Getting High on the Golf Course

My parents are out of town, so I played the local city golf course

next to their neighborhood.

The guy I was paired-up with

was fat and nervous.

“My wife doesn’t know I’m here,” he said.

He said this like he was having an affair.

“I’m getting ready to bet 2,000 dollars tomorrow.”

“In a tournament?” I asked.

“No. With some guys from work. My wife doesn’t know.”

He hooked his shot into the tall grass. He pulled his wedge into the neighbor’s house.

“I’d better play better than this,” he said.

He took a whiff of marijuana.

We passed the boy selling golf balls, and he drove right on past.

“A dollar-fifty a piece,” the boy said.

“Can I get three balls for two dollars?” I asked.

He smiled. He reminded me of me, when I was in fifth grade.

We went to the next hole and the guy I was playing with

nailed the neighbor-lady with his golf ball.

“Sorry,” he said.

She wasn’t hurt

because his golf ball took three or four bounces before biting her in the ass.

She was gardening.

I looked-at the No Trespassing Signs protecting her yard from the golf course.

It didn’t protect her from the golf balls that rained down on her yard. There were dozens in plain view.

“Get some lessons!” She yelled.

The guy I was playing with inhaled marijuana, again.

I know what it’s like to be him.

Life goes along in neutral, until the clutch fails.

There’s no shifting into gear

It’s neutral, until it’s bad.

A man needs secret vices, so he can feel something—so he can get away with something.

To be pure for too long

is not to know what purity is.

There is the comeback—the good feeling of redemption.

The next boy was selling lemonade. I gave him a dollar.

“Take a glass,” he told me. They were paper cups.

It was made from powder. I used to drink the stuff by the gallon when I was his age.

I had a lemonade stand

next to the bike-trail

until a parks department employee

asked me

if I had a food handler license.

“No,” I said.

“Well—get the hell off city property before I call the police!”

That was my last lemonade stand.

The guy I was playing with was making me nervous.

“Would you like a Gatorade?” He asked.

“Sure,” I said. Being nice to him had paid-off.

I wonder if people know

how stressful they are to be around?

He was talking during my golf swing, but I knew he was higher

than the airplanes and helicopters

flying above the golf course, so I didn’t hold it against him.

I finished my round and breathed a sigh of relief

The peace was like smoking a peace pipe and getting high.

When I left the golf course

a drank my mother’s coffee

ate my dad’s apples

read their newspaper on the toilet

took a shower

climbed into bed

and slept with the windows open.

Selling Ourselves for Slaughter

I like to wait in a space for a long time

because the sights and sounds and smells

of something unfamiliar

is impossible to savor

without being present.

A fine wine

must be breathed

A life

must be lived.

The blood of life circulates within me

like the wind, moving through the trees.

I find myself getting drunk, most of the time

or not wanting to drink at all.

We drink the same wine, until it’s like water

We demand a miracle

We whine about it

like a pig, drinking from the slaughter.

How many of us

are raised

to follow a predictable path

with hang-ups

sold at market?

We have to sell ourselves

to please other people, compare ourselves

to feel better

about who we are

and the price we pay, is always the same

We lose ourselves,

trying to get what we don’t need.

Pound for Pound

we are worth more

than a part of us

sold at auction.

What is right in front of us?

a dream, without desire

the wind

vast mountains

the sunset

and the heavenly places.

Sometimes, the Fire

On hot days, I think about water

In the company of Chaos, I think about peace

In the crowd of disbelief, I think about lonely faith.

When I wanted friends, there was not a friend

who wanted to be a friend to me.

I was told, “Be by yourself.” And the more I wanted to be with other people

I was denied this human need.

I didn’t understand the crowd, and the crowd

didn’t care

to understand me.

I was told to get away. “Make your fire.”

So, I found the lonely, the desperate, and the needy

but I didn’t want to kindle my flame with them

and the fire began to grow inside me

coming out of my eyes, unknowingly

I see beautiful women, but they don’t see me

I am like a box of matches

waiting to be struck

choosing, which fires to light

Just knowing that I carry this potential in my pocket

is enough.

If my routines are ruined

by crowds

I get away

because I don’t need to be with them

All their noise

can be enjoyed

from a distance.

Their power comes from being accepted

My power comes from being rejected.

The Great Mystery

Yesterday, I was out-of-sorts

I woke up, feeling good

like, I didn’t need anybody.

I was putting myself together, in my own bed

like a thousand-piece puzzle, like a hobby.

I go to work, but I don’t go to work

I get all green lights

Mozart moves me like a bird, on the radio

I have to prove my magic—that I can fly

I do, what you do

but I do it differently.

Nobody can bring me down to earth.

Computers, from the early 90s

make sound when you turn them on

like an engine


or a bomb beeping.

Cars are manufactured

to be silent



and smart

just like a computer.

I like a machine to be a machine.

