1 Girl in a Million, When the Odds Don’t Matter, When God Knocks… and You Answer

Poetry, is written down

but sometimes, it’s the real thing.

I had a religious experience, yesterday—found God.

That’s not to say, he wasn’t there all along

waiting for me. I don’t know exactly why it works this way.

Surrender?

Maybe.

Faith?

Probably.

My friend prayed for me, 3,000 miles away.

I have always known that I would live a small life without God,

a cynical one—one, based on the facts.

Anything worth doing, is found-ed on what we can’t see

what we can give, before we get anything back.

This sounds a bit, like surrendering to the flames

but if you have God, you have Love

and you can be strongest, at your most vulnerable.

I have entertained the idea of being a philosopher who slinks away

to his cave (or in my case, a studio apartment) drinking espresso shots

while writing lines,

but

Being alone, is not as good

as Being with God—the real POWER—the real LOVE—knowing eternity, before you take that final step into the dark.

I would give-up the emptiness of this world for God, in a heartbeat.

It only makes people angry.

God gives everything, without needing anything.

If you put your trust in a higher power, you can be directed by God.

Suddenly,

to be, or not to be?

isn’t even a question.

This life is so short, and eternity is forever.

What’s amazing, is that you can know God in this short life.

I met the girl of my dreams, yesterday…

And when I say “dreams,” I mean, I’ve dreamed about her.

She was “the one”

and I wasn’t ready.

Now, God will make her ready

for me.

This could be my naivety, but I’m a poet—

a romantic, willing to have my high hopes dashed on the rocks of reality.

It takes faith to write a book, and to do anything worthwhile

I have been disappointed

most of my life.

I wish the President was a Poet, like Churchill

“We will fight you on the beaches… we will never surrender.”

Putin would be crapping in his pants.

A warrior-poet scares the shit out of most enemies

because they don’t consider the odds—or the mathematics of defeat.

God be with us.

God be with you.

The Rockstar, and the Other Thing…

“The parties

and the panties

came too late,” Jock said. “Wait, they didn’t come at all… ha ha!”

Why did I do it? I don’t know why. For some crazy dream, I guess.

Dreamers make their own insanity

in their minds,

intentionally.

They need to think it

because

if it isn’t thought

it doesn’t exist.

A dream is real, until it fades

Nobody can see it,

but the dreamer.

Nothing comes close to the dream–

not even success. Success kills dreams,

but failure

is the biggest culprit.

The Devil is a Dealer of Dreams

because

He tempts

with a desire

that doesn’t exist.

My dreams are doubted, but I know that they’re real.

“You aren’t sincere. You need to write something that you actually care about,” my father said (but he might as well be the voices of everybody else).

When you’re down and out, they’ll kick you like a dying dog, but that should be expected.

We are making reality here, like a rockstar, and not the other way around.

“You don’t know what you want to write about,” my father said.

Not true.

I write about power–the kind, that causes me to write

because of my spirit, growing stronger.

There are ways to measure your power–

One, is the creative impulse

It pulses in me, and then I write it down.

If I am not fascinated by my dull circumstances, what else do I have to write about?

“Write about Bullfights (like Hemingway) or something that you’re interested in,” my father said. “It’s obvious that you don’t care about what you’re writing.”

“Listen, old man, all I have to write about is my world–and I care about that. It might seem unoriginal, but that’s what I have to work with.”

The grand adventure is one we think about doing, but never get around to. We don’t relate to it. It’s a backyard, that we know–or we think that we know, but there’s a whole world there, we don’t see.

That’s what I want to write about. My small town, and all the small towns like it. The small people, who say small things.

The rockstars on tour, are glamorous, but they don’t grip people in the guts.

“Listen, old man, I could save them all, or you could save them, if we had the guts.

It isn’t our personalities, holding us back–it’s us, holding us back.

There are no limits, but what we believe. Something made you afraid, a long time ago, and now it’s time to lose your fear.

The rockstars choose to be rockstars, and the other thing isn’t worth my time.

It can die in its cowardly hole in the ground, in a backyard lawn.

Let it die, so that others may live.

Don’t listen to it. Let it live alone, until it can’t breathe anymore.

If it can’t sophocate by itself, it’ll choke itself.

It’ll choke on my dreams, that keep others alive.”

GASP.

Left Behind Writers

Like an awkward ape-ish man

who demands

what he wants, and doesn’t get it.

He steps into his long red muscle car

a GTO—fast as hell, because he’s headed there.

