WHAT CAN A MAN SAY?

They told him that he had six months.
Stage IV Cancer.
He was a strong man.
Yet, he held me and cried.
I didn't know what to say.
What can a man say?
I loved him, so I cried with him.
He lasted six years.
He decided to fight his decrepitude.
He did all the research.
Called all the hospitals.
I did things for him, that he couldn't do for himself.
I took a share of his business affairs, to lighten his load.
I called him every day.
He often laughed.
He never gave up.
At the end, he suffered many humilitations.
His body finally denied him.
In fact, it insulted him.
He wouldn't talk to me, the last 2 weeks of his life.
I understood his message to me.
It was twofold.
He wanted me to remember his strengths, not his weaknesses.
He wanted to say goodbye.
He was my best friend.
He was my big brother.
Enter into that unknown realm, dear Jim.
I know you'll do your best.
When I meet you, I'll know what to say.

POOR JESUS

I stare at the crucifix.
Poor Jesus.
He died for my sins, you know.
I thought He could hear me.
I prayed to Him.
My prayers were answered.
Sometimes.
"Why not all the time?", I thought.
My mother told me, "God has His reasons."
In God's time, not mine.
His way or the highway.
Then I learned that, "god is dead".
I quit praying.
Life had no sense.
Neither did I.
Maybe I needed an exorcism.
Drive the evil spirit out of me!
Frighten me with prayer.
Fear me with the flames of hell.
Poor Jesus.
I stare at His sad face.
I look at a statue, my mother had owned.
It was made out of plastic.
It had plastic tears.
A plastice crown of thorns, adorned its' head.
All her life, she believed.
She stared at the crucifix.
Poor Jesus.
I find Him, when I need Him.
I find Him, when I doubt.
I always can go back.
I stare at icons.
The crucicix.
Plastic statues.
Poor me.

CHOICES DEFINE REALITIES

The days bleed one into the next,
or rather they fly by me, at warp speed.
It all depends on my point of view.
Everything is in flux.
I change, as everything else changes.
It's confusing to me.
Sometimes I see my situation with clarity.
At other times I am in a fog.
My mind flutters from one extreme to another.
I'm like a butterfly, going from flower to flower.
One moment I'm happy; the next moment I'm sad.
Is this the way older men are supposed to be?
Sometimes I feel secure and knowledgable.
Other times, I feel as if an ogre has me by the ankles.
He is dangling me over a frightening precipice.
I suppose, I have too much time on my hands.
I think, therefore I write.
A man is happiest, when he is working.
Most men complain about their working days.
They quickly forget about the pain of it all.
Yes, they forget when faced with endless, retirement hours.
What am I to do next? Do I count the hairs coming out of my ears?
Time went by, too damned fast.
My dad used to tell me that, "Life is just a wait at a bus stop."
I thought he was crazy.
Now, I think he was wise.
Sometimes, I long for the challenges of my youth.
At other times, I'd just rather take a nap.
It's good to have that choice.
For me today, reality is taking a nap after a hot meal.
The Bears play Green Bay tonight, on Monday Night Football.
I wouldn't want to miss the game, by falling asleep at half-time.
Choices define my realities.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
***

