A Portrait of the Poet as a Dying Man

It’s the sound of cereal being poured into a bowl.
It’s the dancing of the biting flies circling around
the falling, wilted dogwood blossom.
It’s the ten year anniversary of grandfather’s death.
It’s the song of everything being played in our sleeping ears.

My friends say I’m crazy, but I’m the one who
wrote them to say these things.
My friends pray for my salvation, but I’m already in hell.
If there’s meaning in my suffering, then I play the fool.
If there’s meaning in my suffering, I still want it to end.

The armchair philosophers postulate theories of life and God,
but I’m only concerned with making rent, and making love.
The circles under my eyes come at a high price
of tossing in my mat of a bed and turning the pages
in my books filled with pointless circles and lines.

Broken mirrors reflect my doubting eyes showing a lighter side
of my wrenching chest. Sledgehammers pounding shamanistic rhythms;
birds in the trees singing the troubadour’s poetry;
gravedigger’s shovels screaming the undertaker’s dream–
there’s a melody in everything, but I can’t find the key.

Can you blame me for  my outlook when you look into
my room at night and see my sleeping pills and empty beer bottles?
It’s a wonder I can sleep at all with the voices droning on–
talking to each other and completely ignoring my pleas
for a moment’s rest from inner wars and fears and tears.

Scratching and clawing at my skin, the ghosts in my head
call for an end, so if you don’t mind, I’ll take Ophelia’s place
in the water, face down, decorated like a tapestry- ornamented
in floating rose blooms and cradled by the weeping willow’s boughs
lightly pushed along by the soft, sweeping current.

Midday traffic glides with a halting flow, winding around medians
and misplaced pedestrians holding their briefcases and purses tightly.
We’re the little ants scurrying thoughtlessly as the baby Jesus tosses
a small twig in the procession of scavengers and guardians carrying
scraps of Cain’s fruit offering home to our mother- the queen.

And we twirl and we twirl, dervishes dissolved into each other–
my friends are lost within two thin lines on a flattened tree,
disappearing as I look at my worn visage in a mirror,
it’s only me these days– in the flesh, but I still hear faint
giggles and stifled scoffing when everything grows silent.

On Dreams and Reason

The great divide between what we now perceive as reality and that which seems as a dream at night is growing together in a delightfully disastrous union. This marriage of dream and life or life and other-life is one that is all too recognizable in relation to the hormone oozing biological process called ‘love’.

This idea is broken down into simple stages which, from time to time, occur fluidly and other times are forced into existence. We trick ourselves into feelings and emotions, replacing reason with purely physical experiences. This is a denial of our innate will to live prosperously. If we really wanted to succeed, why would we introduce such an ornate piece of procreating madness that is the union of two people.

Sure, we all somewhat desire the ‘happy ending’ that has been shoved down our throats since we were children snuggled in bed with a story of false hope being read to us. Our parents know that is not how life works, but their dreams are for their children to surpass them as they grow older. Such a pity– indoctrination that serves no purpose but to cheer the little ones up for a breath in time, only to come crashing down without mercy when reality actually strikes.

This so-called ‘love story’ that envelopes all of literature is a poison to which there is no antidote. Escapism runs rampant in the young mind tricking it, eventually, to believe there is maybe that ‘one’ with whom they will spend the rest of their days. Families are falling apart left and right giving the young ones more of a taste of reality. We are set on not screwing up our relationships that we put them off further and further into the future that eventually, serious relationships will not be found anywhere but a simple Facebook status and the intertwining of arms, legs, and torsoes between the sheets or in the backseat of a car.

In the end, our minds play a ‘metaphysical’ game of tug-o-war between reality and our dreams. In which do we actually live? We walk around with our heads in books or up in the clouds with a steeled posture against the troubles of this present life. If we deny one and hold onto the other, does it make the other any less real? That is to say, those people who are firmly planted in this waking world would postulate that dreams are merely dreams that have no place in the day to day worries and cares. The dreamers ridicule the realists for being narrow minded and for  their loss of the inner-child.

In the end, both are wrong. The realists are wrong in the fact that they put too much faith in the system that it blows up in their faces. The dreamers are wrong because, though they regard dreams as viable realities, they mistake the line between the two and assume they are mutually inclusive.

This is where I find myself.

I want to live in the dream world, so I write, and that writing becomes an alternate reality for me. I struggle with the implications of this ‘other-life’ on a teleological level. At some point, one reality will come crashing down. This is the line between what the majority of society explains as sanity and insanity. The populace sees someone who lives outside of the norm as odd. We’re encouraged to think outside of the proverbial box, but they encourage the box to still be in the picture. Why do we need the box? The box is viewed as the beacon of light around which we are to navigate in strange waters. However, if we do away with the control of the box and its gravitational pull, we will venture to new horizons. The box is like blinders on a horse to keep it from being distracted by the excitement going around. More is accomplished on a utilitarian level, but no new ground is covered apart from the goal and the route to that very end.

