Fame is a Child that Grows into a Madman

the poet

leered out his window.

There were crowds, down there

He would have to move-out to Nebraska

and build a fence like JD Salinger.

His mother warned him in college, “Don’t get a woman pregnant.”

and he didn’t. He always listened to his mother.

Now, his best friend was paying child support to two different mothers

and was working for UPS,

while he (the poet) rented a small room on the third floor

and wrote poetry.

The checks kept coming in, not in large amounts

but in small sums

just enough to pay the rent

eat what he wanted

and take girls out.

The problem was, his fame was growing, like a child

that ate, pooped, and had a mind of its own.

Sometimes, he felt, held hostage

because

if he left his ivory tower

the common folk

would want

a miracle, an autograph

and he just hated to use his power, willy-nilly.

It was true

at one point in his library explorations

he stumbled upon the occult

and learned secrets inside his room that should not be learned.

Tell young boys that they will learn how to make a girl drop their panties

and you won’t be able to keep them out of school

but they cannot be fooled. They know they will be learning about the opposite:

how to respect a fully-clothed woman from afar.

Oh—the poet had learned to be unconventional.

His mother would not be happy with him now.

There were panties in his bed and panties on his floor

He could’ve opened up an underwear store (red ones, pink ones, lacy ones, invisible ones)

The girls gave them to him, as mementoes.

He gave them his creativity.

He was becoming more famous now, and the child was a madman

who might murder him in his sleep.

He couldn’t stop writing.

It was the blood that circulated his body and went to his brain

It was his shriveled soul

It was all his hopes and dreams

come true.

Women on the Brain

they dance around in these skimpy suits

they hang from the flying trapeze

they balance on the beam

they jump

up

and

down

on the trampoline,

and their butts and breasts and smiles are beautiful.

It’s torture

and pleasure, at the same time.

More than exercise

They sweat, while looking me in the eyes

and they’re doing it

from inside

my head.

Women, in seductive poses

walking like cats

across every bored man’s brain.

Women capture his imagination,

like a mouse, with nowhere to run.

Their claws are a prison

ready

to tear him apart.

What do we know about the woman?

She smells good.

She looks good.

It isn’t what they say, but how they say it

the feminine way.

A man can spend 6 months in the wilderness and

come back to civilization

Not for a good book

but for a woman.

He is always coming back to her.

He came out of her.

He has her

on the brain.

Life would be ugly without her

Life would be dull

without her mystery.

A Simple Sentence to Find Meaning.

I make myself with words

limited, and full.

I put a period there, to make my point.

I build myself, like a sentence.

In my DNA, are letters—D-N-A.

Double Helix

Double, the Fire Power.

I’m a fighter.

What I am, is more than you will ever know.

My sentence is a Zen Koan

I try to understand it

I read it

Several simple words, I can’t comprehend.

Profound.

We all have a simple sentence to carry around.

The one we give ourselves,

or the other,

written down

by someone

who doesn’t care.

I have run out of words

I can’t spell

The words I want to write, are full of delight

there is no period there, no end, in sight.

The words they tell me to put down,

are a death sentence.

Nobody reads the book of death

The book of life

is beautiful to behold.

We are searching for

that simple sentence—What will we do, with our life?

I was born for a reason—How about you?

I know how small I am

in a universe of languages,

but six simple words

is all that I need—

a period

at the end

of a sentence

to find

meaning.

The Absurd, Beautiful Bird

Two Swans

a black swan

and a white swan

chaos

and placid calm.

I drink in

the bitter drink

I suck in

her creamy foam.

The dark angel, laughs

and the angel of morning, sings.

Love triangles

like geometric shapes

acute bliss

obtuse understanding

Never a perfect triangle

The mathematician tries

to solve her equation.

The psychologist looks

for a disorder.

A squared + B squared = C squared.

Hypotenuse

Hypnotized

by that beautiful bird

It’s absurd

but

that doesn’t matter.

Lance Dean Goes Fishing

Lance knew he was close to the Everglades.

How did he know? Simple. There were crocodiles. Everywhere.

He was a long way from Louisiana.

“Why is it, that when you need a bigger boat, you can never find one?” Lance asked.

The woman looked at him, like she didn’t know what he was talking about.

He pointed.

A tail, 30 feet long, was following them, like a ship’s rudder.

She screamed. “Take us out to sea!” She started to mess with the sail.

“Keep your hands to yourself. Those things do better in the open water. We’re going to have to fend them off.”

“With what?”

Lance grabbed a harpoon from the bottom of his boat.

“With this.”

He had confidence that he could keep them from biting his bitch in half—just as long as he didn’t fall asleep, so staying awake, was going to be the hard part.

He kept alert, and the night fell like a blanket. There were monsters under his bed. Yellow eyes, everywhere.

“Don’t make a sound,” Lance said.

The eyes were getting closer.

He reached under his seat and pulled-out a stick of dynamite. Then he plopped it in a bucket, lit the fuse, and threw it behind them.

It got eaten, almost before it hit the water.

BOOM!

“That’ll teach ’em.”

To be continued…

What’s My Name?

I covered the exit, while Leanne helped her dad limp out of the Casino.