“You can’t make-up for lost time,” he’s been told.

“No matter how fast you go.” But he pushes the gas-pedal to the floor, anyway.

Getting older, happens, in a second.

He is no longer, at the starting line.

People ride his bumper, and yell to go faster

He is confused.

What will he do, when he gets older—

when his reflexes are shot?

It’s a slow decline,

and then a fast drop.

He is subservient,

because his job demands that of him.

When dealing with difficult people on the phone

he speaks to them, in a deep monotone.

“Yes, of course, I will get back to you.”

It’s difficult to get angry, at a boring person.

Don’t let your colors fly

be gray

die

Speak in a cordial professional voice

the customer is always right

even if, they are crazy.

Put-up with shit

and they heap more on you.

The powers that be

rejoice, in their off-color melody.

If you listen to it long enough, you will go crazy.

They tell you to be conservative

save-up sex until marriage

but if you get married at 40

you will never experience a 20-year-old hard body.

Just maybe,

it won’t be what you thought it was.

Perhaps, you need to practice

to get good.

All of the experiences in the world are meaningless

but if you never have them, you will never know.

I am misunderstood.

Don’t take risks, and then say that you have.

If you are going to be proud, be that way for a reason.

Don’t let yourself be killed when you are young.

They use fear, to make you believe

Anything that leads you into faith, is like a light you follow into heaven

Those who know, don’t know

If questioned, they will pretend

The answer is, the one you write down.

It’s okay to be left behind, if you step confidently,

in the right direction.

Laughter, is the Last Gasp of the Soul

I scrubbed the make-up off my face.

The clown-act wasn’t working.

Who was that conservative, careful, careless, individual

looking back at me?

I, didn’t make sense.

A happy clown laughs at his own jokes

but are other people laughing?

Or maybe, they are, but not at the jokes…

I put-on my collared shirt

and sweater-vest.

I looked dangerous in the mirror,

but to everybody else

I was

a well-adjusted young man.

Life, is a comedy, or a tragedy, or NOTHING.

If you think you are getting ahead

you might lose your head

when the power isn’t there.

It feels good to laugh

and when nobody else does

to tip your head back,

and laugh

harder.

Life, is a collection of moments.

How many of them belong to you?

How many of them, do you spend, undecided?

Whether you are 92, or 42—you define your life

or your life defines you.

There is no such thing as getting ahead.

If a man has wealth

he’s holding onto it

because somebody said

he should.

What can he do with wealth,

but tell more jokes?

The saddest people

are the most careful people,

because they lack a sense of humor.

What are they holding onto?

A body can see and feel only so much on the outside

Then, it must laugh from the guts, from the inside

from deep in the diaphragm.

The insane asylums are full of laughter

until dead silence,

because

laughter, is the last gasp of the soul.

Chapter 5 The Women at Book Club

“I’d like you to meet my friend, Sharon,” Suzanne said.

Gregson shook her hand. It felt like a tightly-wound rubber band that might snap at any moment.

“Charmed.” He went to kiss it, but Sharon yanked her hand away.

She reached into her pocket for some hand-sanitizer, and rubbed thoroughly.

Her spiky-silver-hair reminded Gregson of a porcupine.

“Let’s see… who else should I introduce you to?” Suzanne asked.

Gregson spotted a pale-looking woman with wrinkles who reminded him of Darth Vader, after he takes off his mask.

“Oh—that’s my friend Robin.” Suzanne introduced him. “Gregson is a real detective.”

“Really?” Robin asked. “I just love Agatha Christie.”

Gregson got a disgusting taste in his mouth. “Do you have a bathroom?”

“Sure. Down the hall and to the left,” Suzanne said.

When Gregson got inside, he spit into the sink. Then he took a swig from his hip flask, and gargled with whiskey.

When he came out, he noticed a card game going-on at the table across from the living room.

“What are they playing?” Gregson asked.

“Poker. But you don’t want to get into that game,” Suzanne said.

“Why not?”

“They’re sharks.” Suzanne looked Gregson up and down. “Private detective or not, they’ll eat you alive. That’s Billie at the far-end of the table.”

She had wild green eyes, with veins popping out around her eye-sockets. She looked crazy. Gregson liked that.

An older woman, wearing a flower dress, with short-cut hair, looked as if she had lesbian qualities.

“That’s Jeanne. She grew-up on a farm. She doesn’t say much,” Suzanne said.

