there are so many things I want to write about

but it feels like my mind is blown in half

and

that’s what I get

for trying to have a social life.

I went to a 2 million dollar home last night

and the young man

had a beautiful wife

an airplane

a BMW

and a motorcycle

He’s only 27.

“I don’t get jealous of most people,” he said.

I was feeling self-conscious and nauseous

I met a couple clean-cut young men

and we talked about church.

Then we played a St. Patrick’s Day trivia game

that I didn’t understand.

I was beginning to feel inept

I was breaking-out in cold sweats

“He’s a poet!” I heard my friend shout.

Suddenly, 20 eyes were watching me.

I don’t know how I got out of that one

I reached for some green peas

(all the food was green—that might be why I was sick)

Then, Karaoke broke out.

I stood there, watching the madness

when our host came over.

“You don’t like Karaoke, do you?” He asked me.

I smiled.

“Can I make you some tea?”

He led me into the living room and we began talking about my fear of marriage.

“You just have to find the right one,” he said wisely.

We got onto the subject of God, and my friend walked in.

“We got to go,” he said.

On the way home, I told him that I wasn’t feeling well.

“You’ll get over this rough patch,” he said. “It’s important that you socialize and get a better job—otherwise,

you could end up like that guy at church who strangled his wife to death and cracked her head with a hammer. He had low self-esteem.”

I thought about what my friend said…

Spending time alone was dangerous, and socializing made me sick.

There was no way to win.

Much in life depends on your attitude

but most people have been fooled

because

they listen to self-help gurus

who admonish them with the correct attitude.

“Work Hard. Play Less.”

(you should listen to me, instead. ha ha.)

The “correct” attitude is a slave mentality.

Recently, my mother told me

that I remind her of Benjamin Franklin.

She gave me a book on his life.

“He was a writer too,” she said.

“You don’t say.”

“Successful People” live by Benjamin Franklin’s quotes

and they get

stress-out.

Why?

Because their attitude

is not an expression of who they are.

The coolest thing a person can do

is choose their attitude.

It will be called “bad”

by those who don’t understand it, and they will insist

there is something wrong with you,

but when you get

different results

they will

think of you

as a genius.

I admire those

who don’t work for a living.

How they survive

is by some kind of magic

or grace from the gods.

This attitude

brings them

into contact with powerful forces,

that moves them like a magnet

in a unique direction.

I internet searched a recent dream I had

and it said

that the black and white photograph of friends

meant that I was ready to move on with my life—

that it would be a smooth transition.

I believe in paying attention

to dreams.

My writing dream is one that I nurture

with warm milk

before I go to sleep.

I hear stories of people

who have headaches

they want to add credentials to their name

they are not satisfied in their position

I look at my life like a leaf

and the wind blows me

from here to there

I don’t fight it

I don’t argue with it

It whispers to me

and I listen.

If we confidently follow our dreams

we will wind up where waking reality never intended.

waiting for a poem

is a lot like waiting for your life to start

drinking espresso shots

and waiting

is not stressful

despite what ambitious writers say,

“I fear the blank page.”

When writing isn’t working out

I let it sleep on the couch.

When your whole life is in front of you

then

you can wait on it

and when your whole life is behind you

then

you can wait on death

and when death knocks on your door

then

you can answer it.

I love to stay in a silent room and wait

and watch the sun go down.

Waiting is the only way to understand

the sunset

and the darkness

that follows it.

My life has gotten incrementally better

as I have learned about

what I like

and what I don’t like.

I make no apologies for it.

I don’t smile at my boss anymore.

I try not to go to meetings.

I save my money to buy time.

I pay for a better haircut, so that my stylist treats me better

and doesn’t shove product up my ass

like a drug mule.

I am seriously considering flying first class

wearing tailored suits

buying a Porsche 911

and going on vacation

until that becomes my final destination.

I know many people do these things

to be important in the eyes of others

but I don’t give a damn.

I’ve suffered enough.

In real moments

you see who they are

worried

not enough

low self-esteem—

and then they put on their merciless mask

and smile.

It is so easy to become like that

there is no strength of philosophy there

just a beaten bull

without testicles.

My dream is to become something more

bloodied, from the wars

full of electric fire

that shocks people to death.

What I admire

is

the alcoholic who gets sober for a reason

the fire that has been drowned, buried, and scattered

glows underground.

I admire a homeless man with mental illness

who decides to get a job

the cubicle worker who endures a sadistic boss.

I admire the man

in a small room

content

with his thoughts.

There are so many people

with opinions

that seemingly matter more

than your own,

but this just isn’t true.

I admire the survivors

who walk in and out

of society,

unaffected

by the simple reality

of work.

I admire those

who are their own world

and

don’t advertise it.

I admire the man who knows he is weak

and decides to get strong

he listens to literature at night

he keeps his own counsel

the fight is out there

and he’s ready

#1372. Undefeated.

the leader

doesn’t know where his followers have gone

he walked too far into the desert

he said too many wrong things

many of his followers died (they were retirement age)

he should have recruited young girls

but it’s too difficult to stimulate them with words

he’s competing with:

vibrators

men who drive BMWs

and TikTok.

It’s time to end this poem.

Now, the librarians notice me

and their German Shepherds get between me and the bookshelves.

They are feminist nazis with service dogs,

blue-haired lesbians without partners.

I walked confidently to my books on hold…

“Your stuff is taking up too much space,” she said.

I adjusted my face

to the voice

and smiled.

“I like to learn stuff.”

“Oh—that’s all good and well, but how many of those books can you read at the same time?”

“You’d be surprised,” I said. “I like to have orgies with them.”

Her jaw dropped.

She hadn’t made love to a book

since 3rd grade.

I pound my rusty philosophy into the counselor’s head

like a bent nail, and smile.

He can’t believe

I said that.

“You’re going to die.

I’m going to die.

Do you still want to listen to kids?”

Sleepless nights make me honest

and when this happens, I make him suicidal

because he stops and thinks

about his pointless life.

I’ve been having this reoccurring conversation with my mother…

“I need to do something great!” I shouted.

“I need to be a golfer

a music composer

a writer

I haven’t accomplished anything yet!”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” she said. “Live in a beautiful place with nice people—that might be the secret to happiness.”

“I don’t want to be happy! I want meaning!”

I talked to my friend

who is trying to escape his controlling girlfriend

and

each time he tries to break up with her

she gets closer to his heart,

and sharpens her knives.

“She’s a trap,” I warned.

“But she’s beautiful.”

Reality is as raw as a human heart

that might get eaten.

Distractions present themselves

like beautiful virgins in white satin sheets

and I remain calm and celibate

with creative juices

leaking onto the page

while I edit

with my human pen.