Hidden Rules for the Artist

If you put-out different energy, it’s like a force of gravity

The problem is… I don’t know where it comes from

I woke up at 2 AM, full of life

I decided to violate my diet, and cook a pizza for breakfast

I’m researching the occult for a story I’m writing,

so, I read my library books by candle light

One of my candles fell over, and set my apartment carpet on fire

this was not in the occult manual

I stamped it out, and burned a hole in one of my black socks

I’m glad it was a cold night

How do I feel about magic? Some people have it, and others don’t

It doesn’t seem to be something you can learn from a book

Magic is the ability to conjure ideas in the mind, and bring them into existence

It is your will, in the world

What most people don’t realize, is that they are following someone else’s will

going to college, getting a job, buying a house, is the will of the masses

Even status games, are a way to control what people do

L. Ron Hubbard was trying to buy an island from an existing government, so that he could have his own country

He was a man who used his imagination

The Current PC Culture, which is a derivative of Cult

has us monitoring our speech

similar to major religions, that want us to police our thoughts

so that our ideas are held in captivity

We cannot believe in something, without experiencing it

and to choose fear as the governor of our lives

is to shrink in size

Love expands, and should be the dominant emotion that allows us to step-out into faith

“Crazy People” are often original, because they are uninhibited from the inside-out

Occult, comes from within

It is a hidden knowledge, a kind of power, that is not found in a book

it grows from instinct

similar to imagination

people read, without understanding

they take false ideas, and use them to confirm their false beliefs

they judge everything, by what they don’t understand

It is best to keep your knowledge hidden

let it change you

This is the purpose of knowledge

Information that becomes opinion

quickly spirals into cheap talk

which is never understood, because it has no meaning

There are rules for the artist

who toys with human emotions

the more you understand them, the better able

you can play with human consciousness.

The Devils in the Darkness, and You, the Light

there is nothing, so satisfying, as being the light

in a dark room

When you walk in, faces dim

your presence, changes that

some resist—they have to

to go along with you, would be, to get drunk on light

this world is dark, and the people in it, are lost

the light, begins with you, and ends, with other points of light

at first, you are sleeping in the dark, and you can’t breathe

because, something wakes you up

a lack of air

an invisible lack, you can’t see in the dark

you turn-on your reading light, but the words are a waste

someone wrote something

who is lost

finding those who are found

is an anchor, in the library

through swirling gales of TV

and news,

meant to confuse

You find a point of light, that spreads

and those who are found

are profound

It takes time, to understand

Their simple words are not meant to confuse

Turning complicated, into Simple

is an Art.

It becomes a craft, to Cultivate light

Only use it for good

Don’t spread darkness, for your own gain

Those who do, while they have the Truth

are devils.

I went to the dentist

I went to the dentist

and she told me… “You are grinding your teeth at night. What’s bothering you?”

“Oh—the usual things,” I said. “Our lawyers are fighting with their lawyers, where I work.”

“And it’s keeping you up at night?”

“Sure. I can’t keep the bad thoughts out of my head.”

“Well, you remember last time we met, I was pregnant?”

I thought I had, but I didn’t want to say anything, because she was a big girl. What if I was wrong? She continued…

“Now my son is 1.4 years old. It’s been a long time since you’ve been to the dentist.” She scolded me with her eyes. “Now, open wide, and I’ll clean your teeth.”

She was sweet, even though most people hate the dentist. They’re the number one suicide risk profession. My job is number two—psychologist.

“You have acid in your mouth,” she said. “I think I know what this is—you have sleep apnea.”

“What? But I’m a young guy.”

“Young—has nothing to do with it. What happens is, your throat contracts like a straw, closing your air passage. Your subconscious mind wakes you up, but not all the way. Then you grind your teeth, in a reflex response. We can provide you with a sleep study. It will cost you 200 dollars, out of pocket. What do you think?” She asked.

“It sounds like a con. You dentists are con artists. Before—you used to drill holes in teeth and fill them, if you needed a little extra cash. Now, it’s sleep studies.”

She was taken aback. “Well, you don’t want to die in your sleep,” she said.

“Sure, I do. It’s the best way to go.”

“Yes, but not when you’re 35. You want to live to be 95, right?”

“I’m going to live to 105. Heck—115. I will never die.”

I could tell, she thought, she was dealing with a lunatic.

“Now—about your anxiety…” she said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the following study, I’m about to tell you?”

Why do people assume I know everything? I must look competent. Everything, isn’t worth knowing. It’s kinda like books. I believe there are only a few worth reading, lost in the trillions of bad words written. Good books are like good friends, and I hate most people.

My mind had drifted off, again…

the way it usually does, like a survivor, floating on the boring seas…

“Think of the color you hate,” she said. “For me, it’s brown. After my pregnancy, I was having some bad ideas. My psychologist told me to push the bad colors out of my body. Then, I should swallow my favorite color—green.”

