Doors Will Open, When You Write

“I need to write!” I yelled.

but the writing gods did not respond

I played the piano, trying to think of a good story

but none came to me.

Knowing where to dig, is not enough

excitement, is an ingredient, in your creative soup

You have to get excited, about discovering, what’s hidden

Writing can’t be your life

because your life must be wrong, and so right

to write

Curiosity and Creativity are lovers

Set them up on a date, stoke their passions

with perfume

and candle light

and you still might not get, the chemistry just right, to write

If you write to make a statement beyond black ink

you aren’t ready

Writing is a mythical creature, found in the dark forest

It’s the only magic I know

People have told me, it’s not practical

or I’m doing my real life harm, when I live in my imagination

but they don’t know what writing is

Anything worth doing, requires fairy dust

Otherwise, we become mechanical

and with enough reason, we realize

a city, is a city

and not a place with magical lights

a golf course is a field, with flags and holes

and nothing can be accomplished there, but drunkenness

So, where do we get our fairy dust from?

Friends–the ones who can’t be bought, and tell us

who we really are

Magic, has to be found

like love, for the first time

or a talent, you never knew you had

life isn’t logical or linear

it’s a dark field at night, where fireflies get tossed in the wind, and congregate

To have a life, worth living, requires entrance, into another world

where doors, sometimes, lock you out

because, they don’t yield by command

People who talk about responsibilities and stress

like a badge of status, don’t believe in anything else

It’s easy to neglect other kinds of power

when you think you have it

Writing, is not the sound of a typewriter

or the red, underlined words, of a word processor

Writing, is the world you find, for yourself

and with a choice, you can choose, not to come back

and that’s okay

because most of us, walk away, from doors

and if we walk on through, sometimes, we get locked out

We wonder…is it worth it? Is it time, to join adult life?

but I don’t think so

Magic, can only be known, in this state of mind

It is not the mind of the masses.

It is true power.

Doors will open,

when you write.

The Monsters Inside Me

the spirits within, are an unnatural sin

they grow, like weeds, in my flowerbed mind

We can’t help what we admire—a certain kind of cool

Rebels,

without any rules

to be the real deal, and not to pretend

Possession

that speaks

while they listen

their negative reactions, are their submission

to my will

because they need a master

the monsters that kill

and keep me alive

like wolves that must to be fed

I feed them all, generously

so, they don’t eat me up, from the inside

to argue, and to defend

is to disbelieve my gamble

I am dangerous, when I practice danger

My motivations, are like a cocktail of fear

the worst sin, is to question them, afraid of the hangover

pure

or impure—

prolific is my law

passion, is a drug, that dries up

“What is the artist saying?”

“It’s not a statement, but a bed of flowers.”

“When do you know you are finished with a poem?”

“When do you know, you are finished making love?”

Without love, you have to live, like other lives

always questioning, what you do

greatness is born on its hands and feet

and walks, because it needs to

then it runs

and never stops running

the only law, is power

vulnerable and raw, like a pound of pounded flesh

How can you question your soul, when it soars into the heavens?

It might be black, but it belongs to you

let it sleep in the wind

Your wings, want you to fly

without them, you are a terrible lizard.

Worn Tiger

How wretched I am

How much more, do I love the worn tiger

with his patchy coat, and Siberian Scars

I don’t have self-sympathy

it makes me

prey

and less, of a self-righteous predator

Majesty—

is shining off my coat

while I look into the mirror,

unable to prove my worth

my claws, rubbed across rocks

a toothless wild cat

smiling

without fangs

failure, must be known and honed

because my heart pumps for life

even, and most especially, when confronted with death

nature, doesn’t have any sympathy

and the worn tiger, doesn’t want any

he plods along

consumed, by his own consumption

amber eyes

to be fossilized, black flies

the warm abundant life, never known, in the mountains of Siberia

exile, in loneliness

in the greatness that can only be felt like a sin

scoffers and mockers can be heard on the wind

the worn tiger, doesn’t mind

their games, don’t interest him

it is the brutal wish for reality

that forces him above the snowline

Even if, he would obey,

curling-up, outside common houses, without character

he would only be a house cat

a harmless king, without power

walked around the neighborhood, on a leash.

Better to be unfriendly,

unforgiving,

unable to live, if not, in the right way

to die by his own law,

the law of his fathers

Sunsets, of pink fire

before, his last roar

the wolves howling, in the lowlands

while nature prepares

her final course

Worn, but still a tiger

remembered, and forgotten

by men.