I am a machine

on the golf course.

“Can I play golf with you?” He asked, like he didn’t want to.

“Sure,” I said, like I didn’t care.

He started to say jab remarks, like he was a featherweight fighter

“The one time you don’t hook it,” he said, “it takes you behind the trees.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“You don’t have a shot,” he said.

I decided to hook it, around the oasis, over the water, and into the green. I pulled it off—

a 220-yard miracle shot.

The golfer I was with

got angry


while I defied gravity

People want me to lose

They don’t want to see the miracle

I like old technology

my golf game revving-up

taking-off, like a rocket

Nobody can put my puzzle together

but me.

Nobody understands me

but me.

I am

the great mystery.

Unfinished Business

The town was full of ghosts

that watched and listened. When they were alive

they were paid to trade their time for a living

but since they had died

not much made sense—probably, because nobody in the town

asked themselves, if their existence made sense.

There were restaurants: Mexican, Hamburger, and Pizza

Eating made sense, because it was an enjoyment, and necessary to stay alive.

There were churches and lessons in morality

schools with rules

a gas station where auto mechanics changed the oil (they knew things about the inner workings of a car, that professionals didn’t know)

a grocery store, where customers stood in lines

and the library, where a handful of the same people, sat all day, reading books from the natural light.

Knowledge is passed down from father to son, like changing a tire or replacing the spark plugs

time is kept in that memory, perfectly preserved

or your father might’ve owned bees, and explained the difference between drones, workers, and queens.

Then ambition owns the heart of every man

because he must support a family, and if he doesn’t work

she won’t give him peace

and that’s what men want


but they are caught up with obligations—

(Who society says he needs to be).

If he has time to think, which is rare

he won’t go to war

he might not get married

he won’t go to work

The ghosts can only watch and listen

to the repetition.

They never passed on

because they had unfinished business

to understand

what all this means

and the philosopher is in the library

thinking… should I make a family?

Men feel good surrounded by things

Only one or two, want a quiet room

with words

Somebody will give them to you

when you become a ghost.

A Heart that can Love when it should Hate


has much to teach us


has more to teach us

I have graduated from the school of my own thoughts.

I am not going to hurt the people who have hurt me.

Any action, causes a reaction

My strategy

is to succeed.


is a poison

that makes my heart bleed

until it pops.

We are often in Purgatory

for a purpose

so that we can sift through the sand of our soul

and take-out the bad stones.

My desire

is to lead—

not to be in charge

but to be an example

for others to follow.

I have spent much time

thinking of myself

and now,

I want community.

I still think building walls is healthy

getting away from humanity

is smart

but there is something in me

that wants to build-up


I know the risks.

Being used

is a probability

but I’m done with bitterness.

The roots of my tree

are planted with kindness.

I think we can become

what we want to be

despite conditions, and


create the miracles

for a heart that can love

when it should hate.

How it is

the dog pisses on the flowers

the cat doesn’t mind

I go for walks, too tired to write poetry

and my thoughts, stick inside my head, anyway

There are few things

I consistently love, because

few things

consistently love me.

The Universe is Random

but we dress it up with emotion

like a whore

in a 300-dollar dress

elevating her, to celebrity status.

Some, find success


they see better, than the rest

A blind man flipping a coin

10 times

“Heads, I win—Tails, I lose.”

He wins 10 out of 10

We all lose in the end.

The traffic lights blink red and green

the cars don’t know what to do

Lives run like clocks

until they break


tells us to be like God

but we are like ants on the ground

All we see

is what’s in front of us.

We bring a temporary consistency to the chaos

and believe we have control

“It’s my fault.”

No wonder we go insane.

Cancer eats us

and we pray

What else can we do?

Fear and Hope, are the drugs we take

An insecure ego

needs a legacy

and drops the atomic bomb

The suffering is unimaginable

until it stops

thank God, it stops.

We want a moment, out of the glare

We want to be young, while we can

The monsters amongst us, are us

We eat each other, because

We don’t know what else to eat.

The Vanishing Glass and Longhorn Barbecue Sauce

“Well—you’re heavier than me. Why don’t you drop down and see if they’re hungry?”

“They’re house cats, Andy,” Morgan said. “They’re not Tigers. Even if a cat eats you, you need to die first, for this to be possible.”

Morgan explained this like an expert. “Your body needs to be like Tuna in a can—tender and juicy, for a cat to take interest.”

He sold me, and on the other side of the wall I heard, “Good kitty. Good kitty. You see, all a cat wants is to be petted and fed,” Morgan said.

I dropped down, into the dark, and looked around. Yellow eyes greeted me, like fireflies that didn’t blink. The shadow of the house was not welcoming.

“Quiet—there’s a window,” Morgan said.

We walked towards it, like cats, peering out-of-the-night.