Charles, the King of Screams

He wore gold rings.

His father told him that only perverts and pimps

enjoyed bling.

He adjusted his ruby,

as if,

he was King.

There were people

at work

who wanted to kiss it,

but they weren’t worthy.

They could kiss

his ass, instead.

Charles

locked himself in his office

and drank coffee.

Occasionally, one of his coworkers knocked on his door…

“Yeah,” Charles said, in his most monotone voice.

“I need you to sign.”

“Okay,” and he did.

Then, he went back to thinking…

in his 300-dollar suit.

How could he rise above his circumstances without working?

He wasn’t opposed to work, but he saw what it did to his father.

The old man was a nervous wreck, worried about all the airplanes he had built

that might fall out of the sky.

Charles didn’t care what happened to him, or to anyone.

He prayed for nuclear war.

Lately, he tapped into some hidden power.

He felt it coming from the radio, on the classical music station.

He felt it in his blood, when he drank wine.

There was electricity in his footsteps, when he spoke in front of an audience.

He had authority

over people and animals.

Yesterday, a squirrel tried to steal his sandwich, but he snapped his fingers, and it passed-out.

A parent yelled at him on the phone, but he told her, “Everything is going to be fine,” and she believed him.

Nobody could understand him, but he understood everybody.

Soon, he was the master of the universe–

all-knowing, his power growing.

It was the best feeling, to wake up

in the morning

as Charles—

even the traffic obeyed his screams.

He was the King.

The Mad Matador

Toro Rodriguez woke up.

The whore resting next to him was exhausted.

He reached for a bottle of wine.

Today was the day of the bull fight—a tragedy, like his life.

Tourists thought it was sport, but the bull would die. It was an unfair contest—there was no cheating death.

Spectators wanted to see death, but death was always behind the curtain,

like the matador’s cape, unable to be seen, flirting with anger.

The bull charges,

but there’s nothing there.

Gone were the days, of the barricaded town squares, and the old bulls that had learned how to kill.

Most matadors couldn’t afford swords. They fought experienced bulls with gardening tools.

These beasts, knew how to kill, and they did it, full of laughter, again and again.

It’s impossible to save a man, impaled on the horns. They go all white, like a dead bed sheet, because the blood is drained out of them.

Bulls brought into the professional arena don’t have experience with the cape.

They are once-used bulls—easily fooled by trickery, and later, shot in head, if they survive.

Toro Rodriguez got out of bed, and felt his balls. They were still there.

It’s embarrassing to be paid for something great, if you don’t have it anymore.

The whore yawned and opened her eyes. It was the 1,000-cock stare, but Toro didn’t mind. A woman has to make a living, he thought.

I kill, and she does the other thing. Both, serve a purpose.

He squeezed his fat body into his costume and adjusted his hat. He picked up his silver sword, resting against his writing desk.

“Will you need me tonight?” She asked.

Toro looked at the woman on the bed. She would live forever.

“No.”

“You don’t want me!?”

“No—it’s not that.”

“Sure, it is!”

If you sleep with a whore, you become a whore, Toro thought.

He walked to the arena, to face himself. He was tired of his own bullshit. He had to look into the bull’s eyes to know who he was.

The crowd was cheering.

The parade was in full glory. Toro walked delicately towards the beast. It was a living artform.

He brandished his cape, and the bull charged. The crowd roared. Was this civilization? If it was, the animals didn’t belong.

Toro Rodriguez got on his knees, and flashed the bull again.

It charged, and his silver sword, like a needle, plunged into its side. The bull doubled-up, as the blood dripped out of its eye sockets, and it charged again.

Toro stood still, like a stalk of corn, waiting to be broken.

The End

The 5 Stages of Grief for the Struggling Writer

1.

(Denial)

“I have talent, but nobody recognizes it but me.” –said by an Anonymous failure.

I was here, at one point, years ago, although, I don’t know if I thought I had talent, or not. I was watching movies about genius writers and submitting mediocre English papers to my high school teachers. They would give me advice on how to improve, and I would promptly ignore it. Afterall, they just couldn’t understand my genius. Needless to say, I did poorly in my English classes. I watched Finding Forester, and believed myself to be like Jamal Wallace—hated for my abilities.

2.