SUNDAYS

I still fondly remember Sundays at my mom and dad's house, in Chicago.
I'm thinking of the old days, in the late 50's through early 60's.
My family started out early in the morning.
We put on our Sunday best. Coats and ties for men and boys.
Pretty dresses, hats, and gloves, for girls.
We then drove to Mass, in my dad's big 1958, Pontiac.
Mom already had the roasts seasoned, and ready to pop in the oven.
After we got back home with the Sunday Chicago Tribune;
we all changed from our Sunday finery, into more comfortable clothes.
My sister, brother, and I set the table.
We washed the breakfast dishes, and joked around with each other.
Often, our aunts, uncles, and cousins showed up for a festive meal.
Our food was good, German-Polish, fare.
I remember delicious, huge amounts of Spare Ribs, and Sauerkraut, beef-and-pork roasts, homemade polish sausage, pierogi's, mashed potatoes-and-gravy, oxtail soup, wonderful salads, and cooked vegetables. Oh yes! The deserts! My mom always baked on Saturday nights, and we always had wonderful cakes, pies, and cookies.
Sunday was a day for the family. We shared the newspaper, watched sports, or old movies on tv, and drank Hamm's beer or pop. My mom and dad always let me have a little beer in a highball glass after our Sunday meal. I hated the bitterness of it, and everyone would laugh at the face I made, after I took a few sips. I guess since I was a pudgy little kid, I'd always opt for the second desert helping! Our whole extended family usually told stories of the Great Depression, or Europe, as told by my great grandparents. We were told how lucky we were, to live in such comfort. My family would laugh, sing, play cards and hug each other a lot. My aunties, uncles and the cousins usually left before the great, Sunday night, tv programs. My family always watched Walt Disney, The Ed Sullivan show, and Bonanza. We had a black-and-white tv set, with only three channels. In those days, children and parents watched tv together, as a family. The programs we watched were heartwarming, and spoke of love and family values. We were a simple, and hard-working family that shared much love. I miss my mom and dad. I miss my brother and sister. They all have died. I still have my memories of them and these wonderful Sundays. I feel blessed.

WHAT'S MY NAME?

I live in the weak and the wounded.
I have no mercy on them.
I am an all-consuming entity.
I invade anyone, at anytime, anywhere.
I have taken the strongest of men down.
I turn them into sniveling cowards.
I take the rich, the poor, male or female.
I am called by many names.
I've existed since the dawn of mankind.
I've afflicted paupers, and kings, sages, and fools.
They all were powerless against me.
I have invaded those of great intellect.
I also torture those, who lack sufficient knowledge.
I will exist until the last of humankind, draws breath.
I will pick and choose who I want.
Open your mind to me.
Invite me in.
Accept my perversion.
Allow yourself to be ruled by my ways.
Refuse all help.
Accept me as your God.
I will show you strange, wonderful things.
You will laugh, and you will cry.
You might shriek with terror.
My influence has no bounds.
My name is: Madness.

BLINDNESS

What would I do, if I were blind?
Blindness frightens me.
I've been blind drunk, but that never scared me.
I did have an optic migraine once.
Lights were flashing in my peripheral vision.
That really scared me.
I thought I was having a stroke.
I was around 50 years old.
I was at work, loading trucks with a CAT endloader.
I thought it was the sun in my eyes.
It might have been the reflection on the tracks.
It didn't go away.
I had the foreman take me to the hospital.
Once there, they medical people put me in a tube, for an MRI.
Thankfully, everything checked out alright.
The flashes went away.
The hospital told me to make sure and see an Opthamologist.
I did. She checked me out.
She said, "Sometimes the optic nerve creates these migraines."
"Have you been under any undue stress, lately?"
"Well yes", I said. "My whole life has been stressful."
I imagined she might be referring me to a psychiatrist, next.
I left her office feeling relieved.
She found nothing physically wrong with my eyes.
I only had a few more episodes of flashing lights.
I suppose I calmed down, and my condition went away.
I think if I went blind, I would become a jazz pianist.
At least this activity would keep me busy, and give me hope.
It would be quite ironic, if I were to go deaf at the same time.
I have significant hearing loss, from running heavy equipment.
I also listened to too much loud, rock and roll.
There's always something to fear.
Life's a bitch, but there's always hope.
I'd still be able to pet a purring cat.
I'd be able to feel rain or sunshine on my face.
I'd be able to learn morse code, and braille, so I could read.
I'd still be able to smell good food in the oven.
Be grateful.
We are all blind at times.

YOUNG LOVE

I looked at her, and she looked at me.
It was one of those magical moments.
We both gazed into each others eyes.
Everything was right.
There was electricity.
We danced, and felt each others heat.
She smelled like fresh flowers.
My older brother told me I experienced "the click".
I received immediate knowledge, that she and I were meant to be.
Circumstances made it fail.
I made it fail, really.
I must own up.
She begged me for an answer, but I was cruel.
I left her flat.
It was one of the biggest mistakes of my life.
I try not to dwell on it.
It keeps coming back, like a ghost.
I don't need more flames, in my private hell.
My youth is a million miles away.
I suppose love came to easy for me, then.
I let it get away.
I suppose if I met her now, she would say, "get over it".
I have to live with my mistakes.
I have to pray for forgiveness.
In order to claim a semblance of what once was good in me;
I have to admit to, and understand my evil.
I want to be alone now, to grieve and think.
I really did love her.