The loss of this box, however, have many more side-effects than what appears on the surface. When thrown into a disorienting situation, there is a massive struggle much like that of someone being flipped upside down under the water because of a crashing wave. First, panic hits. Through this panic, we try to find what is perceived as ‘up’. Most of the time, we find our heads peaking out from the water followed by a sigh of relief. In other circumstances, the fear-stricken land dweller gathers their senses under the waves and opens their eyes to a new perspective.

One of two things then takes place. First, one might explore as far as they can, then return to the surface to tell everyone what’s below. This is a classic Plato’s cave scenario. They come back, eventually to their roots on land and live an enlightened life having been through those experiences. These people try to do away with the beacon of light, but in the end, they do not have what it takes to totally surrender. The second is an involuntary self-sacrifice. Whilst below the surface, they explore and learn. All of a sudden, beautiful sirens surround the unwitting victim. On his own volition he listens to their beautiful songs, then, against his will, he is brought down to the depths where his fate is met.

I’m floundering beneath the waves, driven by emotion and reason. My reason tells me to let my body float to the surface whilst the inward longings tell me to let go and allow the depths to dissolve everything that it means to be ‘me’. The dreams are the sirens that, unlike Eliot, I know will sing to me. The waking world offers, not a song, but a vast library perfectly arranged and ready to be used. I believe there is no other option than that of total surrender to what will inevitably happen– my reason will be lost and my emotions will die with my ‘self’. In the words of Aaron Weiss, “No more spider, no more leaf– no more me, and no more belief.”

Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

After posting a Facebook status regarding Mitt Romney’s stance on gun control, my mother commented saying, ” I hate to say it, but please go easy on [Romney]…..I REALLY DO NOT WANT an Obama 2nd term…….” She then proceeded to message me a video of Ronald Reagan saying, “I really miss this man!”

What’s the big deal? Many people like my mother see Ron Paul as unelectable. People also saw Reagan as unelectable.

I’ll be the first to display jealousy for those who lived during the Reagan administration. What is the problem in this generation hoping for an equatable administration?

Why is it that so many young people are drawn to Ron Paul? Most of us remember (even if ever so slighly) America under the “Good Guy” Bill Clinton. We definitely remember the wars of the younger Bush. Now, we’re caught up in more wars and teetering on the brink of more under the guise of “Hope”.  Everyone we can remember in office has had their short comings and warmongering. What happened to the hippies who called for “Peace” and “Love”? Well, if they are not still smoking pot, they are business owners or retired. They really don’t seem to care anymore.

“Won’t you, please– won’t you, please– please won’t you be my neighbor– neighbor and friend.”

Yes, this song still brings a smile to my face and transports me back to a more simple day in my childhood. Mr. Rogers, not only did he teach us how chocolate was made or how cars are manufactured, but he encouraged being friends. Sure, being friendly to others is an afterthought when we’re all struggling to make rent and keeping ramen on the table, but we still can think back to riding bikes and throwing dirt clumps at our friends as we grew up. This man made so much of an impact on me that I remember that in 7th grade Science class, my teacher told us that Mr. Rogers died– I was in Africa at the time and it still rocked the Americans in the class.

We all suffer from what I’m going to call the Mister Rogers Syndrome. Here is an older man teaching us valuable life lessons that we can still apply to our lives today. I’m no Freud, but I’m pretty sure there is a slight correlation to the loving grandfather figure we can find in Fred Rogers to the current oldest Republican presidential candidate on our computer screens and television sets.

Ron Paul advocates for a non-interventionist stance in foreign policy. This does not mean that he wants to isolate our country, but that we should mind our own business. He wants to talk to other nations, and open more trade with countries– mutually beneficial. This echoes the teachings of Rev. Fred Rogers. We should be free to be who we were created to be, the unique persons we are. Both Rev. Fred Rogers and Dr. Ron Paul want[ed] our freedom of choice– though they might not agree with our stance, they would certainly want us to have the choice.

Of course, Rev. Fred Rogers might not have matched politically with Dr. Paul (Rev. Rogers advocated for federal funding of PBS shows and stations), but their message remains similar nonetheless.

