There is a door, into every world

but those who find it

are few

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,

but seeing

from the outside,

isn’t seeing.

So, I resolved to become

an anthropologist.

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

requires work.

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.

“That’s right.”

“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.”

“Really?”

“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.”

“No shit,” I said.

2 thoughts on “The Language of the Golf Course

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