I NEED A SYSTEM RESTORE POINT

I need a system restore point, for my mind.
I need a firewall to keep all these bad thoughts, from coming in.
I have the "creepy crawlies", man!
My puter is rebelling again.
How many hours do I spend, glassy-eyed in front of this monster?
My freaking machine, with it's motherboard, and 'lectronic shit,
is driving me stark-raving, mad.
I swear I'm gonna' get my sledge hammer from outta' the garage,
and do it in for good!
Then for good measure, I'll destroy the tv set with all 900 channels, that have me surfing for tv shows, that I have seen over, and over again. Then I will smash my new Ipod which won't work on my Microsoft Windows XP, Professional, and anything else that goes "beep" or whistles, or whirs...
Whew! Calm down man, and breathe...yeah breathe.
I need to take a chill pill, or two.
I'm watching the blue bar now, loading up, ever so slowly.
So restore me already, gawl dangit!
Lord only knows what other tortures my puter is going to put me through, before it is done. I'm buying that "yeller dog" and boogeying out to Montana, for sure!
I'm gonna grow my own weed, and "hermitize" my ass.
I'll get a fifth of Wild Turkey, 100 proof, and start reading Thoreau.
I sick of techno-gizmo, screwups!
There, now I feel better.

WEIRD

I try not to be weird.
I really do.
But, if you saw my room,
it would freak you out.
So, now you're on to me.
I'm a psycho-dude.
I look normal enough.
I fit in most situations.
I learned how to adapt.
I had to learn.
I got sick of being hurt.
I worked hard, to look dangerous.
Inside, I am afraid.
People frighten me.
I try to stay away from them.
When I see them, I smile a lot.
At work, I smiled all the time.
At the end of the day, my face hurt from smiling.
I loved to go home at night and frown.
I got drunk, and felt like a real person.
I loved being alone.
Now I don't have to work.
I don't have to smile.
I rarely go out.
I constructed my own world here, in my house.
I get paid for being weird.
I never thought my weirdness would pay off.
It's weird, isn't it?

THIS WRITING THING

This writing thing is like a whore.
She comes in the room in high heels.
She wears a short skirt, and crosses her legs.
She make sure that you see her smiling at you.
Then she asks for money.
You should be at home with your wife and children.
You should be living life, and eating hot meals.
Instead, you are in a room, at a typer.
You anguish over ideas, to romance your readers.
It's an exercise in futility, at best.
Yet it is passionate, dangerous, and sinful.
You are responsible for your words.
A writer often puts life on hold, to live in fantasy.
He makes excuses not to go to church, balls games,
family parties, and vacations, so he can be with his mistress.
The family suffers, the coffers aren't filled,
and the verse still isn't good enough.
After the orgasm, the writer doubts himself.
Sometimes he is ashamed.
He wonders when he will be paid, for his whoring.
Yeah, we are all whores.
Writers are two bit whores waiting for a pay-off.
If you want to be a writer, don't expect a pay-off.
Just do it, because you love it.
It will kick you in the ass, if you have delusions of grandeur.
It will kick you in the ass, if you don't have delusions of grandeur.
Writing is a cruel mistress.
She fucks with my head every day.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
I couldn't have it any other way.
I am owned by the pen.

TRUE LOVE

let's make love for each other, not to each other.
I promise to be your one, and only.
the minute i saw you, i knew you were the man for me.
then you proved it, with your loving ways.
i'd die for you, you know.
i love you so much, i can't stand it when we're apart.
i just want you, and only you!
promise me, you'll always be mine.
promise me, you'll want no-one else.
now, make sweet love to me, baby!
ooooh....just like that!
you are the best, you know!
did you leave the hundred-bucks on my dressser?
that's my good boy.
see you next week!
he smiles contentedly, as he leaves.
she waves goodbye as she thinks,
"what an asshole."

ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL

i fell asleep at the wheel of life.
It caused me nothing but pain and strife,
not to wake up.
This chosen stupor, wasn't reality.
It didn't matter to me.
I didn't have to deal with it.
Reality is just for suckers, who don't know jack.
Make your mark, just be cool.
With eyes closed shut, I played the fool.
They finally came for me.
Police, psychiatrists, and ghosts from the past.
It was a convergence.
They came all at once, with pistols blazing.
I was cornered.
These ghosts from my past, never relaxed.
I always had to look over my shoulder.
Now I see, I cannot flee.
Everything has a price.
I fell asleep at the wheel of life.
It was my wheel of fortune, Vanna.
I was lucky.
I got a second chance to make things right.
I picked the shards of glass out of my forehead.
I carried on, without the strife.
The old wags are gone, so now I'm free.
I must accept reality.
My daily choices mean life or death.
That's all that's left.
For a man who falls asleep at the wheel.

I MUST BE BROKEN

I write, eat, and sleep.
I work my body hard, to stay alive.
My word is my passion, my prison. It is self-imposed.
I forego most vacations. They seem meaningless to me.
Vacations are for getting fat. After a day, or two,
I want to go home.
I want to sit in my dark space, and write.
I don't want to change the world, or any of that crap.
I just want to show it, in its' rawness.
I like to be alone. I am happy with my isolation.
It's better this way, believe me.
If I go on vacation, I might inflict sarcasm on my family.
This is not a desirable option.
They wonder, "What's the matter with him?"
They all shop, cook, laugh, take walks in the lovely woods,
lounge in hot tubs, sail, and have a genuinely good time.
I've done all this before.
I want to explore new territories.
These are locked somewhere in my brain.
There are things broken in there, that I have to find.
Then maybe, I can fix them.
Everything is pointless, anyway...
vacations, writing, balloon rides, skydiving.
Why do we do these things?
Maybe it's because we are greedy.
We want to fill our lives with as much shit as we can,
before we die.
Eat more, drink more, screw more, do more of everything.
Then they can tell me, "Why do you want to sit in the dark, and write, when you could be with us on vacation?"
I truly don't know how to answer them.
I am broken.
There are some things you shove so deep,
it's as if they never happened.
Don't worry about me.
Someday, I will free my mind, and set my lonesome dove free.
I have a winged bird inside of me.

TOO MUCH HEARTACHE

There's just too much heartache in it,
watching the human drama unfold.
Beat-up, hundred-dollar cars I owned,
no insurance or brakes, driving in a foot of snow.
I lost the the last one, because of an accident.
I got sued, had to pay-off big time.
My rent was late, the jobs ain't there.
Then my unemployment ran out.
My wife left, and I ended up on the streets.
There ain't enough soup kitchens anymore, either.
People aren't donating food like they used to,
so we don't eat too well.
This summer was ok, but it was hot and rainy.
At least a man doesn't freeze in the summer.
Winter kills, but I wouldn't stay in a homeless shelter.
People have lice, and they steal from you.
It isn't safe there.
There's all this wailing, and laughing and fights.
People are insane. It's not for me.
The department stores used to let us sleep on the loading docks.
We were under Lower Wacker Drive.
We slept on the grates, and the heat from the garage kept us warm.
Now we can't do that anymore, because people have no place to urinate.
We leave a mess wherever we go. No portable toilets, no nuthin'.
I see more immigrants coming in now, from all over the world.
My slim chance for work is starting to look like no chance.
The boss men on Madison Street, only pay bottom dollar.
They know they have us by the short hairs.
Where the hell am I supposed to go now?
I suppose petty crime is the only way.
Drugs are too dangerous.
Sometimes jail looks better than freedom.
I never thought my life would turn out like this.
No-one ever does.

