A genuine emotion

even

a negative emotion

is better

than trying to feel

when you don’t feel

anything.

Sometimes,

We go through periods of drought

it’s not total peace that does this

but wanting something when the time isn’t right

there are writers who make waves in their mind

and there are writers who have to wait for the wind

in their no mind.

When we don’t need a release

we wonder what to do.

We can read other writers

but this is about as real, as trying to have a good time when we don’t want to.

Boredom, is inevitable

the state before boredom

is usually prolonged relaxation

but sometimes, it can strike

like a lightning bolt

without thunder

and we are gone.

I have started more addictions

from boredom

than total stress.

Addictions, are just a replacement for feelings

and when we don’t feel anything

we desperately need to

there are people who are trying not to feel

only because they feel too much

hurt by relationships

hurt by disappointments

hurt by the cruelty of the world.

I prefer the hurt, to the boredom, now

feelings are a gift

fighting with a lover

making up with her

making out with her

making a life, that means something.

Most of what we feel is manufactured

so we can escape

the reality of our own desert

drinking

from the false oasis

this mirage will keep us lost and thirsty

the people you hate

seldom think about you

the poison you drink

will kill you

it’s an addiction

that isn’t real

making it impossible to feel

and anger is the addiction of the world.

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.

His silver sunglasses flashed in the sun, shining on citizens who wouldn’t dare break the law. Was he human? Nobody knew, and if they followed the traffic laws, he would stand still, with his blue uniform and black cap, and polished boots, the color of blood, waiting…

Johnny didn’t hold his breath—a dangerous thing to do—because the machines knew, who was afraid and who wasn’t. Those without fear, were marked. Johnny didn’t watch the news. He didn’t watch TV, the smart watch, or the smart phone. Stupid people needed smart things. Johnny watched the cop, daring him to move. Was he human? His hand popped the button of his Billy-club. Johnny stood still, like a man staring at a cobra, gazing into its eyes, with no eyes, and the head moved.

“Can I help you, son?”

“Which way to the city library?”

“You look underage. How old are you?

“21, since last August.”

“In a hurry, then…? It’s on Washington. When you get there, they’ll start you out with the cat books.”

“Thank you, officer.”

“Why do you want to read?”

“Thank you, officer.”

Johnny turned his back, walking to the place he had wanted to go since he learned people put their ideas in books, and these ideas were centuries away from the ones he heard every day.

People still had their rights, but those who exercised them were watched. And if they checked-out the wrong book, they became dangerous. The government knew it couldn’t ban books, or guns, or cigarettes, or alcohol, so it used fear to control the few—those few, who wanted to feed themselves. The rest, were men made into machines, like the cop on the corner.

To be continued…

What have we gained

at the end of the day

but our right

to rest? -Intellectual Shaman

I listen to the conversations go by

discussing

all matter of unimportant things

absorbed

in their own little worlds

forgetting

the bigger one

they are walking down.

I don’t blame them

most people never escape their own.

My world

is a warm green bench

at the end of the day.

I lay down and look at my new favorite tree

the leaves are green and yellow

the crescent moon is white

in the blue sky

the sun is bright

and the birds don’t chirp in harmony.

If I’m going to do something

it will have to be as perfect as that warm green bench at the end of the day

to all worlds left

and forgotten

to the seasons that change

I am the same.

There is great opportunity for laughter

when the world opens up

I close my eyes

and see red

I tighten them

and see the universe.

I open my eyes

and gradually see

the beautiful world

right in front of me.

I wonder if people know

what their conversations are—

not gusts of insignificant words

but powerful statements

that reverberate

for a lifetime.

How can we spend our lives

like inflated money

without value?

If you say

the words of another

that you don’t believe in

because you are silenced, if you speak your own

it is as if, you were never there—

being removed from existence.

Expression, is gone.

The one who plays the orchestra

is being played.

Most players, are willing players

participating, in a sound, that is not their own

judged, by their precision

and not their soul

no noise is genuine

just noise

for the purpose of perfect

but perfect, is a sound nobody wants to hear

and nobody wants to play.

