asked me.
I could tell she was smiling on the other end of the receiver. Finally, I found a female who understands me.
War With Women: WWW-III
Since I’ve gotten into a serious relationship
some of the women in my life approve of me.
“I’m a toxic masculine male at the elementary,” I told my friend’s family.
“I have to lead at the elementary.
I’m taking power away from our special education teacher
simply by being me.
I’m a man. I can’t help observing, I’m the only man, in a group of eight women. Some of them don’t like me.
Many of the women defer to me because I’m a man.
I don’t ask for this, but it happens, and it makes our lead special education teacher angry with me. I’m winning over allies. I’m in a pink job. I’m fighting.”
“You’re not a toxic masculine male,” my friend’s sister told me. “You’re masculine.”
“Thanks,” I said, appreciatively. “You know how it is—it’s the field of education. Feminists don’t want a man in charge. Heck, I don’t want to be in charge.”
“Having a girlfriend has been good for you,” my friend’s sister told me.
“I know. I’m starting to grow.”
“We can tell. You’re becoming more of a leader. Girls like that.”
It’s an uncomfortable feeling to have the approval of women.
I haven’t figured out how, but somehow, it feels like a trap.
When I was a single guy and knew every woman despised me, life was simpler, but now, I have allies.
I prefer Redcoats and Revolutionaries in an open field.
World War III is more complicated.
The Woman in Red
When I met her, she pretended to be a good mother
Her lips were wet with delectable fruit
She stood with puffed-up pride, twisting her fingers in the air, declaring nothing
She shopped at Nordstroms
and the clothes she wore
were
light brown
pea-coats
red high-heeled sandals
corduroy sweaters
gold chains
and
silver feathers
She enjoyed compliments, but she was better than the people who offered her praise
She had a way of standing, that was worshipful of her own presence
She wanted to be sure, she could show you, she didn’t need to listen to you.
Every step she took
Every action made
was to gain the satisfaction that she was better
She enjoyed control over people
who didn’t matter
her plans were not your plans
her ways, better
and no matter what you said, she knew what she was always going to do
there was something about her
that I liked
It was a caricature, a perfect picture, a cartoon character, something so false, it was real
She talked about the warmers on her steering wheel
about basketball teams and popular people
She showed-off her sophistication
She didn’t know who she was
She was a slave, loyal to nobody but power
To be free of that bitch
will be a relief—not because she was mean,
but because
I didn’t exist at all.
Is there anything worse
than someone who takes an interest in you,
so that they can manipulate you?
Is there anything more terrible
than spending a year with someone
and never knowing them?
The Secrets Most Bosses Know, Aren’t the Ones Worth Knowing.
My boss walked by my office,
and rather than standing in the door frame,
arching her breasts, and spreading her lips
into a fake smile,
she came right in.
I could tell
she didn’t have anything to say,
but she started talking anyway
just so she would have an excuse to be there.
“Have you finished auditing all of the IEPs?” She asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
She walked closer,
sensing something, but not sure
what it could be.
Sniff. Sniff.
This is a woman of blind ambition.
She buys all of her clothes at Nordstroms,
worrying about what she will wear.
Pea coats, blouses, shoes
I don’t hate her.
She is a pitcher plant, full of sweet poison,
attracting flies, dancing about her,
giving her the attention she craves
but now, she senses something in me,
that she can’t see.
Sniff. Sniff.
I am the sun. I rest in its rays.
I don’t buy expensive things, or worry about what I will wear.
I don’t worry about much of anything.
“What are you reading?” She asked me.
“This email,” I said.
“No, for fun.”
“Nietzsche. I’m trying to be a superman.”
She hates the idea.
“What are you writing?”
A novel about working in the field of education—it’s full of landmines.”
“Oh.” She gave me a worried look. “Well, when you write it, I’ll buy it.”
I smiled,
But then she kept talking,
“I’ll keep it on my desk, and never open it, and when my friends visit, I’ll say
‘It was written by Alex. It makes a good coaster.’”
The bitch knew how to get to me,
but she never figured-out what was special about me,
and that’s probably because
I can keep a secret
and the secrets most bosses know
aren’t the ones worth knowing.
Cats Live Forever
A cat can wait for a thousand years
A dog can’t wait for its dinner
A cat is always doing something, by not doing anything at all
A dog looks for people to love it,
if not people, other dogs
if not other dogs, cats.
Cats need no love
the world belongs to them
they own neighborhoods
they own owners
they are never owned
only temporarily waiting…
for the next ten or twenty years
among several lifetimes.
Waiting, is a forgotten art.
Most, cannot wait
they forget, what they are waiting for.
There is nothing more terrifying
than something that waits.
A cat will spend days
looking into a hole
the mole
doesn’t have a chance.
Patient eyes
are never dull
waiting
to trap and play
with prey
waiting
to flame with fire
waiting
to kill
waiting, when nothing else in the world, will
Most, can’t stay alive
Cats live forever.
Cats on a Summer Evening
Cats sit at the end of their driveways
in the summertime evening
“Here puss…puss,” I say.
but they don’t move
They’re waiting
for what?
I do not know
In the doldrums
or the woods
I wait
wishing the winds would blow
but when a third of your life is gone
you might take a moment
to bask in the warm air
Remembering…
Next year
the forecast
will be stormy
with a touch of fog
but right now
I’m enjoying
blue skies
Neighbors mow their lawns
and trim their hedges
while cats sit at the end of their driveways
waiting…
for what?
I do not know.
The Peace of the Blank Page and My Vacation in Hell
My girlfriend is full of contradictions.
That’s why we argue.
She hates hypocrisy.
“Your friend is a hypocrite,” she told me.
“I know.”
“He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage, but he wants to be a player.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you tell him it’s not right to lead a girl on?”
“It wouldn’t make any difference.”
“You’re so cynical.”
“I know.”
“Let’s listen to the bible in a year.”
“Okay.”
She paused it with her middle finger.
“The children of Israel wandered in the desert for 40 years because they were sinful.”
“I thought it was because they were disobedient to God and didn’t trust Him when He told them to enter the promised land,” I said.
“No, it’s because they were having orgies.”
“12 spies went to spy on Canaan. 10 were bad and 2 were good. They came back to report there were giants in the land.”
“That’s not right,” she told me.
I got out my smart phone and asked Chatty.
She slammed on her brakes, pulling over.
“I told you I don’t like it when you do that!”
“Sorry babe, I need to know.”
“I’m trying to have a conversation with you, and you only want to be right!”
I checked my phone.
I was right.
But I didn’t tell her that. I was scared for my life.
She got onto the road again, merging into a 4 Runner.
“You got me angry and nearly into an accident!” She shouted.
“Maybe we can talk about this later?” I suggested, “And in the meantime, get some food?”
“No, we’re going to talk about this now!”
She pulled over.
I was her hostage with Helsinki Syndrome.
I was in love with her.
“Maybe, you want your ring back? Get out of the car! You can hitchhike home.”
“No, I don’t want to do that.”
“Well, don’t fact-check me, then!”
The best strategy I could think of was to keep my mouth shut.
She drove on.
The Indian restaurant was 5 miles away.
If I survived this vacation, I would enjoy the peace of the blank page, like a fresh layer of snow covering a silent wood.
My words whispering through the trees, falling, like black footprints.
the ups and downs of writing poetry
there is futility in recording my feelings
but great delight in doing so,
as I go
through the ups and downs
of this high-rise apartment life
between penthouse dreams
and basement nightmares
on a broken elevator of love—
I know
glory is only a feeling
like the warmth of the sun, and so
I bask in my beautiful poetry
to conjure
that impossibility.
Unsolicited Advice
Solicitors will be shot!
I have an angry German Shepherd,
descended from the dogs
that guarded Hitler.
I drink my scotch
and
smoke my cigarettes
in private.
God, it feels good to be alive,
but
these annoying assholes knock on my door
cloying at my peace
and solitude.
These Fuller Brush Men
happen to be my parents.
I guess they love me
and that’s why
they give me their unsolicited advice.
“Save your money. If you’re going to have children, you’ll need lots of it. You might become the primary bread winner. In that case, you’ll need to have a job.”
My response:
“My girlfriend told me I won’t need to work. She has millions, and I’m not doing bad myself. Hemingway didn’t have a job, when he wrote his great novels. His wife was catholic, and so is mine.”
“You’re not a great writer,” my dad said. “You need a job.”
“Look, I have lots of money,” I said, “and work is a waste of time.”
My mom chimed in:
“Perhaps, you should wait to get married. You don’t even know your fiance. She might be crazy.”
“I know,” I said, “but it’s worth the risk.”
“I know you’re happier with your girlfriend,” my mother admitted, “but young people today have so many issues to work out. You should consider pre-marital counseling.”
“We’re going to talk to a priest,” I said.
“That’s good, but when you’re married, you’ll say things to each other that hurt each other. Consider what I said to your father. He bought me some jewelry, and I asked him how much it cost. When he told me, I told him that he got taken. I really hurt his feelings.”
“I got into an argument with my girlfriend last night,” I admitted. “She wanted to pay for her children’s education. I told her that I worked my way through school. She seemed okay with that, but then I said, ‘Young people today don’t know the value of a dollar. College kids are so entitled because they’ve never held down a job.’ Considering that I’m 10 years older than her, that really made her mad.”
“She doesn’t know your sense of humor,” my mother laughed, “and she’s probably immature.”
“Well…” I said.
The family dog barked.
“I’ve got to go.”
When people give advice, it’s a way to be subtly superior while expressing their love.
I don’t mind my parents’ advice—
probably because this poem flashed through my mind between the rain drops and windshield wipers on the drive home.
This Lonely Old Happy Man
Maybe, I had more sense when I was 27.
At 27, I’d be terrified to marry the woman I’m currently engaged to. She means business.
Now, I’m 37
and she’s 27.
“Men don’t have it together when they’re young,” she told me, matter-of-factly.
“I agree.”
“Why are men so immature?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought about it.
“It’s okay not to be in a hurry to make babies,” I told her.
“That’s true, but then, you’ll die on me. You’re a decade older. People will bring it up in conversation, constantly.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t care what other people think, and there’s going to be this lonely old man to keep you company in your latter years.”
“But I want to be married to you, forever!”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll live past 100. You probably won’t have to replace me.
Why did it take so long for a woman to find me attractive?
I was forced to figure myself out, I guess.
At work, women still ignore me, but I have this one crazy bitch convinced she loves me,
and that is enough for me.
I spent a decade, thinking
and now
I know who I am.
The Woman who owns the World
She tells me I’m getting fat
and I immediately lose weight
before that,
I tried diets, fasting, running, and weightlifting
and I became strong,
Sumo strong
the fat did not obey my commands
“Leave; I want to lose you!”
but it stayed
and my pants sizes increased
I didn’t want to lose part of myself
but when my mother gave the command
I lost it.
As a child
I got lost in department stores
the mannequins were scary, so still, and so real
like perfect persons paid to display clothes
and the lady on the intercom was God
when she called my mom.
I got lost a lot
back then,
and I still do.
Some of us have great abilities
and equally poor sense of direction
My fear of getting lost is real
but there are many people like my mom
who will help
if you ask.
Maybe it’s vanity to search for greatness
it’s not about being better than other people
but to rise above something larger than yourself
Usually, I ponder it, aware of my fleeting time
but yesterday, my mom asked me, if I wanted to make a day of it
and I couldn’t think of anything better to do
with my life, running towards death.
You can spot greatness on the street
How a person walks
or when a man smiles at a woman.
We walked
next to the water
and all the people we passed
looked, like they were looking inside
at their troubles.
Then we got a coffee, and made plans for the bookstore
and I noticed the Muslim grocery across the street
12 tall black men were leaning against the wall
carrying prayer rugs
no windows, and the store could’ve been situated in Syria
“I wonder what kind of food they sell there?”
“Oh, some interesting stuff,” my mother said.
“Mom, you’re not allowed in there.”
“Oh, it’s okay. When I walked in, there was no one there, and the gentleman who came out looked at me, suspiciously. I just told him I was browsing.”
I looked at her white hair
“You have more courage than me; I would’ve never gone in.”
“Oh, it’s no big deal. When you get to be my age, you can do whatever you want.”
She drove us to the bookstore and cut several people off in traffic
“Why are everyone honking?” She asked.
Then she pulled into the wrong parking lot. “I guess I don’t know where I’m going. I’m glad you put up with me.”
“Mom, the day is so much better with you. Now, put it in park, and let’s go inside.”
I was 12, She was 17.
She slipped into her satin swimsuit
with spaghetti straps, so thin
they laced over her shoulders, tugging
on her smooth brown skin
She sat on the diving board, soaking in the sun
her chest, a gorgeous, soft mystery
inside her wet wonderland
her red bikini, showing off, her navel
an innie, I wanted to explore
She was 17, I was 12
I have never wanted a woman that bad
She had
curly blonde hair
two inches past her shoulders
an amber hair-clip
holding love, above her head
her whole body, tugging, on knots and bows
threatening to violate
a pre-teen boy
to be older
to hold her
to hear her laugh,
melodious, and cruel
her legs flowing, into the pool
her black sunglasses, cool
her crimson lipstick, wanting to be kissed
butterfly frills, dancing, on her bottom
as she walked, like a cat
unafraid of water
a woman of youth
a goddess
to worship
to have her at 12
is an old man’s dream
to be with several women
is to never know her
her blue eyes, bluer than the sky
her nails, painted by the pool
I never spoke to her
I had pimples
Years later, she married a man with an MBA
I watched him shaving, one day
when I was 16
tall, good-looking, and casual, in the mirror
admiring his appearance
He could not appreciate her, not like me
“Honey, breakfast is in two hours,” he said.
“I’ll be there.”
It hurts me still, to want her
I cannot have her
only when I was 12, and she was 17
pain is better, than no pain at all
A boy must commit, a crime of passion, to know her
a woman is like a cat, playing with a string
when it’s dangling and moving, it hypnotizes her
when it falls to the floor, lifeless, she leaves it alone
the string didn’t change
it just became
predictable.
Carpe Diem and My Friend’s Romantic Love
“If you get the body man, you can get the girl,” my friend said
and he’s been saying that, ever since I’ve known him.
Brice hasn’t been on a date in 10 years.
His experiences with women are one of undying romantic hope
“I watched Titanic in the theater last weekend man—it was a reshowing—God, I just want to fall in love.”
Brice believes his body fitness is positively correlated with romantic success
“I was doing my cardio on the elliptical yesterday and some guy asked me why I work-out for seven hours.”
“How does he know you work out for seven hours?” I asked.
“Oh—he gave me a spot, and then he asked me about my nutrition and weight-lifting plan.”
“I see.”
“And he told me… I still can’t believe the nerve of the guy… He said my body didn’t look that great. He’s a fucking asshole.”
“Oh—maybe it was just a playful jab—you know how guys are…”
“I have to switch gyms now, so I don’t see that fag around the corner.”
“Man, maybe you should lighten up and not take things so seriously.”
“There is some good news, though” Brice said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I met a girl. She works behind the counter of my gym. She’s cute. She’s small. I would say 5′ 2″”
“Be careful man. You remember the last one you tried to ask out?”
“Yeah. Not my best moment. I think it was because I was wearing those Las Vegas sunglasses.”
“It could be,” I said.
“Well, I asked this girl if she wanted to hang-out after work sometime, and she said she did. I got her phone number, but then I couldn’t find her the next couple of days, so I sent her a text, and she didn’t respond. When I went back to the gym, she was working behind the counter, and I asked her if she got my message, and she told me that her purse was stolen, along with all of her credit cards.”
“Sounds like a made-up story man—you know that girls are indirect—they don’t tell a guy ‘No’.
“I don’t think that’s how she is. She has integrity. She wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Okay—what’s your next move?”
“I’m going to ask her out—point blank. She can tell me ‘No’ or she can tell me ‘Yes’. It’s the only way I’ll know if she likes me.”
“Carpe Diem man.”
The next day I got a collect call from the County Courthouse in Orlando.
“Do you want to accept this charge?” An automated voice asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
I heard my friend on the line. “She doesn’t want to go out man. I got a restraining order against me and two days in the county jail. They made me watch a video on social etiquette and I’m banned from all gyms within 50 miles.”
“What are you going to do to get your body right?” I asked.
I have a total gym at home— it’s the one Chuck Norris uses.”
“Well—do your time and shake it off. You can’t let a woman get you down.”
“You got that right man. I love you by the way!”
“I love you too man, and keep your ass to the wall.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
CLICK.
Nature walks across my apartment Naked
Nature
did something strange
to men and women
or maybe just men
(I’m writing from the male perspective, or maybe just my own perspective, which seems to offend most people.)
There’s this girl I’ve been obsessed with for 7 years
She just became single again.
I know all of the red pill rules,
but rationality quickly gets thrown out the window, like a hotdog.
She’s aggressive, and proud of it.
The last three men told her, “No.”
Now, I hope to be number 4, but I’ve never been good enough for her.
She’s rejected me over 5 times.
I fantasize about us being married
and watching her walk across my apartment naked.
Unfortunately, nature has compromised my mind.
Religion
tries to get in the way of bad decisions,
but even that doesn’t work.
She’s my Zelda
Zelda was crazy
Scott wrote the Great Gatsby.
I call my friend and say, “I have to write a master work, man.”
There’s a pause… he thinks I’m delusional.
The practical woman
doesn’t do it for me.
The safe and sane woman makes me bored
I need a dangerous woman
who will potentially wreck my life.
There’s somebody out there for everyone.
the road to love
Women want to know if you are willing to go the distance for love
they seem to measure this
by the amount of sacrifice a man is willing to endure
to get to her
Many men will follow her to the ends of the earth
to catch her
on the way down
but
she doesn’t want to be caught.
What she wants is a mystery
to her
and to him.
She is unhappy if he doesn’t drive 50 miles to meet her,
even though many men will
and if she doesn’t settle,
the traffic to her door will decline
like a road
never travelled by
as men loses interest in their older age
until
their cars need repairs and won’t start
because
they would rather pick the gunk from between their toenails
than flirt
with the danger
on the road.
I Love the Bums of the Universe
I love that no matter how bad it gets
there is stuff
nobody can take away from me,
like the city library.
If I lose my job, I’ll smile, and go to that place I love—
it’s free.
I’ll develop a new comradery
with the bums of the universe
and
all the wisdom of the centuries,
will speak to me.
It’s no coincidence, that our greatest writers embraced
what society wouldn’t touch.
We have always been
strange distorted men and women
who hide in the shadows
and watch
the moveable feast
that doesn’t know where it’s going
or where it’s been.
I am untouchable—
a spider, spinning his web
because I have to, from some base instinct.
I embrace socialism and hate capitalism (but not very much).
I love any system, I can beat.
I look into my backseat,
at my golf clubs, and three coffee mugs
I wonder, at the clean cars of the world—those empty people, in steel shells.
I laugh at human ignorance.
I laugh at myself.
River God
I wallow under bridges
connecting towns
to the whole of humanity.
I search for a God there
in the empty darkness.
Not even the bums move.
Nobody is disturbed by my presence.
I see only muddy water
I cut myself
I watch myself
bleed—the water turns red—
I part the sea
Mud oozes between my toes
I am a basket-case, like Moses
I reach into the soil, and make my own god
a formless
disgusting
creature
that doesn’t smile
and stinks.
Love is that red and brown color
I have put my life into.
The whole town knows,
the bums belong under the bridge
the whores belong in the brothel
the students belong in the school
the good people belong
and the bad people belong
Nobody is out of place
but me
I am tested by society
the suicide stands at the top of a tall building
contemplating jazz
the drug addict would rather know the needle
than their next-door neighbor.
If love is an art,
most of the world is ugly.
I listen to a sermon
and I hear a different one
inside my head.
Thank God.
Love isn’t Intellectual and that’s Why it Works
At the Party
she told me, “You’re intelligent, but you need to work on your charm.”
It’s true. Now I try to make women mad. I think this is a result of losing my fear of the female.
I’m not sure how I accomplished this—a combination of immersion therapy
and learning, there is more bark in her bluff, than real teeth.
Although, I haven’t had my balls bitten-off yet, and thrown through the window of a moving car.
What would you do if you were driving the car? Make-up with your girlfriend?
To the brave one who reads these lines, PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION.
Most of this advice is theoretical, because it comes from a man who likes to think
and with enough imagination, anything can seem terrifying.
She worked in a hospital, and told me her intimate stories of death.
“Mr. Johnson is charming—why can’t you be? He tells me I have a great ass, and that’s saying something—he’s been alive for 80 years.”
“What does that have anything to do with it?” I asked.
“He’s had lots of time to study, and he’s an A student.”
“Well, so am I—and I can tell you, there’s nothing special going-on down there.”
“Don’t look at my ass.”
“Well, you let Mr. Johnson do it.”
“That’s because he’s old, and no longer a threat. You don’t know the horrible harassment women have to put-up with on the streets.”
“Like what?”
“Being leered at, for one, and being hit-on by strangers.”
“If they had money and good looks, you would like it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“It’s terrible, being a woman. Men have it easy.”
“I guess I don’t have a period, except at the end of a sentence.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I’m a writer. It sounded good. I’m just empathizing with you. Isn’t that what women want?”
“You’re so ignorant. Men can afford not to know anything.”
“What about war?”
“What about it? Boys love to fight.”
I gave up trying to convince her of anything.
Love isn’t intellectual, and that’s why it works.
Fire Tiger
Time teaches us
to lose, or to win
or to do
whatever we want to.
Neglect is
my friend
it has been
for decades, like a stray cat
that sees
everything, with its yellow eyes.
I walk into
years
of neediness…
Then, I don’t need anything
and I cringe, at the many hands
that try to pet me.
Opinions are the same
Thoughts are few
and Actions, are the way
into
the tall grass,
where nobody goes, but me
gasoline flames
I walk through the fire
We all get
consumed.
The right way
or the wrong way
is taught
to everybody.
I go my own way
I listen to
people
and watch them do
needless things.
Even in my emptiness
I don’t ask for anything
I
kill rats
I
eat trash
I
starve
while enjoying
not eating.
It’s safe to say,
“I’m on fire.”
I can’t be put-out
by buckets of water
I
walk through fields
of flames
alone.
Pure Reflections in the Eyes of the Cat
Pulling myself up
looking over the bar
watching women wearing shoelaces
tanning themselves
in the pacific heat.
to be a cat, climbing balconies
peeking into windows
wandering rooftops
purring
in the starlit sky
diamonds fall to earth on black velvet
and me
the cat
and I
enjoying pink hotels
ruling empires
pulling ourselves up
like gods
of ancient pyramids
thieves of stars and silent shadows and tails of twilight
and when those women see me
the cat
and I
walking along the beach
they wonder why
it doesn’t leave footprints
why its green eyes look straight ahead
the cat finds some shade under a cabana tree
curls up
and falls asleep
smiling through feline fangs
never really asleep
it dreams of waves and women and things
lapping against the shore
like tongues
that never tire
of thirst.
there is a man who owns this cat
but a cat can never be owned
he drinks martinis like James Bond
while the cat
comes and it goes
and this relationship is best for both of them
because
like attraction
diamonds cause a man to reach out and grab them
and those cat’s eyes glitter in his hand
free of any slavery
valuable
in its pure reflections.
Wild Cats Can’t Be Caught
I can see your white legs, walking
in the summer sun, tall and erect
almost running, as if they had a purpose
to go somewhere. You fooled so many men
with your head above the crowd,
and your brown hair
dancing on your shoulders. I watched you
in your flower dress, tall and willowy
searching for a man, and not a master
I guess,
wild cats can’t be caught,
and
I’m writing this
because it’s the only way
I can capture you.
Now, the sparkle on your skin
has faded
and I have gray
in my beard.
We were once, so young
full of dreams—
you were
stepping between the stars.
My Girlfriend and My Life
She told me, “A woman needs to smell you—you must have a seductive scent.”
She gassed me with one perfume, after another, like an intoxicating toxin
that would linger for hours, like a loitering prostitute.
“What’s wrong?” She asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re tearing up. It’s okay for a man to express his feelings. What’s going on? It’s toxic to keep emotions bottled up.”
“We should keep them in the bottle. A man needs to keep himself, to himself.”
“That leads to suicide.”
“Suicide is okay—then he can die with honor. Take that away, and he’s got nothing.”
She screamed, and cried, and pounded my chest with her fists. “It’s not okay to say that!”
“There, there—I didn’t mean to say anything.”
“But you did—and it hurt me!”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked cute when she was mad, like a little girl. I felt like a monster, and it felt good.
She got me a bottle of cologne, shaped like a lightning bolt. “This is your scent,” she said. “For the bad boy.”
I saw that she got one for herself. “Are you a bad girl?”
“No—this is good girl cologne.”
“Clever marketers,” I commented.
Then, she started to notice things about me, that needed improvement.
“When was the last time you changed your sheets. There’s a big hole in this one.”
“That’s where the wire sticks through,” I said. “I position my body just so—so it doesn’t stick me in the night.”
“You need a new mattress.”
When we went to look for one, I caught her looking me up and down. “You could dress better,” she said.
“I’m a writer—we’re allowed to look like slobs—it’s a style. Just be thankful I didn’t wear my bathrobe in public.”
“You act like you don’t want to get better.”
“It’s just that we’re all dying—I don’t see a need to cover it up.”
“Well—if they make corpses look good—you can look good.”
“This is what it comes to? —make-up, fine suits, and fancy cologne?”
“This is what you have to do— when you get a girlfriend. Most men are failures, until their women teach them, basic hygiene.”
“I want to break up.”
“What!?”
“Yes—you haven’t seen my toenails yet—and I don’t want to get a pedicure.”
“Mister—you’re already scheduled for one. Ling, has excellent acid that kills fungus.”
“If things are growing on me, they’re meant to.”
“Then, you have a whole ecosystem down there—good luck, being alone!”
She stomped off—and I could smell her lingering perfume—her presence, that didn’t quite go away.
While writing this, I got poked twice by my mattress. It belongs to me—just like my life.
The End
A Woman’s Style
The men do what the women say,
for fear of what the women will do—
This nonsense
about male dominance
in society
is a lie.
The only way to succeed
is to have the approval of women—
and without that,
a man is finished
before he ever runs his race
for election,
or re-election—
it can all end in disgrace,
when those women
run him right out of town.
We look up to who we want to be
John Kennedy
and we despise the man in the mirror
Tricky Dick—
because
he reminds us of who we are.
Women love a man who is pretty
and hate a man who is ugly.
The ugly man doesn’t have a choice, so he wears masks in society
for fear of what she might think.
Whether you are socially accepted
or cast as an outcast
depends on what women want.
A woman’s style is invisible—it can’t be defined, pinned down, or critiqued
(When was the last time you heard a man criticize a woman in public?)
She sews an invisible thread through society,
a thread of fear
and pricks a man—
until he bleeds
red
while she goes undetected.
The matador uses a red cape
to distract an angry bull—
because
his style
is an artform—it takes daring to charm a snake.
The Artist
is the only outcast
who might have influence—
read in secret
and
despised in public.
He’ll be famous,
long after he’s dead.
But until that time,
“He was way ahead of his time…”
or so
the women will say,
when he’s safely buried
deep underground
and no longer a threat
to society.
Almost, Romance
I’m drinking espresso, in my apartment
sending back, all the gifts
fate tries to give me.
“No. I don’t want that job.”
“No. I don’t want that woman.”
They say that God tries to save a Man
in a dozen practical ways
but he’s still waiting on the miracle.
My experience
is that the rotten fruit
is waiting
to be picked-up
off the ground.
The good berries are out of reach
where nobody can get them, glistening in the sun, full of juice.
After a while, we don’t look up, anymore.
That special friend, rarely walks by
That real opportunity, is one in a thousand
I visit a barista
and her forehead is delicate
her smile, smooth.
“Do you want decaf espresso, non-fat milk, and ice?” She asked me, after I ordered.
“I don’t know, but as long as it’s mixed together.”
I enjoyed, looking into her eyes. I admired her head covering.
She was a Muslim, and I thought about changing my religion.
“That girl liked talking to you,” my mother said.
“I know.”
Later, I went to the bookstore, and read a book on Hitler and the Occult.
It said, your Will is like Seduction, working on another person.
Our eyes
were doing things to each other
and then
I broke contact
because
of religion.
I thought about buying that book, but I didn’t want to open-up a door to demons.
I have enough of my own.
What if I just kept looking into her eyes?
I would drown.
Then, I went to the second-hand store
and they were selling a piano
for 20 dollars.
“We could put it outside?” I asked my mother.
“No. The last piano I got rid of cost me 100 dollars to dump.”
Reality ruins romance, I thought.
Those Who Need Parents
Too often, we take credit for someone’s derangement
narcissism, lack of love, and we feel disturbed
when talking to them—sophistication is gone, with soundbites
that betray their insecurities, while they claim,
they’ve got everything under their control. If there is psychological space,
between you
and them,
they will
leave you alone
because they cannot stand someone who stands alone
they need to be intertwined with your neuroses
they need to mock and hate what they are afraid of
and you can walk away
or
you are left being the responsible parent, even if
that role is so far away
from who you actually are.