ORDER AND CHAOS

Supposedly, the Universe started with a "big bang". This doesn't sound very orderly to me. The great Steven Hawking recently theorized that he believes in a "spontaneous generation", of the Universe. In other words, something was created from nothing. This is an excellent party trick, if you can do it! Hawking doesn't believe in God. I don't think I would either, if I was locked in my own body, and stuck in a wheel chair, without use of my legs and arms. Order is a good thing. It keeps us from going crazy. It's nice to know that the sun is going to shine every day, and that when I wake up in the morning, my wife is going to be lying next to me, instead of a space alien. I look at my life, and it was pretty much, orderly. I went to school, and then I went to work for 40 years. I showed up every day. I was told by authority figures, that I'd get a prize at the end of my life in the form of retirement and security. So far, so good!
I also had chaos in my life. Drunken parties, wild women, police chases, fights, lawsuits, divorce, jail, speeding tickets, rehabilitation centers, get the picture? However, some of the chaos was fun. Most of it wasn't. But, damn it!, what I remember and love the best, were the good times in chaos! It was fun and dangerous to run wild in the streets! Order was punching a clock, making car payments, folding my hands in front of myself, on a school desk, taking out the garbage, and doing everything that everyone else, wanted me to do. Order wasn't very much fun, but it was safe, and did have its' rewards. The one thing that screws up a perfectly ordered life, is terminal illness, or sudden death. People who only have a short time to live have often told me that, they wished they had taken more time off from work, and had done more adventurous things. I guess we all need to find our own balance with order and chaos. Which one do you want the most of, in your life?

MAN THINGS

When a man walks into a room, he should feel as if he owns it.
It takes years of imitating, observations of other mens' behavior,
and hard work to attain this swagger.
I never felt that "I owned the room", until I was in my mid-30's.
I needed to overcome many fears, pass many tests, experience countless disappointments, and observe death first hand, to reach a state of mind,
where I thought, "I truly was a man".
I was in the club of "maleness", or so I thought.
I carried my illusions, and my myths, and like all things, they evolved.
As I approached fifty, I felt broken, disassociated from love, feelings,
and from life itself. I saw my past with clarity, for the first time.
I became a better man, by owning up to my failures. I tried to change.
I had months of success, but would relapse back into mythologies invented by other men, rather than by myself. I worked on every facet of my personality, and by the time I was fifty-seven, I found that I was happy in my own skin.
I didn't need the swagger in the room. I carried my "maleness" inside of me.
This was short lived, because I was put to more tests. I wore many hats.
I had to be a caregiver, a husband, a father, and a decision maker.
I had to fight personal illness, and the loss of family and friends.
I buried many of those I loved, and I evolved further.
My conception of "man things", became less manly, and more feminine in nature.
I guess I learned that true swagger comes from acceptance, not the ego.
I don't own a room, when I walk into it anymore. It owns me.
I adapt to each room I walk into, and try to do what's best for me,
and everyone else. By the age of sixty, my man things were losing their grip on me.
Sometimes they come back, but I use them more judiciously. I hope that if I live to be seventy, I will have evolved into a "real" man. The real man becomes a trusting, little boy, so he can fill his heart with love. Then, and only then can he live in a wonderful world, because he is filled with curiosity, and imagination.

HOME THEATRE AMERICA

I am very wealthy. I have a huge, home theatre in my mansion.
I must have all the latest and greatest, that modern, American,
media-technology, has to offer.
I recently purchased a 100", 3-D, television entertainment system.
It's resplendant with Bose, and Marshall integrated,
surround-sound, systems.
I bought ten pair of expensive 3-D glasses for my guests.
I entertain them on movie nights, once a week.
These affairs are catered, and my staff or servers
provide my dear friends with top-shelf cocktails,
and delicious snacks, throughout the showing of the movies.
I had a nagging problem I had to attend to, which bothered me.
Sometimes, there are more guests, than glasses.
Since I am class-conscious, I wanted to be fair to my "best" of friends.
When there are more than ten of them in attendance,
people who are less wealthy, aren't provided with 3-D glasses.
My decision sometimes ruffles some feathers,
but insures that I engender a competitive spirit, in the losers.
They have three choices: One...they can leave in a huff,
embarrassed by the fact that they are underachievers.
Two...They can stay and enjoy the movie, without the benefit of the 3-D glasses.
These types, flounder with their second-class status.
Or three...the best option, I think, they can make a decision,
to formulate a plan to make more money for the next year!
When I check their assets, they can claim victory,
and earn a pair of my precious, 3-D glasses.
These hardy individuals, are the finest examples of American Capitalism!
Bully for them!
Raise your popcorn containers high!