If you leave the stage

with your body contorting

shifting

because it couldn’t say

what it needed to say

you know, something is wrong—

it could be, your whole life is wrong.

You don’t exist

And you teach others

they don’t exist.

You don’t know your neighbor

And you don’t know your sound.

Your recording plays

without permission

Your performance

is a mistake.

Some of us want something

beyond

droopy powerlines

familiar roads

and the limits

we freely recognize

in ourselves.

The traffic signs

all look the same.

Is it true

that you take yourself

with you

wherever you go

so that, the limits are always within you?

The roads that lead out of town

are empty

with want and desire

uprooted trees

traveling

great distances

like dead monsters

between states.

What are we

if not dead dumb rejected monsters

leaving town

to be cut-up

and heaped on the stockpile of humanity?

That heart

of living warm wood

wants to be useful

and not neglected, in the mud and the rain

loved by sandpaper

and shaped

by God’s hands

Wood is meant for more than the fire.

It’s not about the money—it never is. For Gregson, great wealth, was having the world by the balls. It’s not power over people that matters, but being able to rocket-fuel your life. Before money was created, a man could go anywhere, without limits. Now, money controlled everything. Fences separated neighbors, and people became willing slaves—all their decisions made with money in their minds—workhorses, and not the free stallion that was Gregson.

He was sweating like a wild horse at the top of the mountain.

“The opening is there,” the Father pointed. The cave was instantly cold, supercooled by the ocean gushing up from the deep.

“We’ll dive for it.” They jumped into the water, swimming down. Chests of Spanish Galleons and Jewels overflowed into the sand—red, and green, and clear diamonds. When they swam to the surface, they noticed cocaine packed against the walls like sandbags.

“Looks like we found a drug dump,” the Father said. “Think of all the work and lives lost, with the treasure just beneath the surface. That’s a metaphor for wisdom—the truth out of sight, for those who don’t seek it.”

“HOLD IT! Back up slowly, into the sun.”

They walked out, blinded by the light.

“You can fight me, or you can take one in the head, right now!” The silhouette threw his gun into the grass.

“I’ll fight you to the death,” Gregson said. “It’s better than living, and being dead at the same time.” The drug-runner was wearing a black gee, striking Gregson with a roundhouse. Gregson faltered. Being hit, jogged his memory. He remembered Jujitsu from Muscles and Thongs—his mind was centered. When the first fist struck his face, he countered with a Jujitsu throw, and the man left the mountain, like a bird with broken wings—screaming, all the way down.

Those who knew him, would say Gregson was a lover of excess, so the trick was to encourage equal excess in other areas to balance-out the extremes. This becomes difficult to manage. The average man can’t do it. He stays at the center of what’s common. Gregson was an outlier.

If anyone but God and the Father were witnessing what he was doing behind the Mastercraft, they would’ve classified it as a miracle. But God and the Father were not easily impressed. How can a man who is 250 pounds operate in the water like a pro? Like a smooth operator? Gregson could.

They were nearing Elephant Island, where the ocean carved a trunk into the rocks. Waves sounded like a screaming beast crashing against stone. Nobody went there; but the Father turned the boat into the shore anyway. Gregson glided to the sandy beach, coasting from the momentum, while a prehistoric tail tracked him, moving in, for the moveable feast.

“Gregson, watch your 6!” The Father shouted.

Gregson broke-off the skis, and trotted into shore before leviathan opened its jaws.

Every person has those moments when they nearly escape death. Gregson had done it more times than a 20-year-old cat, which would give him the luck of a 140-year-old man who hadn’t died yet. Cat’s have style, and so did Gregson. If you can cheat death in life, you can understand its meaning.

The Father jumped out of the boat and joined him on the shore.

“What are we doing here?” Gregson asked.

“It concerns your family jewels,” the Father said. “I’ve read enough books to know where the treasure is.”

