The Actor’s Club

It’s a major mistake

not to be curious.

I look at the bald principal.

He walks down the hallways, quickly

like he has someplace to go.

He wears suits and jeans to work

with school spirit t-shirts.

He listens to stringy-haired moms

who talk about their kids with ADHD, like he cares

He gives many non-committal grunts.

He has become his job (you know how I know?)

because when I was in middle school, my principal acted just like him.

The professions are an actor’s club

There is nobody original, who lasts very long.

When a parent makes their demands, he listens.

It comes with the job.

That is the opposite of power—

acting like somebody else.

Done long enough, you don’t know who you are

or worse, you know who you are

but you can never express that in public.

Crop Circles and Females

Saturday morning came and went, until Maxine licked me in the face.

She’s my chocolate dog. My wife would never do that—she has a pretty face.

That’s one thing I appreciate about being married to her (her face, and that she doesn’t wake me up when I’m trying to sleep).

My dog is in danger of getting kicked in the morning though, but I never do that.

I restrain myself, because I know she snuggles in bed with me, and I don’t want a dog with sharp teeth or a woman with scissors to be mad at me, when she gets close to my intimate parts.

Afterall, this is the age of vengeance and female gods.

Dog, is God, spelled backward.

I’m a nice guy. I love my mother, and I wear different colored sweaters that make me look intelligent, boring, and conservative.

I was and still am the ultimate catch— for a woman who has had the epiphany that she’s past the age of 30, and needs to get married.

That, and I live with three females: my wife, my mother, and my dog. Not always in that order—it depends on that time of the month (if you know what I mean?).

It’s unnatural for a man to live with women, to work with women, and to go to church with women. Women, become a religion—like God, you can never get away from them.

That’s what a man says after his life is over, but luckily, I’ve had the epiphany too, so I’m protected, right?

Wrong.

I walked downstairs.

“Your orange juice is on the table, with a fresh cup of coffee,” my wife said.

She’s East Indian—that’s one way I bypassed the feminist, but even then, the virus is spreading.

“Your mother took the dog for a walk, and said that she found something.”

“Oh—what’s that?” I asked.

“Some kind of vandalism?”

“I moved us to a farm, to get away from those asshole kids.”

“You work with them, honey.”

“I know I work with them. I keep my distance. Their brains aren’t fully-developed.

“Honey, we might want to have one of them, soon.”

I waved my hands up in the air, and grabbed my coffee.

“Now, what’s this you wanted to show me, mom?”

She was sitting in her rocking chair, with a smile on her face. “I’m just enjoying the birds. You need to follow God more.”

“I look for Him, but he’s invisible—I’m hearing voices though.”

“Good,” she said.

“I’m worried that you think that.”

She laughed.

“Now, what’s this about vandalism?”

“Over in your corn field—somebody knocked the stocks down.”

To be continued…

A Limited Poem

This poem will be quietly read,

by an old man, picking his nose

or a young woman,

with nothing else

to keep her company.

Living,

is about

learning

about

your limits.

We all have them

but many of us

never find them.

They are difficult to discover

in society

unless

you are willing to break the law.

If you get caught,

a cell is waiting for you.

Limits are:

streetlights

parents and teachers (who tell you what you can do, and can’t do)

bosses

jobs

retirement plans

whether or not, you want to be buried or cremated.

Heck, when we are born

we are told that there is right and wrong

good and evil

and you should want to be good

Otherwise, you’ll go to hell,

so you need to obey.

Pride is the belief

that you don’t need any limits—

that you might choose

what to do with your life

because you think

it belongs to you,

but it might be

you have a destiny.

People are afraid to find-out

because faith is required

to step beyond yourself

into the dark.

The ego defends itself

because of past failures (and successes).

It tells you

what is possible

and not possible.

It lies to your pride,

so that you can be safely superior

and never discover

yourself.

I see the fake supermen, walking around

crossing streets

in suits.

You know, how I know, they’re fake?

Because they are

comfortably superior.

Nobody superior

is ever comfortable.

It’s like believing… you can summit Mount Everest

in your living room

while reclining on your La-Z-Boy.

The boss who holds private meetings

is delighted with herself.

She chuckles

and impresses subordinate paper pushers

with her knowledge

of paperwork.

She goes to the opera

not to enjoy

Don Giovanni

or the dark madness of Wagner

but to get noticed, so she can feel comfortably superior.

She has tea parties with her fat friends on Sunday

and they giggle, sharing gossip.

