There is a door, into every world
but those who find it
and those who have the courage to walk through
seldom come back again.
Being on the inside, has never been a need, until I became a writer.
Rejection was my friend, and still is.
It separates me, from them.
It gives me, protection.
It is like a best friend.
Writing cured me of any lingering desire
to be accepted.
You have to give up too much, to become like the group,
from the outside,
So, I resolved to become
Otherwise, I am only a man, among savages.
I can see myself, and the others
but they remain
two-dimensional, like cardboard caricatures
painted with my assumptions, (if I don’t get inside).
Like so many worlds, there are circles of trust that must be penetrated.
Strangers, might be friendly, initially
but this is a false smile, a false friendship.
To get to the real
On the city golf course, it helps to have game
to talk the right way
to not be uptight.
Profanity, is the language that puts plumbers at ease
It also works on:
high school drop-outs
men in bowling leagues
and the assortment of animals
that want to cut-loose.
I was playing with a fat guy, with neon sunglasses
and a skull tattoo.
He was awful at golf. I kept getting lucky.
I have this thing I do
where I pretend like it’s normal for me
to be so good, but it never wins friends.
Much of the acting I do
is for my own entertainment.
I like to pretend, I’m better than I am
which pisses-off most people.
By the time we got
to hole 7,
the guy I was playing with
wasn’t talking to me.
I made him so self-conscious
he had to pick-up his ball.
Then we met a local
who plays golf in his bare feet
and the shit started flying.
“Those guys in the pro shop do some strange shit,” the local said.
“The head maintenance guy is weird too.”
“How so?” I asked.
“I drove my cart next to the green, and he drove up onto the green.”
“‘Keep your cart 30 feet away, and no closer!'” He shouted at me. “He’s a fuckin hypocrite.”
“You gotta love the drama though,” the local said.
“I’ve played golf here, for three years, and one day, I didn’t show up,” the local said. “The maintenance guy panicked and called 911.”
“Yeah. They love you here, in a strange way.”
We left the local, and finished our 9.
“Do you play golf here a lot?”
“Yeah. The course is between work and my apartment,” I said.
“No shit,” I said.