No wonder people think my profession is for quacks, I thought. Clearly, brown represents human waste.

“I’ve never heard of that,” I said.

“Well…you learn something new every day. Stop trying to help me out when I clean your teeth. You keep flexing your jaw, and I don’t want you to get tired.”

“I’m not trying to help you,” I said.

She giggled. Apparently, I’m funny. “Now, my secretary will give you the machine.”

When I went to see her secretary, I was looking at a very young girl. “What’s your birthdate?” She asked.

I told her.

“Oh, that’s 10 years different from me,” she said. “The CPAP machine will cost you 3,000 dollars.”

How am I going to make it in this world? My competence is in decline, while everybody is so serious about their work. It sickens me, that they love to do, monotonous tasks. They murder their curiosity. Strangely, as I get older, I have become more curious, and less competent—useless, to society—only useful to myself.

“Hey, this might seem like a random question,” I asked, “But, do you get many patients who still have their wisdom teeth?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“I thought so. Why do we pull them out?”

“Because people aren’t using them,” she said.

“That makes sense.”

The End

Doors Will Open, When You Write

“I need to write!” I yelled.

but the writing gods did not respond

I played the piano, trying to think of a good story

but none came to me.

Knowing where to dig, is not enough

excitement, is an ingredient, in your creative soup

You have to get excited, about discovering, what’s hidden

Writing can’t be your life

because your life must be wrong, and so right

to write

Curiosity and Creativity are lovers

Set them up on a date, stoke their passions

with perfume

and candle light

and you still might not get, the chemistry just right, to write

If you write to make a statement beyond black ink

you aren’t ready

Writing is a mythical creature, found in the dark forest

It’s the only magic I know

People have told me, it’s not practical

or I’m doing my real life harm, when I live in my imagination

but they don’t know what writing is

Anything worth doing, requires fairy dust

Otherwise, we become mechanical

and with enough reason, we realize

a city, is a city

and not a place with magical lights

a golf course is a field, with flags and holes

and nothing can be accomplished there, but drunkenness

So, where do we get our fairy dust from?

Friends–the ones who can’t be bought, and tell us

who we really are

Magic, has to be found

like love, for the first time

or a talent, you never knew you had

life isn’t logical or linear

it’s a dark field at night, where fireflies get tossed in the wind, and congregate

To have a life, worth living, requires entrance, into another world

where doors, sometimes, lock you out

because, they don’t yield by command

People who talk about responsibilities and stress

like a badge of status, don’t believe in anything else

It’s easy to neglect other kinds of power

when you think you have it

Writing, is not the sound of a typewriter

or the red, underlined words, of a word processor

Writing, is the world you find, for yourself

and with a choice, you can choose, not to come back

and that’s okay

because most of us, walk away, from doors

and if we walk on through, sometimes, we get locked out

We wonder…is it worth it? Is it time, to join adult life?

but I don’t think so

Magic, can only be known, in this state of mind

It is not the mind of the masses.

It is true power.

Doors will open,

when you write.

The Monsters Inside Me

the spirits within, are an unnatural sin

they grow, like weeds, in my flowerbed mind

We can’t help what we admire—a certain kind of cool

Rebels,

without any rules

to be the real deal, and not to pretend

Possession

that speaks

while they listen

their negative reactions, are their submission

to my will

because they need a master

the monsters that kill

and keep me alive

like wolves that must to be fed

I feed them all, generously

so, they don’t eat me up, from the inside

to argue, and to defend

is to disbelieve my gamble

I am dangerous, when I practice danger

My motivations, are like a cocktail of fear

the worst sin, is to question them, afraid of the hangover

pure

or impure—

prolific is my law

passion, is a drug, that dries up

“What is the artist saying?”

“It’s not a statement, but a bed of flowers.”

“When do you know you are finished with a poem?”

“When do you know, you are finished making love?”

Without love, you have to live, like other lives

always questioning, what you do

greatness is born on its hands and feet

and walks, because it needs to

then it runs

and never stops running

the only law, is power

vulnerable and raw, like a pound of pounded flesh

How can you question your soul, when it soars into the heavens?

It might be black, but it belongs to you

let it sleep in the wind

Your wings, want you to fly

without them, you are a terrible lizard.

Worn Tiger

How wretched I am

How much more, do I love the worn tiger

with his patchy coat, and Siberian Scars

I don’t have self-sympathy

it makes me

prey

and less, of a self-righteous predator

Majesty—

is shining off my coat

while I look into the mirror,

unable to prove my worth

my claws, rubbed across rocks

a toothless wild cat

smiling

without fangs

failure, must be known and honed

because my heart pumps for life

even, and most especially, when confronted with death

nature, doesn’t have any sympathy

and the worn tiger, doesn’t want any

he plods along

consumed, by his own consumption

amber eyes

to be fossilized, black flies

the warm abundant life, never known, in the mountains of Siberia

exile, in loneliness

in the greatness that can only be felt like a sin

scoffers and mockers can be heard on the wind

the worn tiger, doesn’t mind

their games, don’t interest him

it is the brutal wish for reality

that forces him above the snowline

Even if, he would obey,

curling-up, outside common houses, without character

he would only be a house cat

a harmless king, without power

walked around the neighborhood, on a leash.