THE COFFEE SHOP

I meet with her in a coffee shop.
We are in Europe, the Eastern Block.
She is young, recently divorced and unhappy.
More than anything else, she is intelligent, and beautiful.
She sees me as a father figure, a mentor, a gentleman.
I am no more to her, but maybe I am incorrect in this assumption.
We enjoy our conversation.
The coffee, the sights, the sounds, are all good.
I am happy in this moment.
I don't regret my age, and neither does she.
This was meant to be, as it is.
I do not do anything foolish.
I keep my libido in check.
We meet like this, to discuss Metaphysics.
I wonder if she longs to discuss more.
Will she hold my hand, or gaze into my eyes?
These questions bring me joy.
I vow to keep meeting her.
Mysteries may be revealed.
What is life without desire, imagination, and dreams?
Birth-and-death are merely bookends.
The in-betweens make everything interesting.
Age does not neccessarily deter meaningful connections.
So, I wait.
I am a voyeur, in these European coffee shops.
I watch old men with nicotine-stained fingers,
bring dainty cups to cracked lips.
Those aged lips still have the facility,
to kiss the petals of red roses.
These flowers, tenderly grown,
are hand-picked for pleasure.
The "aesthete" in me, celebrates this ritual.
The "wise old man in me" shouts out:
"Watch for the thorns."
I sip the last of my coffee.
I watch her lithe body, as she walks to the door.
She smiles her gentle smile,
and waves to me as she leaves.
She is as lovely as a painting.
Her blonde hair is bathed in sunlight, like goldenrod.
I am happy for this day.

NO JUSTICE

Imagine there's no heaven.
All you have to do is look at Mark David Chapman.
He murdered John Lennon, one of my favorite singers,
and composers. John died like a dog in the streets.
This event took place in 1980.
John was shot in front of his apartment,
in New York City.
The whole world was shocked, and saddened.
There may be a heaven, but their sure ain't no justice.
According to the New York City State Division of Paroles,
Chapman was just denied parole for the 6th time.
I can't dislike the fact that he has been incarcerated in Attica Prison,
for 30 years...but has he really suffered?
As I stare at Chapman's picture, he certainly looks well fed.
The taxpayers have fattened him up, pretty damned good!
He works in the prison library, and does some light housekeeping.
For the past 20 years, he has enjoyed conjugal visits,
from his wife, Gloria.
This maniac, even has his own private cell!
I wonder if the taxpayers bought him an Ipad, and a digital tv?
Today, when our country sees a National Debt, soaring out of control,
just think of the money that could have been saved, if the State of New York had put Mr. Chapman out of his misery, years ago.
$900,000 is my rough estimate...30 grand a year, for 30 years, to keep this animal, fat and happy.
This figure forces me to warm up to the idea of Capital Punishment.
How about you?
Yes, John Lennon...I imagine there's no heaven.
I miss you.
One thing for sure, I know there's no justice.

THE LIGHT

sometimes i see that light.
sometimes i feel its' warmth.
i sit in cold rooms.
i eat cold meals.
i light the vigil candle,
in catholic churches.
though my religion has left me.
i do it out of habit.
i peer out my window into the darkness.
my mind is a blank.
i must find the light.
i carry a candle with me.
in a beat-up suitcase,
putting it on the gideon bible,
in musty motel rooms.
the phone bookswork just as well,
but the light needs a more sacred foundation.
the light hasn't gone out, yet.
it doesn't burn strongly,
as it has in the past.
still i seek the raging flame.
i am a fool.
are you the same?
we all seek, until we give up.
my light flickers slowy.
sometimes it causes me alarm.
the light is worth my efforts.
it is all that is left:
the light of truth.
the light of creation.
the light of harmony.
the light of hope.
the light of compassion.
the light of life.
the light of my life.