I don’t know any level headed individual that trash talks the military. I have stated before “God bless the troops, God damn the war.” I believe this is the overwhelming sentiment of the younger generation. We want peace. We want prosperity. Most of all, we want our own golden years that we can look back on down the line. I believe that Dr. Ron Paul can help us get there and establish an America welcoming of many Mister Rogers’ Neighborhoods throughout the world.

On the Sun

The sun was beating down that day. It was beating down almost everyday. You can’t blame it. The sun must get very bored twirling around in our sky just for us, and all we do is put sunglasses on, or sunscreen, and even sometimes we put sunshields up in our cars so they can ignore it too. It’s a very lonely existence to shine so bright to only be cursed.

Just Another Story

Human beings are a horrible group of people– probably the worst. I hate every single one of you. I know you didn’t come here to read my loathing of the human race, so stop reading. It’s not my fault that you are a mess and worthy of death. It’s quite the common affliction.

I can’t tell you how many times someone has said, “I really like what you write.” Well screw you too. I don’t have a choice, the words give me indigestion most days. Next time you come down with the flu, let me know so I can watch you for a little while and then say, “I really like that.” Are you starting to get the idea? What says that what I write isn’t reality? I can assure you that it is far more real than your fantasy life that swims around in your head.

I agree, sometimes we need to get away. Don’t misunderstand me though- there is no escape for me when it comes to being forced to create alternate lives for the reader. These lives are true. Just because they are randomly selected words on a previously blank white page, doesn’t mean they didn’t take place.

The following is a true story. I don’t want messages or comments about how much you enjoyed it or encourage me in any way. Just read the damn story, chew on it, and go about your sorry little day.

I was born and something happened.

The end.

Not a Love Story

I’ve heard it said that every person writes their own story. More specifically, every person writes their own love story. I can’t say that I believe this. The way that I see it, everyone interprets their own love story. One thing leads to another, and BAM, one is susceptible to sleepless nights, heart burn, and idiotic giggles. People take these key ingredients and call it ‘love’.

In the South, we have this poisonous idea of ‘the one’. By this time, I’ve had several of those. Needless to say, if I remembered every girl I kissed, there would be more happy ladies in this world. That’s not even counting the guys.

Then again, I never learned the names of a couple.

Once upon a time, there was a very single male. He found himself leaving a tavern in Gibraltar after many dissipating drinks. Soon enough, a bench proposed itself for a lovely respite. (This is where the story diverts from the normal.) A young lady was walking down the sidewalk towards our inebriated hero. Suddenly, he called to her, not unlike the stereotypical catcalls of New York construction workers to any female who happened to pass.

“Eh! Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes,” she replied with a British accent that would cause any American guy go goo-goo. “I do, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, can I kiss you anyway?”

“I don’t see why not.” And they kissed happily ever after.

Where do you expect that I go from here? Maybe I’ll take us on a tear-jerking ride filled with emotions and mush befitting a teen novel. Or I’ll make you hate humanity by twisting a misogynistic tale worthy of late night poker games in a room filled with cigar smoke. Or maybe you’ll just stop reading after this sentence.

Congratulations, you kept on reading. From this point I have to make myself clear. I’m a writer. By writer, I mean that I’m a politician. Yet again, by politician, I mean, my whole life’s goal is to construct my words to cause an inward uprising, sexual excitement, or pivot you against someone else. Most importantly, I will keep you on my side. You are my most prized ally. See, writers, politicians, and elementary school teachers are all characteristically manipulators.

I had my eye on her for quite some time. Globally minded, not too conservative, beautiful– she was all I could hope for. Springtime rolled around. The plan was to ask her out by the beginning of the summer, not because I was a coward, but I knew the timing had to be right.

Unfortunately, my plan was pushed to the side by another hopeless romantic endeavor. It ended.

All the while, I was planning. By mid-summer, I had introduced one of my friends to a sweet and touching song that makes all girls’ hearts flutter. Their eyes would glaze over and their mind would drift to the image of the perfect guy walking in the door, laying a rose before her, and gently kissing her on the head– whilst this song was playing. Any time before now, I wouldn’t have even considered doing something as frou-frou as such. Now, with the girl, my plan, and time slipping out of my fingers, it was all I could think about.

The friend I played the song for was the best friend of Renee’s roommate. Renee, of course, is the lovely young lady to which most of my thoughts drift towards these days. I knew that by a series of events that were actually out of my control, the song would eventually make it to the speakers of Renee’s computer.

Human predictability proved true. Soon enough, the song in question was downloaded and placed on her portable media device.

On our weekly venture to a nearby coffee shop, she asked me if I had heard of this song. I, considering the viability of a teleological suspension in ethics, ended up lying.

“No. Is it one of your feminist driven ballads again?”