Falling In and Out of Love

Love doesn’t want us

and then, we don’t want love

there is no spark, to burn down the forest

We try one love, and then another

it’s a lighter, that doesn’t light

we have to keep trying, into the black night

the cold bitter frost

that steals our warmth

while we try, and try, and try

it’s an awkward kiss

How can a man with an alcoholic brain, write?

How can the king of coke, do the deed, like he stole it?

Why do the beggars, in the street, have to beg for more?

I get worse, at being worse, because I practice it

like mammon, selecting prostitutes

I think “pretty good,” is the phrase

bitterness, like coffee, in bed

my mind, is dead

this non-creative brain, is a waking nightmare

take passion, like a prescription

give me hope

not random words or stale sentences

I want to go nuclear

rather than whimpering like a baby

without nourishment

drowning in a mud puddle

listening to the sound, that grates my brain, like cheddar cheese

I climb hills, even if they aren’t mountains

I keep going

what choice do I have?

I take comfort in discomfort

accepting the unacceptable

because love endures, despite no love at all

it’s a fat wife, who nags

a father, who beats his children

I’ve never known perfect love

It leaves,

like a mother who forgets her son at school

What is life teaching us?

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.

Don’t let female psychologists inside your head!

Don wore leather jackets, and drove Mustangs

there were five hairs growing out of his bald head

When I got hired, he was the only male psychologist

then he retired.

I phoned Lorraine… “Central Services…”

“Hi Lorraine—I need protocols.”

“You are just like Don,” she said.

My first year, I was ambitious

My second year, I wanted to rule the roost

My third year, I was hen-pecked

My fourth year…

“You are just like Don,” the lead psychologist said.

Female psychologists can get inside your head

I got the feeling, I was male

and not much else

the lead psychologist was always helping me

while gathering information

to use against me

“Andy has a question…”

“You don’t know that?”

A man might say, “Not okay.”

But in the world of women, everything is indirect

When I was applying for an administrative job

the PhD psychologist said, “Oh—you should apply for the data analyst position—you would be perfect for that!”

I looked it up

15 dollars an hour—clerical

a slap in my face

Don talked about boats, all day

Now I know why

he was trying to stay afloat

after he pulled-out

his hair.

My Philosophy for Surviving a Government Job

You must know your business, to have a business

a job, is something else, entirely

Someone told me…

“You must do your job well, otherwise, you can’t be a believer.”   

I am willing to endure the flames now

there are no arbiters of truth

I answer, only, to God.

I am not an employee

my time belongs to me

After years of developing a philosophy

my Zen-mind-trick has me doing what I want to do

HR calls me, “Where are you?”

“Spending my time.”

Employees don’t know how to enjoy themselves

time-off, is a break from the job

Genius, might be the willingness to break the law

Nobody can give me power, but me

I don’t ask for it

I don’t acknowledge it

I have it

If you can’t become your own master, become an employee

“We all know about you,” HR said at my job interview

they thought they had evidence, against me

“You have been called-in for a disciplinary hearing.”

“And a job interview?” I asked.

“Sure—your attitude is all wrong.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t you care?”

“Of course.”

But the fear wasn’t there, and that’s what they wanted to see

You can drive people crazy, by not going crazy

And I got the job, with a checkmark on my record

I wear it with pride, now

like a general going to work

Most employees are tortured by what they are told

tell yourself something different—

a philosophy

and you can become better

than free.

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,” she sang

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

My hat goes off to him

it takes balls

then, she will never forget

she never knew me.

Love is Worth His Life

He holds his power inside

he wants to build it

enjoying, the many expressions of it

He does not trade his energy

in pursuit of wealth

an expression of his genius

not a static state

a priority, the way it used to be

for many men, who became masters.

He does not look to others

the way God looks at the world

He only paints

there is something perfect, in perfection

despairing, in the corporate drone

by not needing it, he will get it

the gates of heaven will open up

the lazy one will prosper, because he didn’t try

he only did what he loved,

not by quotas, or schedules

but by love

it’s impossible to keep a man from it

until he stops loving it

It must die, in him

and if it won’t die

it grows contagious

like a virus, everybody wants to get

born inside

seldom given

and less often, received

When he finds it

He won’t trade it

Love is worth his life.

Chapter 2 Gregson Infiltrates a Sex-Cult

Gregson felt hammering on his forehead, and an inability to think. His symptoms might’ve been demons knocking, but it was the Hot Tamales he ate last night. In the Middle Ages, he would’ve consulted a priest. His reaction was so bad, he wanted to die. Now, Gregson knew he had to eat healthy, which put his fat in jeopardy. Losing weight, made him fear, he might lose the best part of himself. His doctor would be happy though—and his mother too—he might out-live them both. That’s why Gregson had to test his life, like a thousand-pound test, to catch the criminals in the dark water.