They have turned you into what they need
and what they are unwilling to accept.
They have made you their father
or mother,
whether they intended to
or not.
Those who need parents
make parents out of everybody,
and they act out their rebellion in childish ways.
I met a girl at the top of a mountain who gave me her number, and my friends told me that I should call her,
and when I did, I found myself climbing another mountain
while she told me, “She didn’t need a man.”
After I bought her lunch, I called my friend, “I can’t do this again,” I said. “You can tell a good woman’s qualities upon first meeting her—this one needs to go home and get disciplined by her dad. I’m not him, and I don’t crave the responsibility that he neglected.”
I drove home in bumper-to-bumper traffic on a hot afternoon, considering how soft society had become:
Men are afraid to be alone,
and women are afraid to be loved.
My Nightmare and My Psychiatrist
“Doc, it was orange!”
“What was orange?” He asked through a mouthful of candy bar.
“The spider. It was huge—almost like a crustacean. And when it saw me, it ran for me, and jumped onto me.”
“What happened then?”
“I shook it off, onto the floor, and threw a desk at it, but it didn’t explode—I only pinned it to the ground. Then I slapped it with a shoe, and its orange guts exploded. Some of it got onto me and burned my skin. What does that mean, doc?”
“It probably means that you ate something you were allergic to last night.”
“I had Haagen Dazs Ice cream with Raspberry Swirl, but that can’t be it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I loved it, and I don’t want to give it up.”
“Was that the end of your dream?”
“No. The spider was morphing into a doll, with sunken black eyes, and it said, “Mamma…mamma.”
“I see.”
“For some reason, I believed I could deactivate the murderous doll from outer-space, but the control panel was at the top of a mountain where it was plugged into stone. I ran up the trail, with the doll chasing me.”
“And then what happened?” My psychiatrist asked.
“I became an alien and the doll led me into her spacecraft.”
“Um, I see. This is stemming from your belief that relationships are artificial and alien to you. Try match.com and avoid eating ice cream before bed.”
“Aren’t you going to prescribe me any drugs?”
“I don’t think you need that. We don’t want to add anymore chemicals to your over-active mind.”
Amateur in Love
“I did it for love,” he said.
“What? How can that be? That’s not serious?”
Most often, what is said, in a serious way
is boring.
What can’t be explained,
is love.
Love is a kind of madness, that people don’t understand
They fall in love and fail in love
and find it again
even though
mankind,
is not kind.
A contract killer,
is easily understood.
The man who says, “I did it for love,” is terrifying.
There is something pure
about the foolish amateur
who spends his time, in love.
Too much love
is scorned by society–
I see him, with a heart tattoo
and a scraggly beard, loving
all the things he might do
with his cheap cigar, and gold golf shoes.
Many men
don’t become good
because they don’t love.
There is too much business
in what they do.
Their lives
are spent
as professionals
who do it for money.
Amateur—
from the Latin—
one who does it for love.
I Love Books! I Love my Library! I Love Librarians (Kind of)!
Now, the librarians notice me
and their German Shepherds get between me and the bookshelves.
They are feminist nazis with service dogs,
blue-haired lesbians without partners.
I walked confidently to my books on hold…
“Your stuff is taking up too much space,” she said.
I adjusted my face
to the voice
and smiled.
“I like to learn stuff.”
“Oh—that’s all good and well, but how many of those books can you read at the same time?”
“You’d be surprised,” I said. “I like to have orgies with them.”
Her jaw dropped.
She hadn’t made love to a book
since 3rd grade.
the unloved cats of the world
like a cat
with the good kicked out of her, she roams the streets
with no good in her
her sadness
feeds her madness, like helpless victims, she will hurt
her pain, needs expression
her orange fire flare
burns the skin of anyone who touches her
her yellow eyes are artificial lights
shining through
her saddened soul.
She walks between power-line shadows
and the birds don’t chirp
they stay as still as screws
dropping white rain
on her mangy coat
She scowls, with stiff, abrupt, contortions
and stares up
at the beautiful jewels
claiming false innocence
in their silence.
Her venom is a snake inside
She will never be adopted
People throw her scraps, to make her stay away
Only the old man on 4th street, gives her spiritual milk
but it’s always gone bad—not all the way—just enough, so she can drink it down
and she laps up the kindness
while thinking of all the prey she will eat
ripping rat hides to shreds
is her religion
She worships the gods of pain
utter indifference to her sad situation
So dangerous
so lonely
no matter how much she kills
animal sacrifices won’t redeem her soul
Even the old man, with the beautiful blue eyes, with tired skin, like an unmade bed
can’t love her
and her pain is the hurt of the world
that tears itself to shreds.
The Devil Cat
They say that anything becomes easy
once you figure-out how to do it,
but the figuring-out
is the part
that stumps me
like a Calculus problem
solved
with a power-saw
while I’m still using
this blunt ax.
Hard work, isn’t the answer,
but the Answer, requires hard work.
Newton discovered Calculus
during the plague year,
while everybody was dying,
and Edison failed over a thousand times,
until the light went on
in the dark.
They say,
failure is a friend to many
and it’s always willing to hang-out,
but most people tire of failure
because it never goes anywhere
or does anything.
It’s like your best friend who wants to meet women
but he’s waiting
for his doorbell to ring,
and it never does.
Failure gets old
and never seems to die.
We are left with failed lives
like used, stinky, black, socks
and we try
to find that silver lining, like a thread
that holds it all together.
I know this guy
who plays his old guitars
periodically
and listens to Dylan—
he’s not that good (the lens crafter, with the used guitars, that is)
and he wears pristine glasses
and has a bald spot
on the back of his head.
He has been depressed for years…
over what might’ve been
His hair is long (what’s left of it)
and he worships
his dead dreams.
There are countless men like this
in living rooms, across America
and perhaps, the whole world.
They have encouraging wives
who nurture their fantasies
“That was pretty good, honey.”
When we are young, the dream can be real
it’s bigger, than it will ever be
and when we get older
it shrinks
like those dirty socks
stuck in the washer
going around
and around
drown
like 6 kittens
that never got out of the bag.
If they had 9 lives,
they used them up
pretty fast.
The devil cat
can’t be found.
It’s black.
Living forever
in the moonlight.
It is the darkness—
that thing, that can’t be found
mysterious, like thin air
with green eyes
shining, out of it.
Poets, want to be that
black cat
but they don’t understand it.
The light only reveals
what is in the light.
The devil
is never caught
out, in the open.
Only
a creature
that sees
in the dark
will ever find him—
an ill omen
to many
but good luck
to a few.
I love wounded tigers—they’re dangerous.
I am as happy as I will ever be
and
there is nothing that will complete me.
We all have problems… there is joy in our suffering if we can find meaning there.
I have noticed that people pretend to care
for fear of what an unkind person
might do or say.
Nobody can trust pretenders.
The worst conduct comes from those who need security—because they never question authority.
They are unable to love because they need to be loved back.
I am indifferent to someone who loves me and hates somebody else.
I am attracted to a woman who has compassion for humanity.
I genuinely care for people when I stop fearing them—
even if
wounded tigers are dangerous.
Fate Will Find Our Hiding Place
My daddy used to say
some people go on a journey
while others are taken.
Some are taken right here, right now
while others wait patiently.
People know they are Pretending
and all they can do is pretend.
They are searching for agony
but they don’t know it yet.
They get so confused
going to this place
and that
and not really getting anywhere—
They want love
but all they manage
to do
is to get in and out
of relationships.
Maybe a dating app
will help
them
to find it?
It’s missing
because they don’t know what it is.
There are a thousand lessons
waiting to be learned.
We must wait patiently
to know them.
We read them
and don’t understand them.
We search for them
and don’t find them.
We have to be still…
Eventually,
fate will find our hiding place.
Love, Will Change You
the words that we know
the voices that we hear
the faces we see, and don’t see
anymore.
My vocabulary is limited
there are sentences, I can’t speak
worries and fears
wrapped up
in words
like presents
given.
There is nothing worse, than walls—
ego defenses
protecting pain
and ordinary words, will not work
Submission, in a win-lose
situation
is off the board
because, we are both Kings.
It is easy
to be right
and be alone
It takes courage
not to fake
a win.
How many people are celebrating themselves?
They’ve spent their lives defeating
everyone, they meet
to make them small
to murder their accomplishments
to eat away
all decency, like acid
with gossip, and cutting words
a bitter tongue
celebrating itself.
This game
is losing pieces
we can’t get back.
We must not do, what others do
We must love, despite cruel words.
Love is Eternal
like a song that doesn’t stop
People need to hear the words, seldom spoken
the vocabulary, so difficult to speak.
The choice to give good gifts
is yours.
Love—is the hardest thing to do
it’s what the world needs
it will change you.
Mormon Girls
the Mormon girls keep contacting me on Facebook
Perhaps, they want to save my soul
they’re 18
and they have never slept with a man
I fell in love with one of them, once
years ago, but I wouldn’t join her church
because
the thought of being married to her for eternity
scared me
and
I told her so
“You need to get married,” she said
and
I respected that, coming from her
because I loved her
Now, I’ve gone bad
like rotten grapes
and
I’ve matured
into a fine wine
that anybody can get drunk on
because I taste so good
I tell this to women
and they laugh
and that’s
what she liked about me
“Alex, you make me laugh,” she said.
Well, when I wouldn’t join her church
she went back to Utah
and found a man
and was married in three months.
She was the only woman I enjoyed kissing.
Now, the Mormon girls contact me on Facebook
and I say,
“Do I know you from church?”
They want to get married, right away, and they say, “No, but we could get to know each other better.”
And I say, “I’m looking for a third wife. Perhaps, you’d like to come over to my apartment and show me the missionary position?”
And for some reason, they never contact me again.
She was smart, but she believed in superstitions…
Would-be-artists often think, if I could only travel to Paris, I would find something worth my art, but they are mistaken. It isn’t the big landscapes that capture our imaginations, but the small worlds we grow to know intimately. They are the friends we know, deeply. They are the character and history of our home. They are the intimate birthmarks of a lover. It takes faith to explore them. Even scientists recognize much of the world is unseen. What we know, is only on the surface, and what we don’t know, is the great mystery.
I was an accounting major, but I decided to take a literature class. The black and white world of reality was a bit too dull, so I opted for some color. She had rosy cheeks and dirty blonde hair. She wore glasses that made her look cute, and not overly smart. I was instantly in love. We were studying for exams. Literature Finals can be passed, if you can interpret symbols and write decently. Her family had money. I could tell. There was something easy and careless about her, but it didn’t spoil the mystery. Our conversations were about banned books, good writers, and our professor who we both agreed was half-mad. It’s unclear if half-mad professors get jobs at universities or professors get jobs at universities and become half-mad. It doesn’t really matter. I was interested in her, and not my professor. He was just something to talk about, so I could get to know her better. About the time I decided something was different about her, was when we decided to go for a walk in the rain.
I opened my umbrella in class.
“Don’t do that!” She said.
“But why?” I asked.
“You’ll anger the sun god.”
“The sun god?”
“Yes.”
I realized she was serious. She was smart, but she believed in superstitions. We were going to have an interesting conversation.
I like old things…
I like old things
broken and discarded
Old faces are a mystery to me
and I wonder what they have seen
I’m shaving in a mirror
with a used razor blade
before I go to work
to an all too common job
As I get older
I care less what people say
They care less about what I say
until we reach a stalemate
Give me time alone
and I instantly feel better
Falling in love
with my own fantasies
How many of us
remain uncovered
undiscovered
treasures
that don’t want to be found
I look at society
moving at a rushing pace
and I wonder at the people
who have been discarded
Those lost souls
who have lived differently
and don’t need as much
as the rest of us
Old things whisper to me
just like they whisper to you
You must listen
to hear them
Life away from life is living.
My breath is foreign in the wasteland
and I am more grateful for it.
the woman I will never know
she haunts me
like a pleasant feeling
like dew on garden flowers
as I walk barefoot
through the black earth
there is no hate within her
no pride
no hurt
a perfect flower
flowers don’t scream
or sulk
or spread nasty rumors
When they laugh
it’s beautiful
and not a sarcastic stare
this woman, and I
enjoy a cup of tea
late into the evening
sharing our favorite stories
there is no talk of other people
envious gossip
or trips we will take
it’s two young people, old at heart
enjoying each other
the morning dew
before the afternoon sun
I trust her
because I love her.
Inspired Slug
Oh, to be loved
and love a woman
and take her for granted, but not really
to be more than a perfect husband
to be a slob, a slug, with slime
worth its weight in gold
to be inspired
the inspired life is the only one worth living
dirty laundry, and dishes, and dust
pile up
waste, excreted, by a slug
the slug wants to be slime-less
to please his female
the slug wants a spine
it wants to be beautiful
so it can find
a delicious strawberry
to suck on
a perfect rose
to sniff, and romance
with slime.
it’s a truthful lover
never making any false moves
slow and deliberate
it cannot hide
obvious emotions.
Most don’t like the slug
they insist it find the trash
but the slug doesn’t mind
he’s a connoisseur
of all living things
observing, slowly
tasting, sweetly, the nectar
the peach, the fuzz
looking up mountains, and canyons, and rivers
of strawberry-blonde hair
“Clean up your mess.”
And the slug smiles, and gets inspired
laying down a fresh line of slime
it has no teachers
they speak, but it does not listen
he’s a slug, that’s what slugs do
he’s self-taught
observing, thinking, it moves
poked or squashed
spilling its guts
dried in the sun
his death is due
Slime, is a silver reminder
of an inspired life.
Lost Love
She eats quickly
The waiter brings the check
“Separate checks!” I shout.
He jumps out of his skin
and brings the bill, a second time
He looks at me
like I’m an incomplete man
Maybe he’s right
I’ve been used many times
and there isn’t much left
“Would you like to go for a walk?”
She nods
We move under summer trees
and I like her company
but I can’t get close to her
and I don’t know why
I kiss her
a dry cringe-worthy kiss
and it takes her by surprise
Then she travels
3 states away
to live
and she’s quite content
while I write this poem.
Walking with Mom Around the Neighborhood
My mother says “hi” to other people
with kind enthusiasm
as we walk under white puffy clouds
around the neighborhood
We see the neighbor’s dog, drooling
“He’s just a puppy,” my mother says
“Mom, he’s an old man; that’s old man drool.”
I notice that she is so fragile and small,
so loving and eager for life
she watches people and notices things
“What are you going to do, later today?” She asks.
“I think I’ll read Hegel.”
“Oh, you mean, Hegel.”
“No, Hegel; this is why I can’t talk right mom.”
“Oh, stop,” she laughs.
Growing up happened so fast
she was a good mom
and when we are home, I read her a poem
and my dad sits down quietly
listening to my words
I do wish I could bottle these moments
it’s a shame not be to be able to have them forever
we drink them in
and get drunk on merry times
they don’t last
and we don’t know them
until they’ve past
family is something we are searching for
and we know the degrees of separation
like the divide between close friends and those that are far away
it’s a Grand Canyon between us and the rest of the world
and family is close
sometimes, closer than we’d like them to be
we get hurt
when we see family go through sickness
and there is a sadness we have not yet discovered
So, I walk with mom, around the neighborhood
enjoying the moments at home
that won’t last.
What we might learn from Max, the male house cat.
He sleeps on the piano all day
listening to bad music
played by children.
The dog whines and wonders at this god.
The cat opens one green eye. He is all-knowing.
His humans believe in his cuteness.
He believes in killing. He sleeps before the hunt.
People don’t know how to rest.
The cat curls-up, calm,
full of fire, like a lighthouse, with two beams.
People need him. He doesn’t need anybody.
He licks his paws with his sandpaper tongue.
Maybe,
he’ll kill the mockingbird that was making fun of him earlier,
or the rat that told on him,
or the mole that passed secrets.
The door opens, and Aunt Sharon walks in.
The cat immediately opens both eyes in surprise.
“Where’s Max—I want to hold him.”
“He sleeps on the piano… Strange, he was here a moment ago.”
“He’s such a handsome cat. Did you neuter him?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to cut off his balls. They hang so low.”
“Molly needs a male cat to have kittens with. Could I borrow Max? He’s such a stud.”
“Max is used up most nights. He fights off the male cats and has sex with the females. He’s the Genghis Khan of cats. He doesn’t go for domesticated princesses like Molly.”
“How do you know that? Max is a lover, not a fighter.”
“Max loves to kill.”
“Why are you pouring beer into that saucer?”
“Max doesn’t drink milk. He’s a bachelor.”
“You know what… Max disgusts me. Molly needs a gentleman.”
“No argument there.”
Cat Worship
a cat sleeps the day away
until its green eyes pop open like stars
a cat can entertain itself
or stand like a statue for hours
When it gets close to death
it goes off someplace quiet to die
I admire the cat
it doesn’t ask for favors
the cat will run away, but it can fight, like a boxer
against superior opponents
against dogs, coons, and coyotes
right jab, right, left jab
like a shadow of the night
People call it scared, but it’s not afraid of anyone
it wants to be loved, but it can love itself
it will wander for miles away from home
and frequently, I see
Lost Cat Signs hanging on Power Poles
but the cat is never lost—despite,
Lonely Grandmas
losing
their only friend
they fed the cat, but the cat can’t be bought
it has loyalty to no one
it can kill
and no matter how much we try to domesticate it
love it
and control it
the cat is free, like a fire in a cane field
it acts like god,
and expects to be treated like one
capricious and cunning
a warrior of the woods
a hunter of the heart
a bit of orange, yellow and black
a howl that scares the devil
I believe in the cat, but the cat doesn’t care
its tail flicks back and forth
thinking about what to do next.
Instagram Models
Who can blame them
for selling their beauty
to the laptop screen? It’s being wasted on men who don’t love them
but they are young
and they don’t belong to anyone.
I wouldn’t prescribe that they get married
because time will tell them what to do.
They are beautiful
on the beach
taking pictures
of each other
and I am watching the sunrise.
Fire is flung into the sky
and the man who catches it
is God.
Surfers wait
for waves
that rise and fall
while
I wait
for a tsunami.
So, where do the Good Girls Go?
I met one in middle school—she was the prettiest thing
it was her blonde hair, and cute teeth, and air-head airs
and perfect blue eyes, and sweet dimpled cheeks
She had already figured-out, she could get whatever she wanted
by giggling
and pretending,
she didn’t know.
My aunt said, “She’s such a pretty thing.”
And I pretended like I didn’t know
Back then, I had a certain kind of wisdom
that comes with knowing,
there are only certain things you can control
and a woman who makes every boy in school do, what she wants them to
is as far away from that, as wishes are from kisses.
She wore her black thong above her jeans
like a lustful shoelace
and the boys gathered around, to give her what she wanted
and I paid her no mind
because I knew my thoughts would cost me too much
and one day she asked me for a dollar fifty
to buy some nachos for lunch
and I said, “No.”
“You are mean!” She cried, and stomped off.
It was the only word I said to her in middle school.
and I was probably the only boy who told her “No.”
I didn’t think of it then,
because I said “No”
from instinct.
Now, that I look back on it,
I smile.
In 7th grade, I saw her mom
She was blonde too, with a faded face
and overweight grace
and clothes that didn’t care about fashion or style
a divorce
a difficult life
with only faith, to hold onto
This good girl, who I knew
dyed her hair blue
and married an electrician
popping-out three babies
and loving them, despite her post-partum depression.
Now, she cries on Facebook and complains about how she isn’t beautiful anymore
and her friends comfort her
with reassuring false words
She thinks, men are evil
accusing her husband of nasty things.
Her friends, sew her love
and hate
in the threads
“Leave your husband. You deserve better.”
But she knows, she isn’t beautiful, anymore
and even the naivest male
won’t date her
because her colors
scream, “Danger!”
Poisonous things advertise
with greens and blues
and multicolored tattoos
hair
killed by chemicals
acidic, eating away
of the female
until the good girl
is a gone girl.
A Love Letter that Reads More like Hate Mail
I could not overcome the impulse
to send her a message. I knew it wouldn’t do me any good,
because it should be a love letter,
but unfortunately,
it read more like hate mail.
It went something like this…
“Liz, I have loved you since the moment we met. I asked you out 5 times
and was rejected 5 times.
Now, you won’t even follow me on Instagram,
or let me follow you. I’m not a stalker (really!)—so don’t worry. I’m just sending you this message
to let you know what a great guy I am.
One day, I’ll be famous and wealthy and (still) good-looking
and you’ll be old.
All those guys told you “No!”
because they weren’t right for you.
All of your relationships failed
because you failed
to see what a great guy I am.
This is your last chance. I will be off the market soon, dating dozens of beautiful women
but bored by all of them
because you
are so interesting.
If only you would’ve accepted my desperate pleas for a date,
but I wasn’t good-enough for you—I guess…
just wait until I become SUCCESSFUL!!!
I won’t give you the time of day!
ps. If you change your mind, and want to go out with me, I’m available 100% of the time.
I love you, Liz!”
I Married a Mermaid
I don’t know what we were trying to do, or possibly, what we were trying to find, but I found myself squeezed between two of my best friends in a pickup truck that had been threatening to die for the last 50 miles. Then it did. We were near the national forest by the coast, and I could smell the salty air blowing through the trees.
“It’s gonna rain,” I said. “Why don’t you drive to that turnoff.”
Clayton guided his dying beast under some maple trees where a semi-truck was parked.
Then the sky opened up. “Let’s run for it. I could use a drink right about now,” Brad said.
In the time it took to sprint 20 paces, we were all soaked. We entered the bar and the firelight caught my eye. A fisherman in a grey beard sat in the corner, and a girl who wasn’t more than 12 years old served the other men drinks.
I chose the fire, while Brad and Clayton ordered whiskey.
“We wanted an adventure and we found this place—not bad,” I said.
Then a beautiful woman walked into the room. She was young with mature mannerisms and her height towered above us.
“You see, you’ll never find a creature like that in the city,” Clayton said.
“You’ll never get with a creature like that, period,” Brad suggested.
“You wanna bet?” Clayton asked.
“Drinks for the rest of the evening?”
“You’re on.”
I watched in amusement as my friend who was at least 6 inches shorter, approached.
“Uhhh. Excuse me?”
My friend looked like a flower bending towards her nose to be sniffed.
“Yes?” She asked.
“I uhhhh, just noticed… uhh, that uhhh you are very pretty.”
“Thank you, but I’m with that gentleman over there.” She pointed to the fisherman who was dressed in a moldy coat and an oil stained cap. He looked up from his pipe with amusement.
My friend walked back to our table.
“Well… I guess she’s taken,” I said
“You still have to buy the drinks,” Brad suggested.
“I do not,” Clayton retorted.
“Say you guys, how does a guy like that get with a beautiful woman like her?”
“Money, status, and looks,” Brad laughed.
“But seriously?” Clayton asked.
“Maybe he’s a rich billionaire who decided he liked fishing in retirement.”
“I guess we’ll never know and we’ll never get with a woman like that,” Clayton said.
I decided to start drinking too and the evening became stranger, especially when the fisherman walked over to our table.
“Can I join you boys?”
“Sure,” we said in unison.
I was feeling happy and depressed at the same time, which is a pretty good feeling; it’s akin to feeling sorry for yourself while dismissing your problems.
“You’re the young man who hit on my wife,” the fisherman accused.
“I uhh, didn’t know sir.”
“I’m just havin fun with you, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I know it’s tough out there for young men and nobody gives you much sympathy when it comes to the ladies, so the secret I’m about to share with you, might help you out. You’ve tried everything, haven’t you? I can tell your friend here, hasn’t given up hope, but he’s close. And you guys, you are on your way to permanent bachelorhood. Society won’t look at you the same way as other men who are married. In their eyes, you are defective males, or worse, there is something wrong with you, perhaps a secret you don’t want anyone to know, that keeps you from getting married.”
“Come on, stop giving us a hard time and tell us your secret.”
“Okay, okay…” the fisherman laughed. I’m just playing with you. My name’s Jon, by the way. That woman over there… she ain’t a woman; she’s a mermaid. Caught her myself, I did, with a rod and tackle.”
We waited for him to say, “just kidding,” but his eyes were dead serious. “Now, the reason I’m telling you this is that you will either write me off as a lunatic or you are so desperate that you are willing to try what I’m prepared to suggest. It’s what I was willing to do, when I found myself in your position 150 years ago.”
“Did you say, “150 years ago?” I asked.
“I did. She kept me young all these years. That’s one of the many benefits to sleeping with a mermaid. Now, if you are willing to risk your lives for the best sex you will ever have, then listen to me a bit longer.”
I could see Clayton’s desire churning, but I could also see fear in his eyes. Brad was disbelieving. “Hey man, we’re just gonna get drunk and catch the next bus outa here, right?”
Clayton was considering the offer, but I also knew he had hope in seduction techniques he’d learned on the internet. I, on the other hand, had given up all hope, and I was waiting for some kind of supernatural intervention; this was it.
“I’ll go,” I said.
My friends tried to convince me to take the bus instead. “It isn’t safe to go to sea with a stranger,” they told me. “He might be a pervert or a murderer.”
“I guess I’ll find out,” I said.
They even pleaded with me, but my mind was made up, and I saw them get on the 109 bus like fish with their mouths open.
“You ready?” Jon asked.
“Yes, I’m ready. In a storm, though?”
“A storm is the only time you can catch mermaids. I’ve been saving some bait for them in my cooler. I have a line ready, if you’re ready?
“I’m ready?” I said.
“Ready to risk your life?” They’ll try to drown you, you know?
I nodded.
A sheet of rain pelted us like it didn’t want us to get in bed with the creatures of the deep. And a lighthouse cut the sky with its beam. When I passed under it, I knew I had passed the point of no return.
“Heaving anchor and casting off,” Jon said. And the engine cut the choppy water that capped with white waves while rain tried to drown us from above. Soon, we entered a fog bank and all I could see was the lighthouse light, piercing the tempest. If Jesus had been on that boat, I would have given up hope. Even then, Jon walked towards me with a beer in his hand. He looked as cool as a cucumber. “You can only do this under the influence,” he said. “I was drunk out of my mind, when I caught my wife.”
I smiled, even though I thought I might die the next moment. A rogue wave crashed into us, nearly throwing me overboard and pushing us horizontal. I vomited.
“Time to hook our bait,” Jon said. He popped a cooler. In the salted ice was a human heart.
“Is that what I think it is?” I asked.
“Belonged to a sailor. Don’t ask me where I got it.”
I hooked it and dropped it into the boiling sea. Hypothermia was making me numb and I could barely hold onto my pole.
Then out of the wind, I heard a seductive song.
“Careful, don’t let them know you are listening. If you pretend not to notice, they’ll get closer, but if you lock eyes with one, she’ll draw you into the waves. Her words will say what you have always wanted to hear. ‘I’m not wearing a bra, take me now.’ When they get close, give her your heart. She’ll swallow it whole and then reel her in.”
Suddenly, a fierce face broke the surface and smiled at me. I grabbed the gunwale and prepared to jump into the sea, but a chain stopped me. Jon had secured me to his boat. And I turned to murder him.
“It’s for your own good,” he shouted. And when I broke my gaze with the mermaid, my mind returned to normal. “Come, take my heart,” I whispered.
She swam nearer, fluttering her tail. Her breasts were round and I tried not to look. Then she took the bait and pulled on the line and I began to play with her, like a courtship of love, as I reeled her in.
“Now you’ve got her!” Jon said excitedly. I walked from one end of the deck to the other until she was next to the boat.
“I designed this gaff, just for mermaids,” Jon said. And soon she was sprawled out, onto the deck, seductive, and dying from lack of breath.
“What do I do?” I shouted. “She’s not getting enough air.”
“You have to kiss her and blow into her lungs.”
I went down to kiss her and razor-sharp teeth greeted my lips.
“Just do it,” Jon said. “It’s the only way to save her life and make her bonded to you.” I closed my eyes and kissed her and it tasted sweet, sweeter than honey, sweeter than anything I’d ever had, until I wanted to keep sucking her lips until I couldn’t breathe. My air entered her lungs and her eyes became less terrified. They looked at me like a lover and I was in love.
“What about her tail?” I asked.
It will dry out and flake off. Underneath will be a pair of the most sensuous legs you’ve ever seen.”
“Will she be able to speak English.”
“Of course. She won’t be able to for a couple years, but a girlfriend that doesn’t talk is not a problem.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said.
After I caught my wife and approximately two weeks later…
I had not heard from my friends and my friends had not heard from me.
My new wife was eager to learn how to be human and I taught her to cook and exercise and she took to it, like a fish to water.
A month past with no word from either of my friends, until Clayton sent me a text and wanted to talk to me about his new girlfriend.
“She’s perfect, Alex. German, blonde, and she only has a few feminist tendencies.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. We should go to coffee.”
“Okay. Does tomorrow work for you?”
“Sure.”