LOVE STORY

She: Do you have a condom?
He: No, we don't need a condom.
She: Why?
He: Well, you know I'm a married man.
She: Well, how do I know you're not fooling around,
with other women besides me?
He: I don't fool around.
You're my only love, baby.
She: Oh bullshit!
He: Listen, I've had a vasectomy, as well.
You're safe on all accounts!
She: Yeah...ok...if you say so.
He: C'mon baby, I wouldn't lie to you.
She: Ok, hon...ooooh...I like it like that!
He: I knew you would.
She: You're a real lover-man!
He: You know it, baby.
She: Hey lover man, what's the matter?
He: Nuthin'. I gotta' take a couple of blue pills.
She: You sure that will work?
He: No doubt about it; just stay sexy!
She: (after 15 minutes), Hey!..where you at, big boy?
He: zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
She: You feel asleep sitting on the toilet, you fool!
He: I'm sorry baby, I guess I drank too much.
She: Get the hell out of here, damned cheater,
and never come back!
He: Hey!...Quit hittin' me, I'm tryin' to put on my pants.
She: Here, take these blue pills with you too!
He: Damn woman!...You are a mean one!
She: Bring condoms next week, you dummy,
and don't drink so much!
He: Ok baby, I'll see you after church, just like always.

RAZOR BLADE

it cuts thin and deep,
this razor blade.
it goes through the boxes,
in my soul.
there is no pain,
though it disorganizes...
my pre-conceived notions,
alchemic potions,
which led me to untruths,
which i embraced.
they're all now debased,
for now i can see...
reality,
and it is not good,
my "mindself" snaps wood,
'gainst the machine,
all sleek and mean,
made out of steel,
my heart-blood congeals,
at the thought of this.
I cannot exist, in bliss,
with subsets like this...
the concept of the razor blade.
i pick it up,
after i sup,
dig into the skin,
i watch it go in,
so tenderly,
it's razor and me.
in this tub of mist,
now i've been kissed,
by my lover of doom,
who slowly consumes,
while my little wounds open,
and my red blood drips.
oh!...the beautiful lips,
of my sexy friend,
her name is the end.
i am resting so calm,
no need for alarm,
it's a little thing,
this razor blade.
the water turns red,
like moses said,
i enter my sleep,
so calm in the deep.
just razor and me,
we part the red sea.

I'LL TAKE THIS LIFE

Give it to me!
I want all of it.
Give me joy, and grief.
I want to feel every bit of it.
I need to run the full gamut of experiences.
I want to live this life.
I need to celebrate every victory,
and cry over every loss.
I want to fail, and fall,
and get up again, only to be knocked down.
I can take it.
I need the lowest, lows,
and the highest, highs.
The in-betweens aren't for me.
Give me colors and
sweet sounds.
I need sumptuous words,
sounding like lilting symphonies.
Carry me off to the clouds,
like an errant balloon.
This moment is the one I like,
the vagabond moment,
is the one that counts.
Don't give me the dried-up,
beef jerky of the past.
I don't want false promises of the future.
I'm here, now!
There are so many heroes to emulate.
So many legacies left by great artists,
scientists,poets, musicians, actors,
clowns, and scoundrels.
I love those who care not,
about leaving heavy footprints in the snow.
I want to join their ranks,
and be my own hero.
I'll never give up.
I'll keep doing what has to be done.
I love the daily grind,
the written word,
the laying of the paint on the naked canvas.
My countless numbers of daydreams,
my plans, my schemes, are what I am.
I'll take all of this life.
I won't blow my chance.
Come, let's dance.
We'll dance to this song of life.
Don't be a wallflower.
Get out of your seat.
Time is a wastin'.
Eat the peach of life.