He dressed for travel—putting-on his trench coat and galoshes, reaching for his wide-brimmed hat. Gregson glanced at his apartment. It was clean. Over the holidays, he had organized, while watching murder mysteries on TV. It was cozy now, with books arranged on his shelves. A personal library is different than a public one. A city library isn’t read—only checked-out. A private library holds sacred knowledge. A guest can look at the shelves and tell who lives there. That’s why, great thoughts are hidden, like secret light, locked away, in a forbidden study.

It was raining.

Gregson didn’t really want to talk to the President. Presidents are always acting presidential, like school principals… After talking to them, it feels like getting raped by a used car salesman, who tries to sell you on how good they are, but for some reason, you are sore, afterwards.

Gregson got onto a plane to D.C. The stewardess gave him 3 whiskeys because he begged. He was not going to visit the president, sober. The thought that an 80-year-old man could end the world with a push of a button…

Gregson got to the White House and sat in the red waiting room.

“He’s in the hot tub with two girls from Vegas,” a woman said.

“Are you the President’s secretary?” Gregson asked.

“I’m the president’s secretary’s secretary.” She looked plain, like a copy of a copy of a copy, in her black pants, and ironed top.

“Well, I need authorization.”

“Who made the request?” She asked.

“Murphy. I don’t know his rank or title.”

“Oh—we’ve been expecting you. Make your mark, and I’ll stamp it.”

Gregson did. With all the initials on the page, he wondered what else was going on in the world.

“That should do it,” she said.

Gregson felt like a checkmark. It’s the feeling one gets from working in a bureaucracy. At any moment, you can be erased.

Gregson collected his package, and promptly left for the airport. It didn’t make any sense, for everybody in the world to know where the president lived. Each president must have a body double who pretends to be the president. He’s the guy soaking in the hot tub with the prostitutes, and playing golf on the best courses. The real president gets into wars, gets his teeth cleaned (on a good day), and screws-up the economy. All the kids in elementary school want to be that guy. Gregson never understood it. Sure—your assassination risk is higher, if you’re the body double, but each day, you get to pretend to be the most powerful person in the world—without any responsibility.

Gregson checked his flight plan. It was South America—an island he couldn’t pronounce. It looked like a tourist trap, colonized by the French. The French put their name in front of everything, because they are egotistical assholes—French Fries, French Dressing, French Kissing—nobody complains. Without the French, there would be no one to make fun of.

Gregson listened to Chopin on the airplane. Each composition—a dream. Chopin was so shy, he performed in the dark. Gregson admired that—cowardice becomes courage, when it finds a way.

When he landed, it was hot. There was a man holding his name by a black limousine.

“Gregson? Me—no English. Me—drive you.”

The PI nodded, and got in. His driver was about four feet tall—barely able to see over the dash. When they got to the dock, there was a charter fisherman, waiting.

“So, you’re the fool, stupid enough to visit this island?” The man said. He reminded Gregson of Hemingway, but more macho.

“I’m Gregson.”

“Stephon.” They shook hands. “The island is by invitation only. Let me see it.”

Gregson pulled his papers from the manilla envelope.

“Okay—I’ll drop you off, but you’ll have to walk into shore.”

Stephon didn’t talk very much. He seemed nervous, so Gregson didn’t pry. You just never know about people—ever since the advent of the postal service. We are all trying to survive. Before there was mail, we had to fend-off wolves. Now, it’s boredom. You pray, the guy working next to you, has a reason to live—a wife, a family, or at least a hobby. That’s why people at the office ask, “What did you do over the weekend?” They are terrified of someone who can’t answer that question.

Stephon, looked at the horizon. “There it is…” he said. It was the source of his anxiety. “Take a life vest. I’m going to let you swim for it.”

Gregson didn’t complain.

“Don’t worry—the water is warm, and I haven’t seen a shark in two weeks.”

Gregson jumped, and swam for the beach. There was something moving on it. When he surfaced, he saw what it was—several naked women.

The blonde was wearing sunglass. The red-head was wearing sunscreen. There was a black-haired goddess with green eyes, wearing nothing. She saw Gregson, and puffed-out her chest.

“Did Stephon drop you off?” The red-head asked.

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t come around here anymore. We think he’s shy. What’s your name?”

“Gregson—and I’m not shy.”