When I got there, his girlfriend was yelling at him. “I want you to act more like a man and stop making me your therapist!”
Clayton looked at me sheepishly. “How are you, Alex?”
“Okay, I guess. My girlfriend will be joining us shortly.”
“You got a girlfriend, Alex?” Clayton asked.
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t date. Is she overweight? Most women in the United States are overweight.”
“Clayton, you shouldn’t say that,” his girlfriend said.
“I’m just saying that a woman should keep herself fit. It’s healthy.”
I thought his girlfriend was going to leave him, right there.
“So, where’s your girlfriend, Alex? Is she imaginary?”
“There she is,” I said.
A woman with long legs, big lips, and black sunglasses sat down next to me and put her hand on my leg.
“What nationality are you?” Clayton asked.
“I’m sorry, she doesn’t speak much English,” I said.
“Then how does she communicate?”
“With her body.”
I looked at Clayton. I do believe he was drooling.
THE END
the boys want the girls, and the girls know
In middle school
the girls said,
“You’re so immature”
to the boys who wanted to be.
It was as if some invisible shield
protected me
from them.
They were nice to look at—some of them
but I instinctively knew
they were more trouble
than they were worth.
I focused on my chess game
my grades,
my music,
and my books.
All these years later
I work in a middle school
and much has remained the same.
I hear the girls say,
“You’re so immature”
and I smile.
There is a cycle
and we are reminded
of who we were
and who we still are.
The most beautiful girl in middle school
is still the most beautiful girl on Facebook
but time has unraveled her mind.
She’s totally nuts.
I dodge bullets
and don’t fire back.
Life is subjective
and I study it.
If you reject someone’s religion, dogma, or creed
they’ll hate you for it
because it wasn’t that strong to begin with.
Most of society is weak
and it starts in middle school.
The boys want the girls
and the girls know.
Robot Girlfriend
A man cannot be moral without power, and when that power is awakened in a woman, weakness cannot save you.
I was desperate for something I couldn’t define. My peers wanted to be called “doctor.” I wanted to know who I was.
“You won’t be able to love people in the same way,” my mother said. “It’s your autism that gets in the way of your feelings.” Whether or not this was true, was impossible for me to know. Did everyone love in the same way?
Medical school wasn’t working out. It wasn’t for a lack of scientific ability; it was… How did my professor put it? “No bedside manner.”
I struck out.
And I was striking out with women too, ever since I realized they weren’t annoying, or maybe they were, but I was willing to overlook that. They let me help them with their homework, but when I asked them out, they always had boyfriends, or boy problems.
I did have friends though, but they were all stranger than me. Not in a bad way; just unable to interact with “normal” people, successfully.
Society is ordered, just like me, but their rules are invisible, and I don’t understand them, in the same way I don’t understand women.
I asked my professor about this and he said, “Don’t try.”
Molly was the girl I had my eyes on. She was cute and intelligent in a girlish way, but Brian was always horning in. He was still in medical school. They let him do research, just as long as he didn’t interact with the patients. How did my professor describe him? “Creepy,” I think. I agree on this point. Brian was working on a PhD while completing his medical degree.
He was doing research on human skin, “the largest organ of the body,” he said frequently, “and the most important.”
“What about the human heart?” I asked.
“Overrated; they can transplant a heart, but living growing skin is another matter.”
“I’ve seen it done.”
“What you’ve seen is like paper mâché, compared to the skin I invented. I’m going to patent it, and make a billion dollars.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure, but you have to look at it under infrared. It’s still sensitive to sunlight.” His darkroom was like a dungeon. There were nude photographs hanging on the walls, but they weren’t erotic; instead, they were scientific, still creepy though.
“I feed it vitamin D. Look at it under the microscope; you can see it growing. With the right nutrients, it will grow into any form.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Really.”
“What can it be used for?”
“Burn victims, robotic limbs, maybe you could build yourself a girlfriend? AI is nearly there—a robot girlfriend in the flesh.”
I thought about what he said. It was so creepy, but I was in engineering school, and some of my friends would be willing to work night and day for a good woman. It was better than ordering one overseas. They usually showed up, got married, got divorced, and got with another guy. That wasn’t going to happen to me, so I got to work.
Jerry was taking drama. He had a flare for making masks, and he began to sculpt her face.
“And remember… she needs to be blonde, think Pamela Anderson.” Brian was working on her legs, and kept losing focus. “Her ass; it’s so beautiful.”
I was working on her bone structure, connecting her neurons, playing with her feelings. “She will be sad and somewhat suicidal; the only person who can make her feel good is me.”
“God, you’re a narcissist,” Brian said.
“Look who’s talking…”
“How long until she’s done?” Jerry asked.
“Are you in a hurry?” Brian laughed.
“Guys with girls get more respect.”
“Just patent something and make a billion dollars.”
“Money isn’t power. How many so called ‘powerful guys’ get disrespected behind their backs?”
“Like who?”
“Bill Gates, for one.”
“Good point.”
“Okay, Jerry wants respect, and I want to get laid; what do you want Andy?”
“Power.”
“Women will steal your power; don’t you want to fall in love.”
“I used to. Now I want revenge.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of guys who get that; they usually buy a gun first.
“No, those guys are outcasts, and they remain outcasts. I need to beat “normal people” at their own game.
“How do you plan to accomplish that?”
“By having the perfect girlfriend.”
6 months later I was still trying to get her knobby knees right. I consulted with Japanese engineers who were further along in the process. Apparently, a perfect wife is desperately needed in Japan; for that matter, a perfect wife is desperately needed everywhere.
I’m not sure why I wanted to make her unfaithful, neurotic, and a feminist. It could be due to my upbringing in the West. The last feature I installed was the most important. It was a memory-wipe, brain explosion button. It was big and red and I carried it in my pocket all the time, just in case she started thinking for herself.
I was eating my hamburger next to the fountain when Jerry and Brian showed up.
“Come on, it’s been over six months. You work slower than a construction worker.”
“You know what they say about engineers?”
“No, what?”
“They took six days to create the universe, and on the seventh, they took it apart again.”
“That’s pretty good…”
“Not as good as that.”
I looked where Brian was staring. She had milky white legs and an iron chest, a perfect mouth, and tattoos that ran down her arms, into her black nails. Her blonde hair was cut short, and parted to the side; she was hotter and smarter than any man.
She looked at me, and I stared at her. We were speaking the same body language. Finally, someone understood me. She walked over, swaying her hips, rubbing against me.
“Who’s your friend?” Jerry asked.
“Don’t you know? Look at her face…”
“My god. You finished her? When do I get to take her out on a date? What’s her name?”
“Emma, and hold on. Hold on. I don’t want her soiled or tainted in any way. I need my revenge.”
“Why do you persist with that? You know what Confucius said?”
“No.”
“Man who plots revenge digs two graves.”
“No one will die.” I pulled out my iPad. Flirt with the football boys. She did. Go to the sorority party. She did.
Ten days later, I gave her a checkup. She was all red down there. “Jerry, I’m sorry, sex is out of the question, unless you want an STD. Her feminist tendencies are extreme, and she’s been crying for the last five days. She keeps telling me that she wants to die. I’ll need to hook her up to the computer psychiatrist for at least five days.”
“What’s wrong with you? Why did you make her that way?”
“It’s the only woman I’ve ever known. I wanted her to be real, not fake.”
“You’ve got a screw loose, man.”
“You’re right. Several.”
After her therapy, she joined me in my PE class. It was the best humanities class—where I could show her off properly. The guys got her number; some of them didn’t. She worked the room like a pro, in her butt shorts and halter top.
“Go on 10 dates, Saturday night,” I said. She did. It was a world record. She had such stamina. One guy dated her at two in the morning. She broke all their hearts.
The next day, I gave Emma a check-up. Her skin was stained red.
“Is that blood?”
“No,” she said.
I taught her to lie, but I couldn’t tell if she was lying. I checked the program. She was. I watched the video from Saturday night through green night-vision goggles; the horror, as she snuffed out each man.
I had created a monster.
“Your heart’s beating faster,” she said.
I reached for the red button.
“Looking for this?”
She severed my chest, holding my heart in her hands. Then she squeezed.
“This must be what it feels like to have your heart broken…” I said.
The End
Travel Light
I picked up the piano for nine years
and then I learned it’s better to travel light
Words weigh less than your soul
and you can only write well, as long as you stay, lighter than air
Baggage, will weigh you down
until you are buried underground
Women have a lot of baggage
unless she’s a witch, and carries a broom
either way, I have stayed away
I keep my eyes open for one woman
who is lighter than air
She visits me, in my imagination
I don’t care.
A real woman can weigh a ton
Because, there’s all kinds of baggage
there
that will suffocate
your soul.
I can’t blame single women, though
I am a single man
and I know what each of us is thinking…
Why hasn’t someone snatched me up?
Probably, because we’re too heavy
I have a piano in my trunk
and you are dealing with all those boyfriends in your brain
What makes a man a man? He must be—
lighter than air.
What makes a woman a woman?
You will know her, in your dreams
when you wake up, beside her
and thank God, for the angel there—
lighter than air.
Phone Conversations with My Friend
I call my friend
and we talk
about celibacy, about
how no woman is going to get this
how we are saving ourselves (in so many ways)
how marriage is a dangerous contract
how a man gets tired and surrenders
how a woman wants the man to sign on the dotted line, and
how the woman changes after marriage—
not out of her clothes, but in ungodly ways (Contrary to the Bible)
how she gets fat
how she gets bitchy
how she gets itchy, and demands back rubs
Women are friendly with friends and it’s all-out war, behind closed doors
the man wants a divorce, and she beats him to it (It’s an annoying competitive thing)
He stole her heart in the beginning, and she stole his stuff in the end.
“We are lucky to be single,” I comforted my friend.
“You’re right. Great minds think alike.”
“And how many times have we had this conversation? And how many years have we been single?”
“I lost count.”
Never underestimate FEAR, as a primary motivator.
Fear of women
Fear of no women
Fear of the dark
It’s always a stalemate,
until courage.
But having balls
doesn’t make you a man.
A man is not a slave. I look at the husbands, and shudder.
It’s a horror show,
and the men line-up for it.
There are 1,000 ways to ruin your life
and a woman
is only one of them.
Just think of it—some people get married twice.
The Formula for Female Attraction: Make Her Chase You: Sexy Suntan Lotion
With my love of literature, and my friend’s love of chemistry, we had rare edition books stacked to the ceiling, and a lab tucked against the wall. There was a convergence of stuff scattered across the floor—scuba tanks, maps, weight-lifting equipment, male hygiene products, and they mostly belonged to my friend, but I was also using them. I tagged along on his adventures. He was in the lead, with a mad, frustrated, clueless energy determining to solve the direction we were headed in, like a mathematical proof.
Our problem was women. I felt like solving the problem was inviting the problem, but my friend thought differently.
“Just wait until I perfect my suntan lotion,” he said. “It’s packed full of pheromones and will make women rabid.”
“I don’t know if I want to wear that stuff. You know I’m sensitive to smells.”
“You’re just sensitive; and you’re afraid to try new things. This might solve our female problem.” He poured some pink goo out of a test-tube and sucked it up with a syringe.
“First, I’ll try a child-proof test.” He put a drop of it on his wrist.
Burning flesh perfumed the air. “Aeehhh!”
“Put some baking soda on it,” I said. “I have acid reflux—this takes the acid out of my mouth.”
I poured it on his wrist—it foamed from the chemical burn. “Ahhh, that’s better. Obviously, I haven’t perfected it yet, but I have some chemistry students who are willing to be my Guinea Pigs.”
“Maybe you should read Ethics, by Plato?”
“Oh, that’s nonsense,” my friend said. “If I need to know something about that, I’ll just ask you.”
“Are we going to go to the beach?”
“Sure. In fact, let’s take the scuba gear, and look for Nazi gold.”
“You think we’re going to find anything?”
“No; but looking is more than half the fun. If we get bored, we can stare at the women on the nude beach. France is beautiful this time of year, and so are the women.”
My friend was looking for flesh. I was looking for something that was alive. I hadn’t found it yet, but it’s a lot like looking for God— you don’t know what he looks like, but you’ll know him, when you find him.
We were diving, off our boat, looking at the submerged city. The water was warm, and my thoughts had completely left my head. I was like a fish that didn’t know it was swimming in the ocean.
“There’s one,” my friend said.
“One what?”
“A woman.”
“Well, why don’t you go talk to her?”
He did. Clayton looked funny with his flippers, speedo, and air tank. As he approached the French girl, she started to laugh. Then he tried speaking French to her, and she laughed even more. I don’t understand French at all, but I do understand what she said. “I have a boyfriend.” Which is code for, “I don’t have a boyfriend, but there is no chance you are going to be.”
Clayton reentered the water like a slimy fish that had failed to evolve. His spine was gone, and he dog-paddled over to me.
“Come on, man; let’s go home.”
“Okay. What can I do to make you feel better?”
Clayton thought about it. “Hamburgers.”
“And Milkshakes?” I asked.
“You’re on.”
We went to Five Guys, near this enormous Cathedral, the French were building for over 200 years. They must really love God. Even the tourists, must love God. It reminded me of the States, because all the restaurants were American.
“I got to solve the female problem, man. I’m just getting too old to be a nerd.”
“You have a Ph.D. in Mathematics and Chemistry, and your brain stopped growing two years ago. Your personality is set in stone.”
“But what if we could change that?” Clayton asked. If we go someplace different, and live there, we can become different people.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Game Theory suggests that you know who you are based on how people react to you. Your friends and family have an invested interest in keeping you the same. Whenever you start to change, they remind you of who you are. In this way, they control you, because they love you. They don’t want to lose you. They like you, just how you are.”
“You’re one hell of a psychologist,” Clayton said.
“Perhaps; although it hasn’t helped me to solve the female problem. Maybe, we should take the chemical approach?”
When we got back to our apartment, Clayton started studying his chemical notes. “What a fool I’ve been! Instead of minus, this should be plus!” He ignited his Bunsen burner, and nauseatingly attractive fumes erupted like sex.
“Once this batch is done, and tested on my Guinea Pigs, we will know its effectiveness.”
A week later, Clayton had a stupid grin spread across his face like a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich.
“My test subjects are women,” Clayton said. “They volunteered because they need the money, but it also may be that they’re more agreeable than my male subjects.” He talked like a King, presiding over his Kingdom. “All of the women fell in love with each other, just like I thought they would. Universities are progressive these days, so no harm done. Lesbianism is in vogue.”
“Clayton… the ethics of what you are doing…” I said.
He didn’t get it. “Would you like some?” Clayton asked. He was like the devil, tempting me with what I couldn’t get for myself. The bottle was pink. Clayton had drawn a nude woman chasing a nerdy man on the cover. He was not good at drawing. They were more like stick figures. He had included the obscene slogan: Make Her Chase You, underneath.
“Maybe you should’ve gone into advertising,” I said.
“Perhaps; but I like to mess with the secrets of the universe more than people’s minds— that’s your department.”
It was a good thing I liked Clayton. He was interesting. His condescension made him more interesting. All of his friends were like him, and most people couldn’t stand his friends. In fact, most people couldn’t stand me. I wondered how Clayton had changed me. There is no escaping the influence of your best friend. Now, I was less balanced, and more confident in myself.
“I’ll take some,” I said. I rubbed the sexy suntan lotion on my arms; they immediately turned brown. “What did you put in this?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
“You ready to go to the beach again?”
“Sure!” Clayton said.
“We have to see if this stuff works.”
When we got there, the girls were lying under the sun, receiving rays, like love, soaking their sensual skin. Clayton and I were far-out from shore. The ocean breeze was blowing behind us. Suddenly, I saw the beach move. Topless women were sniffing the air, trying to discern, the direction of the wind. Then they saw us, and they started to wade into the water. I felt like Jesus Christ in my boat, preaching to the crowds. They all started to splash into the deep end.
“Let’s get out of here!” I screamed. “Gun the outboard!”
Clayton turned us around, and we docked. We got many looks from women on the street, but we made it to our apartment without getting molested.
“How do you take this stuff off?” I asked.
“Chemically, I think,” Clayton said.
“What do you mean, I think?”
“I never thought about creating an antidote.”
“Well, I need one, and fast!”
“What are you complaining about? Now females are attracted to you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want ALL females attracted to me. You better work fast.”
There was knocking on our door. “You who…sexy boys.”
“It’s our land lady! Quick! Help me tie the bedsheets together. I’m going out the window!”
When I propped it open, there were dozens of women staring at me. I slammed it shut.
“You’ve doomed us forever! Bolt the door, man! Start working!”
“But!” Clayton complained.
“No buts! I’m serious!” The lotion was making me sick. The thought that I couldn’t get away from women was worse than I had ever imagined. It was worse than a celebrity who becomes famous. I made Clayton take amphetamines to stay awake. Three days later, he had the antidote.
“You did it, man. I always knew you could.”
“Are you sure?”
“What choice did you have? I would’ve strangled you, if you didn’t.”
Fear flashed across his face.
I wasn’t lying.
The End
The Women of the Mountain are Magic
Oh, the ladies of the mountain are favorable to me
they climb up the hiking trail with their poles
I smile at them, and say “hi”
they giggle. it’s wonderful!
they show off their cleavage. it’s beautiful.
I love their spandex shirts—a zipper makes for a quick release.
I’m in the prime of my life, lost 25 pounds, and I’m a good-looking guy.
When women are sweet, I could suck on them all day, like a lollipop
We might exchange lollipops.
The beautiful barista has short cut hair
half pink and half blue, like cotton candy
She’s half Asian, half White, what a sight.
She’s got a nose ring. She’s only 19.
I don’t have to marry these women
If I did, I would have 20 wives. I dated a Mormon girl once,
and asked her, “Would you be willing to be one of my wives?”
It didn’t work out.
Then, running down the mountain, I spotted a big red dog
“Clifford,” I yelled, and the two girls behind him giggled at me.
One, looked me in the eyes.
The other one, had curly black hair, and red lipstick on
I looked into her almond eyes
and died, like I had swallowed cyanide.
If only I was better at talking to girls.
I went to eat tacos, later
and got a call from my best friend.
“I’m gonna have a harem, man.”
“You can’t do that—the wives will compete with each other.”
“Each one will have a role,” I said. “And when I go out into public, I can defy society. Men will love me and women will hate me—modern women, that is—my wives will love me, and I will love them. I won’t discard them. I was meant to be married to many women.”
“When did you decide this.”
“Kindergarten. I had five girlfriends back then. I’ve been going through the desert for a long time, but the oasis, awaits.”
My waitress brought my food out and smiled at me. “What are you reading?” She asked.
“Charles Bukowski. He was a rock star.”
“Oh—heavy metal?”
“Poetry.”
The look of confusion on her face was poetry.
“I’ll check him out,” she said.
“You’ll hate him.”
“Those are the best kinds of writers.”
“I agree. What’s your number?”
These days don’t happen often.
The women of the mountain are magic.
In high school, there was this girl…
In high school, there was this girl
who wore velvety sweats, with her thong, showing.
“What color is she wearing?” My friend asked me.
“Pink,” I said.
“Oh—I like that color.”
We were learning Latin in English class and couldn’t concentrate—this girl was making us stupid.
She would sit in the front row,
and lean forward.
All the guys in the second row
would lean forward.
It was ridiculous.
She found a way to be constantly in our thoughts.
One day, I grabbed her ass,
and she looked at me and smiled. “You’re not a risk taker,” she said.
If only she knew.
I have a blog.
I’ve been burned, but not yet fired, because of my writing.
My bosses try to reason with me—usually, they like me.
“What if people find out what you think about?” They said.
I didn’t say anything.
“What about your reputation?”
They don’t catch on that I don’t care.
The next week, I was sleeping on the school bus, and she stuck her hand up my basketball shorts.
(I was the MVP of my basketball team—I tried to play the other day, and I suck.)
She was the sexiest girl in high school.
Nobody dated her. They were afraid.
Guys tried to ask her out and made fools of themselves.
I never tried. I just went for it.
The risk was worth the reward—and I think she knew that.
Here I was, the perfect student, the almost perfect athlete
and I saw something worth having, even though it would crush my perfect life, like crystal, into a thousand pieces.
When a woman sees an honest man—she can appreciate him.
I braced myself for expulsion—
it never came.
I braced myself for awkward conversations—
they never happened.
My friend thought he was going to get away with it too, so he slapped her ass,
and got expelled.
I Spot a Strawberry Blonde in the Bookshop
I went into a bookshop looking for answers and I found a woman.
Women in bookshops are worms. You can spot them with their thick glasses that magnify their eyes. If you question them about male/female relations, they might quote you Jane Austin. Not many men inhabit bookshops.
It’s the women who read. This might be why world literacy for women is at an all-time high.
When I saw her, I was speechless.
She had reddish-blonde hair and I could see her nipples through her sweater.
One nipple was adjacent to Burroughs, and the other nipple was adjacent to Bukowski. Somebody (like me) was enjoying both of those authors, considerably because the books were missing, and I was staring at her through the empty space in the shelf.
We were surfing the third wave of feminism (beware of hungry sharks and sea urchins), but she looked like a second-wave girl to me, from the 70s. This was when girls felt oppressed and constricted when wearing bras. Women get an idea in their heads (usually put there by the fashion industry) and they run with it.
Men get the occasional idea too—usually placed there by the sex industry. Sex and sports are intertwined—bats and balls—just like the Neanderthals. They need a goal. They need to score. That’s what I was trying to do, and I had to use words—the woman’s language.
“Excuse me?”
She looked up at me, startled.
“If you’re looking for a feminist philosopher, might I recommend Simone de Beauvoir? She said, that in a society constructed by men, women can only exist as relative beings to men.”
“Shelly.” She stretched out her ivory hand.
“What’s your first name?” I asked.
“Mary.”
“And I’m Frankenstein?”
“You’re a monster until I get to know you better.”
“Coffee?”
“Not much choice. I’m not going back to your apartment. Serial killers love bookshops.”
“Do they?” I asked. “How do you know that? Have you been sharpening your ax?”
“Poison is the woman’s weapon.”
We went to coffee, and I impressed her with my encyclopedic knowledge of serial killers.
Apparently, women are attracted to werewolves, vampires, and pirates. It’s a rape fantasy—or some such terror like that. Get them aroused (any way you can) and then hit them with the tortured artist trope. Women love a man who suffers, and if he doesn’t suffer enough, she will help him out with that.
Months passed. 18, to be exact. That is the number required to know a woman’s true nature.
Men barely keep it together for three dates. By then, the woman is on to them, and on to the next one.
A man is clueless. He sees a beautiful woman, and thinks, she’s above me (and she is). If everyone is thinking the same thought, it makes it true. This is how TV advertising works. This is why men are convinced women are in demand. It’s mass perception. It’s supply and demand. If the crowd wants something, it becomes valuable. Try convincing young men that beautiful women aren’t valuable. Wisdom is in short supply, but nobody wants wisdom. Women on the other hand…? Those male hands are groping. It’s a crowd of have-nots.
Every man should be forced to live with a woman for 6 months, without sex. That would cure him of his desire. What is a woman, but a man’s internal movie—a fantasy, that he can never fulfill.
I didn’t know these things… until
I met her parents.
She grew up in a small town.
I did everything to impress her. I showed her my best poems. I bought a red Porsche 911 with my life’s savings. Forget the house—I needed to show her that readers paid money for my words.
I was broke. I was horny. I was willing to marry this girl. It turned out that her name was Kathy. I prefer Mary to Kathy, but that’s what happens when a woman stops being a fantasy, and you get the real thing. She had a cycle, just like a werewolf, and at a certain time of the month… well, it gets bloody nasty.
We met a local on the outskirts of town.
He was the sheriff and mayor.
It was a 250-dollar fine for going 6 over the speed limit.
When he walked away, he dug his hand into his ass.
“Bigman,” Kathy said. “You don’t want to get on his bad side.”
“What does that look like?” I asked.
“He’s like Mr. Hyde— warped and mutilated. He’ll put you in the stockade for being drunk.”
“That’s medieval.”
“Well, our community is so far away from the city… and Bigman is the only law and order… He holds public executions. He’s judge, jury, and hangman. He has the popular vote.
“What were they guilty of?”
“Raping Ben’s daughter, but if you ask me, it was consensual. She’s a little slut, and it bothers me, that she looks like me. Roseanne. We have the same strawberry blonde hair and Mona Lisa smile.”
I felt cornered, like a cat, howling, and the dogs were barking, and their saliva was dripping into my hair.
Girls at the Gym
the girls at the gym have their noses in the air
their spandex is tighter than I remember
their loneliness, is obvious
it’s been over 8 years
since I set foot, in a gym
it’s all coming back
the chlorine smell
sweat
weights, hitting the rubber floor
old men, talking about golf
the 55-year-old who says he has cancer
hoping, being near to death will endear him to the 30-year-old
with muscles rippling down her back
“You look good,” he says.
“Thank you,” she smiles. It’s a smile that suggests, you could be my dad
and he wanders off to talk to another pretty thing
I don’t think he has cancer
he’s far too healthy, and men like him survive by their wits, passed old age
8 years have passed, since I’ve been in the gym
and I walk between the machines
my eyes could cut metal
I rarely look into the mirror
but there are mirrors, everywhere
and I can’t help myself
Where did I get this intensity, this stare
this sad hunger?
Even among bodybuilders
I stand taller
than I used to
the gym is a place of measurement
athletes measure their strength
professionals measure their fat
guys with expensive watches compare their wealth
while I think about my own genius
the high from drugs is similar to genius
I haven’t felt this way for a long time
I haven’t spoken to anyone in three days
I haven’t wanted to
you can only get this feeling without feedback
nobody recognizes genius, until it’s officially “genius”
and by then, it’s too late
it’s like the man with a morphine drip
entertained by white walls
instead of walls, I’ve been walking
reading Schopenhauer— old books that haven’t been read since 1971
it’s a fantasy, a place I can’t get to very often
the prettiest girls frown
their beauty hasn’t made them happy
all the young guys look at them
with dreams, but it’s a nightmare
nothing has changed
nobody says a word to them
they’ve been used
by stronger men
When I finish my workout
I get into my truck
and watch her through the window
staring at me
She never used to do this
my stare is light-blue electric fire
her stare, is black holes, vacant and angry
I have done well to avoid beauty
it can kill you faster than
refined cyanide
refined, by abuse
this stare of drug-induced purpose
has been flowing through me for years
acting like an opiate
against condescension
When they get to be 50
there is no light in the universe
and the sun could have shined
but it burns in blackness
in bitterness
and hate
Grand women who were never mothers
offer encouragement to male students
and it feels insincere
their compliments are cruel
Genius is a belief that you know better,
the first step
on a journey
that feels right.
Would you like to get married? She asked.
It was a sad spring day, after my mother’s passing. The rain dropped into the sun, like tears, that quickly evaporated on my father’s face. I was nearly at mid-life, and he was at the end of life. I had no family and no prospects. I didn’t know how he would react to her loss. He was relatively stable, but relative, is a relative word. All of my relatives, were relative—they came and went, and didn’t stay very long. My mother was the glue that held our family together, and now my dad was left on his own. He was an engineer who liked to build things in his back garage—he also liked to drink.
“Dad, you shouldn’t operate power tools under the influence.”
“Under the influence of what, son?”
At least he went to church, where he could confess his sins in secret. If he stopped doing that, anything could happen, but I noticed, he was having difficulty getting ready to go in the mornings. He would sit in his chair, and clench his legs with his hands, and get up, and sit back down again.
“Not yet. Not yet,” he said. “Vick Beaty will be there, and he’ll want to talk to me about space aliens. No, I need to slip in at exactly the right moment! Okay,” and then he would go. Each week it became more difficult for him to get out of his chair. His work in the shop stopped.
“Dad, what have you been up to this week?”
“Oh, I watched a World War II documentary, and some episodes of the Twilight Zone.”
“Did you get out and talk to anybody?”
“I talked to the dog. She’s a bitch.” He smiled and scratched Belle behind the ears. “When are you going to get a wife, son?”
“Oh, I have plenty of time.”
“You’re almost 40. Why don’t you do something about that. You’re the last of us left.”
“It’s just that I’m not willing to change.”
“God—you are my son. I was headed to long-term bachelorhood when your mother called. She seemed to think, no other guy would go out with her—besides me. I couldn’t let her go alone. So, we went to the city theater, and watched a man in a leprechaun costume make a fool out of himself. I got semi-drunk, so I could deal with it, and then she told me, she wouldn’t tolerate drinking. I stopped for a while. She was a good one. What if I found a woman for you?”
“Finding a woman is easy, dad. It’s finding one that you can live with, that’s the hard part.”
“Well, I’ll do my research, and I’ll hook you up. There is no better place to find one, than in church.”
Normally, I would’ve protested, but I could see it was giving him a sense of purpose. Rather than going to the same church he had been going to for over 40 years, he started church hopping. Soon, he was telling me stories of pretty girls, and how he interviewed them, to see who they were about. He completely lost his anxiety, and was thrown-out of one congregation for asking her if she was a virgin. Apparently, they thought he was a dirty-old-man.