She got into the back and Charles sat in the passenger seat.

“Can you drive?” He asked.

“We’ll see,” I said.

The beast woke up, like I had poked it. I pulled its leg and we entered traffic among turtles, bugs, and tired rabbits.

I parked in front of my dad’s house.

“You’re a great wheelman. What’s your name?” Charles asked.

“Andy.”

I could see that Charles was trying to place me. “Oh—like Andy from Toy Story?”

“No—it hasn’t come out yet. I think it’s a Western where I get the girl and ride off into the sunset.”

“That sounds right,” Charles said. He shook my hand with his one good arm.

I looked at Leanne. She smiled at me.

“Just have her back before dark,” Leanne’s daddy told me.

“Yes sir!” I drove out of the cul-de-sac, down the street, took a right, and we were gone.

The sun still gave us time.

“What do you want to do, Leanne?” She crawled into the front seat.

I got lost in her eyes.

“Let’s break our curfew,” she said.

The End

A Different Kind of Rockstar

“Can’t people see

that there’s no difference

between

you or me?”

The communists say that, and then they want your money.

I say that, and laugh.

I like to be alone.

I go to my parent’s house.

My mom falls asleep talking to me

and my dad is someplace else, entirely (Reading a good book, I think, on his phone).

“Dad, has anything happened, lately?”

He looks at me. He takes off his glasses, slowly.

“Our previous pastor no longer believes in hell.”

I can tell, my dad is disappointed in him.

“Our current pastor wants me to read the previous pastor’s new book, and refute him.”

“That sounds exciting,” I said.

“It doesn’t add anything to my life.”

“Well, are you going to do it?”

“Sure, but it gets complicated. Our current pastor is the son-in-law of our previous pastor, and they’re feuding.”

“Sounds like a mess.”

My dad nodded.

“What’s the book called?” I asked.

“There is no Hell.”

“Catchy.” My friend knocked on the door, and our dog nearly bit his balls off. “Gotta go,” I said.

“How are you doing man?”

“Ohhhhh.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I’m alright.”

I told him about my dad, and we got onto the subject of God’s law.

“Most religions hold the same tenants because people are fundamentally the same,” I said.

“That’s not true!”

“Of course, it’s true,” I said. “The golden rule is similar to what Buddhists believe. If I hurt you, I hurt myself.”

“No! Some religions demand human sacrifice.”

“I say, people are mostly good, or they operate from self-interest—the rule of reciprocity. If I treat you well, you will likely treat me well. That way, we can have a healthy society.”

“How do you explain the murderers and sociopaths? We have laws to protect us. I like my freedom of speech.”

“Think about the wars done in the name of religion. There are always bad eggs. Laws won’t protect you. And do you really have the freedom of speech? If you said half of the stuff that comes out of your mouth, you’d be fired and locked-up in an insane asylum.”

“Cultures are different. I know—I’ve travelled abroad.”

“At the core of cultures is the same humanity,” I said. “What’s true in one religion can be true in another—if it’s God’s truth.”

“You always know how to win.”

“Let’s go pick-up some chicks.”

We arrived at the church.

I started talking to this girl, because my friend was talking to the other girl.

She had no light in her.

We went into the auditorium, and the pulse music was jamming inside my chest.

Sometimes, you just have to let the music happen to you.

The speaker was trying to be a cult leader. I found him mildly entertaining.

Afterwards, we met-up with my friend’s girlfriend, and we went out to pizza together. She’s a popular girl.

The girls who had their noses in the air were smiling at us now.

I’ve always been interested in society, but as a social scientist, and not someone who was trying to work the system.

Now, by blind luck, I’m at the top.

Strangely, people are not any different at the top.

My friend’s girlfriend asked me, “What kind of rock music do you like?”

I told her that I liked ACDC and Metallica—heavy metal.

She might’ve been thinking, I like the Devil’s Music.

I don’t care.

“You said that without expression,” she said, in her most animated voice.

“That’s right. That’s my personality. I like to listen to crazy, but I don’t like to get crazy.”

What Leanne Learned from Her Daddy

“What are you going to do?” I asked Charles.

“I’m going to kill every man who touched my little girl. Are you coming?”

I felt the weight of the gun in my hands.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Charles had his arm in a sling, but he drove his muscle car, like he had two hands and two feet on the gas.

“Why did they take her?” I asked.

“Because I’m a dirtbag and I didn’t pay-up. If my wife finds out, she’ll leave me. When we go into the Casino, act cool.”

“What does that look like?”

“Here, smoke one of these.”

I held the cigarette in my hand, and did my best Clint Eastwood impression in the mirror.

“That’s about right, but your eyes are still soft—try these.”

He handed me a pair of sunglasses.

“Do you speak Russian?”

“Da,” I said.

“That’s the right attitude.”

We lurched to a stop, in front of two prostitutes. Their legs were long, flowing into the void.

“Excuse me ladies… where can I find your boss?”

“Mister, you are the boss. Now, tell us what you want?”

Charles, pulled out his gun, and stuck it up her skirt.

“I’ve got an itchy trigger finger, and unless you want a lead baby, I insist, you take me to your boss.”

