A Psychologist (With a Horrible Social Life) Tells Me How to Meet Beautiful Women

“How do I meet beautiful women, sir?” I asked him.

“Do something for others, give a gift without asking for anything in return. By the rule of reciprocity, they will help you, any way they can.”

I looked at his bald head. It was shiny. There were three hairs, growing out of nowhere, like an oasis in the desert.

“It seems too good to be true,” I said.

“It will be like the universe is reaching out to you. Before you go into a new social situation, think favorably, about the people you will meet.”

He had a sweater with a stain on it. Ketchup or Mustard? I couldn’t tell.

“Do my thoughts make me more generous?” I asked.

“Yes. Dress well, and give a genuine compliment. Be a leader, and be all that you can be.”

He must’ve spent time in the army.

“Are people superficial?” I asked.

“Yes and No. When you meet someone, find out what you have in common, and say, ‘I like that too—we’re the same, me and you.'”

“That sounds creepy.”

“Oh—it can be, but you must do it, oh-natural. Play up, how long you have known that person. These tricks of influence are a benefit to you, and to them. You are not unethical. You are their friend.”

“Now I know why you’re single. I think Hitler said that.”

“Hitler had a girlfriend.”

Valkyrie Prayer

I am a hero, listen to my prayer

you beautiful maidens of the underwear world

take me to Valhalla, and not to that other place.

This is more than a prayer

This is a song I sing in silence

each night.

With one chance to live

let me fight

like a man, who will die at midnight.

It is not enough, to have one good wife

one good car

one good job

I want to be a rockstar.

Ladders

Lead

to more Ladders.

No Ladders, please.

I don’t want to climb any more.

I don’t want to be grateful, humble, or nice.

I want Red Devil Women

in cheerleading décor.

I don’t want to pay their pimp, the devil, anymore.

I want to beat him at his own game.

It’s not enough to live forever

One must be young forever

It’s not enough to be the captain of the football team

One must put a spell on the cheerleading team

I am a silver-tongued devil

Make me platinum.

What I like about words

is there is no limit to what they can say.

Philosophers believe our thinking is limited because of language

but that’s not true.

Our thinking is limited because of what we don’t do—

what we settle for and what we believe is true.

This prayer might be the flitting thoughts of a frustrated man

but it’s honest.

It took almost half of my life

to want miracles.

Getting there, without them

is tiring.

Any leader who has responsibility

wants their burden to be lifted.

I want charisma,

that makes me lighter than air.

I don’t want to be contained,

like a useful piston

in a big machine.

I want flight

No engines, please—

like the women of the night, that usher me into Valhalla

like angels that call my name

at midnight.

What Men Want

We want a woman who never gets old

Each new word she says, is fresh

like a healthy salad.

Each time we make love,

we are young again.

We want tanned muscles

to feel like, we’re always on vacation.

We want to swim with dangerous women.

We want a perfect golf swing

polo shirts

a library

of golden books—

what a treasure.

We want to do

what we want to do

and we don’t want a woman

to tell us what to do.

We want to feel free,

under the ocean.

We don’t want to be cornered-off

in cubicles, unable to say

what we want to say.

We don’t want a checklist.

We want a blank page.

We will fill it

when we are ready.

What Poetry Can Do

I know what it’s like

to enjoy the fruit

in the garden of earthly delights

to want the best woman

the finest wine

to dine

at the tables of Kings.

The party goes from noon until midnight

full of finery

It’s a medieval gathering

To want the attention of Lords and Ladies

To be a respected Jester

and a mysterious magician

but the party ends.

I know what it’s like

to talk to somebody, who doesn’t want to talk

to call-up a friend, who doesn’t want to be a friend

the initial shock, is loneliness

but if you sit with yourself

you may realize

what others despise:

Solitude.

And that empty feeling of loneliness

hiding in the darkest corner of your soul

gets filled by God.

People write Poetry

to say something literary

while

the solitary somebody

does it

to do

what only poetry can do.

It’s sex for the soul.

It’s not the kind of poem

read in a classroom.

It’s said

in silence

It’s better

than a best friend.

The Master and His Monster

I feed him little bits of inspiration

but he coughs them up, like mice

and argues with me.

“I think, I have more social status now, and that’s why my sisters are hooking me up on dates,” he said.

I looked at him, the way Hitler’s mother, admired him at the podium.

“I don’t know if I want to date this beautiful black girl,” I said. “It could open-up Pandora’s Box.”

“I’ll date her,” he said.  The Monster looked at me, with eyes that couldn’t be satisfied.

He flexed his muscles in the mirror. Those sharp teeth of his, smiled.

We lifted weights together.

“How many reps did you do?” I asked.