“It’s not for me! She’s for my son!” He yelled. But it didn’t make any difference. They were doing God’s work by getting rid of a man whose last dating experience was the 1970s.
“It’s slim-pickings out there, boy,” my dad said. There’s a lot of sexual girls out there, but not a lot of pretty ones on the inside. I’m sure, if it comes to that, I can get you a baby-momma, but a long-term wife?—even I have my doubts. My goal is to arrange a date for you, each week, and if inside of a year, I can’t find one—no hard feelings. The world has changed, and it’s best to get on with it, rather than moaning about not being able to pass-on your seed. I’m going to bed.” He fell asleep on the couch with a bottle in one hand and a picture of my mother in the other.
I almost wanted to get married, just to make him happy—but he was happy enough, trying to find me a wife. It was exciting for him, and I could tell the challenge of modern times, threw a wrench in his perfect schedule of wife-hunting, which only made the game more interesting.
During the day, my dad was spending more time on the internet. He had discovered online dating, and was trying to go to young adult groups, which was really difficult for him to pull-off. He was dressing in t-shirts and shorts, trying to act cool. I even saw him looking into a mirror, holding a razor, and seriously contemplating, shaving off his mustache of 40 years. A force prevented him from doing it. His arm was shaking.
“Son, I found a winner. She’s born again, and has great skin! I think you’ll like her.”
When I met-up with her for a coffee date, she had short black hair. She was a believer, but all she did was talk about Satan, and sexual sin. Coffee drinkers were staring at us. I was weird enough on my own.
“It’s not going to work, dad. You just don’t have a knack for hooking-up young guys with potential wives.”
“I used one of those marriage services once. It worked for my friends. I wonder what I’m doing wrong?”
I looked at him. He was wearing himself ragged, trying to become a grandfather. His jeans and Cabela’s shirt, were wrinkled. He wasn’t sleeping well. When a man gets frustrated pursuing a goal, he will shrug it off to sour grapes or drink wine. My dad started drinking wine. That evening, we watched a documentary about the disproportionate population in China. Men out-number women, three-to-one because of male preference and the corresponding privileges in their culture. Many of the men were tech savvy and trying to build themselves robotic wives. I could see my dad’s brain working. The only problem was, how could a robot make a grandchild? There were test-tube babies, and the local university would allow senior citizens to audit courses for free, so my dad started taking classes in robotics and biology, and started working around the clock in his back garage. A couple years went by. He was visiting the city morgue, on humanitarian missions for accident victims. He had joined all of these charities—like, Help her see again. New eyes for a new life. “Don’t make people stare—give her new eyes.” My dad tried to keep his activities private. On my 40th birthday, he decided to throw me a party. He showed-up with his new girlfriend who was half his age.
“Found her in church, son. After the ice cream, I’ll have you unwrap your gift.”
There was someone sitting at the far-end of the table who I didn’t know. She was beautiful, with milky-white skin, electric blue eyes, and a neck that had difficulty turning. She was most articulate, discussing topics of French literature. She could speak French.
“I’d like you to meet your new girlfriend,” my dad said. He was pointing at the lady at the far-end of the table. All of my relatives held their breath—they thought he had made a social blunder or was insane.
“It’s so good to meet you. Would you like to get married?” She asked.
THE END
Choose Love
Love must be your heartbeat
don’t give up on love
there are battles in the board room
and in the streets
I don’t care
about their,
insecure egos, or need to dominate me
subtly
Do they think I don’t know?
they torcher the helpless child, they restrain the man
the harsh elements of life and death
are better, than the social war.
My life has never been perfect.
When I was doing well, in one area
it was a deep dark hole, in the other
People tossed stones in there, to hear them hit the bottom
those who know, make sure you know, that they know, what you need to know
they make you feel bad about going to them for the answers
The game is so absurd, I would’ve quit playing
long ago
if I didn’t need to survive.
Love, can make a cold dark well a hospitable home
it can make you warm, in the worst conditions
Love doesn’t care about status or success
it is the secret of my endurance
The more of your life that you love, the less you think about cutting things off
a hand, or
eye, or
leg, or member, is part of you
just like family members and friends
that annoy you
Perhaps, a job, or situations causes you pain
and rather than amputating them
love!
It should keep you alive, like your heartbeat
every place you go, you should love
the most boring situations belong to you
when you can use them
the most ridiculous people I know
become food, for creative stories
Sometimes, I’m a cannibalistic serial killer
I don’t categorize,
or wish I was somewhere else
I can only control myself, and the rest, I write about
I love quiet mornings, and quiet thoughts, that become loud
I love running in the cold rain, and coming home, to a good book, and a warm bed
I will never quit
Those without love will die
I play golf like a religion
I love wisdom
I play the piano, with love, with no need for an audience
I join the centuries, when I play classical music
and there is something beautiful about words flashing across my computer screen
in silence
Maybe, the world will get loud because of me
but fame is not a friend I care to know
It’s becoming great
as a man—not by any definition that can be found
God will give it to me
like a sound
like that work of art that I call “good”
love makes a man a giant, that the villagers feed
it is the ultimate weapon, that doesn’t need to be used
it is a choice
choose love.
On Writing
My passion is not so much a love of writing, but the chance to be alone with my own thoughts and get lucky.
Write one Word at a Time
I need a secret life
to tolerate my public one.
It isn’t enough to live life
One must write about it.
And if there isn’t time to write about it
Life isn’t worth living.
Aphorisms While Sitting on the Toilet
1.
Maybe,
the worst feeling in the world
is a lack of interest in it.
2.
My curiosity keeps me alive
when nothing else will.
3.
People slave for gold,
but all I need
is to find it,
and then write some golden lines about it.
4.
I don’t want to write, if I don’t love writing
and the surest way to hate writing
is to force myself to do it.
5.
Sometimes,
we aren’t meant to do anything at all,
and we are meant to enjoy that.
6.
Too much intention
causes constipation. If you are meant to take a shit,
you will.
7.
My roommate offered to clean my toilet, yesterday
“Oh—I feel really guilty,” I said. “I should do that.”
“No—it’s not a problem,” she said. “I’m cleaning the upstairs toilet too.”
“You’re a saint,” I said.
The patron saint of poo, I thought.
8.
Writing doesn’t accomplish anything, but there are ambitious writers who talk endlessly about knocking out 10 pages likes it’s a heavyweight fight.
9.
I tell myself stories on the toilet, the way I did, when I was a kid.
Often, I wish
I could go back to a simpler time.
10.
Allow your mind to wander…
Too much concentration causes constipation.
Not needing it, not wanting it, just getting on with it
is the best cure for writer’s block.
Oh—and the idea that writing can be perfect, is a farce.
11.
A writer sees people as playthings, so does a psychopath.
12.
Getting trapped is part of life.
We become free when we die.
Writing is the closest activity
to living and dying at the same time.
13.
When you think you have developed the perfect routine to live
you should probably mix things up a bit. It’s counter intuitive.
Perfect balance is too peaceful.
Instability is spontaneous.
If you control everything that happens to you,
there will be no surprises in life.
14.
People are People.
Positions don’t change people.
Power reveals the character of People.
I think of a priest or a pastor,
and I see holy pretenders.
I don’t blame them. We are all actors.
Some of us are more guilty than others.
15.
When an actor tells me that I should worry about my reputation
what he’s really saying
is that I could improve my performance.
He is an A list actor, whereas,
I get a grade of B or C.
16.
I find the fake lives that people live
to be more interesting than their real ones.
17.
There are some books that should be interesting,
and there are other books that are.
The same rule applies to people.
18.
It is more fun to get away with something illegal,
than to follow the law perfectly. Strangely, both can cause anxiety.
The fear of getting caught, and the fear of not violating the law.
When I was going 5 over the speed limit, I was careful, and I got caught.
When I was going 30 over the speed limit, I didn’t give a damn, and neither did the police—
probably, because they weren’t there.
19.
The more often you act in an unrestricted manner, the more likely you will go places.
20.
Technology will break. Technology will get lost.
I can’t count the times when I have broken my computer, trying to write a poem.
The real writer should know that technology has nothing to do with writing.
Even a pen and paper are unnecessary. It has everything to do with thinking, and the willingness to think.
AI can’t replace the heart and soul of a human.
21.
Because I no longer need to please people, I am difficult to control.
I am agreeable. I never make announcements, and yet, they become angrier and angrier.
It has nothing to do with me. They’re just angry people.
I used to be in constant fear of what they would do or say to me,
and now
I am pleasantly myself.
I feel like God when I write.
It boils down to a feeling
It sifts out
to a few pebbles
you care about.
“You want fame!” She accused me.
“Yes!”
“Well, what about God?”
“God too.”
“You can’t have both.”
“Who said?”
“The Bible.”
“Where did you read that?”
“Man can’t love money and God.”
“Baby, it’s not the money—it’s something else.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know how to describe it.”
“You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
“I like to think so.”
“But you haven’t published a book.”
“It’s brewing in my subconscious.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Don’t you love me?”
“Of course.”
“But the writing… the writing seems much more important to you.”
She wanted to be number one.
She thought she could convince me, but my mind was made up.
Even God is going to have a difficult time with that.
I mean, I feel like God when I write,
and that is a difficult feeling to give up.
I am happy in my unhappiness.
“You don’t love your job,” my girlfriend accused me. “It doesn’t make you happy.”
“I am happy in my unhappiness,” I told her.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Look. I have to work, okay.”
“You could stop working until you find something that you love,” she suggested.
“That would take forever. I’ve researched all the careers. Basically, it’s not the work that bothers me, but the people at work.”
“You could be a fire watcher, a janitor.”
“I have to be around people to write,” I told her.
“I thought you said you need to get away from people to write.”
“That’s right. But I also need to be around people.”
“You don’t make any sense. You’re crazy.”
“All the best writers are crazy,” I said. “And the best inspiration comes from suffering.”
“You don’t need to suffer to be happy,” she pouted.
“Somebody thinks I do.”
Alluding to God wasn’t my best moment,
but God has been answering my prayers
since I started praying:
“Dear God, help me to become a better writer.”
He has been allowing affliction to enter my life.
The rights authors have guided me through hard times:
Thoreau, Bukowski, and Nietzsche.
There’s a small difference between tragedy and comedy:
A tragedy is a lifetime of feeling pain.
A comedy is a lifetime spent thinking about that pain, and then transmuting it into something funny.
That’s poetry.
People are somber during tragic events—they value them more than lighthearted comedy,
but it takes intelligence, creativity, and thought to make meaning from horrible, random, events.
I guess, God gave me the ability to think,
and I thank God for that.
Dusty Dreams
I have nobody to talk to
except this blank page
nobody to turn to
except the next empty corner
on the next empty street.
I call my parents and tell them my problems
and my dad says, “Stop complaining,”
and my mother doesn’t know what to do.
They are old
and I am middle aged.
I am supposed to know what to do,
but I don’t.
I might become one of those vacant faces that horrify me
somebody lost
in plain sight.
I am losing the fight
that I tried not to lose
I wish somebody would listen to me
and give me much needed advice.
When I was 18
the world was in front of me
and now I’m stuck in the middle of life.
It’s the age-old fight.
I am who I am
but I don’t want to be
I am only dust
hoping to take the shape of dreams.
Dusty books will be the staple of my soul.
Imagination
is a door
leading into another door
a world
inside a world
a thought
inside a thought
a rich experience,
that cannot be lived,
only thought.
My girlfriend called me a nerd
when she found out that I liked to read, and my obsession grew deeper still
than a cluster of Sequoia Trees.
It wove its way into libraries
between book club ladies and retirees
finding a trove of words, spelling-out the centuries.
I pulled the treasure off the shelves
knowing
the paper to be useless
but still loving it—the chemical age of well-worn pages, breathing in the dust of ages.
Plutarch taught me how to live
with his Roman Lives
like a lightning bolt
forming connections
in my Greek brain
to some forgotten past
obliterated by thoughtless clouds.
Reading
is more than empty words,
or mazes in your mind
It’s every sage in history
whispering wisdom in your ear.
I wish I had Plutarch giving me advice
rather than a popular podcast.
Can we trust the taste of the crowd
when McDonalds has sold over 1 billion hamburgers?
No. I don’t think so.
Dusty books will be the staple of my soul.
Double Life
I need a double life,
cheap thrills.
I need a blonde with double-d breasts
and a switchblade with a corkscrew.
Double the trouble.
007.
I need to speak 7 languages, secretly, so that I know what people are saying behind my back.
There must be adventure and daring under my calm exterior.
Kurt Vonnegut said that a writer needs to care passionately
about something…
Well, my life is fueled by hidden passions, underground rivers.
My fingers punch the keys.
Unfortunately, the dam must break
and my insides erupt—that’s the nature of passion.
People are going through the motions
and have no idea why.
They have no concept of power.
My weapon of choice is writing.
If I were to live a non-stop
action-filled
life,
with women constantly trying to use my gun
it wouldn’t be worth it.
If you don’t take the time to think about what you have,
you have nothing—
a .357 Magnum, shooting blanks.
Success
is
what we choose not to do, and
that is why writers get labeled as lazy,
but who cares what other people think
when I have this blank page staring back at me
keeping me company,
waiting to be filled with my passion.
In essence, it’s the perfect woman—she doesn’t talk back, unless I’m arguing with myself.
Obviously, I have to keep my thoughts hidden from society. She demands that I live a double life.
I am a literary spy. Writing is my Weapon.
There are two lives going on here—the inner one
and the perceived reality
we all see differently
depending on
our degree of imagination.
Many people live single lives—they are not married to imagination,
but fortunately,
my imagination knows no bounds, and if I ever get married, I’ll be a polygamist.
The divide between who I appear to be
and the real me
is a Grand Canyon.
I live a double life,
and I prefer
the imaginary one.
Aphorisms on Thoughtful Torture
1.
There are many good ideas, but not enough good words.
2.
If my thoughts could be transformed into art, I would live in total bliss, but this
rarely occurs.
3.
The worst kind of torture is being robbed of my thoughts—
propaganda, tv, writer’s block, not having enough time to think.
4.
The second worst torture is not being able to do anything with my thoughts,
to have no skill or talent, paralyzed, impotent, unmotivated, waiting for my time to expire,
because I can’t quite put it into words.
5.
The third worst torture is not being able to share my thoughts—
People don’t struggle with this one—
they talk endlessly, but does anyone listen?
Delayed Delivery
A good poem is delayed,
like an aunt that gets lost
on her drive over the mountains
to see you.
She visits every garage sale,
every watering hole,
every look-out point
while
you wait
until you go inside
disappointed
convinced
she forgot about you
and when
you wake up
and brush your teeth in the morning
suddenly, you hear her voice
speaking to you
and the words that were lost
show up on their own time
in some strange creative universe
of the sublime.
Can you blame me?
The best writing happens
when you aren’t writing at all
When perfect philosophy
scrolls across your brain, more entertaining
than a movie.
Typically,
this occurs on a summer morning
with the birds chirping
and no schedule in sight.
This is the best way
to do anything
but appointments, and worries, and shit
obstruct the path
and we are left wondering
where the magic went.
All I need is 12 hours of sleep, time to write, and no distractions.
I’m going to turn-off the light at 6:30 PM. Fuck the phones. Fuck the people who need to get in touch. Let me type. Let me have a creative idea. Just one good idea can make me feel like a genius. I need that. Can you blame me?
Aphorisms on Authority
1.
the authority inside you
is more important than the permission
people give you.
2.
The worst waste of time
is when I do something without thinking
and afterwards
I feel a sense of accomplishment.
3.
I feel ashamed
for how I acted in the past—
not because I rebelled against authority
but because
I didn’t do anything
when I was disrespected
by authority.
4.
When I write my novel,
my wife will hear
screaming
coming from upstairs
as I process
my insane pain.
5.
Yesterday, my mother told me
there isn’t a market for what I write.
That mindset left me 4 years ago—
now, all I want to do is type.
6.
I add experiences to my life,
hoping for inspiration
I can write about,
and when this doesn’t work,
I subtract experiences from my life
hoping for peace
that will become profound prose.
7.
When I sit and stare at my computer screen
the writing dries up,
and then I go for long walks
and get caught in the rain.
the condition for being a writer isn’t perfect with more time
the condition for being a writer is the condition of your mind
What you choose to think about and how you choose to see the world
People think the world just is
while I am constantly shaping it
with my mind.
Many Times…
I think, I should write a poem about this or that
but then, out of nowhere
I write about something I wasn’t thinking about
and it’s far better than anything else I might’ve done with incredible effort.
My girlfriend doesn’t like what I write, and she wants me to be more Catholic.
She hates my obsessions: Golf, Writing, and Being Alone.
She wants me to be obsessed with God, but something in me resists God when He is forced upon me like a tyrannical boss.
Will this relationship work?
I don’t know
My girlfriend is determined.
Me vs. Artificial Intelligence
I am told
there is a machine that will do all of my thinking for me
that I can lie back, and relax
into a haze of white lights
and fog,
but these hustlers of the dollar and slaves to ambition
don’t understand
the pleasure of thinking.
A machine overheats
while I
bliss-out on my own imagination.
If writing becomes work for me, I’ll resign.
Writing is my own entertainment
and meaning
combined.
The modern world is artificial.
I only pursue what’s real.
I Prefer the Light Pattering of Rain
there are so many words in my head, all at once
like a tidal wave
and I’ll probably drown or seizure
before I can get them out
the best
drip out
like out of the faucet
drip
drip
drip
sentences form, like streams
after a rainstorm
flowing into the ocean
where deep ideas become
overwhelming
crushing
I prefer the light pattering
of rain
on quiet walks through the woods.
The Blog from the Black Lagoon
Little men get to the top of big organizations by being small.
The superintendent had his routine. He would have a meeting at 10:15
and then visit the toilet.
It didn’t say anything back to him.
It spiraled and flushed.
It was a clean accomplishment
after a shitty morning.
The ass-gasket crumpled.
He wiped.
His new hire was wrong in so many ways. How did he miss it?
The special education director had excellent references.
He was a bright-eyed clean-cut young man,
but
there were shadows
lurking in multiple closets, like a homosexual’s apartment
secret identities
multiple personalities
worse than the worse
deviant.
The superintendent wasn’t sure, but his new hire might be insane.
He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t fire him. There was no reason to.
On the surface, the director was the perfect employee
but in the dark
there were sharks.
The superintendent was sure of it.
It was how the new hire carried himself. He didn’t submit to authority, like the principals under his thumb.
The director was relaxed—too relaxed
and this caused the superintendent stress.
It began with a blog, on a steamy Saturday in July,
when the temperature reached 101 degrees in the central office on the second floor.
It was a disturbing email from an even more disturbed special education teacher.
“You just hired a pedophile! He’s crazy! His name is Alex Johannson! He has a blog.”
“Well, there were a lot of Alex Johannsons. It was a common name in Sweden, the superintendent thought.
He was from English stock and didn’t think much of Swedes. He hated being a white male and frequently referred to his Native American ancestry in school board meetings, but neglected to share that his ancestor who invented Maxwell coffee raped an Indian woman on the great plains, and to protest his past, he refused to drink caffeine. He had white guilt, and looked tired most of the time.
The superintendent clicked on the blog. It looked innocent enough—stories about leprechauns, poems about overcoming adversity. He could get behind this… but then
the deviant sexual stuff,
and he realized he was working with a madman.
They had their first meeting together in July.
Afterwards, a story, with him as the main character, got published on the internet.
The problem was, the director was a good writer. He was getting recognized by Mystery Magazine.
The superintendent decided to visit him in his office. Maybe, he would try to be the director’s friend—kind of
a friendly boss-type.
He knocked.
“Come in.”
The director looked up.
“What are you working on?” The superintendent asked him.
“Oh—nothing.”
Most employees invented an answer, but the director was honest.
“Have you been working on the citizen complain?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“You screwed up last year.”
“What?”
“You broke the law.”
The superintendent flushed, but worried that he might’ve shit his pants.
He left.
Then he came back.
He handed the director a thinking map (but not too much thought went into it).
There was the superintendent at the top of the organization in the blue circle.
Under him was the assistant superintendent in the green circle
and the principals in the yellow circles.
Under the assistant superintendent was the director in the red circle.
“You are here!” The superintendent said. “Never forget that!”
Then, he left.
In the next meeting, the special education director noticed the security camera near the ceiling. It was moving. The superintendent was hunched over his laptop in the corner, working a joystick.
Is he playing with himself? The special education director wondered.
The camera looked around the room and then pointed at him.
“Let’s begin our meeting!” The Superintendent said.
The special education director smiled. It was going to be something to write about.
The End
If you’ve been away from writing for awhile
coming back
can be a pain in the ass.
Sentences don’t add up.
Stanzas don’t rhyme.
What I have in my head
doesn’t make it to the page,
but like all good things I have neglected, such as
friends, forgotten paths through the woods, and eerie silences on shore
I get reacquainted, awkwardly, slowly
staring across that empty silver lake, like a ghost through the mist
asking for a reunion with myself in the mirror.
My hearing isn’t what it used to be, but it’s important to listen.
Coming back to what I love is better than discovering it for the first time.
I’m not grateful at the beginning
It’s only when I’ve lost it
and found it again
that I rejoice.
I like to put words in order.
I like to hear them sing.
Some things just feel good to me
It is so easy to stop having faith
to give into frustration
or other people’s opinions
but know, there is nothing stopping you
You don’t need to ask permission
Do the thing and keep doing it
Don’t waste your time doing the things you should do
and start doing the things you must do
Usually, this is an expression of your weirdness
and never apologize for it
Basically, your waking moments are an opportunity
to satisfy your dreams.
What Makes a Book Influential?
I asked my dad
about the most influential books
that affected people
in his lifetime.
“For ill—it was Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“It was pornographic.”
“I don’t remember any serious sex scenes.”
“There weren’t any—but it opened the door.”
I considered arguing with him about the obscenity laws
and literary merit
but let it be.
Ginsberg had accomplished that
with his use of the word asshole
in Howl.
Instead, I asked him,
“What was a good book?”
He thought about it.
“The Old Man and the Sea,” he said.
Or perhaps,
The Lord of the Rings.”
“Why?”
“It speaks to something inside a person.”
I didn’t follow up with another question.
He looked tired.
He’s 77—and entitled to his opinion.
What makes a book influential? I asked myself, quietly.
“Authenticity,”
I said silently.
The Voice
So much of my life
is spent
trying to summon confidence
or to hold onto strength
I’ve carefully cultivated.
Inevitably,
I become weak,
beaten,
and abandoned
by trivial things
by people who have nothing to say
by stupid stuff I have to do to make a living
and the cycle
repeats.
If I’m left to myself,
I become unstoppable.
Even when I’ve been beaten
my strength returns to me
whispering
unreasonable things.
Nobody tells me
what that voice tells me.
It’s rarely found in books,
because
it
seldom becomes a commercial success.
It doesn’t need anything,
or want anything.
It speaks
and
I listen.
She brought the worst out in me.
I walked out of the break room
and there she was—
a woman I worked with three years ago
when I was caught
writing offensive stories on the internet.
It was one of those women who thought
I was a monster
or a deviant
(probably, because she’s met the real thing, or is the real thing).
Of course, I’ve never been convicted
because I’m not anything
but a writer.
I look like Mister Rogers. I smile and act like him. I’m not,
but I’m also not
what those women imagined me to be.
If I had more courage,
I would’ve given them a better fight,
but I had my job to think about.
In all honesty,
the situation was silly.
Like most things in life, it wasn’t real.
They loved to hate me.
Likely, their husbands were neglecting them for 18 holes of golf and 19 with their secretary.
“Did you work at Valley View?” She asked me.
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I look like lots of people.”
She gave me a skeptical stare.
“Okay…okay…I’m him.”
“I thought so,” she said disapprovingly. “What’ve you been up to since COVID?”
“I’ve been a director, university professor, psychologist, and published writer—oh, wait—I’m getting married.”
She looked at me as if I had punched her in the face.
I follow her on Facebook.
She’s got a beautiful convertible, beautiful boys, beautiful body, beautiful everything—it’s all a cover.
Anybody trying that hard to look happy is miserable.
I don’t wish ill on her—I want to get away from her.
I felt bad, bragging.
It was a gut reaction, like vomiting.
She brought the worst out in me.
Sharp Poetry
It is impossible to write anything worth reading
without the breath of life, and
I am amused
as people become comfortable
with their dull witticisms
dull meetings
dull predictable lives
like dull pencils
flat
without signature, style, danger, or poke.
Number 2, overused, spelling words, perfectly.
Maybe, I’m a prick, writing with it.
I enjoy being sharp, cutting, unafraid to say what I want to say
I’ve lost jobs, girlfriends, for what I’ve written
the tragedy is not the loss
but the things I hold onto
that prevent me from writing.
They’re Reading
The women at work
love me now
and what used to be hate
has turned to banter.
Of course, they
are not the same women
who tried to get me fired
three years ago,
and when they couldn’t do that, they attempted to destroy my reputation—successfully, I might add.
It’s the only thing they were ever any good at, subtracting.
And since then, I’ve been everywhere, and everything.
I’m not even working in the same State, anymore.
I’m living proof that you can start over.
Change your face
your fingerprints
your name
and
your voice,
until you are writing much better.
I’m only guilty of writing.
I’ve done it so well, I have enemies.
It’s not the double life that does you in,
but the triple, and quadruple ones.
Not the split personality—
but the twenty or so characters arguing
inside your head.
I don’t know who I am anymore,
but I don’t care
because
they’re reading.
Thoughts, from Hell.
There is an ambition in me
that strikes like a snake
that basks in its own poison
like a basilisk.
There is an ambition in me
too tough
tougher than sandpaper
and I sit in this misery
in the pit of my own doom
waiting to rise
like a dragon with red eyes.
These are the thoughts of a cold-blooded creature
left in the dark
to brood.
People hate the pit
and the silence.
I love it.
this poem will be the end of me
I can’t please God with my writing
because my soul is a withered prune.
I want to be fresh,
but I’m a scarecrow
dancing in the wind
placed there
by a friendly farmer.
My insides go
like chaff
on a distant corner of the web.
I want a brain, but I need a heart.
This is the sum of my ambition,
subtracted by the wind.
God blows—and the crows collect me
to build their homes.
Emptiness. Vanity.
Scattered by the Wind.
Now, I have a purpose,
but it’s not what I intended
It’s what God wants to do with me.
I visited my girlfriend
in the desert.
“Why are you frowny?” She asked me.
“It’s because I’m horny.”
“Let me put my yoga pants on.”
She does,
rubs up against me.
God is good,
or is it Satan?
I want to be on the right side of all of this,
but I’m confused
carried away
by the wind.
If I only had a brain,
I could make sense of all of this.
To Beat the System means that you must find that place between trying and not trying. It is similar to being half awake or half asleep. This semi consciousness and semi action is not easy to maintain. It comes and it goes, like luck, and the trick is to realize when the mood is right. A writer must be ever watchful of this feeling. It is a rhythm that fluctuates from one moment to the next. When you find it, ease into it; put other things on hold. The system stops when you step outside of it. Go until the music is gone; until you are drawn inside again. Being within the system does not feel as bad, when you have stepped outside of it. And the more often you do it, the lighter you become. It is harder to be held down by things. You float above them, unaffected. Worldly worries are distant from you because you’ve step outside again. You will seek dangerous dances with destiny and push yourself to find things that cannot be seen. You appear to risk everything for nothing, because others cannot see the system, and they don’t know what it means to step outside.
Writing Happens in Spite of Everything
Writing
happens in spite of everything
Not because I got 8 hours of sleep
or I played golf on a summer day
or my schedule cleared,
as if a bulldozer plowed my problems away.
Writing happens after my girlfriend shouted in my ear
and my boss told me, “You’re replaceable.”
Writing
offers no hope.
It churns up the worst emotions
Threatens to stretch my stomach
and poison my liver with bitterness.
I feel anxious,
just thinking about the things I need to write about.
It’s a magnet for negativity, pulling problems into my orbit.
Writing
can’t be done with too much complaining.
Nobody wants to read a sob story.
It must be entertaining, with a fair bit of philosophy.
A writer resigns themselves to the fact that they might be the only one reading—
which is similar to someone determined to make time to talk to themselves.
People who read my writing tell me I’m crazy,
or I should have written it differently.
I wasn’t being fair to my boss by describing him as a maniacal brace-face.
I have no sense of perspective.
They don’t want to hear that I haven’t written today,
or that I pounded-out 3,000 words.
They would prefer I say, “I pounded a 300-pound whore.”
They don’t want me to talk about writing.
It’s boring
and with Chat GPT, words can be written faster and better than ever before—
so, there’s really no point in me writing,
but I find myself doing it anyway.
What if, I’m wasting my time?
I’ve jacked-off to this computer screen so many times
I’ve lost count
and then I write poetry. What’s the difference?
Both heads are stimulated. There is real futility in trying.
I catch myself, putting-in long hours at work, feeling good about it.