They

will wilt like tulips

when the atmosphere burns

with the power of 1,000 suns.

I get, that it’s not worth it

to reach for your limit,

and find it,

but when you do, there is a strange satisfaction.

It’s the marathon runner

who passes the finish line

and keeps running

because he wants

to find

his limit.

What Writers Don’t Know

What writers don’t know

is that

boring books of the dead

will make their readers die.

Mummies come alive

when

their hearts are stolen

and their skin

is up-tight.

I look at my brain

pickled in a jar

and it’s not kosher.

We are so quick to take offense

at the smallest slight.

Our skin is pulled-tight

over bleached bones

like a human canoe

or a bird

in flight.

There is no formula

for a safe reaction.

A book speaks,

or it doesn’t—

the desert is littered

with useless facts, like candy bar wrappers

eaten by Arabs

driving their ships

across NOTHING.

Readers don’t spend time Reading

the sand

filtering

in and out

of their minds

like an hour glass.

They do it

to find the gold

buried there

in a sea of horrible books.

I must bite

like a spider

eating her husband.

History

is a lawless idea

written

by somebody

who can make mummies breathe.

I can see them

driving their sports cars

with their stringy hair

blowing in the wind,

honking

at the dead people in traffic.

The science teacher

knows

how to wake-up his students.

That is the sign

of a necromancer—

a man

who makes the dead dance.

The fat English teacher looks at me

and asks

about my job.

I kill her with my words.

Being boring

is a science.

I am afraid

of being the safe

secure

man.

The science teacher knows

what I’m doing

because he

brings the dead back, every day.

It takes a life-giver

to know a killer.

But in secret,

I bring a few back

to the other side (at least I hope so).

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.

Epilogue

The killing game was getting hairy, Gregson thought, and close shaves always left him cut.

He went behind the bushes and did his business.

The enema was a clear plastic pill, with a transmitter inside. He squeezed it, and then put it into his ear.

Ringing…

“This is Murphy.”

“Do you have the coordinates?” Gregson asked.

“You’re on an island off the coast of South America. We’ll send a rescue team, as long as I can clear it with the admiral.”

“Admiral?”

“That’s the other thing—apparently, the orchestrator of these hunting safaris is an international arms dealer. Rumor has it, he deals in nuclear weapons, left-over from the cold war.”

“And let me guess… the navy wants to wipe this rock clean with a cruise missile.”

“I’m trying to talk the admiral out of it. What’s the score?”

“There’s a lady lawyer and a lumberjack still in play.”

BOOM.

“What was that?” Murphy asked.

“The game. I got to go.”

“Stay alive, Gregson.”

The PI walked between two palm trees and witnessed an explosive crater, with two arms and two legs sticking out of it. The body parts were dressed in a gray suit.

Gregson looked-up at the hill and saw Brad with his missile launcher. Then he looked at his chest. There was an enormous red dot, glowing there.

“Oops,” Gregson said. Then the helicopter flew over, and shot Brad in the head.

“I just saved your life!” Dubois said. “Meet me on the beach, if you ever want to hold your girlfriend in one piece!”

Gregson made his way to the shore, where the blue waves were sparkling. The helo chopped the air and landed softly on the sand.

“I want to take you hand-to-hand!” Dubois screamed.

Gregson threw his .45 into the ocean and put his hand inside his sock. It smelled.

He pulled the K-Bar out. The Frenchman showed him his fighting knife. Then they closed the distance.

Gregson peeked at Tanya. She was staring wild-eyed, while Sandy held the silver .38 to her head.

Dubois ran at Gregson and struck first.

“You cut my shirt,” Gregson said.

“And your shoulder,” Dubois said.

Gregson felt warm blood dripping down his arm.

Dubois lunged again, and Gregson countered, with a spin-kick. The Frenchman landed on his back, and the PI jumped on him, shoving his K-Bar through his heart.

“Why don’t you have any mercy?” Dubois asked. His eyes rolled-up into his head, and he expired.

“Gregson, are you there? Gregson, come back.”

“This is Gregson.”

“Get out of there! The missile is going to make impact!”

“I thought you said that you could talk the admiral out of it!?”

“You know how bureaucracies are.”

“I know,” Gregson said.

The PI wrenched his knife from the Frenchman’s chest, and walked towards the chopper.

Sandy was still holding her silver .38 to Tanya’s head, but it was shaking.

“You can let me fly us out of here, or killer her?” Gregson said.