“10.”

“Then, I’ll do 11.”

Not ordinarily competitive, the Master needed to keep a leash on his Monster, otherwise, it would mount ever woman that moved, and brag about its conquests like Attila the Hun.

The Monster tested his Master, as all monsters do. “We’re going skiing together, and that girl that you like, maybe, I’ll let her give me a lesson.”

The Master looked at him, totally free from desire. He had mastered the Tao.

The Monster was getting agitated, angry, hopping around like a toad.

The Master, just watched him.

“I need to get a BMW. That way the girls will know I’m high value,” the Monster said.

The Master looked at him with full understanding. The Monster reminded him of his own neediness and insecurities. Perhaps, it’s impossible to shed the skin that makes us human.

Thank God for Poets.

I can see it now

mind, totally gone

hope gone

laughing, uncontrollably

totally free.

I dive under my bed

to hide from a demon.

I drink wine, and type.

Somehow, I manage to hold down a government job

I have to take my mental illness days (all of them)

Now, I can take 5 in a row, without a doctor’s note.

The school district knows, teachers are crazy. That’s why they have made allowances in our contract.

My mother will say, “I told you so. This is what happens when you go your own way.”

I have 3 different STDs, from 3 different women.

Nothing makes sense to me.

My father shakes his head, at the mere mention of my name.

“He went off the deep end and he couldn’t swim. Our son drowned, in his own degradation.”

I swim under the superficial fire of society and emerge, unscathed.

The beauty of a depraved life, is when you can paint with the ugliness.

All the colors of disgust

merge into a brilliant flow of genius.

The good and bad worship your name,

regardless

of their mountains of criticism

that keep you

in shadow.

The mounting wave

causes men to cry out to God.

I say,

“Come take me now, you bastard!”

There is triumph in death

but many

don’t know this.

They ask for mercy

They plead before the sword

Their rolling heads, are like the slaughtered expressions of babies

They have no steel smile that grins beyond the grave.

I read poetry, on my worst day

and smile.

I listen to the great composers.

Thank God.

The Landfills are Full of their Inspiration

Blank, I’m drawing a Blank

it’s an easy thing to draw

just stare, with your mind

into nothing.

There are people who erase your mind

with their conversations, with their hate, with their love

They don’t inspire anything.

The worst feeling, is to have plenty of time

and nothing to do with it

but wait.

The Special Education Teachers are kinder to me now

They invite me to their meetings at 7 AM

They ask me to do little favors for them, like, “Please print out this form.”

And I do it.

I liked it better

when they were full of hate. “He’s useless!” They said.

They wouldn’t invite me to their meetings

or out to lunch.

Now, they make me wait,

while they talk endlessly,

and then graciously

give me 30 seconds, so that I know I’m one of them.

Their lives are all a waste,

and the garbage gets put in the same place.

All the games they played

All the victories they won

meant nothing to me.

A worthy enemy, will teach you things about yourself

will inspire energy,

from the darkest parts of your soul.

The crushing 9 to 5 is a garbage compactor

The will to stay alive

is slowly compressed.

We need concentration camps

war

duels to the death

poetry

honor

and most of all, something new

that doesn’t stink.

Most of it

has been

re-eaten

regurgitated

and reused.

They won’t even ask, “Where did the time go?”

They’ll lock themselves in their bathrooms

due to an uneasy feeling.

Their doctors will say they’re healthy—that they have 30 more years…

What will they do?

The landfills are full of their inspiration

and their garbage is piling-up by the side of the road.

If She Burns, She’s a Witch.

It was an erotic dream, and it scared the shit out of me.

I looked down at my infected toe. It was perfect.

Could it be, that the black box healed me?

I got up. It was Saturday. A simple test.

I put my clothes on. I walked outside.

Immediately, I felt the attention of women, staring at me.

It was uncomfortable.

I noticed the old man who fed the birds. He was one of the philosophers at the library. I called him a philosopher because he had a long beard, and spent most of his afternoon reading.

The women were gathering around him, as if he had scattered bread crumbs on the ground.

One started to mount him. It was an unnatural act. He was a wizard, I guess. I turned my eyes away.

He had lots of magic inside him.

I went to the library. It was open for three hours on the weekend. And I saw the love of my life, alphabetizing books. She smiled, through her mask. I could tell, because her eyes smiled, and I knew her teeth were black.

I went to the gas station and paid for 5 gallons.

“Mister, what are you going to use that for?” A mechanic asked me. He was whistling through his missing teeth.

“Oh—I have several lawns to mow. It’s nearly spring. I can already smell that fresh cut grass. Can’t you?”

“Yes sir,” he said.