“Dr. Johannson, you really are a credit to this institution,”
or so I imagine the words in my mind. People don’t actually say them.
I jizz onto my computer screen.
A thoughtful teacher opens a door for me and asks about my day,
“I’m doing just fine,” I say.
I believe in being kind.
I don’t know why I write poetry.
I’m attracted to philosophy
like a fly attracted to flame.
Meaning can kill you.
Dying randomly one day
on the sill of a dusty window with the sun shining through
doesn’t make much sense either.
A boy sweeps it up
because his mother told him to.
The sun is shining through my window while I write these lines. It’s annoying, really.
The glare makes it hard to see what I type.
I take a break. Play the piano badly. Consider philosophy. Think about becoming better.
I’ve been reading about Hitler and the Occult. I don’t care about power.
I prefer to be kind. It makes me feel good.
I have PTSD from being in charge, and
I’m tired of swimming with sharks—
I have to keep moving.
I can’t listen to a documentary on Machiavelli without getting a bloody nose—how dangerous!
I don’t get angry about politics—it’s absurd.
I dive into mythology, like a pool
in the wood between the worlds.
What if, I’m wasting my time?
No Lead in His Pencil
What they won’t tell you in high school
is that life is full of disappointments
If you don’t believe me
ask the unpublished writer.
We are only talking about the little ones right now
but the big ones of betrayal, or
total disbelief at the way the world works
baffle a man,
until he finds something small to live for
like the bottle
or the last few hours he has to himself, at the end of the day.
We are all waiting until that moment when we aren’t anymore
The good artist repeats himself
because he doesn’t have anything new to say
because spontaneity and gamble
are filled with safe routines.
It’s not so much that the writer is afraid
it’s just that, many writers can be lazy—they live inside carefully constructed worlds of words
that don’t really mean anything
to anybody.
And wait, if you are getting depressed, reading this poem, I am only getting started
It seems to me, life is essentially random
and the worst types of humanity rise to the surface of the swamp
to eat unsuspecting tourists
their teeth and toenails claw the child
I look on death as a blessing for me, as I am shepherded out of my misery
and blessed are many, who think they are getting ahead, when the end is near
I don’t blame them for trying
there is the faithful husband, with the happy family
and there are the darker elements of society
gold earrings, and crimson makeup—endless tanning, and sparkling blue eyes, with big, everything
green Lamborghinis, and go-fast boats
helicopters, and scotch with no water
scuba diving, and beautiful strippers who aren’t very smart
the oppressive elements who kill gangsters and protect you
girls can’t take their eyes off of you
they claw at your flesh because you are the man
there is a reality, buried deep inside him, and he claws for it
like cursed gold,
but it’s not in him
he isn’t a billionaire
just a lazy ass, with a big imagination
not smart enough, tough enough, or able to get it in gear
Even with the self-help gods
and changes that come with healthy habits,
he gets a bit fitter
but ultimately, he’s a quitter
bitter
because none of his work
takes him where he wants to go.
“Unrealistic Expectations” People say
“Be happy with what you got”
He knows why men throw themselves out of windows
like during the crash of 29
When the attention of beautiful women is gone
when the champaign runs out
when the endless parties stop
when there is nothing
Death, is the first word that enters his mind
the second
is God
Dying to the world, feels so wrong
because he has possessed it
for so long
Time is running out
Pretty soon, he’ll be old
with no lead in his pencil
and nothing to write down.
Whether Your Stomach is Full, or Empty
Starvation eats your stomach
as you digest
yourself
a writer is intimately connected with their digestion
loving dainty desserts, with black espresso
and chocolate covered cherries
or the citrus smell of star-fruit.
It helps the writing, to eat well
a tender steak with pink juice and a baked potato
with butter, and snapped green beans
salt and pepper
and sparkling water, with pure cranberry juice
living well, is an art
while the starving writer
needs to have soul
because
without it
there is nothing else to eat.
the public, has fear
and their indigestion backs-up
their days, with busyness
bills need to be paid
an expired driver’s license
insurance?
an oil change, 1000 miles over-due
car problems
house problems
plugged plumbing
an unruly neighbor, who insists on the rules, “Trim your tree, god damn it! Or talk to my lawyer.”
accountants
and taxes to be paid
it takes money to die
Art, takes time
Life, takes time
Time, isn’t real
Change, is
Feelings, make us feel
we are living wrong
If reading is an escape,
what are people doing, that they need to escape from?
This is the secret, the rich and poor don’t know
it’s unfair, that the people who go to fairs
aren’t entertained
writing about life, is pleasant
like a perfect blue sky, with puffy clouds
with nothing to say, to anybody
the feast is yours
steal yourself away, and break your own laws
there isn’t much time
the river changes each year
when you find a perfect pool to swim in
to catch trout in
and you lay on that bank to read your book
found in a store—or, it found you
the darkness won’t matter, anymore
noise is a distant memory
chaos creates appreciation
for
peaceful contemplation
whether your stomach is full, or empty.
Formative Years
Call me Crazy
but I can sense my writing is getting
better
each day.
I still write crap
but that
is to be expected.
If we put in the time
we get better
but time isn’t enough.
Talent is something our teachers might say we have
but they tell children that
all the time.
Trust me
I work in a school.
“You’ve got talent,” is the most overused phrase.
Every teacher wants to discover the next Hemingway.
Now, there are other teachers I had (the ones who didn’t like me—English Teachers)
who told me, “You should be a teacher—you have no talent as a writer.”
But for some reason, getting up in front of a class
and talking, seemed like a waste of life
and I told them so,
and they hated me, for saying that, but I was only being honest—
and that’s what a writer should do.
Now, I’m going to tell you about my 7th grade year
I have always found success through persistence.
Barriers melted away, during this golden year
and I am convinced, our early experiences shape our future beliefs.
God was going to bless me, if I followed Him.
The result:
MVP of my Basketball Team. MVP of my Golf Team. I won the middle school chess championship each quarter. I won the Table Football Championship each quarter. I won the Ping-Pong Championship. I won the Hoop Shoot Championship. I had 107% in my English class and a 4.0.
I was invincible.
I won everything.
Winning is a phenomenon that repeats itself, like failure.
These experiences solidified my reputation as being extremely intelligent.
Everything that happened after 7th grade was built on this foundation.
One of the developmental psychologists—I think it was Adler, but it might’ve been Erickson—suggested that children
move through a period called industry versus inferiority. This is the time in a child’s psychology when they develop competence for the first time, or they experience failure, and resulting, inferiority.
I had a pure does of success in 7th grade, which has inoculated me against chronic failure, but I have never been able to replicate
the aura of winning, that I once had.
I was a success in middle school.
Nothing was going to stop me.
I had one year of spiritual purity.
Last year, my spirit has changed. It’s growing stronger.
I’m getting back to my old self again.
And the strangest part—I work in a middle school.
I’m Totally Sober
I sit here
drinking cup
after cup
of coffee.
Nobody wants to hear me
I don’t even want to hear myself
Nobody understands me
I think that’s the greatest truth
or
Nobody cares to understand me.
Perhaps, that’s what a writer is…
someone trying to be understood
in the simplest terms
and most writers use metaphors—impossible language—they are the fakers of their art.
If I were to write a simple sentence
maybe they would know?
I think about drinking
most days
Not because it’s something productive to do
but because, it would be a method for giving up
without quitting.
People, don’t know the source of their drinking
the average drunk will tell you, “They are happy.”
Maybe, their meaning in life is gotten
from drinking
the next bottle.
I listen to most people
and I think about drinking.
Addictions
simplify our lives—they narrow, who we are, until we are totally selfish.
Our worries become less and less
as we become less and less
and it doesn’t matter, if we are sitting on a beach
looking at the waves, waiting for Armageddon.
I feel like I’m waiting
in a sea of unhappy people.
As I persist, in life
I suffer more, like a runner
at mile 22.
If we have expectations
we gradually meet each new moment, with disappointment.
Life doesn’t become easier.
If we are dreamers, we have to wake-up
over and over again.
As we become perfected, we shed our scales
and see the world, for what it really is.
To keep looking, and not to dull the pain
is to experience what life is.
To abandon prejudice
is to see our humanity in others.
The dream, is an addiction—something perfect and something simple to live for.
True life can never measure up to it
and I find myself living with lies that I don’t have answers for.
If I tell myself, I want a perfect woman
it is easy to be rejected by that bitch
or to stop seeing that good girl.
I have enough
and
I have things in my life that I might lose
but there is nothing I can’t live without—
even my own life—losing it, is small
compared to my big dreams
that I lose, over and over again.
Dreams, I need. I can’t live without them.
I am willing to die for them, but harder still—is the personal truth I carry with me
I am willing to live
for my dreams,
and living is hard.
Each year, I find myself adjusting what I do
as life doesn’t work out, the way I want it to
I slave for my existence
that teaches me
about reality.
There are many flowers being sold on Mother’s Day
and most of them, are ugly
and that’s not what a flower is supposed to be.
It would be better, not to give, an ugly flower to my mother
because the absence of ugliness, is better than an ugly gift.
It’s the thought that counts, right?
Wrong.
She might smile and say “thank you”
but it’s the same smile a girl gives, when she wants to be polite.
Women won’t admit they do this
and it’s only when the guy shakes her shoulders and screams, “Why?”
that she pulls out her pepper spray and screams “Rape!”
How many guys are crazy?
That’s how the store sells their ugly flowers—
or
People like me, spend all of their money
just to buy something beautiful
that she might like.
That’s how I feel about my life—
People settle
and think
they’re doing well.
It’s an addiction.
I want to know where I stand.
It hurts to know where I stand
Nowhere to Run
So, talk to me…
I’ve been sending my stories to feminist book publishers
“Why?”
You might ask.
Entertainment, mostly.
The responses I get back are… well, to put it mildly—hostile
but I digress.
I respond, not in kind, but by being kind.
“The nicer ones say, “Your voice isn’t right for our magazines.”
I think my stories would do feminists some good. I don’t hate them, for their point of view
because
I already know what I think.
Listening, is a tasty treat that I eat.
The silence between syllables
is jazz
It makes me want to jump off a building
but when I don’t argue, they don’t know what to say
their radical records go around and around
with horrible scratches on them
If people would only talk to me, I would listen
We all have a life sentence
and we want to experience
the outside
where we have never been
There has never been a you or a me
throughout all of human history.
The Good Girls in the Book Shop
Normally, I don’t look at the Classics in the glass bookcase.
They’re leatherbound and beautiful, but not easy to read.
Their cumbersome vocabularies bother me.
There are two types of book collectors—those who enjoy showing their books off—and those who enjoy reading them.
If you’re bored reading this poem (Right Now) I understand. Don’t continue.
There were two girls discussing the beautiful spines of the classics.
I judged them to be 18 and homeschooled. Public school does not encourage good breeding.
The bookstore is full of public-school girls. They have tattoos, high rise black boots, purple hair, nose rings, black make-up, and a pissed-off attitude.
These girls were sweet and wearing dresses. They had a wholesome appearance.
I thought about talking to them, but I didn’t want things to get weird.
I’m 36, and a man.
There are whole segments of society that I don’t get to talk to because of these unspoken rules.
Just being a man, is to be dangerous—like a monster that wants to come out of his cave, and do unspeakable acts…
You never know what one of those girls might be thinking,
if you say “Hi”
and ask her about her interest in a particular book.
Oh well—I briefly listened to her explain to her friend that she enjoys A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
“It’s about a Yankee who goes back in time and screws everything up,” she said.
I was struck by how much she knew about books, and it made me feel old. She was so young and knew so much.
“I want to buy it for you,” she offered.
She plucked it off the shelf, like fruit from the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,
and bought it for her friend.
I stood in that bookshop, thinking…
I want to be a writer. I want to influence young minds. One day, my stories will be plucked-off the bookshelves like forbidden fruit.
Aphorisms on Being the Best Poet I Can Be
1.
It takes enormous dissatisfaction
to write a lot of poetry.
2.
I want to ask a fat person
why they are unhappy.
3.
People that go to church too much
look spiritually dead—
that might be the problem with Catholics, Mormons, and Jehovah’s Witnesses.
The men have rosy cheeks and clean-cut haircuts
The women wear dresses and want to get married
They don’t appear to be affected by anything
Worldly women have tattoos and enjoy exposing themselves
They have sinned so much
they appear spiritually sick.
I don’t know which hell is worse.
4.
Dreamers wake up.
Few
stay asleep forever.
5.
I love to watch a violent man
get alone
and write poetry.
His sensitivity makes his violence real.
If he is crowded
he can always profess his faith in Jesus Christ—
it’s the surest way to be left alone.
See… God can be useful in the world, but so can talking about bodily functions.
6.
At work, I act like I’m
a boring
gray-like substance.
My boss says I’m extremely professional.
Poetry will end, but that doesn’t mean, it’s not beautiful.
Some people
put their trust in Money
and others
put their trust in Family
and some people
put their trust in God
and others
put their trust in Poetry.
Then,
that trust vanishes
when the poetry
doesn’t show up.
The teacher is absent
and the student
begins to learn.
Money has a lesson to teach you
What is the value of something?
Family has something to teach you
Who do you actually belong to?
God has something to teach you
You aren’t Him.
And Poetry?
Poetry is Life
It will end
but that doesn’t mean
it’s not beautiful.
My Purpose in Writing Schoolboy Poetry
I feel guilty
when my friend tells me
I’m writing for fame.
On a good day
I believe him.
On a bad day
I know it’s not true.
I began writing
to make sense of things.
It turned into a purpose
that nobody can take away from me.
It has grown
from a big baby
into a clumsy child,
who enjoys writing schoolboy poetry.
If I don’t invent a purpose for my life,
somebody else will, and that is a living hell.
My Mentor
I was calling him from a pay phone with some residue on the receiver.
Probably decades of ear sweat.
There was a burned-out bronco across the street
and a light on, in the apartment above.
“Can I come up?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“It’s not too late?”
“No.”
I knocked on his door.
He opened it
in a white beater
with cigarette burns
hair
and lipstick
blotting his chest.
There was a green writing lamp
on a massive wooden desk
where a typewriter
sat.
“I don’t want to interrupt your writing,” I said.
“You’re not interrupting—Pull up a chair.”
When I sat down, it squeaked.
It wasn’t wire springs.
I stood up
and ripped the seat cushion away.
A mouse ran across the floor.
That’s when I noticed whiskey bottles.
“Are you sober?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. What do you want?”
“How do you write the way you do?”
“How’s that?”
“Without fear—it’s like you don’t care. The world might end, but you would keep writing, even if there was nothing there. Why do you do that?”
“Any action taken to an extreme is madness, and I prefer my own.”
“Do I have to be crazy to write well?”
“No.”
The curtains were dusty, the window cracked.
“How long is this interview going to take?” He asked.
“I just have a couple more questions.”
“Well, make it fast, because Betty is coming over, and she isn’t wearing any panties, under her tight-fitting dress. Say, why does a Mormon boy like yourself, want anything to do with a guy like me?”
“I’m not Mormon,” I said self-consciously. I adjusted my shirt collar. “I trust what you write is real.”
“How can you tell?”
“You blend ugliness with beauty. Nothing you write is too pure. You don’t need anybody.”
“Writers who need readers, don’t write very well,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because they have something to lose. Now, Betty will be here any minute, so I need you to go.”
“Can I call next week?”
“Okay.”
I left in the middle of the night, and it felt like morning.
Dream Walker
I internet searched a recent dream I had
and it said
that the black and white photograph of friends
meant that I was ready to move on with my life—
that it would be a smooth transition.
I believe in paying attention
to dreams.
My writing dream is one that I nurture
with warm milk
before I go to sleep.
I hear stories of people
who have headaches
they want to add credentials to their name
they are not satisfied in their position
I look at my life like a leaf
and the wind blows me
from here to there
I don’t fight it
I don’t argue with it
It whispers to me
and I listen.
If we confidently follow our dreams
we will wind up where waking reality never intended.
Poetry Graveyard
He wrote too much mean poetry
and now
people don’t stop by to pay their respects.
It’s quiet.
The lonely trees look like brains, with branches
reaching-out,
trying to form connections
with the empty sky.
Tall grass has gone to seed
Fireflies buzz over tombstones
like lost souls, searching
for where their bodies were laid to rest.
They worked in the dirt, and their ideas will grow out of that
like trees
that last for centuries.
The full moon is a flashlight
until it burns out for good.
Frost creeps up on death
like a beautiful glaze
until the thaw
and the sun
open up the grave.
Words walk out of that
to wake us up
and
bring us back to life.
The Magic Inside Your Mind
Whether you water your brain with
acid rain, or fair weather
is up to you.
Is your mind a desert,
like a Martian landscape
or a jungle of dusty books?
A willingness to turn-off distractions
and plant seeds
is the foundation of any writer
and the worlds of imagination
created inside my brain
are like canvases of invisible paint.
A friend told me… “You have this faraway look in your eyes, like you’re not even here.”
and she was right.
I am light-years away.
My mind is limitless…
Once you discover that
there is no problem too great to solve.
You can move mountains with your mind.
One of my brainstorming strategies is to let it rain.
I think of all the plot ideas and characters I would like to read about
and then I get started,
thinking about:
graveyards, airplanes, lonely old men, motorcycle races, gambling, duels, murder, suits of armor, deviant minds, girls at the beach, and eccentric geniuses.
People exercise what’s obvious (Muscles), but they don’t consider the magic inside their mind,
like a cake, or an iPhone.
They don’t know they have the power to bake, or to send a message telepathically–that’s what writing is.
They don’t know the pleasure of dipping a bucket inside a deep dark well
that never runs dry,
or
falling down a rabbit hole.
Mostly, people aren’t creative because they don’t try.
They don’t observe people, or listen to what they say.
They are neurotic—thinking the same thoughts, over and over, again
every day
like grocery lists
or bills
or boring items that need to be crossed off,
rather than unlocking their sixth sense.
I am not an entrepreneur,
but I plan to be in business for myself one day
not for material gain
but for the freedom that comes from living inside my own mind.
Recognized
the writer, seduces his readers
with life, out of reach
while he smokes his cigarettes,
welcoming death
not wanting, or needing
a second chance.
he drinks, not to get drunk
but usually this happens
vomiting in his toilet bowel
he writes about it
with glorious words.
Then,
he does something else
and
it’s never been done before
while morons are climbing Mount Everest
he
does something hard
that
he
will never brag about
That’s what writing is
Then,
somebody finds out
and more people come
and they want fame
because they want to be different
but they don’t really want
to live on the outside
they want to feel special.
When a writer is dead
other writers will try to be like him
They will only manage to get drunk
to get cancer
to become a copy, of a once beautiful creator
they
don’t want to be themselves
they
want to be somebody
else
as long as they get recognized.
Too Late
It’s too late
to write that novel
you were going to write.
It’s too late
to call that girl
you were going to call.
It’s too late
to get in shape
because you are too heavy
to walk.
This may depress you
but it’s a real warning
even if,
it comes too late.
What they don’t tell you
is about the ones who try.
It’s too easy not to try
And too hard
to fail.
Failure,
comes with trying.
Trust me, I know.
I am so used to rejection
I expect it
and to those morons who say, “You get what you expect.”
They don’t have a clue.
They haven’t really tried for what they want to do.
If you get what you want, easily
you should be
suspicious
of that.
It’s probably,
what somebody else wants.
Aphorisms on Becoming a Novelist
1.
When the lion stops waiting to be fed
the zookeepers get nervous.
2.
When the giant realizes his dad is dead
there is nobody bigger than he is.
3.
One must develop a style.
Being a writer isn’t enough.
4.
We all have ways to take-on the world—
most of us do it in traffic.
5.
I believe in signs and superstitions that confirm my success,
but when they show me the opposite omens,
I conveniently become an atheist.
6.
A man who looks for romance
is seldom satisfied by beauty.
Nature provides young willowy women without soul
The Romantic is waiting for a rose, budding with grace.
7.
There is nothing more satisfying than becoming who you want to be.
You don’t tell anybody; they just figure it out, slowly.
You are writing 2,000 words a day.
You are a novelist.
There is no better feeling than that.
An Unnatural Act
As I miss a day of writing,
I feel
that I have lost something
I will never get back.
Now, this is absurd. Writing, is an unnatural act.
I mean, who takes hours out of their day
to compose an essay
about what happened to them
yesterday?
I do, and that’s a fact.
I don’t feel normal, unless I write.
I think about
how much better my writing could’ve been
if I had started earlier in life
with more dedication,
but unlike many
I believe I have a destiny
revealed
like lost dinosaur bones
in the sand
and
they’re very much alive.
Some think that thinking is a waste of time.
I didn’t write for years
because I picked-up War and Peace
and tried to read it.
It bored me to death.
Banned, for the First Time
I
have achieved
what few writers
ever do.
I
was banned
from submitting my stories
to a small magazine publication
forever.
It’s one thing
to be rejected
with cute
automated emails
and a whole other experience
for a publisher
to say
“We never want to see you again.”
In print, that is…
I don’t care.
Strangely, my experiences with women
parallel
my failed attempts to get published
and the women look at me with hate and disdain
They say vile things about me, without ever getting to know me (Should I admit to this? It isn’t ALL women.)
and they watch how it affects me.
Their words have little effect over me, despite being the nasties grime to ever swirl down a toilet, or plug the kitchen sink
They are too careful, too controlling, too judgmental
Swirling
Too confident
in their ability
to stop a writer from writing.
I write-down what I feel. I spill my guts and purge my soul. I sicken the people who are disgusted by me.
Listen, you anonymous publishers of the world—the greatest writers were banned
the strongest men, lived without women (Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Bukowski claimed he was too weak NOT to live with women, but if he had the strength to be totally alone, that would’ve been his decision.)
Most Men
of ambition
face
continuous rejection
and they
go to the bottle, or the needle
to take away their pain.
Words
are my antidote
for the poison
of the world,
and I have no desire
to make myself weaker
on its behalf.
When a man ingests enough
vitriol
and faces enough
stone
and doesn’t become the poison
or the physiognomy
that cannot smile
He becomes immune
to the feminine freak-out.
Power
is not the surrender
to the crowd.
Power
is found
in the words we breathe
on the mountain
so far away from society.
Are bureaucrats powerful,
when their positions
are axed,
when the permission they were given
is taken away?
Are publishers powerful
when they bitch
about an anonymous writer
who wrote
distasteful words?
We all have a palate, and let me be Frank (Because I like that name)
some of the most insensitive sayings
gave me strength
when I couldn’t find them
between the pages of
Danielle Steel or Nora Roberts.
Men like me, will always be
looking for
words
that cause them
to feel strong
in a world that wants to make them weak.
And yes, I did read Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel
because I wanted to understand a woman’s heart.
A philosopher speaks
to one or two
because
many
don’t want to listen to
him.
I’m okay with that,
and I’m also okay with pissing-off small magazine publishers—
it gives me something to do.
Take away what I have
and I have
what I need.
The Good Life of a Suffering Writer
I am rarely at 100 percent when I write
and many would-be writers say,
“I have to wait for the muse,”
or
“I have to wait for a good night’s sleep,”
or
“I have to wait for peace and quiet,”
but the muse never comes,
and sleep is a dream that never arrives,
and the neighbors are doing something obscene next-door (loudly).
I write better
when
I don’t believe I can
when
I’m too tired
to string
two thoughts together.
I write better
when
I’m uncomfortable
when
the future is uncertain
when
everything I’ve written-down
before
doesn’t matter.
I write better
when
there is no applause but my own
when
I’m not trying to impress anyone
but myself.
I write better
when
my critics want to kill me
and I offend
again
and
again.
I write better
when
I know
that my words are a weapon—they have power—lethality.
I write better
when
I am sick as a dog
and it feels like the cats are scratching my skull.
All I want to do is tell the truth
again
and
again.
I write better because I can
and to take that away
is to steal my soul.
In a world where everyone is phony
I find fiction to be more real (and yes, I understand the irony).
I write
to be better than…
(not better than you)
but better than
the hordes of humanity
who think they want to hear
the hum-drum
of
everyday existence.
I write
to breathe
and to be a breath of fresh air.
I write
because it’s the only thing
standing between me
and the rest of humanity.
Writing has a life of its own
and it’s the good life.
The Wrong Time is Always the Writing Time
With writing, like life
there are percentages of lying.
Most of my stories are a percentage of truth
and then the rest is fiction.
Hope dries up.
I think the most frightening part of existence
is when it doesn’t rain
or it rains too much.
It’s difficult to be content in the desert
to be a pile of bleached bones.
Many of the beliefs that we hold onto are false.
My father told me:
Never write when you’re bored—just to entertain yourself.
But I say:
Any excuse to write, is a good one.
Eventually, we are owned by what we do
or don’t do—
That becomes our destiny.
the wrong time, is always the right time.
I learned to play on a piano
that was 100 years out of tune.
Being too careful, is the disease of modern society.
If you have anger—use it.
If you have frustration—grind.
Don’t try to arrive at contentment, if you are miles away.
If there are things that you want, don’t say to yourself, “I don’t want them.”
Allow misery to wash over you—it’s okay.
If people don’t like being around you
you are meant to be alone.
If it isn’t convenient
do it the hard way.
Not on sale?
Buy it.
The fewer limits you place on yourself
the more you will become
free.
English Teachers and Writers
I have never gotten along with English Teachers
because
they have too many rules
on how to write.
They have more opinions
than an ostrich—craning their neck over the neighbor’s fence.
English Teachers
become
English Teachers
because
they think
they might be writers
but they find out, quickly
that being a successful writer
takes more than following the rules.
In fact,
a writer who follows the rules is finished.
A writer doesn’t need anything
but
the blank page
and
the belief
that they
have something to say.
It’s always an English Teacher
who tells me to stop writing,
but I don’t
and that makes me a real writer.
The Fox Meets Zorro One Last Time
My writing wasn’t working out,
and so
I decided to visit my guru
again.
He was Spanish, from a classical age
and he knew things
I could never fully comprehend.
“You have passion, Andre
and your skill is growing, but
you have not yet
learned
to master the s-word.”
“I don’t want to die,” I said.
“That’s why, you will.
If you want immortality,
I can show you how to kill
with s-words—enact your revenge—
live to tell the tale, so to speak.”
“How can I write that way, when I feel so much hate?”
“You hide it, with this.”
A mask fell out of his hand.
“Anonymity is your Ally.
It’ll be your friend,
when you write things down
that will offend.”
I took his mask
and put it on.
It was strange
that being invisible
made me invincible.
“Don’t cowards wear masks?” I asked.
“Yes. And ugly people too, but there are many who would proudly wear the mask of Zorro—Zorro—you can hear the name whispered on the lips of the oppressed. Zorro—it’s a name that rises up like the storm. Zorro—a name that will never die. Now, I’m tired and I am going back to bed. It’s your turn, son.”
My fingers folded around his mask and I put it in my pocket.
I was the fox, the devil, the writer.
I would never stop.
It’s hard to convince someone
that I have accomplished
great things
by writing a poem
but the more I do it
the more I feel
that I have squeezed
life
out of the rocks.
I speak to stones, the way Moses did
and water gushes forth.
Poetry
is
wealth
from the rocks—
that’s why poets get paid a penny a word,
and
storytelling
is
like a lost stone.
When a child finds it
they speak to the rock
and the rock doesn’t say anything at all—
that’s how great storytellers get started.
Dear Readers:
The only difference between insanity and genius is success— (Said by a Bond Villain)
I apologize for my recent lack of posting.
I have been writing the Great American Novel. It might not be great in the eyes of most readers, and it will probably horrify my mother, but it comes from the stink from my soul.
Lately, I have had to censor my soul, but don’t worry, there is a lot of offensive poetry backed-up on my word processor, like a septic tank that needs to be pumped.
All of the shit will get posted in due time (Don’t Worry!)
In the meantime,
I have to post the fluffy stuff—even that upsets my mother, which brings me only a little joy in comparison to your comments and likes.
If it wasn’t for you (loyal followers) I might’ve stopped writing, altogether, but lately, I am beginning to feel invincible.
When my writing gets shoved underground, it becomes a river of words, gaining momentum like a flood rushing towards a dam.
When it hits,
it’s going to hit hard.
Hopefully, I am going to break through.
If not, I will resume my usual (or unusual) occupation as resident (or dissident) philosopher.
The Fat PI, also known as Gregson, has been on hiatus, as of late. I put him on a beach with an umbrella drink and a beautiful woman in a tasteful one-piece.
Gregson wants to finish his memoirs, just how I want to finish my first attempt at the Great American Novel.
Recently, it has been suggested to me that I should be a professional, or a writer.
My response: “I’m going to be a professional writer.”
I said this to myself four hours later, but that’s what writers do.
They are seldom able to say words spontaneously.
Okay, now I’m rambling… so I need to sign off.
“No Nets!”
I don’t know when I stepped off a cliff,
but I did.
It’s obvious to me
and gradually
becoming obvious to others.
I never said, “I stepped off a cliff”
but I did.
There are no nets.
