“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,


They need to think it


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


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.”



2 thoughts on “The Rockstar, and the Other Thing…

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