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
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
before the nations cry
consumed with fire.