I was born a coward, or nurtured to be that way (I don’t know which)
and now, I am trying to become something else.
I reached a moment of desperation
where my life wasn’t worth much
and
I began to do acrobatics
without nets.
For a while, I pretended they were there, but now
I know they’re gone.
Safety Nets catch more fish than monsters of the deep,
and I have become a monster
in my own mind.
(Disclaimer: This is only a figure of speech—and should not cause my readers to worry about me. I am a psychologically well-adjusted friendly monster—I promise.)
There’s a Bogie film I watched when I was in 4th grade,
where the man on the flying trapeze says, “No nets.”
And then he falls hard.
I don’t intend to fall hard.
“No Nets!”
Some people say they have nothing to write about, but they talk all day. What kinds of conversations do they have?
The only thing that can stop a writer,
is the writer.
Rejection, and Rock-Bottom
allow a writer to write what’s real.
On Being a “Really Good” Fiction Writer
There is a robin egg blue Ford pickup truck on my commute that has captured my imagination.
Each morning, I watch the driver going in the opposite direction.
He has put-on weight.
He always has a smile on his round face.
His truck is a reminder of the story I am writing.
The real reward for a fiction writer is to see reality differently. The rabbits follow me. I walk down the dirt road and they come closer.
They know I’m a magician with a wit more cunning than the King of the Leprechauns.
There are ordinary rabbits, and then, the magical variety.
I put myself into my stories, in the same way that painters put themselves into their paintings.
A painting is not a picture. There’s a soul there—or at least, I hope so.
Some primitive people believe that the camera will steal their soul, and
I am inclined to believe them.
I look-at Instagram selfies, and the eyes of those women are vacant.
In a world filled with Mundane Gray existence, I prefer to add color.
We are all writing our stories, regardless if we realize it or not.
So, why not
become a really good fiction writer?
It might just improve your life.
On Cooking-Up a Good Story
I’m a horrible cook—and I blame it on my writing. It’s the same excuse writers have used throughout the centuries.
I drink, because I write.
It’s stressful, being an artist.
My house is a mess, because I write.
I don’t have time for mundane tasks.
I’m a creative person.
I dress like a slob, because all of my brainpower goes to the written word, and
I simply hate society. I prefer the world inside my head.
I don’t care how I look. You should appreciate my intelligence.
Not being able to cook is a huge disadvantage with the ladies—
not to mention: poor hygiene, a messy apartment, an ego the size of Antarctica, and a sensitivity that withers at the first sign of stress,
but that hasn’t stopped me from writing.
Stephen King says, we should order take-out pizza and smoke cigarettes. I believe in drinking espresso shots.
A fiction writer makes a living by telling lies to their readers—
but when they start lying to themselves
they always go off the deep end.
The best way to stay afloat is to go into a small room, turn off the lights, and take a nap.
So, that’s what I’m going to do right now.
CLICK
Good night.
How to Capture Lightning in a Bottle?
It’s late evening in Oak Park and the street lights turn on.
The city conserves electricity, and as I have a beautiful thought
the power-grid blinks at me, winks at me, suggests magic in that beautiful black night,
when the street lights turn on.
***
Benjamin Franklin captures lightning in a bottle
by flying his kite at night.
His flash of inspiration
when the winds tear at his clothes
is the spirit to stand up to the storm.
There are black clouds of depression that threaten to drown us
but despite these pulling forces
we must be rooted in our art,
willing to bend, but not to break.
***
I enjoy eating words.
I live on a diet of language, sucking up the spirit of poets, like a cannibal with a straw.
The soul tastes pretty good, the brains—not bad, the blood— a transfusion, that keeps me alive.
I have my own personal experience that I write about, and then the library
which adjusts my mind,
like a chiropractor, straitening my spine.
I have read Bukowski, Nietzsche, Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Lovecraft this morning.
They all do different things to me, shaping my reality.
We are what we eat.
Hemingway takes me to Europe on a vacation with a delightful woman who helps me to experience eggs and wine and bicycles in the sun.
Steinbeck encourages me to smell the storm
as droplets fall on the dusty earth and little animals run into their homes.
Nietzsche makes me strong
Lovecraft pushes me through the woods of mystery.
Bukowski shows me how to jumpstart my art, like a heart that has stopped beating.
Because of Bukowski,
I draw and doodle to express the absurdity of my everyday existence.
I encourage any struggling artist to stand in the storm, and try to capture lightning in a bottle.
Thunder
is the applause of the gods.
On Writers and their Fans
I am disturbed by my own influence
over people.
They think I’m speaking directly to them…
I appeal to their narcissism
without meaning to
because
my words ring true—
this is the curse of any halfway decent poet.
J.D. Salinger wanted fame, and then
dozens of young Holden Caulfields showed up on his doorstep
in red hunting hats
and
demanded autographs.
They wanted to speak to the author
because they all thought he was speaking to them.
He had given voice to their pain.
It drove J.D. so crazy
that he stopped publishing, altogether
and he fenced himself off from the crazies
until the crazies thought he was crazy
and then the man became a legend.
Stephen King—the most read writer of the 20th century (take that, critics who think he’s a hack)
had a man enter his house and declare he was going to blow it up with a bomb.
Stephen King’s wife, Tabatha, said… “Just a Second…” and jumped out the window.
That’s mild in comparison to J.D., and his fans,
but it still deserves an honorable mention. The bomb didn’t go off.
Then,
Stephen King angered his stockers by writing about a Number 1 Fan who kidnaps him, breaks his legs, and forces him to write one more paperback novel.
A writer is always inspired by their fear, anxiety, anger, and countless irritations, like fleas on the back of a dog. The surest way to survive suffocation, is to write about it. Then a writer can breathe, along with their readers, if they have written anything honest.
King is writing about his fear.
J.D. is writing about his anxiety, anger, and countless irritations in the phony adult world.
I write about all of these… including what I love.
I can’t help it, if my Number 1 Fans think I’m writing just for them.
The tortured artist is never tortured by their art, but by their fans.
PS. Thanks for reading, dear readers—
without you,
this blog would die a horrible death.
The Words Nobody Can Hear
There is no better feeling
than walking about at my leisure
while others
are performing
soul-sucking jobs, and I know…
I still have my soul.
What does a man get
from writing a poem
and what does a man get
from reading poetry?
It’s not money—
that’s for sure.
People are looking for love
and they settle for power
and
People are searching for salvation
because they can’t find that in themselves
and
People want to be right
because they are so wrong.
I love my leisure
I love my enemies
I love my life, and the people in it
We’re all in this together
so, you would think, that would cause us to love each other.
If Judas asked me to betray myself, I wouldn’t say anything.
Often, words that we say
don’t matter
because they can’t hear them.
It’s best to write them down, instead.
3 ½ Steps to Write the Great American Novel
1. Write every day. I know it’s cliché, but a writer must have a special kind of narcissism. In the words of John Steinbeck, “A Writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing. And he must hold onto this illusion, even though he knows it’s not true.” This type of megalomania and delusion, considers the world and the people in it as the most important occupation of the mind.
2. Find a writer that you admire. Are they too far above you, or do they reach out to you? I admire Hemingway and Steinbeck, but they are too far above me, too good for me. Hemingway was larger than life, fighting in wars, killing big game, and traveling across the globe. Did he ever have a real job? A 9 to 5? I can’t relate to him. He’s too macho, even though his writing is beautiful. Steinbeck is a talented writer, that puts my prose to shame. He doesn’t reach out to me. He doesn’t comfort me, but I admire him, just the same.
3. Save People. Now, Bukowski…Bukowski, I can relate to. He worked real jobs. He didn’t pedestalize anything. He wrote about the grim realities that most of us face, like paying the rent. What happens when our family abandons us and our neighbors don’t understand us? Now, I can relate to that, and I have plenty of experience dealing with my neighbors. Oh no, did I give something away!? For me, Bukowski is necessary, like the Bible is for a Christian who has any belief in God. Bukowski saved me. Your writing should save somebody else. The more people you save, the more successful you will become.
½. Love it! This is self-explanatory. You must learn to love writing. If you are bored when writing, your readers will get bored. If you hate your subject… well, you guessed it! Writing is telepathy. You must transmit your thoughts onto the page, and then into your readers’ brain.
Fishing for Thoughts
Holding onto a thought
and then letting it
slip
upstream
like a fish
that gets
caught
on the end of my line.
I like to spend time
thinking
like a fisherman
who enjoys
catching ideas, and then
letting them go again.
How horrible
to lose your mind
and not be able to fish anymore.
It’s similar to the teachers
talking in the hallways…
Much is said
but not much is thought.
It’s like a person with short-term memory loss
who says things,
but can’t form a coherent thought.
Word Salad
The principal caught me
in my office
reading a book.
He’s a kind of fisherman
who catches professionals doing
what they’re not supposed to do,
and what’s funny
are the hours wasted
by all his obvious employees
talking
about nothing.
He wears a suit
over his t-shirt
and walks
everywhere
quickly.
He has places to go,
but doesn’t go anywhere.
I travel
inside my mind.
Increase Your Writing Inspiration with My Top 3 Literary Geniuses
A disclaimer: If you’re an oversensitive feminist and object to 2 out of my 3 writers being white men, I empathize with you, but I can’t help you. In fact, nobody can. I encourage you to keep bashing geniuses. It just shows how stupid you are. The next generation will be dumber because they listened to you. It narrows-down the competition. Hopefully, that’ll help me to get published, but I doubt it.
Charles Bukowski
1. Bukowski recognizes that much of male behavior is governed by what other men do, and what other men do, is governed by women. Society survives because of the relationship between men and women, and it crumbles when they can’t get along. I love Bukowski’s poetry. My favorite collections are: What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire and The Last Night of Earth Poems. Bukowski is most famous for his Novel Ham on Rye. However, it’s not my favorite. Post Office chronicles the absurdities of working as a government employee. I work in the public school system, and it’s frightening to see the similarities between how we educate our children and how the Government manages the mail.
Ernest Hemingway
2. Liking Hemingway is a bit cliché, and I must confess, I didn’t read him until much later in life. I don’t like his greatest works: The Sun Also Rises and For Whom the Bell Tolls. They were too formal for me. I don’t like the language. There’s no humor in it. Hemingway was too serious. He got up at the crack of dawn and began bleeding at his typewriter. Anybody who stands at attention for 6 hours and types is not allowing the word to work its magic. With that said, I enjoyed The Old Man and the Sea. It’s a simple tale about life and death, written when Hemingway had dementia and was nearly insane. In fact, Hemingway was writing about death his whole life, and it was the love of a beautiful woman who gave him the stamina to write one last great work before he blew his brains out with a shotgun. Hemingway’s death was poetic, just like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Sylvia Plath
3. Sylvia is one of the few female literary geniuses. With that said, most women have more ability at reading and writing when compared to men. This is statistically evident through English Language scores on a Global Scale. I know, because I did a research project on it during my Doctorate Degree in Education. In Seattle, the elites believe that men and women are socialized differently, which explains their differing aptitudes. They don’t believe that there are any differences among men and women in cognition, only in socialization. I don’t believe this. I believe statistics, which shows that men are more likely to have learning disabilities, while also being more likely to be geniuses. On the normal curve, women cluster around the average, and there are more men found at the extremes (This could be due to the XX versus XY chromosomes. Women have a backup X chromosome. However, I’m not a scientist, so it’s only my theory). I like Sylvia’s poetry collections: Winter Trees and Ariel. The Bell Jar is a great novel. There is such a range of emotion in her poetry. My favorite poem of hers is Daddy. In this poem, she discusses her feelings of losing her father. She sounds like an upset little girl. I like her poetry because it’s honest and feminine. Sadly, Sylvia battled with depression and was in and out of insane asylums her whole life. She killed herself with gas.
Poetry will end, but that doesn’t mean, it’s not beautiful.
Some people
put their trust in Money
and others
put their trust in Family
and some people
put their trust in God
and others
put their trust in Poetry.
Then,
that trust vanishes
when the poetry
doesn’t show up.
The teacher is absent
and the student
begins to learn.
Money has a lesson to teach you
What is the value of something?
Family has something to teach you
Who do you actually belong to?
God has something to teach you
You aren’t Him.
And Poetry?
Poetry is Life
It will end
but that doesn’t mean
it’s not beautiful.
Starting a Poem…
Starting a poem
should be like starting
a crank Model-T Ford.
Starting a poem
should be like starting
the Universe
God made some mistakes—
it’s okay for you to make some mistakes.
Your work is beautiful, even the ugly stuff.
It’s a facelift
with fish lips
Call it good—
that’s what God did.
Fish are fish
Women are women
Men get confused.
The goal
is to be outside of that goal—
not to sink into that deep dark hole
where the fish are.
Passion
is seldom shared by anyone.
It leaks out, like slug slime
I have been in the throes of ecstasy
when I was alone.
Fish will strip a whale to the bone.
Starting a poem
is like planting a tree
it feeds you and me
it offers shade
from the blistering sun
It begins small,
and then grows bigger
than anyone.
My Purpose in Writing Schoolboy Poetry
I feel guilty
when my friend tells me
I’m writing for fame.
On a good day
I believe him.
On a bad day
I know it’s not true.
I began writing
to make sense of things.
It turned into a purpose
that nobody can take away from me.
It has grown
from a big baby
into a clumsy child,
who enjoys writing schoolboy poetry.
If I don’t invent a purpose for my life,
somebody else will, and that is a living hell.
Enough Said at the New York Literary Society
My reaction
to the gold invitation
was to test the paint
to check its authenticity. There were the names
of the guests
written on the back, in red ink
and I knew
I had made it. Into what? I wasn’t sure. New York literary society
is the only society. It’s full of non-writers, non-thinkers, non-entities,
but I didn’t know that, quite yet—it was only a lingering suspicion.
I learned that my love of writing had no connection to money.
I could be exchanged
from one person to the next
like a prostitute, but my writing remained the same—and perhaps… that’s why I still loved it.
The only way to hold onto something
is to write it down, and I did just that.
I wrote about society.
I wanted to enjoy this world,
without being touched by it
(Much how an astronaut feels, when he invades an alien planet)
but there is always a virus that creeps under his suit
and eats-away his brain.
There was cocaine, caviar, champaign, conversation, and laughter.
A tiny pink man was making most of the jokes, while everyone was smiling.
It was the saddest sight I had ever seen,
brought on by an atmosphere of fear.
The rich were afraid of the poor.
I was waiting for someone to say,
“Let’s get out of here!” but nobody did.
They lingered
longer
becoming bored
and popping pills.
It was a horror story that was writing itself—my next novel.
People are the only creatures that want it all,
and when they get it,
they eat it up,
because they don’t want anyone else to have it.
It makes them sick and dead—
enough said.
Waiting on Writing
waiting for a poem
is a lot like waiting for your life to start
drinking espresso shots
and waiting
is not stressful
despite what ambitious writers say,
“I fear the blank page.”
When writing isn’t working out
I let it sleep on the couch.
When your whole life is in front of you
then
you can wait on it
and when your whole life is behind you
then
you can wait on death
and when death knocks on your door
then
you can answer it.
I love to stay in a silent room and wait
and watch the sun go down.
Waiting is the only way to understand
the sunset
and the darkness
that follows it.
What is a real writer?
Is
it
getting published in the New Yorker?
I just got rejected in that magazine, while I was talking to my best friend.
Pure automation—thank you for submitting… but no thanks. Antiseptic, is the word.
Is
it
writing every day?
I fail at that.
Is
it
getting published? I did that.
Is
it
getting your name in the paper? That was a different century.
Is
it
being a novelist? It could be, but there are so many novels I don’t want to read, and millions I don’t even know about.
I think being a writer is…
when I wake up, dissatisfied with my life, and I think about my options…
and each one, is full, of a kind of realism, that makes me sick.
What I imagine the world to be, is…
only my imagination.
I accept this,
but I also understand that I can do something about it.
My world is divided into two realities:
the one where I am boring, and turning pale, like the walls, I work within
and the one where I am driving a speedboat, over blue water, to a green island, with a deserted beach
where my typewriter sits, in a limestone villa
and I can crank-out thousands of words, just to stay there
a bit longer.
Back in the real world, people wonder why I haven’t moved on with my life
and it’s because…
I have become a real writer.
My imagination
is the best place to be
There is nothing like it
beyond the island
of my fantasy.
The Things that Elevate Life
Good writers show their emotions
behind their actions
and
if someone asked me, “What’s important?”
I would tell them, “It’s obvious—
the things that elevate life…
romance, that can’t last
espresso shots, Italian eggs, biscotti, mornings in Rome,
the idea that anything is attainable,
catching a fish that doesn’t want to be caught
the thrill of war, without the brutality
being close to death, unscathed
surrendering control, flying like a bird in an airplane
You can always tell when someone is fresh and full of life
when they step off a train,
or they have been to the Himalayas—
their energy is as fresh as the wind
the road offers more than what’s obvious
Literature, and the free spirit
are read
in the soul.
When you see the sunset kiss the ocean
off the coast of Nice,
it’s like being in an old movie
and then our dreams go to sleep
and rise
in the morning.”
A Reason to Write
This is my favorite part…
At every time in a man’s life
he must have a reason
and then the hurdles come
and many don’t jump over them
because they can’t
with the same reasons they started with.
The man who keeps coming up with new reasons
is the man who keeps going
You know that you have something
when you find excuses to do it
until the voices in the world
are drown-out by the ones in your head.
It’s a noble kind of schizophrenia
calling your name.
I was asked what I was going to do this weekend
by one of my colleagues at work, and I said…
“A bit of writing.”
and my answer was met with scorn—
he was hoping for something more glamorous, I guess.
There are decades
where we lie dormant
until
a spark, sets-off a forest fire
that “Yes, this is what I want to do.”
and
“This is who,
I am.”
Beautiful, Ignition, really.
The flames leap higher
and eat
all my doubt
that grew along the road like weeds
where common cars
watch
in horror
at my passion raging
from horizon
to horizon
It’s love that talks to me at night
while I rest on my pillow.
I don’t have to work myself up
to write
It just keeps coming
despite the conditions
and I put it down
to sleep
like word-filled dreams.
Recognized
the writer, seduces his readers
with life, out of reach
while he smokes his cigarettes,
welcoming death
not wanting, or needing
a second chance.
he drinks, not to get drunk
but usually this happens
vomiting in his toilet bowel
he writes about it
with glorious words.
Then,
he does something else
and
it’s never been done before
while morons are climbing Mount Everest
he
does something hard
that
he
will never brag about
That’s what writing is
Then,
somebody finds out
and more people come
and they want fame
because they want to be different
but they don’t really want
to live on the outside
they want to feel special.
When a writer is dead
other writers will try to be like him
They will only manage to get drunk
to get cancer
to become a copy, of a once beautiful creator
they
don’t want to be themselves
they
want to be somebody
else
as long as they get recognized.
Aphorisms on a Cloudy Day
1.
the world doesn’t want words
and that’s why I write them
2.
we should form our values
and measure our worth
by them
3.
a life that doesn’t make sense to others
is not a senseless life, if it makes sense to you
4.
I was always worried about being lost, out in the cold
so, I stayed inside, without the heat on
5.
He asked me, “Why do you write, if you don’t make money?”
I said, “I write, so that my life makes meaning.”
6.
This is true… if I go for a day without writing, I feel constipated
like the words can’t come out
there is always something to write about
7.
when people get in my way
I write about them
8.
there are days, when the world turns against me
I write about it
and there are days, when the world turns for me
I write about it
When nothing happens, I read poetry
to know, I am not alone
8.
there is only enough room in my life for three or four friends
Mine are, Bukowski, Thoreau, Nietzsche, and Barnes
three of them are found in books, the other, is flesh and blood
9.
women who can’t be caught
will become tired butterflies
caught in the rain
10.
for all the improvements I pay for
nothing is as valuable
as spending time
with myself
11.
those who can’t look at you
can’t see themselves
12.
we need to look death in the eye
without fear
to understand its intentions.
Fiction Writer vs. Satan
the demon
on my shoulder
tells me what I should write…
He’s as bad as my 4th grade English teacher
“No. That’s not where I want the comma to go.”
And I do whatever he says,
or he won’t let me sleep.
George, is sophisticated.
He smokes Cuban cigars, that have been in storage for 50 years
He complains about our Word processor
He misses the old type face, of a typewriter
Apparently,
the last three humans he tormented
were writers too
He specializes in writers, or would-be writers
until their words are scrambled and as dead
as chickens that were never born.
Cluck. Cluck.
But he’s having difficulty with me
because
the worse I write
the more I feel like
I can write whatever I want
because
the least published writer
is the freest writer
with no editors, to tell him what to do
with no homicidal fans, with nothing better to do
than bring a bomb to his house
and demand
better quality
(this happened to Stephen King, by the way)
Now my literary demon is playing video games
on my console, I haven’t touched, since I began to type, years ago
I promised him
a letter of recommendation
to say a few good words
to Satan, on his behalf.
I will fool the king of contracts
cheat the deceiver, at his own game
He twists language
like a liar
Well,
I’m a fiction writer.
Confessions of a Reluctant Mall Flasher
Publishing Poetry
is a lot like exposing
yourself in public, but I prefer
to think of poetry as telling the truth,
and the problem with telling the truth
too often in secret (like I’m doing now)
is that I want to do it in public. More often than not
true poetry is a public indecency.
I have these dreams
about being in a board meeting (completely bored)
where I slowly start to unbutton my top button.
I slip my pants off
and nobody notices
because nobody is paying attention, anyway
and I’m down to my boxer briefs
and
the accountant is looking at her numbers
while the boss has just cracked a little joke about his budget reviews.
My budget
is in plain sight.
The professional part of me that wants to publish poetry
laughs at his little quip, while he cracks his whip
“Be here, or be punished! If you stray from the schedule, that’s stealing!”
His mousy hair does loop-de-loops on his skull.
I considered acting as a career, but I prefer real life.
Beware,
the professional man
who is well-clothed
Being exposed, is a thrill for him
and when he walks by a mirror in the mall
he stands tall
and admires
the suit that God gave him.
It didn’t cost a salary—
like honest poetry,
it was free.
Choose
I wake up
sip coffee
lay in bed
and start writing.
Why not draw?
Because it doesn’t give me the satisfaction
of recording thoughts
that were there
before I started to type.
Being content
is the best feeling—
to lay still
and not want
anything.
the things that are supposed to find me
do
and whenever
someone suggests I go here or there
or meet
who?
I meet dead ends.
My radio frequency is fuzzy…
I don’t tune-in to their channels. So,
the best advice
I can give myself
is to choose.
Never Insult a Writer
If you insult a politician, he’ll ask that you donate to his campaign fund
and
if you insult a principal, he’ll give you detention after school
and
if you insult your parents, they probably won’t hear you
and
if you insult your dentist, he’ll drill and keep drilling, and when he gives you gold fillings, somehow, he’ll come out ahead
and
if you insult your doctor, he’ll tell you, “I’m a doctor,” as if this explains everything
and
if you insult your car repair man, your breaks will fail on the East Hill
and
if you insult your grocer, your bags will break on the sidewalk, and your lemons will roll into the road
and
if you insult the man or woman who says, “Hello, may I take your order?” You’re going to get spit in your sandwich
and
if you insult your lawyer, he’s going to bill you for it
and
if you insult your plumber, he’ll let you wallow in your own shit.
Basically, don’t insult anybody
but
if there is one person to avoid insulting, above all others—
never insult a writer. They’re dangerous.
They’ll immortalize you with shame
and your name will be a joke for eternity—or, at the very least, as long as words are written down.
You’ll be the forever-clown,
laughed at, until the universe is consumed with fire.
So, again
never insult a writer.
Hope is a Flower that Smells Bad
It’s impossible to write beautifully all of the time
and that’s why
I don’t mind
when my writing gets ugly.
Life is ugly, and we shouldn’t try
to dress-up a troll, or put lipstick on a dog. Life can be beautiful, but beauty fades, just how
green leaves turn red, and then brown.
There’s a flower in the Amazon Spheres
that blooms
every 5 to 7 years
and it smells like shit.
My best friend told me, “It’s extremely beautiful.”
“Have you seen it?”
I asked.
“No.”
“Well… how do you know it’s beautiful?”
“I’ve seen the pictures in the brochure. We all eagerly await the flower. It should bloom any day.”
“But in the meantime, it smells like shit. Am I right?”
“You aren’t wrong.”
People continuously count on things to save them: a relationship,
Jesus
or a career that will finally give them self-respect
but the turning tide reveals the slime
lingering there
where sea creatures eat each other.
I wouldn’t have it any other way
because it gives me something to write about,
even though
I’m the sensitive type
and I don’t like to see people be mean to each other.
Life isn’t pleasant. Some of us love life.
I will love death—not because I hate life, but because the shit is overwhelming most of the time
and the flower awaits.
“It only blooms for 48 hours,” my friend said.
“And then what happens?”
“It dies.”
To think I was going to write a poem about snobs this morning…
Snobs, have cotton in their heads. They don’t know, or appreciate the suffering of the world.
All they see are price tags
All they know is how much something costs
They don’t know the inherent value of things
They buy buy buy, but what do they have?
Shit.
I digress…
I woke up at 3 AM, realizing I had betrayed my literary dreams
for what I despise most— the job. This is the laughter of life.
Right when you think you control it, it makes a joke, or a job—take your pick.
That’s why I’m thankful for a good night’s sleep
and when I wake up with the sun shining through my window
and the compulsion to write
before I take my morning constitution
I know my life has meaning.
What else could be a greater signal to purpose than to write before nature calls?
Shit isn’t bad
(This shit isn’t bad, by the way, but it is 4:39 AM, and my brain might be playing tricks on me).
Shit is part of life, and if you’re bothered by my use of the word, I don’t know what to tell you.
Yesterday, I was thinking about how much I hate to hear people tearing each other apart with gossip,
but I also know, people need a way to bond with each other, even if backstabbing makes it impossible to trust each other–
That is why gossip is the language of the workplace
because it allows people to bond while simultaneously devaluing their relationships at work.
It provides temporary entertainment to kill boredom and time.
Now,
if you are feeling full of depression after reading these lines,
I’m sorry.
And my best advice would be:
Stay focused on the flower. Stay focused on the prize.
Hope, is a beautiful thing.
Snobs don’t know how much it costs.
Perhaps the shit in your life will start to smell sweet.
It’s the good shit that has us coming back for more.
So, maybe
I’m a horticulturalist.
Aphorisms on Writing, Prison, and Losing Your Manhood
1.
Some women, will give you a chance
they will coax it out of hiding
They will work for it
while others, cut it off
and it slinks away
like an inch worm
trying to find another cuby-hole
to hide in.
2.
Some days,
you must hide
from reality.
There is no escape.
You are doing time
in prison,
writing on a wall.
It’s the only power
that you have.
3.
What is writing?
It’s commercial
and packaged
and
a dozen different things,
I find sickening,
but I believe in
the simple poem.
4.
I am a King
because of poetry.
I might be doing anything.
My kingdom
could be a cubical
smaller than a cell
but I am free,
if I can write poetry.
5.
I might be asked
to fight in battle,
or go into the board room
and fall on my sword,
or my ass–
it doesn’t matter,
if I can write a poem.
6.
“Why are you so calm?” I am always asked.
Because it’s worth more to me
than all the money
in the world.
7.
When the bombs start dropping
people won’t know what to do,
and I will be there writing,
just the way I plan to
when I am lying in my bed
getting ready to die.
8.
The world won’t care.
It forgets celebrities
in less than a week.
All that matters
is what I care about
like writing this poem,
for instance.
My Thoughts Creep onto the Page
Candles
red melting candles
like my heart
Resting in a pool of death
in the dark.
I flirt with the lady
who forgets my name.
She giggles at me, and wants my attention, like fame.
I keep my thoughts hidden from her
and then
they spew out
all over the page.
I write quickly, with ambition
and forget the world
I see, only me
but I prefer to write slowly,
like the words don’t matter
like I am empty
like I am a field, that hasn’t been walked in
for centuries
and my thoughts creep onto the page.
Rejection is Required
Rejection is required
for any man
to fully accept himself,
and not just one rejection
but thousands, until
only his opinion matters
like a paper boat
riding the mountains of the deep
with no fear.
Any accepted words, in a sea of disappointments
gets smiled at
with the strongest smile
ever grinned.
It has endured
through failure.
A man can’t be a man
until he knows that he is strong enough
at his weakest moment.
It’s the man who fought in World War II
and came back
without a high school education
married a woman
or she married him
not because of his possessions
but for the toughness he possessed
like Beef Jerky.
We listen to ourselves
long enough
to find ourselves,
even when the wind blows us farther out to sea
and the land vanishes, like a lost hope
like, our sense of safety.
What will we put our security in?
A ship in a bottle—isn’t a ship at all
A ship accepts the storm
and rides
what it can’t control
what it knows, might very well swallow it whole.
Rejection
is about your willingness
to overcome impossible odds
it’s the explorer
the fighter
the man,
who is undefeated
even in defeat.
