They say, “We are on Def-Con 5. Make ready—leave no one alive!”

I’m resting in my bed, enjoying the air show

A C-5, just flew overhead.

I go to my truck, where I have an internet connection

and upload a poem. It feels good. I listen to a guru

tell me, how to be successful, while I watch two girls

in tank-tops and short shorts

take-off their clothes.

They’re going swimming, in the pool, nearby

I watch them, pretending not to watch them

Sitting in my car, I feel like a deviant.

Then I walk

back up the steps, to the third floor, and read more poetry.

I discovered, long ago, that the right inspiration

triggers, the right action, like a red button, and the launch codes.

The itch to play the piano is strong

it feels like I have Poison Ivy, all over my body

and I scratch.

The key to success, is not to care

but this does not mean, I don’t have passion.

It’s the opposite meaning—

so much passion, I might live in poverty

and think, I am the wealthiest man in the world.

No outcomes required

just

obsession

the musical drug of choice.

If a man is worried about filling-up his lonely hours

he doesn’t have enough pain—that hurt that he must endure

Bits of life, captured, like butterflies

When I was a boy, I trapped grasshoppers—

not for fishing, but for the love of the hunt.

A man knows instinctually, what will make him happy

but his mind gets in the way—

all those cons, that have him locked-up

and the pros, only do it for money.

Trust me, if you were meant to do something

you will know

It will eat you in your sleep

It will bother you during the day

It might be, Armageddon

and all you can do

is play the piano

a few

sweet notes

a lullaby

before the nations cry

consumed with fire.

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