“Speaking of which, do you have a lighter for sale?”

“Now son, it’s suspicious to buy gas and a lighter at the same time. If you’re going to build a bomb, you never buy fertilizer, diesel oil, and cannon fuse from the same store.” His twisted lips smiled. Then, he laughed. I noticed that his baseball cap was speckled with oil.

“I know that. Only a guilty person goes to three different stores.”

“That’s true. I’ll let you go, this time.”

The son-of-a-bitch actually thought he pardoned me. I drove straight to the library. I grabbed my 5 gallons and walked inside.

She was filing DVDs on the bottom bookshelf, so that she didn’t notice me. That’s when I began pouring.

I lit her. She began screaming. She sounded just like the witches in my dream. It’s a sure way you can tell…

The End

What Was in the Black Box?

I tried to check-out the black box, but it said undefined.

“Miss, what’s wrong with this?”

“Oh—I trust you to return it.”

“Why?” I asked. “I have the worst library record, of anybody. I’m surprised they don’t think I’m stealing books.”

“Oh—some of us do. But a thief who reads, is okay in my book. It’s like the murderer who steals a bible. It’ll probably do him some good.”

I left, bewildered.

I hoped that whatever was in the box would cure my insomnia.

I watched a movie about a writer who got murdered by a crazy bitch. She did it with an icepick, after she copulated.

I glanced at my cell phone. Three new messages, and a picture.

She looked better with her clothes off. I couldn’t believe my good luck.

She was the sexy librarian (one of my male fantasies). It was hard to sleep, knowing, that a woman was just waiting, to jump me, but I put in the CD, and hoped for the best.

A mystical voice turned me on. She said, “The boy walked through the dark forest following bread crumbs…”

I fell asleep, and I dreamed that I stumbled upon a house. I knocked on the door, and she opened it. It was full of witches. They were naked, and they needed me to help them with their ritual. They started to undress me, and when they got me naked, they plopped me in their pot, and got in. They were blond, with milky-white skin. Then, the head witch walked in. She had black hair, green eyes, and pointy breasts.

“Is he tender enough?” She asked. Immediately, I felt their hands on me, grabbing my flesh.

“I think so,” the little one said.

“Okay, let’s go ahead and eat him.” Their sharp teeth plunged into my neck and the water began boiling red. The head witch turned the heat all the way up. I was screaming. She was preparing to jump in. My skin was coming off the bone and the witches were laughing. Their eyes were sunken in, and their teeth were black and silver, like they had a bad dentist. They probably ate too much flesh.

I woke up in a pool of my own sweat. It was bloody. They say that Christ sweat blood in the garden of Gethsemane because he knew he would be crucified.

I knew, I was going to be eaten alive.

To be continued…

The Story You Won’t Want to Wake Up From

I had late library books. I wasn’t sleeping well. I couldn’t get a date. I had an ingrown toenail. I had lots of luck—bad luck.

My friend was doing quite well. Women wanted to date him. He never went to the library. He had perfect toenails. He got his beauty sleep each night. He didn’t believe in luck.

Like all stories of fortune, this one is strange.

I walked into the library. The lady librarian greeted me. She was beautiful, but she wore a mask, so I didn’t know for sure.

I was listening to audio books in the evening. I was tired. I wanted a story that would put me to sleep.

Stephen King was no good, because he might give me nightmares. Thoreau was divine.

The librarian coughed behind me, a couple times. “Can I help you find something, sir?” She asked.

“Do you know of any writers that could put me to sleep?”

“Most of them, but I take it, you want something enjoyable.”

“Yes.”

“Things aren’t working out for you, are they?” She asked me.

“How did you know?” I looked at her chest. She had on a dress, that cupped her bosoms. She was shorter than me, so I had to look down on her. It was like I was God, and I was staring at her mountains.

“I have just what you’re looking for.” She took me into a side-room where they kept the interlibrary loans.

Up, on a wooden bookshelf, she pulled down a black case. She stood on her tiptoes, to reach, and stretched her buttocks. I admired her desire to help me.

“There.” She shoved it into my chest. “Now, how about a kiss?” She pulled-off her mask and grabbed me around the waist. I laid one on her beautiful face. Then, I pulled back. For a moment, I saw two sunken eyes and a rotten mouth.

“Do you go to the dentist?” I asked.

“Why?”

“I thought your teeth looked black and silver.”

“Oh—no. I’ve never had a cavity,” she told me.

“Thanks for the love and the recommend,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it. If you want, I can come over to your apartment?”

“I’d like that.”

Give me your number.”

I did as I was told.

“What kind of story is this?” I asked.

“It’s the kind, you won’t want to wake up from,” she told me.

To be continued…