An Unnatural Act
As I miss a day of writing,
I feel
that I have lost something
I will never get back.
Now, this is absurd. Writing, is an unnatural act.
I mean, who takes hours out of their day
to compose an essay
about what happened to them
yesterday?
I do, and that’s a fact.
I don’t feel normal, unless I write.
I think about
how much better my writing could’ve been
if I had started earlier in life
with more dedication,
but unlike many
I believe I have a destiny
revealed
like lost dinosaur bones
in the sand
and
they’re very much alive.
Some think that thinking is a waste of time.
I didn’t write for years
because I picked-up War and Peace
and tried to read it.
It bored me to death.
Aphorisms on Becoming a Novelist
1.
When the lion stops waiting to be fed
the zookeepers get nervous.
2.
When the giant realizes his dad is dead
there is nobody bigger than he is.
3.
One must develop a style.
Being a writer isn’t enough.
4.
We all have ways to take-on the world—
most of us do it in traffic.
5.
I believe in signs and superstitions that confirm my success,
but when they show me the opposite omens,
I conveniently become an atheist.
6.
A man who looks for romance
is seldom satisfied by beauty.
Nature provides young willowy women without soul
The Romantic is waiting for a rose, budding with grace.
7.
There is nothing more satisfying than becoming who you want to be.
You don’t tell anybody; they just figure it out, slowly.
You are writing 2,000 words a day.
You are a novelist.
There is no better feeling than that.
I Retreat from Small Magazine Publishers, but I Only Surrender to the Blank Page
Some writers are afraid of the blank page
but
I surrender to it, like a flag
I proudly wave
I stare at it for hours
There is so much freedom
within four white walls
I am done with ego
I celebrate my failures
A writer has many thoughts bottled up
but they are not always beautiful
and
they don’t always smell like perfume.
I must learn to listen
and observe humanity
My initial impressions are:
sports, snoring, smiles, laughter, cold shoulders, warm showers, dresses, drinking, egos, anger, insults, and work.
I don’t deny that we find meaning in these things,
but they don’t last.
I got into an argument with a small magazine publisher. He told me that I tortured his staff with my sexist submissions.
His editors collected my most offensive works and made a case that I should be banned for life.
He agreed,
and now, I can no longer submit to his magazine.
I was told to stop writing—that I had no talent—and that my work was poorly planned out.
Normally, I ignore people who protest me, but this time, I wrote him a polite email:
“Dear sir, I am sorry that you find my writing offensive, but blow it out your ass!
I am reminded of what the principal told me during my last week on the job when he learned I was writing in secret.
“You’ve got work to do,” he said, with a worried look on his face.
“Yes—I do,” I smiled.
There is no better feeling than producing 2,000 words a day.
Hurray!
And hurry! The dream will be gone in the morning, so keep writing in the dark.
The Ghost Writer
What Stephen liked about writing was that there was no dead time. He was always creating—even in the grocery lines, where someone might say something, that he could use in a story. Amateurs had it all wrong—you never sit down to write a book—you’re writing it all the time—it’s constantly in your thoughts—it’s how you perceive the world, and the surest way to stop writing, is to think writing begins and ends—it just keeps going. His old man was a writer, but he didn’t know when to quit—the alcohol didn’t help either, and he hadn’t quit that. Stephen was writing entertaining stories, but nothing great. His father had one really good book, but it didn’t make the golden bar. We don’t know if we have gold inside us—they call it talent, but you can’t know, until you dig—sometimes, for a really long time. In Stephen’s case, there was nothing else he wanted. He had a few short stories published—but nothing more.
He opened his mail, and read it. Then the phone rang.
“Stephen?”
“Yes.”
“This is the county sheriff. Your father has had a heart attack. He died at Silver Mountain Lodge. The staff thought he was working on a novel, but he was working on Jack Daniel’s. Too much to drink, and not enough grub. Would you like to collect his effects?”
“I’ll drive up.”
“Hurry—there’s a storm moving in.”
Stephen was never close to his dad—but perhaps writers express their feelings differently. There’s a lot of subtext in the written word. He planned to write where his father had. He didn’t know why. When he got to the lodge, it was deserted—like a Buddhist monastery in the high hills of Tibet.
“Your father wrote in the mountain room,” a voice said. The doorman came out of the shadows like a vampire. He wore a penguin suit.
“How did you know the dead man was my dad?”
“You have the same face, only younger,” he said. The doorman wore a handlebar mustache that was waxed on the ends, which made him look like Trumbo—or an eccentric Frenchman.
“Here’s the keys. Your dad had eight days left—so the time is yours.” The keys felt heavier than they should’ve been.
“By the way—you need to know the history of that room, before you go in. Three writers tried to finish their novels there—each one died. The room is possessed.”
“You mean haunted?”
No—more like the holy of holies.”
Stephen didn’t pay him any mind. If you open and close doors all day—you start to see other worlds. He was curious if his father had finished his book. The windows were white and caked with snow. There was a writing desk in the middle of the room, with a black typewriter sitting still. A bottle of cheap champagne stood at attention, with an unopened pack of cigarettes waiting to be smoked.
Stephen punched a couple of keys. It sounded good. A laptop is too sterile—it doesn’t cut into the paper. He looked for matches, but couldn’t find any. Cigarettes, but nothing to light them with? Stephen walked to the fireplace, and found the burned edges of a manuscript. The Swan’s Song.
Dad tried to burn his book? When Stephen read what was there, he began to cry. It felt like he was holding his dad’s soul, that he had never known—it was burned—sent to hell. Stephen sat down at the black typewriter and retyped it. The words became his own, and he knew his father for the first time.
The End
Ugly Influence
Gnarled nicotine nails tap yellow-stained keys
at an ungodly hour.
there’s a ring on his finger, but not for marriage—
it symbolizes style—a quiet rebellion.
Smoke billows into his computer screen
and ashes fall, like a volcanic eruption
near his writing desk.
He reads what he has written, but it doesn’t meet his approval
It’s hot, inside.
He sits in his pee-stained underwear, trying to get the words right
the hair on his chest is ugly
he is ugly
he grabs some wine
his cat tries to give him company, but he whacks it away, and it meows with contempt
he is an island, cut-off from humanity— although, he writes about humanity
too many jobs have tried to steal his time
too many women have tried to make him their slave
he has been stretched by so many things
until his distorted shape
is unrecognizable
he writes distorted words
because of his distorted shape
and all of the mishappen people of the world who read his stuff
delight in him
because they are told they are perfect
but he tells them they are ugly.
a potent poet
When I wake up
I feel like I might impregnate the world
but I just lie there, still
basking in the power of myself
until the urge is too great to ignore
Then,
I write a poem.
At the end of the day
I am a dying man,
asking for a drink of inspiration
sucked dry
by the desert of humanity
indifferent
to my wasted time
like sand
blowing away
a desiccated mummy
while I try to type
with my crumbling fingers
banging at the keys
crawling, towards the sun
reaching,
for what little energy I have left
half-dead
hoping
praying
that anything will warm my soul
and not kill the life inside of me.
The Curse of Genius
When the dream offers herself up
like a young virgin
I start to wonder about the catch
What kind of trap
lies
behind those white panty straps?
At the party, I feel alone
but I don’t want to appear that way
so, I talk to somebody
I don’t want to talk to
and by and by
I meet popular people
and their white smiles accept me
while the whole thing
is empty
and I want to go home
to my empty room
and type.
Suddenly, I realize why I write.
I keep getting into these debates with my best friend.
“You write too much,” he said. “You need to focus on your career.”
“Maybe, I’ll make it as a writer.”
“Fat chance. How many times have you been rejected?”
“Thousands.”
“That can’t be good for your self-esteem.”
“In the beginning, it hurt, but now, nothing can stop me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Perhaps, but everything the world has to offer is empty. If we pursue emptiness, we will gain the whole world.”
“You need to stop reading philosophy. If you talk like that on a first date, she’ll drop you like a rock, and call you Sir Isaac Newton.”
Thank God for Poets.
I can see it now
mind, totally gone
hope gone
laughing, uncontrollably
totally free.
I dive under my bed
to hide from a demon.
I drink wine, and type.
Somehow, I manage to hold down a government job
I have to take my mental illness days (all of them)
Now, I can take 5 in a row, without a doctor’s note.
The school district knows, teachers are crazy. That’s why they have made allowances in our contract.
My mother will say, “I told you so. This is what happens when you go your own way.”
I have 3 different STDs, from 3 different women.
Nothing makes sense to me.
My father shakes his head, at the mere mention of my name.
“He went off the deep end and he couldn’t swim. Our son drowned, in his own degradation.”
I swim under the superficial fire of society and emerge, unscathed.
The beauty of a depraved life, is when you can paint with the ugliness.
All the colors of disgust
merge into a brilliant flow of genius.
The good and bad worship your name,
regardless
of their mountains of criticism
that keep you
in shadow.
The mounting wave
causes men to cry out to God.
I say,
“Come take me now, you bastard!”
There is triumph in death
but many
don’t know this.
They ask for mercy
They plead before the sword
Their rolling heads, are like the slaughtered expressions of babies
They have no steel smile that grins beyond the grave.
I read poetry, on my worst day
and smile.
I listen to the great composers.
Thank God.
For the Love of Money?
The ocean laughs when it brushes up against the shore
like lovers
under a blanket of blue.
There is the faint sound of typing
from a limestone villa, near the cove.
A motorboat rocks gently, back and forth
moored by a braided rope.
Scuba gear is lying in the sun, like fish scales.
The writer walks down to the beach.
White sand squishes between his toes.
The school where he worked, is a distant memory, like the red sun.
Now, the seaweed and clown fish are his friends.
They laugh, with the tides.
His light spear gun is brought to his chest, as he wades into the deep.
It’s not a hobby.
They told him, “You only love money.”
He loves the sunrise,
and if money is needed to appreciate that, so be it.
The 5 Stages of Grief for the Struggling Writer
1.
(Denial)
“I have talent, but nobody recognizes it but me.” –said by an Anonymous failure.
I was here, at one point, years ago, although, I don’t know if I thought I had talent, or not. I was watching movies about genius writers and submitting mediocre English papers to my high school teachers. They would give me advice on how to improve, and I would promptly ignore it. Afterall, they just couldn’t understand my genius. Needless to say, I did poorly in my English classes. I watched Finding Forester, and believed myself to be like Jamal Wallace—hated for my abilities.
2.
(Anger)
Anger occurred after college, when I decided to write a fantasy novel of over 200,000 words. I couldn’t understand why Stephen King was getting published, and I wasn’t. I wasn’t even getting rejection letters in the mail. Any response that I got, was an automated email. I tried every possible strategy to get my manuscripts noticed. I tried registered letters, personal emails, but nothing worked. I began to educate myself as a writer. I read Stephen King’s On Writing. I read, The Principles of Style. I read, Charles Bukowski’s On Writing, which I highly recommend. I discovered writers that spoke to me. Writers, who were angry. Bukowski, became my literary God.
3.
(Bargaining)
This is when I really started praying. I began a blog. I began to get into esoteric philosophy, and to take the Bible literally. Would God bless me, if I didn’t sin? My friend told me about Semen Retention, and how it increases creativity. It is a spiritual practice with many benefits. Jesus said, “If a man looks at a woman with lust, he has committed adultery in his heart.” I began to shun women and eliminate sexual thoughts from my mind. This proved to be difficult, as Charles Bukowski was my guru, and I wanted to write just like him. Also, I admired Ian Fleming, along with Hemingway and Steinbeck. They all wrote about prostitutes and loose women.
4.
(Depression)
The rejection letters kept coming in. After 250 days of Semen Retention, I thought I was going to explode. My best friend suggested that my writing was a sexual outlet, and my subconscious mind was working overtime—no girls who read my blog would go out with me. However, my blog became a scandal at bible study, and I became infamous. I am now known as “The Writer.” “How do you write so much?” They ask. And I tell them. Finally, I got published, after writing half a million words, and I wasn’t even paid for it. My dream of becoming a New York Times Best Selling Author was shattered. But then, I asked a fateful question, “Why am I doing this?”
5.
(Acceptance)
I keep writing because I need to write. At the end of our lives, we will look back and define them by something. Perhaps, it’s a family, or a successful marriage. A marriage is meaningful because it’s a commitment. If we are scattered and distracted, our lives become meaningless. We have to choose to give our lives meaning. I am committed to writing. I hope to do it, on the last day of my life. Not that it will be remembered, but so that I can honestly say, “I did it.”
Now, I Write About People.
The story I am about to tell you
is only a story, but like any creative fiction, there is truth, mixed with lies.
I was a stranger to myself
So, I went to my adviser for help
“What do you want to do?” He asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What are you good at?”
“I can write.”
“What are you interested in?”
“People.”
“There you have it. Write about people.”
But when I tried, it wasn’t easy.
I thought about doing what he was doing.
I could get a cozy office in the education building
and ask students three questions
but when I visited, the second time
he jumped
splattering on the sidewalk
A suicide?
I told a professor
and when we got back
the body was missing
only a crucifix remained
I followed his advice, like gospel
wearing the sacred cross
while writing about people
and I stay away
from third floor windows
Two teachers told me, my advisor wasn’t real
I had discovered
and murdered
the stranger
inside
me.
Strange Fruit
Too often, those who save us, don’t know they do
it was my art teacher in high school
She said, “You have some good ideas—why don’t you write them down?”
I hung-out in her art class, because it felt like a safe place
I talked endlessly, and drew horrible pictures to amuse myself—all of which were original
Students would file into her classroom and see my paintings or pastels on the wall
“Who drew that?” They would ask.
I was different, and my art reflected the same
I was quiet, everywhere else, and my pictures were loud.
At the end of my Senior year, my art teacher stood-up in front of the school
and said, “Out of all of my students, Ian has the most artistic potential.”
This prophesy has been shattered, time and time, again
like broken mirrors of bad luck
but her level of belief and declaration of faith in me
has given me hope, when there was none.
The things that save us, seldom claim authority over our lives
We discover them, like a friend, that nobody knows
Those bits of ourself that are recognized
are the seeds of dreams
They are dormant, and grow with belief
so flawed
nobody will buy them
until
we sprout into a different kind of tree
and bear
strange fruit.
Naked Thoughts
If not talent,
Enthusiasm!
energy
is
the beginning and end of creation.
the governor walked down the cell-block
naked.
his feet flapped on the floor
his head was elevated
mediocre men looked down
on him.
the governor
never looked down.
a thought isn’t worth more
written down
it’s the electrical impulse
between synapses.
the governor was sentenced to 10 days in prison
because
he described people in print.
they caught him in the open
naked—
he will never wear clothes again.
Stories from the Woman at Subway
I’ve tried to stay away,
but I can’t.
I wanted a sandwich.
She was there,
like a housekeeper in a gothic horror film.
I sensed danger, right away
but I ignored my instincts and asked for,
“Italian Herb and Cheese Bread.”
“You know, my son’s gay lover tried to kill him.”
That was her opening line, I couldn’t believe my good luck.
“He’s a bodybuilder, so he’s dangerous. He’s big and black. My son says he has a big dick. Would you like salami?”
“Sure,” I said.
“He tried to run me over with his car in the parking lot. I dodged him. I bought my son a taser and pepper spray. You should hear the taser. It’s enough to scare the shit out of anyone. I was homeless, until yesterday. I got assistance from the government and now I’m making payments on that car.”
She pointed to the one in the parking lot.
It was worth at least 50,000 dollars. It was a top-of-the-line luxury electric.
“Nice car,” I said.
“What else do you want on your sandwich, Budd?”
“Tomatoes, Peppers, Onions, Ranch, and Salt and Pepper.”
“You know, I buried my mother and father last week. I put them underground in the National Cemetery. My sister committed suicide last fall.”
“That must be difficult,” I said with a sigh.
“That’ll be 10.93.”
I paid with a credit card. She kept talking to me.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll be in next week to hear the rest of your story.”
“Thanks Budd.”
My Dad Wrote a Story Once
My dad liked to talk about science fiction stories he had read.
Usually, I thought up a great idea for a story and he would say,
“That one has been done before.”
I would feel disappointed, let down, and it would be difficult to keep listening
As he sipped his Black Coffee
And told me about another one of his favorite Sci-Fi Books
My dad wrote his own story once
And told me about it
He would take these coffee breaks at work and think up ideas
The problem was the stress of the 12 hour day was affecting his mood
He was depressed and it was affecting his writing
My dad explained how he’d written himself into a corner
“Things were different then. I was using a manual typewriter.”
“Once my story stopped, there was nothing for me to do.”
As an excited child
I asked
“But couldn’t you have backed up and rewritten it?”
Dad shook his head
“No, it was far too done to do anything about it.”
“I thought I was a writer once, but writers write.”
I thought about this for a moment
realizing my dad had accepted defeat too quickly
He never tried to write again
And continued to reread his favorite science fiction stories
My dad also had opinions about the great American writers
I’d say something like
“Hey dad, I just finished reading The Old Man and the Sea.
Boy, Hemingway sure knew how to describe the shadow of greatness in an old man.”
My dad looked at me with sad eyes,
“Hemingway blew his brains out with a shotgun,” he said.
“That man didn’t know how to write to save his life.”
“Now Robert Heinlein was a great writer until he became a pervert.”
“If you want to read something good, you should read Starship Troopers.”
“I have a copy of it in the back garage.”
I’ve Liberated Another Man
I keep sending my stuff to feminist editors
not much choice
They all advertise that they want queer, questioning, feminist voices
to shout down the man.
There’s this one publication I submit to—well, submit is the wrong word
because I write whatever I want
and I can’t get published.
It’s a feminist leadership magazine and it has co-editors
a man and his wife
and he claims to be a male feminist.
What I like about him, is that he sent me a personal rejection slip
that said, “I really liked this, but it won’t fit into our magazine. Are you trying to get published here?”
The problem is, I can’t reply to emails—too many crazies (it’s a feminist magazine)
So, I am content to write another poem to continue our correspondence
My next cover letter asked if he is happily married or if his wife runs the show
“I am most happy with my wife being in charge, thank you very much—we need more feminist leaders.”
I wanted to ask him follow-up questions, but I couldn’t, so I had to write another poem. This might be crossing the line.
I understand that many men have to be taken care of by a woman, but this is such an emasculating experience
How do these men live with themselves?
My latest poem came back—
Let’s just call the male feminist Bob—a good generic name
He told me, he really wants to publish my poetry, but he can’t. His wife won’t let him.
He’s been answering my emails, secretly
and reading my poems at midnight
He’s been providing feedback (typically, full of praise)
Last week he told me that he’s having marital problems
Apparently, his wife found my poems on his computer, with our private correspondence
“It’s worse than pornography!” She shouted.
Look what I’ve done…
oh well—
I’ve liberated another man.
Aphorisms On Writing
1.
The reason why writers go insane
is that they believe they have a novel
inside them
and they can’t get it out.
It’s a psychological constipation—a spiritual illness.
2.
Everybody that I’ve talked to
has tried to write a novel
but none of them
have tried to build an atomic bomb.
3.
Most people copy other people
They do what others do
They think what others think
They feel
how they are supposed to.
4.
If you are a creative person,
you won’t fit in
and to try to,
is a sin.
Find a Quiet Place and Type
When the lightning fires from your fingertips
and the darkness of your soul
is known
When you eat abstract ideas
and digest them with strange stories
filling your body with foreign bodies
that escape your pores
like men, climbing out of manholes
When the streets are drowning in rain
and the traffic is insane
and people follow red and green lights
and street signs
but they can’t find their way
When nothing is real
because nobody believes in fantasy
Find a quiet place
and type.
The Narcissist and the Good Friend
All writers are narcissists, of one form or another
and they get that way, by spending hours by themselves, with their stories
No wonder they are poor, and have horrible social lives
they actually believe their words are more important than the people they write about
Many writers believe they are wise, and socially sophisticated
plumbing the depths of the human psyche
like a sewer
They have deluded themselves into thinking
writing is work—but that’s because they’ve never worked a real job in their entire lives
If thinking is hard, I don’t hold-out hope for the human race
they are all a bunch of buffoons, waiting to be told what to do
and occasionally
doing work, when they sit on their asses and think.
My friend listens to me, go on and on
he lives half-way around the world, and I tell him how great I am
“I just got published in Free Flash Fiction. I’m on my way…”
As I get older, I need more things to believe in, as the hopelessness sets in
and I realize, reality doesn’t matter to me very much—it’s what I think about reality, that matters
and I know this is a luxury, living for myself (what a beautiful selfish thing)
like a rose, that doesn’t need to be admired
for her glistening red petals
“I’m becoming a superman,” I tell my friend, “Just like Nietzsche. Sin isn’t an arbitrary rule, but something to avoid, so that we can become spiritually strong.”
“Uh-Hugh,” he listens.
God bless him, he even writes down what I say, like they are pearls of wisdom—you got to love a friend like that.
Sometimes, I consider quitting poetry
but that would be like quitting my morning newspaper
like stopping my morning coffee
like holding my morning bowel movement—
it just wouldn’t work.
Being unrecognized for my work
is okay.
I don’t want fans staring at me on the toilet
I don’t need neighbors stealing my paper
I won’t drink decaf or water.
Jesus! I have to write!
A Recipe for Frog Soup
I intended this blog to exist on a dark corner of the Web, like a still pond.
I thought, I’ll catch a few flies
that enjoy rotten poetry.
Lost souls find it, lost in space
and get drunk on my special blend
or they spit it out, and say, “Disgusting!”
This cold planet
is heating up
and the frog
is boiling alive
opening its eyes
wondering,
what’s happening?
I can’t help the frog, although, I do feel sorry for him.
Its yellow eyes are turning red.
All I can do
is serve the soup.
Do you want some?
The Typewriter from Outer Space
My stories weren’t selling, and in response to this failure, my computer died.
“Bad luck, I guess.”
I was always talking to myself because adversity was my best friend. It was impossible to end this relationship, or so I thought.
I said to myself, “I need a challenge.” But the truth was, I needed to overcome—overcoming is different. It’s like the gambler who plays to win, rather than the one who needs to lose. Most people lose; they don’t know how to win. Even if a loser wins, they will always give their winnings away.
So, I decided to shop for a new computer, one that would help me win. Technology is cheap; I didn’t need much, but 50 dollars doesn’t go very far. Re-PC scoffed at me. So, I tried the Good Will.
“We gave up on computers 10 years ago. Most second-hand technology has more viruses on it than a toddler with chicken pox.”
So, I left the loading dock, but he called after me, “Wait! I do have something for you, you can have it for free.”
The price was right, so I followed him into the back room. It was a typewriter, black, like outer space, with shining ivory letters.
“This has been in the closet since 1970. Let’s try it out.” He put a newsletter through the ream, and punched the keys with three fingers.
The sky is blue. Tulips are red. I love you.
“Poetic,” I said.
“I write poetry on WordPress; not very good, but it gives me something to do in the evenings.”
I scooped up his typewriter. It weighed at least 50 pounds. Walking outside, I expected it to be raining, but the sky was blue.
“Strange,” I said. I noticed some red tulips in the Good Will flower bed. “I’m just imagining things…”
“I love you,” a man said to his wife.
I started to get excited. “I’m going crazy. That’s what chronic failure has done to me.”
When I got home, I set up the typewriter. It stood on the desk like a mighty pyramid, a monument to the past. It couldn’t hurt to type something, I thought. My computer paper wasn’t being used, so I threaded a pure white sheet into the black machine.
I noticed a scratch on the side. Ian Flemming? Did this typewriter belong to the creator of James Bond? If so, it was worth a fortune, but I was even more excited to see if it would give me inspiration.
I started punching the keys like a heavyweight fighter. Pretty soon I had ten pages. I described a sandy beach, near my ocean villa, where I dove for octopi with beautiful women. A villain approached with a sniper rifle. I fired a spear gun into his chest. “He got the point.” Then I stopped, looking outside. My apartment was on a beach, and the shore looked like Jamaica. Two women were walking out of the ocean, wearing bikinis. I noticed a dead man floating in the surf, with an arrow protruding from his chest.
I stared at the typewriter. What had I written into existence? I was God—a literary God. Now it was time to play in the fantasy of my own creation.
“The potential…!” I muttered. I was a gambler who had finally won.
“Just a couple more words,” I said.
The End.
And then the typewriter broke.
“Nooooo!”
The End
A Creative Coyote
Nothing gets near
to this scavenger
it’s too hungry
eating trash
while it stares
at wild game
desiring a creative kill
green fields of sheep
ignored
barren deserts of death
calling
it howls
with its heart
for something
it hears
what’s inside
it wants
to be filled.
My Aunt’s Stories and Buried Bank Money
I was trying to make it as a writer, but sometimes the ideas just wouldn’t come.
“Why don’t you write your aunt a letter?” My mother suggested. “Or better yet, why don’t you go visit her? She likes men, you know. It’s just her sisters who visit now and when your dad shows up, she talks about things she never shares with me.”
I didn’t have anything better to do, so I decided to bicycle down the quiet streets to her assisted living apartment in the late morning.
“She likes Chinese food,” my mother suggested as I walked out the door. It was on the way, so I decided to stop. The lady who owns the restaurant is sweet and I ordered 2 chicken teriyakis.
“Thank you very much,” she said. My mother loves this lady and always says the exact same line back to her “Thank you very much,” in a thick Chinese accent.
“Somebody’s going to accuse you of being a racist,” I said.
“What?”
“Your accent is stronger than hers.”
When we leave the store, the lady always walks back into the kitchen and yells at her husband. I can’t understand Chinese, but I know who runs the restaurant.
The assisted living building is well-kept. It reminds me of a classy hotel. Orchids are arranged in the lobby and the young staff are dressed in red-fitted uniforms.
“Can I help you?” A girl asked.
“Yeah, I’m here to see my Aunt Jeanne.”
“Oh, Jeanne Scott; third floor, room 3.”
“Thanks.”
I walked out of the lobby and past the living room. There was a couple of women arguing about the rules of Bridge and a World War 2 veteran hunched over in his wheelchair, snoring loudly. A young nurse walked over to him and adjusted his oxygen mask.
In the elevator, a late 40s man dressed in a suit accompanied his wife. “Do you think she’ll be awake this time?” He asked.
“Who knows? She can fall asleep at a moment’s notice. She was awake when I talked to her on the phone.”
I turned the door handle and walked into my aunt’s room. Her smell was there. It’s been the same in both houses she’s owned. I’ve never smelled anything like it before. It’s a combination of dust and old lady perfume.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Fine,” Aunt Jeanne said. She still had a strong Idaho accent.
“You in school?”
“Yeah. I’ll probably never get out. They have me writing papers.”
“That’s fine. When my late husband and I put together the dictionary, it took a lot of time. You just stick with it and you’ll get through.”
I liked talking to her and I started to think I might get some story ideas from our conversation.
” Jorge will be in here shortly to check-up on me. We have to keep our relationship secret.”
“Oh,” I said. Sure enough, a Hispanic gentleman entered the room and adjusted her oxygen tank.
“Will that be everything Miss Scott?”
“That’ll do, until later,” she said with a wink.
“It looks like they treat you well,” I said after Jorge left.
“The food isn’t bad, but I don’t like to talk to those ladies downstairs. It took 80 years of card games and bingo to turn them into empty heads filled with cotton and Vaseline coming out of their ears. There’s not a lot of people who hold a good conversation here. How’s your family?”
“Well, my mom’s doing fine.”
“I don’t mean your mom. What about your 5 kids?”
“Aunt Jeanne, I’m only 20 years old and unmarried.”
“What?” She paused for half a second and then kept going. “Do you attend church?”
“Yeah, but only when I feel like it. Is there a place that you go?”
“Satan and Jesus stop by here once-and-awhile, but they usually don’t have much to say to me. They get along too well and I can’t get a word in edgewise.”
I laughed inside when I thought about what my pastor would think.
“You know, there is someone I do like to talk to. Frank lives next door. He robbed banks for a living in the 40s. He’s over 100 years old. He can’t talk very good after his stroke, but he was able to draw me a map of where he buried the bank money.
Jeanne pulled a folded piece of paper out of her Western novel that marked her place. She handed it to me, and I opened it. It looked like a Kindergartener had drawn a map with crayons. I wasn’t going to take a second look, but then I noticed something familiar.
It was a lighthouse I knew, 12 miles away. It showed a gnarly tree with a red X drawn near the roots.
“Don’t you need money to get yourself through college?” My Aunt asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
She handed me the map. My Aunt asked about my father’s work as a bounty hunter in Europe and then I had to go. I was riding home and I got this crazy idea. What if my aunt wasn’t 100 percent delusional?
I turned a fork in the trail and rode south towards the lighthouse. It was twilight when I got there, and nobody was in sight. I didn’t have a shovel, but I looked around and found one, leaning up against a shed. I followed the drawing out back and looked for an oak tree resembling an old man.
Its branches were bent and twisted in several places, like it had arthritis and I started digging at the roots.