Gregson felt exposed, for a moment, but he relaxed, knowing the Father loved God, and also women, though he had taken a vow chastity.

“If we enter the elephant’s skull, we will find precious stones, buried in its brains.”

“Whatever you say, Father.”

They hiked up the humid mountain, toward the elephant’s skull. On the way, Gregson noticed human skeletons along the path. This island was a safe-haven for pirates 200 years ago, and drug dealers today. Gregson knew, only too well, if they saw you, they would shoot you on sight. There was more cocaine buried on this island than treasure. It was paradise island for the cartel.  The Father was leaving Gregson in the dust because he was in perfect condition. If you love God, you’re less likely to over-eat. Somehow, following God allows you to enjoy an invisible feast; a spiritual one, that does not gratify the flesh. Gregson loved himself, and so he ate all the time.

Why do we feel

the need to convince other people

we are right?

We should listen to our own voice

drowning

underwater

distracted

by things

created

from other minds.

Now, the madness

is like some poorly designed

artificial intelligence

with a thirst for vengeance.

I guess, the man is in the machine, now

and he isn’t happy.

The imagination

is real

where pain and pleasure and evil

come from.

There are no made-up worlds…

You can be touched by evil

You can be touched by skin

You can be touched by a nail

You can be touched by an imagination

something

no one else

can feel.

There’s a light

in the dark

recesses

of your mind

TURN IT ON.

Gregson’s running shorts were getting tight. They revealed a bit too much of his manhood, but if he owned it, and strutted with confidence, he gained 2 extra pounds with the ladies, or I mean, points. Half of all success in life, is owning it.

“I’ve got a boat behind the church—do you fancy waterskiing?” The Father asked.

“Why?”

“It’s going to be 90 degrees today, and there’s a church potluck coming over. You know the kinds of people who only talk about superficial things, and after the conversation, you don’t remember what was said, because nothing was said?”

“I stay away from those kinds of people.”

“Me too, but unfortunately, it’s a hazard of the job. Potlucks are worse than meetings—everybody laughs, when nothing is funny. At least in meetings, everyone is serious, and something gets done.”

“Are you sure about that? And what’s this about looking for my family jewels?” Gregson asked.

“You don’t have to look very hard to see them,” the Father coughed.

“Our family is well-endowed.”

“Well, I’ve been reading books from your dad’s library, and been trying to become a wise man.”

“And…?”

“It’s more difficult than you might think. There is a reason real wisdom is hidden in riddles. Real wisdom is not for people who can read—it’s for people who can think, for themselves. Reading is part of it, but it takes significantly more thinking, about what you have read, and what you haven’t read, to get close to wisdom. There’s the boat.” The Father pointed at a brand-new Mastercraft.

“How can you afford that?” Gregson asked.

“Tithes and offerings… how else?”

“But isn’t that God’s money?”

“I listen to God, and do as He says. The Outlet was having a sale last week, and I felt God said, ‘Buy the boat.’ I never say no to God.”

“But what about the IRS?”

“Best to do God’s work in secret, so that we are rewarded in heaven.”

The Father unbuttoned his black shirt, revealing tanned muscles.

“You’re ripped,” Gregson said.

“Yes; the church bought me a Bowflex. It’s important to strengthen the body, and the spirit—they are more closely connected than you might think. The Father had a gold chain, hanging from his hairy chest. It was studded with diamonds. He could’ve been a rock star—a Jesus Christ Superstar, Gregson thought.

“Get in the boat, and we’ll push off,” the Father said. “Do you want to be the first to waterski?”

“It’s been a while, but I’ll give it a go.”

The Father gunned the engine, and tried to pull Gregson out of the water. It’s impossible to skip a round rock across a still pond. The rope broke.

“Damn; we need a thousand-pound test for you.” The Father tossed Gregson a thicker rope. This time, Gregson came out of the water like a pro. He jumped the wake, and held on with one arm. The Father looked at Gregson with respect.

Only a man with style, can recognize a man with style.