“Psh! Not everything I listen to is women-empowering.” I would beg to differ on this statement. “Here, I have it on my player. So if you’ll shut up and listen for once, maybe you’ll enjoy it.”

“Whatever,” I replied, rolling my eyes jokingly.

We sat in the parking lot listening to the song in her car. Of course, by this point, I knew the song inside and out. The song finished and she had a beaming look on her face. “Well, what do you think?”

After letting the mood settle a little bit, “You would like this song. Typical girl, dreamy eyed romantic gobbledegook.”

“Rude.”

Not really, because everything had been going according to plan.

Over the next couple of weeks, I would text her when the song would come on the radio, or over the speakers in the shopping center. She would return the favor.

We started hanging out more and more. We would cook together and visit the coffee shop where I “first” heard the song.

The time came when I knew that she had fully assimilated the song to her life. Who doesn’t do this? We find a song that we really like and start to identify with the singer or the person to whom the song is being sung. Ballads place us in the middle of a story, anthems help us identify with a cause, and Rock ‘n Roll calls us to roll down the windows and cruise down the highway.

One clear night, we drove out to the country. Supposedly there was a supernova that could be seen by the naked eye. We pulled over to the side of the road and I pulled a blanket out of my trunk and threw it over the hood of my car. I put the keys back in and started a CD that I had burned for this particular occasion. Of course, the special song was strategically placed as the third track. The first song passed without notice. The whole second song we strained our eyes looking just above the Big Dipper for the space oddity. Then, that good ol’ song started.

I turned over on my side to look at her in the eyes. A smile crept across her face as I leaned towards her to kiss her on top of her lovely little head. She stopped me and laughed. “How long have you been planning this?”

It was time that the truth came out. “I inadvertently caused you to hear the song the first time. From that point, every time you heard the song, you would think of me and text me that you heard it. The song would catch hold of your heart and with the song so close to you, that would bring me nearer to you. In the end, you would see me as the one singing to you.”

She stifled laughter. “And you think you’re so smart. Manipulating my feelings for your greater outcome. I should be touched by the thought that you have put into this just for me, but, well, I knew this whole entire time. I knew it was you who first showed the song to Kim’s friend– she told me herself.”

“But, I…”

“Nope. I wanted to see how far you would take this when you told me that you had never heard of the song. It’s funny, really. In your manipulation, you failed to give me the credit of figuring you out.”

With that, she jumped off the hood of the car, looked at me with a naughty smile, hopped into the driver’s seat, and started to drive with me still on the hood. I rolled to off gently to the side. She stopped as I approached the passenger side door and then sped off quicker than I ever thought my car could achieve. That, was a bad night.

Or so the story goes.

Love, Language, and the Like

“Wow, did you see her?”

I did. Then again, I didn’t.

“What is wrong with you? Girls like that are growing more and more scarce.”

Maybe that is true, but it doesn’t matter much to me. I can’t help but think back to one particular time that particular girl did that particular thing. Such is the way things go.

Let me sum it up for you. Listen to Jim Croce’s greatest hits while reading Frankie Valli’s lyrics, you’ll be just touching the tip of the ice-burg. Go outside whilst it’s storming and read Poe, Donne, and Hardy. Now, we’re getting closer. I can’t tell you; I can’t show you- such is the way things go.

Where did this happen? It’s happening right now.

No, WHERE did this happen? You’re asking the wrong question.

Does it really matter? Now, that’s more like it!

You didn’t answer the question. I know.

If anyone tells you that they love to write, or are deep in love with various combinations of letters that make up words– offer them your deepest condolences and your gun. There is no true beginning of a sentence, it’s always preceded by an unknown thought which was a sentence itself. Where do these words come from? Nobody knows, and where they’ll go, non can tell.

I have a sneaking suspicion that these words originate somewhere within one’s bosom. There is a churning, not unlike indigestion, that leads to inane groanings- rather like the coos and screams of a newborn. This is the pure language that all understand. Insignificant mumbles and indistinguishable cackles is what turns into these words we use. In the end, a mute can communicate better than a man trained in public speaking. Better would it be if not a single word was ever uttered again. It would save oxygen and exhausted ears– let alone make me much happier.

If you can say things by pointing, stomping, and grunting, it would not only provide entertainment I don’t have to pay for, but it would keep conversations practically painless. Such is the way things should go.

What of these emotions? Well, that’s the actual indigestion. Pop some Tums in your mouth and don’t worry your pretty head of yours about fabled love, sorrow, peace, and what the proper time for dinner is. Leave those ideas to the dreamy eyed philosophers who say they’ve got it all figured out by saying they don’t.