Pretty soon I struck wood and I pulled a chest out of the ground. I broke the rusted lock and opened the lid. There was enough cash in there to attend University for a lifetime.
Thanks, Creative Cat Gods and an Egyptian New Year
Creativity can’t be forced
Like a cat
you must wait patiently, until it crawls into your lap.
I’ve been cleaning all day
organizing my books, I will never read
trying to find DVDs, and overdue lost CDs
the library is sending me threatening letters now
suggesting, I might lose my library card
I guess government employees need something to do
Just reassure them, don’t make waves, always have a smile on your face
like a Cheshire cat.
I give advice to myself, on the toilet, where I do most of my serious business
the brown ring, must be destroyed
in the land of Mordor.
Some days, are big idea days
and others, small.
My bathtub has a pink cat ring around it
My refrigerator, is growing carrots, from the 10-pound bag, I bought 6 months ago
My neighbor is having sex right now—he does her morning and night, while she screams—ehhhhhhh
He works in education, and drives a Honda CRV, and has a new girl smoking weed with him every night
I left my window open, and nearly hallucinated
I don’t get it—these are high-end apartments—but the riffraff is unbearable
She screams and wakes me up—He laughs like a madman
I thought he was going to throw her off the balcony
like a homicidal Romeo.
I know so many things about them, without wanting to know them
I guess my neighbors watch me, and I wonder who they think I am?
I was asking myself that, on the toilet earlier today
It’s safe to say, today is a big idea day
I just received my new novel, right out of the sky
Merry Christmas Dr. Johannsson!
Thanks, Creative Cat Gods
And an Egyptian New Year.
Close the Door
It’s such a pleasure to hide from humanity
to bliss out, and enjoy my own joy
to entertain myself,
and not need somebody else’s propaganda
pumping through my head.
If I could take their pluses and minuses
and subtract and add them in my head
I would prefer zero, nothing
to the feelings they give me
“You’re already dead.”
Well, that might be true
but what I look forward to
is writing the next line, or getting 9 hours of sleep,
or playing the perfect golf game, or reading a book of wisdom.
I don’t look forward to them.
They are unhappy, and willing to blame me
for their unhappiness.
They don’t have any power
and they are willing to blame me
for being powerless.
My power comes from my joy, getting a good night’s sleep,
and doing the things I love.
If I write 2,000 words before the workday
I feel like a god. All the accolades they might give me
fall short
compared
to those golden moments alone
with my keyboard,
watching those lines roll across my screen
and the stories form inside my head.
Garbage Men, International
Frank opened one eye, then the other. He surveyed his dim apartment, cautiously. He felt the rhythmic snoring of the beast lying next to him. 2 AM. She wouldn’t be up for at least four more hours. He sat at the edge of his bed, brushing the Cheetos off his white-beater. There was a brown beer bottle next to the green lamp he read by. He took a drink…
“Oh, god! That’s my own piss. I must’ve got plowed last night, and was too lazy to use the bathroom.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, go back to sleep.”
“No, no, you got me up.”
“I just drank my own piss.”
“Serves you right. It’s god punishing you for using his name in vain.”
“We don’t believe in god.”
“I’m starting to think you should. Somebody has to hold you in check—it certainly isn’t me. Now, go make me some waffles, and put the coffee on.”
Frank needed the morning, to make sense of his day. His therapist was lying in the corner, asleep. He lived with two women, and they always fought for his attention. She had sexy silver buttons that he pushed. He could smell her black ink, when he turned her on with his charm. She always made him feel good, and without her, he was nothing. The Imperial typewriter was a way to deal with his boss, his girlfriend, traffic, his job, and now he loved the stories coming out of her, but there wasn’t time to write—he had awakened the monster.
“Frank, you left your socks on the floor, and your underwear. This is why I can’t have my friends over, and where are my waffles?”
“Liz, I’m leaving you 10 dollars for the waffle house. Pete’s here! I got to go.” Frank left the third floor, tripping on a skateboard on the way down. “Damn teenagers!”
Pete was in a Red Ford Ranger, beat to hell. He was smoking a long cigarette, and drinking a cup of coffee. Dunkin Doughnuts. “You woke her up, didn’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“I can always tell. It’s going to be a long day. The union is threatening to strike.”
“I can’t have that happen. I need this job to get away from Liz.”
“Why don’t you try to write your novel.”
“Any time I’m not at the job, is Liz’s time.”
“Make an excuse and go to the library. What do you have in your pocket?”
Frank showed him, Octopussy.
“James Bond, huh. Brother, we are as far away from that, as a man can get.”
“I don’t know. We take care of human waste.”
“Exactly! Jeffers switched us to Zone 7.” Pete looked like he had poop under his nose.
Zone 7 was the worst circle of hell, reserved for employees who talked back to the boss.
“What did you say?” Frank asked.
“I told him that he wasn’t measuring up. That’s why he couldn’t get a woman, and that’s why nobody liked him.”
“Why did you say that?”
“He took the vending machines out of the breakroom.”
“You know that you can’t insult his height. All the world’s problems were created by little men. Hitler. Napoleon. And Alexander the Great. They overcompensated by making guys like us do shit jobs like Zone 7.”
Thankfully, I seldom feel this way…
It isn’t worth it
just to have something to write down
I don’t go out of my way
to experience painful people
They always find me
and their energy drain
is real
like a bathtub
of draino
their acidic talk, eats away at me.
I didn’t realize they had taken something from me
until it was too late
like a woman
raped at night
by an incubus.
I went to my parent’s house
to walk it off
and talk
but no matter what I said, I couldn’t feel better
and the sun was shining, while I spoke to my mother
“I don’t know if I’m ever going to amount to anything as a writer,” I said.
“Oh—look, aren’t the flowers beautiful?”
“Mom—are you even listening to me? You interrupted me, mid-sentence.”
“I didn’t hear what you said—you’re walking in front of me.”
“Well—why am I even talking to you then? I might as well be talking to myself.”
“I know…” She laughed.
I laughed.
We were in two different places
at the same time.
When we went inside, my dad was making me a steak. “Do you want a whole one?” He asked me.
“Sure,” I said, but when I told him so, I wasn’t connected to my stomach
I was feeling sick
and tired.
“You know what… I think I’m just going to go home and lie down.”
“You’ve had a difficult week,” my mom said.
I got into my truck and thought about drinking…
I know why people do it.
Thankfully, I seldom feel this way.
“I’m going to write a screenplay!” “Yeah, right! Buddy.”
There is always somebody, announcing
they are going to write a screenplay,
and I don’t say anything.
Who am I
to smash their dreams
but I know
they will never do it
because they don’t embody it
they love the idea, of writing a screenplay
but sitting down
and suffering at the keyboard
is not their idea of a good time.
What they want to do
is be
at a party
talking about their genius
while sipping champaign.
“Another theater picked up my play—it’s the divine comedy! God helped me to write it, but it came straight from mysoul.”
I can see the sycophants gathering, like leeches on a dead corpse. Some people want their blood sucked. Some people want to be worshiped like a god. Don’t they know the natives aren’t friendly? They eat their god and find another one next week.
I prefer to worship in solitude—typing
at my keyboard. The laughter of my own words is enough for me.
I am a writer in training, which means
I do everything
not to talk about it.
I save my emotional reactions for the blank page.
Writing is an artform,
and those who talk about it at parties are practicing their art.
The more repressed a writer is, the better he will write.
Writing comes from a need to say what can’t be said in public.
That’s why I am a quiet person.
Can’t Be Caught
the best part of myself comes alive when I write
imagination can’t be caught
dog catchers try
and I run with my tongue hanging out,
dodging fat men who eat donuts.
I don’t wish for green fields
I love the city
with its traps.
I’ve got to break-out of this whitewashed room
smash the drywall
with a sledgehammer.
I’ve got to take risks
shifting into 4th, 5th
with the whole soviet army behind me
and the machine guns
wasting brass
on my ass.
Finally,
the power is there.
Just me, in my Ferrari
Going 200 miles per hour
like a blank page filling with words
like a notebook
containing my best ideas.
If I can live-up to half of my imagined life
I will be doing better than James Bond
and trust me,
it’s not the life lived, that matters
but the imagined one.
It’s not the women that you know
but the women that you don’t know.
I drive into suburbia
getting confused in cul-de-sacs
getting turned around in round-abouts
and escaping
onto the highway
out of town
where the sun dances
and jumps
over the horizon,
laughing.
Mirror Therapy and the Golden Lake Goldfish
The goldfish were swimming in circles, competing for fish food.
A tired writer, not so tired of physical body, but of spirit, was trying to eek-out a paragraph to feel good about himself on a drizzly day. Classical music played in the background like soundwaves of genius, washing up on a desolate island, where two stranded men were trying to survive.
The toilet flushed in their studio apartment, and Alan exited their bathroom, like a man who spent all afternoon there, conducting business.
Alex looked at his feeder fish.
They had grown to three-times their expected size, with lifespans that tested the limits of mortality suggested by the pet food store. He stared at them through the glass, and they stared back at him.
“Not much of a social life,” his father said.
Alex nodded. “They need to get out more, but they’re trapped behind the glass.” He looked-out the window at the street, where people were walking in and out of shops.
“You could flush them down the toilet. That’s where they belong, and they’d probably feel better, swimming down the pipes,” Alan suggested.
“That would kill them.”
“And… you need to get out more. I wasn’t talking about the goldfish. You need a girl, son.”
“What I need is success. Without success, a man with a woman, has a problem he can’t solve.”
“Then, get a better job.”
“With a job and a woman, a man can’t write. No, I need succeed first.”
Alan limped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
“Would you like some peckeroni?” He asked.
“Just eggs, over easy—that’s brain food.” Alex could hear the skillet sizzling. If he listened close enough, he could hear birds chirping. He was trying to catch the next idea from his subconscious mind, but it wasn’t echoing out of the caverns of his creativity.
Beaker jumped across his two-foot-thick dictionary, and spread-out on the table. It purrrred. It got close to the writer, who looked up everything, the old-fashioned way. The big ball of hair, reached one of its paws into the fish bowl, frantically. Its claws were like fish hooks.
“Beaker, knock that off!” Alex said.
The cat nearly pushed the bowl onto the floor out of pure spite. Then it sauntered off to its cathouse.
“My therapy appointment is in 30 minutes,” Alex said.
“How many times do I have to tell you? You can tell your problems to me, and I’ll charge you half as much.”
“Telling my problems to family, just isn’t the same as being able to unload to a complete stranger.”
“I don’t understand you, Alex.”
The writer watched his dad reading the National Inquirer. The subject of his father’s interest was near-death experiences. The old man was getting older, Alex thought. Personal interest follows age, like a loyal dog. It accrues like a bad debt.
Alex walked down the broken stairs to the door. It was like that dream where you step-out into nothing. Space grips you, until you hit the floor and wake-up. Alex opened the door. The rain was like a waterfall. He grabbed an umbrella. It was only two blocks to see his psychoanalyst in New York City. The wind was blowing. It was threatening to turn the umbrella inside out.
Alex walked down the street.
There was the door, 209. The writer had read about this guy on the back of the National Inquirer. The first session was free, and Alex’s curiosity had gotten the better of him, like Beaker who pushed antique vases off the piano to see what would happen when they hit the floor.
Inside, it was a dark hallway, leading to a black door, at the far end of a corridor. It was odd, because there were no doors to the left or to the right—just the one. Alex was about to knock, when a voice said, “Come in.”
He entered.
The waiting room was full of clocks. It was important to witness the lost minutes before the mind was worked on, he guessed.
A little man with a big nose was standing in the middle of the room.
“You are the writer who called, am I right?”
“Yes, you’re right. And that’s the problem. I can’t write.”
“Oh—the words that we say to ourselves are very important. Now, step inside my office. I have a new kind of therapy.”
“That sounds dangerous,” Alex said.
“Oh—something new is dangerous to you, is it?”
“No—that’s not what I meant.”
“Perhaps, a Freudian slip?”
“No.”
“Okay. It’s called mirror therapy.”
Alex and the psychoanalyst (who looked a bit like a dwarf, and not the genetic abnormality, but the fantasy variety) stood at the foot of an enormous mirror that stretch to the ceiling and filled up the entire wall. It was impossible to know how the therapist got the thing inside the building. It was old. No, ancient, Alex thought. It could’ve belonged to a different epoch, or world.
“Where did you get that?”
“It’s not important,” the dwarf said. “What is important is what you see when you look inside it.”
“I see myself, and I see you.”
“Look closer.”
The scene began to change like the sea. It was like those pictures that are hidden inside a picture.
Suddenly, Alex saw a big blue lake. There was a rowboat moving across it, briskly.
“You have always wanted wealth and fame,” the therapist suggested.
“I don’t think so,” Alex said. “I just want to write a great work of literature.”
“Hold out your hand.”
The therapist put a gold coin there, and Alex could see his fingers closing around the precious metal.
“When you get back from your journey, you will never be the same again.”
Alex felt a tremendous push. Then, the sky opened up, and like Icarus, he fell.
He splashed deep down and opened his eyes.
There was seaweed all around and colorful fish laughing. Then, out of the dark water swam a big goldfish. It wasn’t orange, like the feeder fish Alex owned, but gold. Somehow, he knew that it was treasure to be found.
A tiny hand grabbed him by his thick collar and dragged him into the boat. The arm was strong and small, like a chimpanzee’s, with all that compact muscle.
Alex looked across the rowboat at his therapist, but he was no longer wearing a 3-piece suit. He looked like a dwarf, with leather pants and a red turtleneck.
“How did we get here?” Alex demanded.
“Through the mirror.”
“Well… I want to go.”
“No sense in that. You are always trying to find someplace magical in your head. I just helped you to do it, and all you want to do is go back home. Now, look in your hand.”
Alex looked at his white knuckles. He pried them open and saw the gold coin.
“Now, I promise you, that if you use that as bait, you will catch the golden lake goldfish.”
At that moment, the sun was beginning to set and the lake turned to gold.
“Cast away, before it’s too late. Magic can’t last the day. The darkness steals it.”
Alex’s therapist handed him a fishing pole, where he promptly tied the gold coin to the end of the line. It plopped into the water like an enormous insect, and in only a matter of seconds, it was swallowed by a big goldfish that swam willingly to the side of their boat.
“Now, grab your hands inside his throat and pull.”
Alex obeyed, with half a hope and twice the fear that his hand would get bitten off, like a bad breakfast pulled out of a sick child who has eaten too much candy. The gold coins sparkled in the light like magic.
“You have to catch them with their own vomit,” the dwarf said. “It takes money to make money.”
And in that moment, he pulled a tiny mirror from behind his back and activated it like an iPad.
“Hold onto the fish.” And like before, Alex felt himself being pulled into the mirror.
Back in the office, he was soaked. The water was raining onto the floor and the fish was gasping for air.
“Let me get you a clear plastic bag full of water to keep him in.” The therapist walked to his sink and pulled an enormous bag from the drawer and filled it with water.
“Now, until next time. My fee is 100 dollars an hour. Don’t try to pay me in gold coins. And don’t get greedy with your fish. It takes him time to cough up the money, so to speak.”
Alex thanked his therapist profusely and walked down the busy street to his apartment. The rain had tapered off, but he was as wet as a cat that had nearly down.
Up the steps he went, until he got into his tiny apartment. He went for the biggest bowl—the one used for spaghetti. He filled it full of lake water and plopped the fish into a sunlit spot near the window.
Now, the tiny feeder fish were watching the big gold fish, and Beaker the cat, was thinking murderous thoughts from across the room.
“How did your session go?” Alan asked.
“I caught something.”
“What? Did you catch a diagnosis? What kind of therapist are you going to? It isn’t a woman, is it?”
“Oh no—nothing like that. I caught a fish.”
“A what? You didn’t go to the pet shop, did you?”
Alan walked into their living room and saw the goldfish, sparkling in the sun.
“We don’t have to worry about the rent, anymore,” Alex said. “The conditions are finally right, for me to make a living as a writer.”
The End
My Fantastic Car
If people could look under the hood of my car
they would be shocked to find what makes it go
without an engine
or oil
it’s traveled far
taken by a magical momentum
There are no mechanisms
or directions
and still it moves
to far away beaches
where the wind grass blows
its rusty
body
is even rustier
manufactured
in a different time
stripped
of all things obvious
no repairs
or replaced parts
fantasy fuels it
driving
to destinations
many
will never know.
Aphorisms After Obtaining a Magic Carpet
1.
I am afraid of drinking a spider
in my morning coffee.
I found one there, this morning
looking up at me
with all eight eyes—crusty
tired and trapped and horrified.
God, why did you create something so ugly?
Maybe, it’s a warning,
like the ugly young man, wearing torn clothes
walking down the street—
and the women parting
like the Red Sea, not because he might be Moses
but because
he might want to
part
their Red Sea,
without permission.
2.
I sent a story to my favorite feminist magazine
and the editor hates me there
his staff know me by name
Periodically, he writes me, to taunt me
“Your stories aren’t any good. They’re all ill-planned-out. We don’t publish crap.”
and I correspond with him,
thanking him for reading another one of my stories.
It’s nice to know
my words have an effect.
3.
Threw my back out, yesterday, playing golf,
which prompted me to buy a memory foam mattress.
Now, I am sleeping better than ever
waking up, fully rested, to do my writing.
I feel like Aladdin, flying on his magic carpet, asking the Genie of the lamp for inspiration
“I wish to be a New York Times Best Selling Author.”
“Your wish is my command. What else do you want?”
I fly over the parapets of Arabia, taking in the view
I am the King of the desert.
“Conquering sleep is enough for me, thank you.”
Why would I want to sleep with a bomb in my bed?
it’s unnerving
to be judged
for what I write.
Don’t people understand
I don’t know where my words come from
and to expect perfect prose
or kindness
all the time
is to deny my experience
of rude employees at the DMV
who don’t smile at me
who speak harshly
who ensure I take the worst photograph of my life.
life isn’t perfect, so why would my writing be that way?
all I am is a guy
trying to record his experience
trying to make sense of lost time
trying to get the word down in an entertaining way
trying
and failing, most of the time
I don’t want to fight
I just want to write
When someone is angry with me
I think about how I might use that in a story
I can spot a young teacher with old-age spots,
staying in the same spot, her whole life.
She is angry with me
and I don’t know why.
I don’t even want to know why
all I want to do is get back to my writing.
I can sense her stress
as her reactor, boils over
and goes nuclear.
I’m taking iodine tablets in the dark
in a bunker, 100 miles away.
The best way to survive an atomic blast
is not to be there
Why would I want to sleep with a bomb in my bed?
I check my blood pressure.
It’s normal.
Maybe, a bit low.
Hypertension causes strokes.
All I want to do
is smell the flowers in the springtime.
The Best Story Ian Fleming Ever Wrote
it got to 116 degrees
during the Seattle Summer
the green Maple leaves
turned brown on the trees, and curled into cinnamon
I had three months off
nothing to do but jack-off and read Shakespeare
I wrote one bad short story after another
I visited my library and charmed the librarians
“He’s such a nice boy,” they said. They were in their 70s. I liked them. I don’t know why. Maybe, they reminded me of my mother.
My friend had a girlfriend who had a personality disorder with daddy issues.
I had nothing, thank God.
I read Steinbeck in the cool mornings, listening to the street sounds by the stoplight that malfunctioned.
“Fuck you!” HONK. More honking. Yelling. “Fuck you!”
I enjoyed the noise, although
it interfered with my piano playing.
I can still smell the fresh air, blowing through my 3-story window.
I read Octopussy. It’s the last James Bond short story that Ian Fleming ever wrote
before he died of a coronary thrombosis.
Smithe smokes 70 cigarettes a day and tries to drink himself to death.
James Bond shows up
and confronts him with murder. Smithe goes for one more dive near the reef
where the octopus sucks him under, and
a lionfish rakes its poisonous barbs across his belly.
Smithe convulses on the beach, dies.
This is the best story Ian Fleming ever wrote.
My friend, the Jerk-off Poet
He actually believed that his writing would set him free
from his job, responsibilities, religion, and social conventions
but all it did was give him excuses that he wrote down
so that he could behave badly and do whatever came into his head.
I liked to talk to him
but
my other friends weren’t inviting him around, anymore.
As his best friend, he told me his struggles,
“I don’t know if I want to keep working my job,” he said. “I don’t want to get a harder job. My parents keep asking me, if I’ve taken out any girls, and when I tell them how horrible girls are these days, my dad tells me, boys are just as bad—and my mother feels better when he says this, but they’re both in their mid-70s—they don’t have a clue, and my dad doesn’t have any sympathy for me—he never does. He blames me for my life not working out—like I have any control over that. I apply for jobs and get rejected. I get published, but my dad says, ‘that’s not a real publication—did they pay you for it?’ ‘No.’ ‘Well, see—it’s not real, unless they pay you for it. What they’re saying is, your writing isn’t worth anything. Now, as an engineer, I made twice what you’re making, at 30. I climbed the launch towers and built rockets. I did what I wanted to do with my life.’ My mother tells me it hurts her feelings, when I tell her the way women are. It’s like my parents want me to ignore reality, and start having success—as if, by some miracle, everything will change, if my attitude changes. ‘Learn to like your job,’ my dad told me. ‘When I was about your age, I was feeling the way you are, and I prayed that I would love my job. The next day, I did. The union man was trying to fire me. He busted me down to the machine shop because I wouldn’t protest for better wages. I just prayed more, and God saw me through until retirement.'”
We were in the Mexican restaurant, and I spoke a little Spanish to our waitress. She looked tired.
“Do you speak Spanish?” She asked me.
“No,” I said. She laughed.
I could tell my friend was getting fatter. Eating was the only thing that made him happy. When a man endures too much failure, he turns to his addictions to deal with his helplessness. He has to hide his addictions, so his parents won’t find out. Pretty soon, he can’t control himself, and when the people he knows find out, they say wisely, ‘Never eat too much, son—or you will turn-out like that, obese.’ But they never realize, there was a reason for him to start eating in the first place. It’s like the man who beats his wife. Society says, there’s no reason to hit a woman, and they may be right about that, just like there’s no reason to hurt a child, but it happens. A woman says something, and then she says something else, and something else, and he hits her. Maybe, he feels lousy about himself—who knows. People want to be famous, until they are—and then they want privacy, but they can’t get it without social failure. To have money, and then to lose it, hurts more, than being chronically poor.
I was getting depressed, listening to my friend. I wanted him to change the subject.
“How’s your writing going?” I asked.
“I’ll get published one day,” he said. “You know, Sherwood Anderson was a salesman. He wrote Winesburg, Ohio in separate installments. The inner workings of his life were put between the pages. He was sexually frustrated. Today, you could see a psychiatrist. Back in the day, you went insane. Now, they have a pill for everything. Anderson couldn’t support himself with writing, so he went back to advertising. If you have to write to live, it’ll kill your writing. No, a person needs to live, and then write about it in their spare time. It’s funny that people try to get famous, and when they do get famous, nobody acts normal around them. All they can write about are cocktail parties and high-society functions where people celebrate them—the great writer.”
“Okay—so you have an excuse, not to succeed,” I said.
“That’s right. It helps me to feel better about myself. I don’t want anything to hurt my writing, including my success.”
“Have you asked out any girls?”
My friend looked at me, as if he thought, I thought, he was afraid to ask out a woman.
“The last five women I asked out, told me ‘No,'” he said.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I went home and jerked-off. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Whenever I get rejected, I jerk-off. I have a sore down there because I’ve been putting myself out there.”
“I see,” I said. “Why do you have to jerk-off?”
“It’s important to associate something bad with something good. In that way, you will keep doing the thing that hurts. You might even come to enjoy the pain.”
“Aren’t you worried that you might hope for rejection, so that you can enjoy the pleasure afterward?”
“You know, I haven’t thought about that. Maybe, I’ve been failing so much, so that I have an excuse to jerk-off?”
“It could be,” I said. “It doesn’t do anything for you.”
“But it makes me feel good.”
“No arguing with that. Do you want desert?” I asked.
“No,” my friend said. “I’ve got the check. Your dime-store psychology works, or maybe it’s just that you listen to me, without judging me.”
“Are you going to change?”
“I hope so.”
The End
I’ve Been Thinking About Deleting My Blog
My mother is worried that I am committing career suicide
if a future employer reads my blog
“That’s okay with me,” I said. “One gets a certain thrill out of playing Russian Roulette— kinda like gambling, with something to lose.”
“But they’ll think you’re mentally imbalanced,” she said. “You don’t believe all those things you write, do you?” She asked, pleadingly.
“Of course, I do! It’s coming straight from my soul!”
“Then you need to get your heart right with Jesus,” she said.
“I pray, every day, and God talks to me—where do you think my ideas come from?”
“They are coming from somewhere else. You don’t seem happy.”
“Well… we’re basically chemicals—any bad feelings are due to an imbalance.”
“God will give you balance,” my mother said.
“I need my highs and lows.”
“God will make you happy all of the time.”
“I don’t want that. What did you think of my latest poem?”
“I think it is the worst one you have ever written!” She said. “You are so judgmental.”
I smiled.
Maybe, I am a horrible human being, I thought.
I went to the library, on a sunny Saturday. A big part of me wants to blow up.
I checked-out a book on esoteric mysticism. The writer is a guy who electrocuted himself, and took various chemicals so that he might gain higher consciousness.
An Indian girl without any feathers checked me out, while I was checking-out my book.
It’s strange how the universe aligns—they call it synchronicity.
I flipped on the radio, and the guy said, “the number one anti-aging potion is green tea, and you should also drink cranberry juice—it’s full of anti-oxidants.”
Perhaps, my mother is right—this writing is getting really bad, but I feel liberated in a certain way.
If I ignore the critics, and keep going
nothing can stop me.
And this is a great lesson that all of you should learn:
Ultimately, the only person who can stop you, is yourself. All the rest is noise.
I went for a walk with my mother in the woods. She’s 75, now, and I haven’t given her a heart-attack yet—although, sometimes, I make her sad.
“I have this idea about a guy who is afraid of moving-on with his life. He goes to a doctor, who recommends him to a psychiatrist. Doctor Fear prescribes several mental health exercises, and when he doesn’t follow through, strange things happen to him. His phones are bugged, and his psychiatrist threatens him with murder. He has a cane with a sword in it, and…”
“That sounds awful,” my mother said. “I hope that you don’t write it! Where are you getting your ideas from? You need to spend more time in church.”
“But mom, I’m already going twice a week. I’m getting more inspiration now, than ever before.”
“How will you ever get married?” She asked.
“Well… I’ve been thinking about deleting my blog,” I said seriously.
“Really?” She asked, hopefully.
“No,” I smiled.
The Perfect Roommate
I had been a bachelor for several years
and the thought of living with a woman was beyond me.
I took pleasure in my lack of domestication, knowing
it could never be that way
while living with a woman.
There were beer bottles on the counter
a plate of cheese
in the fridge
and fresh peaches
molding on the cutting board
where I got my vitamin c.
I had tried to find a suitable wife
more than once
but there were no women I wanted to try-on
(This sounds like I’m a serial killer, but I’m not—so you can breathe easy.)
Saying these things in public, however, is probably why I’m still single.
Anyway,
the roommates I considered
were all out.
I could tell they were meticulous and had spiritual problems
a clean apartment, is a sure sign, a male has their priorities backwards.
Now, if it’s a female with a messy house, she likely has mental problems
but it’s a natural state for a man.
I do my best writing, when I don’t give any thought to cleaning
and the more trash that piles up, the more brilliant I am.
There were a few women that wanted to be roommates with me—
and they kept coming over, and telling me I was handsome,
but I didn’t fall for their trap
and then they called me gay.
Anyway, I needed a roommate, and I couldn’t find one
So, I moved next to the zoo, where it was cheap.
Nobody wanted to live there because the pea-cocks screamed
for, you know…
at 3:30 in the morning.
I wore earplugs, and got the flat, next to the monkey habitat.
I became friends with the zookeeper (although, I think they’re called something else)
He picked-up shit for a living
it’s a secure job because nobody else wants to do it.
“I’ve got this neurotic monkey. He cleans all the time, and he’s getting picked on by the other monkeys. His primary job is cleaning fleas off their butts. It’s humiliating to watch because he reminds me of me. Will you be his friend? —take him for walks? —I hear you could use a roommate? He’s smart for a monkey. He’ll clean your place, spick and span.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give him a try.”
There was no threat from a monkey. I could always put him back, behind bars, if the relationship didn’t work out. I thought about the various ways I had beaten the system, up until the present moment. Now I had a monkey.
It’s the good life that most men never discover.
I play golf 5 days a week
and watch documentaries on how to write the great American novel.
Most men get good at one thing,
and then they get married.
Marriage provides meaning, that the one thing, could never provide,
but several things increase the love, and that meaning, can transcend marriage.
Society will never tell men that.
The monkey and I got acquainted.
I reward him with cigars, and we drink scotch, late into the evenings.
I haven’t made a determination on the spiritual sickness of my monkey, just yet
but he knows his place, and I know mine.
So, he’s the perfect roommate.
Poetry King 