“Well, you don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

They walked into the Casino in their high heels. I couldn’t see anything.

There were tall bouncers with submachine guns dangling from their hips. They looked at us like security cameras.

Sally, knocked on a red door.

“What is it, bitch?”

“Two men to see you, sir—or, one and a half.”

Sally looked at me, the way a whore looks at a man who can’t pay—useless.

The door opened, and we walked in.

Immediately, the clicks of several actions went off at the backs of our heads.

There were four guns pointed at us.

Leanne was sitting on the boss’s lap, like a cat. He was smoking a cigar.

“You have a charming daughter, sir. She told me what she learned in school today. How can she be so smart, while you are so stupid?”

“She gets her brains from her mother.”

“Well, what did you give her?”

“Survival skills.”

Leanne pulled a knife from her pocket and jammed it into the man’s junk.

“Ahh! You bitch! Ahh!”

“Hit the floor, honey!”

Charles pulled-out his gun and blew two body guards away. He took two bullets in the leg.

I filled their feet full of lead.

“My toes!” They screamed.

Leanne ran to her daddy, and helped him out the door.

“Daddy! Are you hit?”

“Only in the ass.”

“Mom will take care of that for you. And you…” Leanne looked at me, differently.

She gave me a hug, and a big kiss.

To be continued…

If you want to get the girl, you got to have the gun.

Morning pancakes were punctuated by scrambled eggs. It was a complete breakfast.

There was knocking on our door.

I expected to see the bald mailman, with his jolly face, but it was Leanne—fresh, like a flower that opens for the sun.

Her incisors were two tiny points, that smiled through red lips.

“Do you want some breakfast?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she said.

She had-on a new dress. She smelled good.

My dad looked at her, like the dream he never had.

That’s what happens when you get older…

All the things you didn’t have, laugh at you.

“Does your dad know you’re here?”

“Yes,” Leanne said.

“I’ll take you to school, but this is the last time.”

Leanne looked at the floor.

“Does your dad know we don’t want to carpool anymore?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe, I better go tell him.”

“No, you can’t do that. My mom’s taking care of him.”

“Broken arm, or not, I should tell him.”

“It’s not that—she’s doing a private dance for him. It’s the one he likes. She’s playing their song.”

It donned-on my dad. He looked like a defeated doormat, stepped-on, by the shit-stained boots of a biker.

“Well, let’s go. I’ve had my coffee. That’s about the best thing that’s going to happen to me today, unless my workplace catches fire,” he said.

The drive to school was electric.

I was sitting next to Leanne. My heart was pulsing up and down. It was wonderful, but I knew my internal roller-coaster only had room for one, and when she got out of our car, she wouldn’t know me, and I would be staring at her across a crowd of ape-like boys, while engaged in sophisticated games of reason.

That’s what happened, like Deja Vu, and the end of our day was punctuated by the bell.

It was going to be a long walk home. My dad was preparing me for the same kind of life he was living.

“Have you seen my daughter?”

It was Charles.

He had on a black leather jacket, and a bandana.

“Sorry, I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

“Where’s the main office?”

“Over there.”

Charles knocked on the window, and this fat secretary looked at him. She had more Chins than a Chinese Phone Book.

“Yes?” She asked.

“My daughter is Leanne Summers. Do you know where she is?”

“Let me see…” She made this clucking sound with her lips.

“Her uncles picked her up.”

“She’s been stolen,” Charles said.

“I’ll call the police.”

“I do my own stunts.”

That’s when I saw the .45 under his armpit. “Do you know how to handle one of these?” He asked me.

Charles handed me the gun.

“Sir, this is a gun-free zone.”

He looked at her, like he might blow her brains out.

“If you want to get the girl, you got to have the gun,” he told me.

To be continued…

Principal Prick

He had a face like a penus.

He was always screwing somebody.

His mouth had residue on it.

He wore these little suits.

His head was bald.

He was growing a pubic beard.

I noticed something…

Principals love to refer to their teaching years… to their subject.

“I was a Science Teacher which means I’m pretty smart,” the prick said.

“I was a Math Teacher which means I’m pretty smart, the other prick said.

They love to admire their heads, and talk.

Our principal walked around like a shriveled dick, hunched over, investigating things.

He sniffed around, looking for children, where they shouldn’t be.

When he got on stage, he waved. He grabbed his microphone.

Oh, they are so political. Their balls are shrunk. They spend all day making feminists happy.

Their wives make their lunches for them.

Principals love buzz cuts, or they go bald.

They remind me of military men, preparing for war.

They work with women.

Rarely, do I see a principal with long hair, and if she has long hair, she won’t last long.

Feminists have buzz cuts.

What is the point, of pointing out the obvious?

The truth is full of laughter.

We dress it up, and put lipstick on it, and pretend it’s not a prick,

but we all know what it is.

Professionals play-along with their pricks

because they’re supposed to,

but if they were given a paycheck for life, would they sit in the audience?

No.

All the pricks would be able to do, is to shake hands with each other,

and admire their swelling brains, while the prick-less people

play with their fruit

in the summer sunshine.