A distinguished-looking man, wearing a smoking jacket, was seated at the table. His manservant walked in, carrying a silver tray.

“Thank you Jiles.”

“My Lord.”

“That’s not his real name—I’m sure of it,” Morgan said.

We were close enough to the glass, so that we could touch it.

Suddenly, we were inside.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Hubbard said. “Sit down.”

I did as I was told. Morgan just stared at the man like a scaredy-cat.

“Sit down, Morgan. I’ve been watching you, since you chased the ice cream truck, when you were 12.”


“There’s not much to do in this house. See, my telescope over there?” It was gold, standing on a tripod, looking down, at the town, through a green-house window.

“Mr. Hubbard—if I can call you that—what just happened? We were standing outside of the glass.”

“Magic,” he said.

One word explained everything, and I believed him.

“This house is like Chernobyl. The core is slowly melting down into the ground. Radiation, is contained—as long as somebody is caretaker.”

“How is that possible?” Morgan asked. “There has never been a nuclear plant in this town.”

“Magic—you idiot! I was using Chernobyl as a metaphor. Magic is more dangerous than an atomic bomb, if it’s not contained.”

“How did you become caretaker?”

“I don’t want to go into that.”

Hubbard lifted the lid on his silver tray. There was a dead cat.

I felt like throwing up.

“Do we have to stay?” Morgan asked.

“Just hear me out. You work for minim pay. Your education comes from Netflix and the News. I can provide you libraries of Latin, that will open-up your world, so that you can conquer it.

Hubbard made a sweeping motion with his arm, and the walls gave way, to a tremendous library.

“I’m done with school,” Morgan said.

“You are a fool,” Hubbard laughed. “The cats have to be kept inside the walls. If they get out, they will spread evil wherever they go. They’re like demons, that can’t be killed. They need to be eaten, one by one. Slowly, you will absorb their power—slowly, you will retain their spirit.”

“What do they taste like?” I asked.

“Barbecue Sauce.” Hubbard dipped a piece of flesh into Longhorn BBQ, and smiled like a rabid dog.

To be continued…

Hitler’s Car and the Cats with Sandpaper Tongues

Halfway up the hill, Morgan turned-off his headlights. There was a drop-off, to the right. I could see emptiness beneath us, blackness, and our impending explosion with one wrong turn. Morgan was driving Hitler’s car—a slug-bug. I wanted to hit him so hard. He was wearing his night-vision goggles that he used for hunting coyotes, or at least, that’s what he told me. Morgan lied to himself a lot.

“There’s the wall,” he said.

It followed the driveway for 50 yards, until, the gate.

There was a tower nearby, and one of those floodlights that wasn’t turned on. The place reminded me of a concentration camp.

“This is as a good a place as any,” Morgan said

“How do you plan on getting over the wall?” I asked.

“We’ll use my ladder.”

“Your ladder?”

“I loan it to Charlie when he has to snake cats out of trees. It’s a foldable one that extends, see.” He popped the hood of his bug and retrieved it.

“It will support, even a guy like me.” He climbed to the top of the wall and looked over. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“What?” I asked.

“Cats—they’re everywhere.”

“Well—do they look well-fed?”

“I can’t tell. All I can see are their yellow eyes. They’re black.”

“That’s bad luck.”

“Only if you believe it.”

“Isn’t that as stupid as saying, ‘Satan is only real, if you believe he’s real.'”

“That’s not stupid. There’s a rational explanation for everything.”

Hearing this from someone who was completely irrational, didn’t put my mind at ease.

Morgan went on, “When we get old, we want company. The older we get, the more cats we want, until, they start breeding. Then, they eat our food, and look at us with sandpaper tongues…”

To be continued…

Playing Dice with the Gods

Scotch, Cigars, Convertibles


The politics of pretending to care

Egos, that deflate like balloons

Then, blow up again, full of hot air

until they pop.

I know what it feels like to be on top

Somebody, trying to push me


It’s not fair

That’s what happens when you try to be higher than somebody else

The need to compete and compare

will lose you respect, like displaced boulders

falling down a mountain.

Being comfortable, in who you are

will make you solid, like the mountain.

You don’t have a shaky footing,

when you keep both feet on the ground.

Climb higher

on the ladder of success

and it falls over.

Those who believe themselves to be better

have such a hard time making friends

they usually like people, who are just like them—

Narcissists (lovers of themselves).

Hubris, is entertaining to watch

The arrogant, don’t learn anything

They believe themselves to be


To have the magic touch,

not based on any strategy.

It’s comedy—

intelligent people, acting like fools

Somebody Smart


they know everything.

The Editor of Cosmo

commits an intellectual crime

murdering, the chief sophisticant

by putting poison in their Wine

while the slovenly detective


their obvious egos

because he has been learning people

for decades.

They never Change

They gamble to escape reality

and if they win

two in-a-row

they think they can play dice with the gods.