“I’ll be arrested!” Sandy screamed.

“I’ll let you go,” Gregson said.

Sandy threw her gun into the ocean and the PI ignited the chopper.

They were hovering over the sunset, when the island incinerated like Hiroshima.

“If a bureaucracy can’t agree to disagree, they press the button,” Gregson said.

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Tanya sighed.

“It’s not supposed to. Okay, out you go,” Gregson pointed to Sandy.

“What?” She asked.

“I said I’d let you go.”

Tanya pushed Sandy into the ocean, and Gregson tossed a rubber raft after her.

“That was a dirty trick,” Tanya said.

“I’ll tell you what’s dirty—having this shit enema in my ear. Only the government would think this shit up!” Gregson threw it into the ocean.

“Besides, pussycats have nine lives, even if, they hate water.”

The End

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.

Iron Cross

I first saw him

at the library. He was old and feeble

but there was an iron strength

inside him.

What people don’t realize

is that society

undermines reality.

If enough people say

the same lie

it becomes true.

They can only pay attention to

simple things.

I looked at him, reading a book on tank warfare

by Rommel.

Not many men interest me

He was the exception.

His white hair was slicked back to his skull

with grease.

His mustache was bushy, but I could tell it was thinning with age.

I wanted to meet him, but not just a casual meeting

like, “Hello, sir. Interesting book you’re reading.”

No. I wanted to know him, and learn his ways.

“Excuse me, sir. Can I buy you a coffee?”

“Naw. I don’t drink the stuff, but schnapps—I like that. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Interesting book choice.”

“Yah. It’s an interlibrary loan. My commander in the second world war wrote it. See!”

He pulled a golden chain from his wrinkly neck and showed me the Iron Cross.

“You aren’t a Nazi?” I asked.

“Oh, no! Nothing like that. Although, in the vwar, I was, in name only. I had to be, as a ranking officer—otherwise, I would’ve been shot.”

“What a horrible situation,” I said.

“Not as bad as what you deal with.”

“What?”

The corruption of your media is similar to Hitler’s propaganda. The new Nazis are walking the goose-step in the name of tolerance, and the new vwar will be here soon enough. You will have to fight the communists and the fascists. Do you believe in America?”

“I’m not so sure what that means.”

“Ah, propaganda is rotting your country. In Germany, we believed in the Fatherland.”

“That’s just not how it is in America, anymore. It’s everybody for themselves.”

“Corruption. You don’t have any strong leaders—just bureaucrats. How many men will die for someone who wants to save their job? The answer is NINE. My dear boy, every battle is lost or won before it is ever fought. Would you like to go for a ride in my Oldsmobile?”

“Sure,” I said.

He was a stranger, but I was no longer a child. Strangely though, when I was in his presence, I felt like a child.

“We’ll get some schnapps.”

His car was from the 60s. When he turned the ignition, the beast rolled-over in its grave. His arthritic hands shifted into reverse. He reached into the back, and put on his captain’s hat.

“Do you like Wagner?” He asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good.”

The dark music played, as he increased speed. We passed the golf course.

“Do you play?” I asked.

“No. I play at changing the world. Games are not for me.”

We had our schnapps, and I enjoyed his company. It was strange to be close to somebody, so close to death, and yet, he didn’t know it. That must’ve been what got him through the Ardennes.

“Will you be in Maple Valley, much longer?” I asked.

“No. I travel to DC, to see about the vwar crimes happening to this country. It became my home after the vwar. If you can’t make people listen to your vwords, you have to use other means.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He pulled out a Luger. “If they don’t respect the uniform, they always respect the gun.”

I wished him well, and went home, and from that day forward, I scoured the news for a mad German, still fighting a vwar.

The End

They are afraid of being found out.

Great men keep me company at night

They tell me how bad it is

and it makes me feel better.

Was Alexander Great?

Not to me.

To conquer worlds

is to draw a line on a map, only to have it erased and redrawn.

Similarly,

a man can have a great deal of money

but not be able to speak

to anybody.

This life is not about being the best

but about having enough, and giving that

away.

Moving from black and white

to color

requires a change in perspective.

If you elevate your status to that of a King

and look down on your subjects

you only see the tops of their heads.

If you look up to a King

you will never see them

That’s why most Kings won’t let you look them in the eyes

because when you do

you will understand them

to be common.

They are afraid of being found out.

You know

how I know

the people at work

are constantly full of shit…?

The toilets

never stop flushing.