(Anger)

Anger occurred after college, when I decided to write a fantasy novel of over 200,000 words. I couldn’t understand why Stephen King was getting published, and I wasn’t. I wasn’t even getting rejection letters in the mail. Any response that I got, was an automated email. I tried every possible strategy to get my manuscripts noticed. I tried registered letters, personal emails, but nothing worked. I began to educate myself as a writer. I read Stephen King’s On Writing. I read, The Principles of Style. I read, Charles Bukowski’s On Writing, which I highly recommend. I discovered writers that spoke to me. Writers, who were angry. Bukowski, became my literary God.

3.

(Bargaining)

This is when I really started praying. I began a blog. I began to get into esoteric philosophy, and to take the Bible literally. Would God bless me, if I didn’t sin? My friend told me about Semen Retention, and how it increases creativity. It is a spiritual practice with many benefits. Jesus said, “If a man looks at a woman with lust, he has committed adultery in his heart.” I began to shun women and eliminate sexual thoughts from my mind. This proved to be difficult, as Charles Bukowski was my guru, and I wanted to write just like him. Also, I admired Ian Fleming, along with Hemingway and Steinbeck. They all wrote about prostitutes and loose women.

4.

(Depression)

The rejection letters kept coming in. After 250 days of Semen Retention, I thought I was going to explode. My best friend suggested that my writing was a sexual outlet, and my subconscious mind was working overtime—no girls who read my blog would go out with me. However, my blog became a scandal at bible study, and I became infamous. I am now known as “The Writer.” “How do you write so much?” They ask. And I tell them. Finally, I got published, after writing half a million words, and I wasn’t even paid for it. My dream of becoming a New York Times Best Selling Author was shattered. But then, I asked a fateful question, “Why am I doing this?”

5.

(Acceptance)

I keep writing because I need to write. At the end of our lives, we will look back and define them by something. Perhaps, it’s a family, or a successful marriage. A marriage is meaningful because it’s a commitment. If we are scattered and distracted, our lives become meaningless. We have to choose to give our lives meaning. I am committed to writing. I hope to do it, on the last day of my life. Not that it will be remembered, but so that I can honestly say, “I did it.”

I prefer magic in the morning. It gives me warmth.

Quiet moments

in the morning

before the sun comes up

My 10-dollar light

It feels good, to have a few minutes in the dark.

I don’t have much time.

I read, Death in the Afternoon.

Reading

is my dessert

before breakfast—

four eggs

sunny-side up—

I eat little suns, in front of white clouds, while I read.

I have the suns

inside of me.

To think people start their day with the news. They eat oatmeal.

It looks just as bad when it goes in

as when it comes out.

It’s tasteless, lifeless, and not healthy—

There will always be war, famine, stress, and madness.

I prefer magic in the morning. It gives me warmth.

The Kanye West Effect, and My Dad’s Advice

Various people are always giving me advice

Probably, because I listen to it.

Over the years, I have become less outgoing

Probably, because when I say things, they look at me, as if I’m crazy.

That hasn’t stopped me from thinking, though.

People are concerned about their freedom of speech

but they never complain about their freedom of thinking

Probably, because they do so little of it.

The women at work think I’m crazy

Probably, because I offer-up some of my creative opinions, without fear

Let’s just call it, The Kanye West Effect.

Say something original,

and they get intellectually violated.

My father likes to give me advice from the couch.

“The reason those women at work are giving you a hard time, is because they’re jealous. Now, you are following God, and they are Godless feminists. Let me read you a passage out of Deuteronomy. It says, their foot will slip and God will deal-out justice. In God’s good time, they will be judged.”

“Thanks dad. Do you think God will make me more powerful, if I follow Him?”

“Yes; but you must remain humble. You must remain obedient to God. God rewards those who follow Him.”

“I just want to be respected.”

“Oh—they will respect you, and if they don’t respect you, they will fear you.”

I smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

I wondered if his advice was true.

It felt good to have the love of my father telling me I was invincible. In a sense, I was being hypnotized, and brainwashed, but it was too good to question.

“It says here, in the Bible, that the women of Sodom loathed their children and their husbands. They resented their families. Does that sound familiar to you?” My dad asked.

“Yes! It’s the women at work!”

“You see—nothing changes, and God will judge them, as he judged the women of Sodom. You know, as I was following God closely—the way you are now—God gave me power. The furnace in our church wouldn’t turn-on. I told our pastor and the leadership committee that I was going to pray for it, and they looked at me, like I was crazy, but I did it anyway. Nothing happened. And then, I placed my hand on it, and WOOSH—it turned on. God will give you that power, and you will have the respect of men, and the fear of women.”

“Thanks dad.”