Better to be unfriendly,

unforgiving,

unable to live, if not, in the right way

to die by his own law,

the law of his fathers

Sunsets, of pink fire

before, his last roar

the wolves howling, in the lowlands

while nature prepares

her final course

Worn, but still a tiger

remembered, and forgotten

by men.

Falling In and Out of Love

Love doesn’t want us

and then, we don’t want love

there is no spark, to burn down the forest

We try one love, and then another

it’s a lighter, that doesn’t light

we have to keep trying, into the black night

the cold bitter frost

that steals our warmth

while we try, and try, and try

it’s an awkward kiss

How can a man with an alcoholic brain, write?

How can the king of coke, do the deed, like he stole it?

Why do the beggars, in the street, have to beg for more?

I get worse, at being worse, because I practice it

like mammon, selecting prostitutes

I think “pretty good,” is the phrase

bitterness, like coffee, in bed

my mind, is dead

this non-creative brain, is a waking nightmare

take passion, like a prescription

give me hope

not random words or stale sentences

I want to go nuclear

rather than whimpering like a baby

without nourishment

drowning in a mud puddle

listening to the sound, that grates my brain, like cheddar cheese

I climb hills, even if they aren’t mountains

I keep going

what choice do I have?

I take comfort in discomfort

accepting the unacceptable

because love endures, despite no love at all

it’s a fat wife, who nags

a father, who beats his children

I’ve never known perfect love

It leaves,

like a mother who forgets her son at school

What is life teaching us?

Now, I Write About People.

The story I am about to tell you

is only a story, but like any creative fiction, there is truth, mixed with lies.

I was a stranger to myself

So, I went to my adviser for help

“What do you want to do?” He asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What are you good at?”

“I can write.”

“What are you interested in?”

“People.”

“There you have it. Write about people.”

But when I tried, it wasn’t easy.

I thought about doing what he was doing.

I could get a cozy office in the education building

and ask students three questions

but when I visited, the second time

he jumped

splattering on the sidewalk

A suicide?

I told a professor

and when we got back

the body was missing

only a crucifix remained

I followed his advice, like gospel

wearing the sacred cross

while writing about people

and I stay away

from third floor windows

Two teachers told me, my advisor wasn’t real

I had discovered

and murdered

the stranger

inside

me.

Don’t let female psychologists inside your head!

Don wore leather jackets, and drove Mustangs

there were five hairs growing out of his bald head

When I got hired, he was the only male psychologist

then he retired.

I phoned Lorraine… “Central Services…”

“Hi Lorraine—I need protocols.”

“You are just like Don,” she said.

My first year, I was ambitious

My second year, I wanted to rule the roost

My third year, I was hen-pecked

My fourth year…

“You are just like Don,” the lead psychologist said.

Female psychologists can get inside your head

I got the feeling, I was male

and not much else

the lead psychologist was always helping me

while gathering information

to use against me

“Andy has a question…”

“You don’t know that?”

A man might say, “Not okay.”

But in the world of women, everything is indirect

When I was applying for an administrative job

the PhD psychologist said, “Oh—you should apply for the data analyst position—you would be perfect for that!”

I looked it up

15 dollars an hour—clerical

a slap in my face

Don talked about boats, all day

Now I know why

he was trying to stay afloat

after he pulled-out

his hair.

My Philosophy for Surviving a Government Job

You must know your business, to have a business

a job, is something else, entirely

Someone told me…

“You must do your job well, otherwise, you can’t be a believer.”   

I am willing to endure the flames now

there are no arbiters of truth

I answer, only, to God.

I am not an employee

my time belongs to me

After years of developing a philosophy

my Zen-mind-trick has me doing what I want to do

HR calls me, “Where are you?”

“Spending my time.”

Employees don’t know how to enjoy themselves

time-off, is a break from the job

Genius, might be the willingness to break the law

Nobody can give me power, but me

I don’t ask for it

I don’t acknowledge it

I have it

If you can’t become your own master, become an employee

“We all know about you,” HR said at my job interview

they thought they had evidence, against me

“You have been called-in for a disciplinary hearing.”

“And a job interview?” I asked.

“Sure—your attitude is all wrong.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t you care?”

“Of course.”

But the fear wasn’t there, and that’s what they wanted to see

You can drive people crazy, by not going crazy

And I got the job, with a checkmark on my record

I wear it with pride, now

like a general going to work

Most employees are tortured by what they are told

tell yourself something different—

a philosophy

and you can become better

than free.