THE FARMERS

The land.
It was the land they loved.
It was their obsession, their pride.
The farmers love the land,
almost as much as they love their children.
It was passed down, generationally.
It was a Holy responsibility.
The land after all, is the giver of life,
much the same as God.
The land yields food, water, trees, sustenance,
and health from all its gifts.
The sun bathes it, and every spring,
sprouts are tenderly watched.
Dutiful planting, and sowing begins before dawn,
and ends when the sun goes down.
The rewards come from good food, wholesome families,
and mason jars filled with delicacies, stored for the winter.
Fathers and sons, chopped and stored wood.
Mothers and daughters, cooked and canned.
Knowledge was shared, and passed down.
Fathers and Grandfathers with calloused hands,
held babies, almost as much as the women.
Love ruled their lives.
The men knew everything about tools, and farm tractors.
Agronomics, mechanics, welding, market analysis,
were to be learned and applied.
Everything on the farm is respected, and used.
God is in their lives every day.
The seasons, the rising of the sun and moon,
and the sowing and reaping are mystical.
The farm is a wondrous place.
Animals are cared for, and loved.
The outside world must wait.
A farmer has no time for the world,
or its insanity.
Farm families pray together,
eat together,
work together,
and are in awe of God's great gifts.
Many of todays farmers in America,
have lost their land to corporate monoliths.
Either they were forced out of business,
or couldn't stay focused on new agricultural,
farming techniques.
A farmer's business can die,
if he doesn't understand the markets.
Farming is not an easy life,
but it is a blessed one.
As a heavy equipment operator,
I met a lot of young men who were farmers.
They had to have a day time job,
to make ends meet on the farm.
They were good men.
While I was enjoying a beer after work,
they were harvesting or working on farm equipment,
'til the wee hours of the morning.
These guys never slept.
They ran on fumes.
I don't know how they did it.
They had pride, and never failed on our jobs.
These men never complained.
They were the best, damned heavy equipment operators,
I had ever known.
Sadly, I listened to their fears.
They tried to keep their farms from failing.
When they did fail, I saw these men get sullen.
They moved to trailer parks, and some took to the bottle.
No one bailed them out. The banks now owned thier farms.
It's a damned shame.
These guys were Americans, tried and true.
They spilled their blood on foreign soil,
defending America.
They never got any help from the government,
although many of them begged for it.
America has gone wrong.
The government is helping bankers and wall street.
Let's help the sons and daughters, who made this country great.
Let's not help corporate farms, take away family legacies.
Let's get our priorities straight.
God bless the American farmer.

THE RIGHT PATH

Sometimes, I get sick of hating, for no good reason.
I guess I've lost my youthful idealism.
I look at my old self, and then I am ashamed.
I don't know why I'm angry all the time.
I see the poor Arabs struggling.
Some are driving cabs, working in restaurants,
and convenience stores.
They are hated, and they are afraid.
These people are not terrorists.
They just came here to have a decent life.
Some were professors, doctors, professional people.
I see the Mexican laborers who cut my grass.
They work really hard.
Me, being a union man, should be proud of them.
They have no easy way.
Yet, I've never offered them a glass of water.
We used to do these things for the workers,
years ago.
Now, there is a pervasive, meanness in society.
Sometimes, I am a part of it.
When I am, I am not proud of myself.
My old prejudices, linger on.
The National news bombards my mind with fearful things.
I lash out because of it.
I no longer know, who the real enemy is.
Maybe the enemy is me.
I want to stop this, now!
All people deserve, love.
I hope it isn't in man's nature to be evil.
I'd like to think that all of us, are basically good.
We just need a common ground.
Things are really getting out of control.
I want to feel safe.
People come to this country to escape tyranny,
and evil.
Is it right to shut the door on them?
I don't know anymore.
We all fear for our standard of living.
I am selfish.
I want the American Dream for me,
not for some foriegner I do not understand.
A small part of my heart, knows this is not right.
I hope I face-up to the answers.
I want to love, and not hate anymore.

IT AIN'T MY FAULT!

It ain't my fault.
Is it yours?
I didn't do anything.
It's those damn, Muslims,
or those illegals.
Yeah, they're the ones.
It's the Jews,
the Pope,
those darned homosexuals,
and liberated women.
They ruined it all.
It's those Dagos,
and Negroes,
It's them honkys,
dem' crackers,
the politicians,
the corporates,
the lawyers,
the rich,
the poor,
They're all to blame!
(especially the used car salesmen!)
It's the pornographers,
artists,
writers,
photographers,
cops,
prostitutes,
nuns,
priests,
liquor salesmen,
cigarette companies,
doctors,
hospitals,
and pharmaceutical companies.
We have problems because of:
the rednecks,
the anarchists,
the tea baggers,
the liberals,
the Jesus freaks,
the beatniks,
the hippies,
the senior citizens,
and the tree huggers.
Let's take them all, and get rid of them!
We can dig a big hole, and bury them all!
Let's burn the books, and start all over again.
I will be your king.
You know why?
'Cause it ain't my fault!