I resigned myself to the fact that life wasn’t going to be neither easy nor hard. Nature is indifferent to moods and emotions, everything is, as it is. Fill the emptiness with what you choose yourself to be.
Uncategorized
Prize Fighters And Poets
With a tone of scorn and eyes conveying pity I’ve been called “sensitive”. I hate the term sensitive, it brings to mind weakness and vulnerability. To write a poem requires guts. To paint a picture requires vision. To play the blues is to open up ones soul and expose a heart callused and gnarled. To put pen to paper and write is fool hearted and as brave as taking off all your clothes and running down main street bare-ass naked. We’re all awkward and sensitive when naked. Most will point and snicker, but few will understand.
I suppose the opposite of sensitive would be insensitive, indifferent and selfish. Imagine being described as a sweet fellow——-but so terribly insensitive, indifferent and selfish. The worlds full of bleached out souls afraid to air their feelings. These are the ones who lean on trite “Hallmark Cards” to express their orphaned emotions.
I ain’t sensitive, I’m the underdog in a prize fight. I’m the guy that’s willing to take a hundred punches so I can get one in of my own. I’m not particularly fast or talented, but I can take a punch. I’ll weave and bob my way into the face of any dumb ass critique. I’ll shove them against the ropes and whisper in their ear “Is that all ya got?”. My eyes might be swollen shut and my nose may be bloodied, but you’ll have to take me out in a stretcher before I’ll give up. I’ve done my work in the gym. I’ve done my early morning roadwork. I’ve pounded that heavy bag until my fists bled. I’ve hit that speed bag until it became a blur. I’ve earned this chance. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited for my opening. I’m one dangerous motherfucker, I’m one of those with nothing left to lose. I’ll hit that son of a bitch right on the jaw with a right hook. I’ll watch him crumble like a sheet of bad poetry headed for the waste basket.
People don’t drown cause they can’t swim, they drown cause they can’t hold their breath long enough. And brother, I can go forever on one breath.

Our Better Angels Have Flown
Our noble experiment in democracy has begun to fracture and crumble. It seems all the mechanism and systems our forefathers created as checks and balances are failing due to the love of power. The two party system is in gridlock. Compromise is a dirty word. The majority of wealth is held by a minority of individuals. The peaceful exchange of power is no longer abided by. Big lies and fake news outlets such as Fox have made a mockery out of facts and truth.Angry internet sites and inflammatory pod casts encourage violence over civil discussions. Big money and special interests have replaced majority rules. What has become of all the good men and women who once treated our system of democracy as something sacred—-something that was paid for with the blood of thousands of perished soldiers. Our better angels have flown….Shame on us.
January-An Uncivil War

When you hand the keys to the kingdom over to a madman, don’t be surprised when the truth becomes a lie and lies becomes the truth. Don’t be surprised when “We the people” becomes “us against them”. Don’t be surprised when civility is considered a weakness and kindness is only for suckers——where loyalty is a one way street.
When a madman is worshiped like a cult leader, don’t be surprised when his followers become infected with his divisiveness and hate filled rhetoric. There are those who knew better but still said nothing, and now they are reaping the results of their lack of courage. Silence is complicity, misguided patriotism does not excuse violence and insurrection.
We are lost when our democratic ideals are no longer our north star.
The Forgiveness Song
This one’s for all the old couples who stuck it out through the hard times.
I’m tired of you
Being tired of me
I’m tired of me
Being tired of you
Once again
You forgive me
Once again
I forgive you (2X)
Your my friend and lover
I’m your lover and friend
We’re still together
Cause we’ve learned how to bend
Wrote you a love song
Wrote me a letter
Some loves fall apart==but
We’re better off together
We can take bike
We can take a bus
Enjoy the ride
Don’t get in a rush
Come on to bed
Don’t make a fuss
Shut off those lights
I’m gonna make ya blush
I’ve been wrong
A few times right
You’ve been right
A few times wrong
After all our trials
And tribulations
Our loves like a sweet song
Playing on a country station (2x)
Gave me a kiss, and a hug
Gave ya a hug, and a kiss
Turn tears to laughter
Cause it’s better than being pissed
Doubts and questions
We’ve had a few
But, you still love me
And, I still love you
We can take a Harley
We can take a bus
Enjoy the ride
Don’t get in a rush
Come on to bed
Don’t make a fuss
Shut off those lights
We’ll polish off the dust
I’m gonna make ya blush
God, Vaginas and Wieners

There should be a little bit of nothingness in all our lives I’m talking about the nothingness that my lazy ass cat shamelessly flaunts She could care less about worries, victories or life goals She’s at her best when doing absolutely nothing She sleeps when she wants to sleep She eats when she wants to eat She yawns, stretches, then takes another nap in a sunbeam What others may think of her, does not concern her If you get on her nerves she’ll put her ass up in your face To remind ya who’s the boss She squints her eyes like Clint Eastwood, as if to say “kiss my ass” Woman are like cats, fickle, complacent, impossible to figure out and even harder to please A pissed off woman is a frightening thing There’s “mean” and then there’s “woman mean” They’re more interested in being right, than being happy You’ll never out-talk or out-argue a woman They’ll always get the “last word” They’ll smirk, pout and then vindictively proclaim “I told ya so” They find contentment in the nothingness that fills their nothing-less day It’s all too much, causing a man to mutter, stammer and cus under their defeated breath——sheeeet! But when a man needs a woman, he’ll act a fool You’ll see him heel at her side like an obedient dog on a short leash She’ll yank on that choker-chain every now and again to keep him in his place Men will connive, lie and feign politeness in a futile attempt to get into a woman’s heart—or more importantly, their pants So, ya buy them jewelry, take them out to dinner, comment on how beautiful their eyes are, how stunning their dress is All the while, she'll absentmindedly stare into her compact mirror Women's personalities are hidden, just like their women parts Men don’t understand how a woman’s body works Everything about it is a mystery It looks like a gapping wound that sometimes bleeds Nipples, breasts, legs The softness of their ass Where to start? What to do? It’s all to much for a simple man to grasp But grasp, they shall try—-and try, AND TRY! Women don’t have time for a man’s bullshit They have more important things to do They construct purpose out of life’s nothing-less—ness They fill every moment, of every hour, of each day with endless busyness They fabricate grand schemes Things they're determined to make men orchestrate Life becomes one long laborious “To Do list” To women, everything means something, especially the insignificant petty shit Wipe your feet, take out the garbage, feed the cat, cut the lawn, bring me my tea, it’s too hot, it’s to cold—-did you hear me? They somehow make babies out of their own flesh and blood Their bellies swell up to accommodate a parasite living deep inside their womb—— Men only know about the fucking part of making babies Men are happy in their nothingness Men’s body parts, are like their personalities, right out there for the world to see, compare and giggle at They grab at it to show dominance They believe theirs is bigger and mightier than anyone else’s They expect it to be worshiped and fawned over In reality, it’s the goofiest looking thing you’ll ever see And if they can’t find anyone to grab on it, they’ll jerk on it themselves I guess this is the way god planned it And what a sick sense of humor he must have
Vows

One of life's greatest mistakes Expecting to be loved Expect is a word best not attached to love There’s many versions of love Few are lasting, and even fewer are memorable Some covet it as if it were property Others wear it on their arm like a flashy bauble Or, proudly tattoo it permanently upon their skin Oftentimes vanishing before the ink dries At times it’s confused with sex You can have sex without love And you can have love without sex After all the gyrations and moaning Even if she lets you put it where you want? You’ll still need to find things to talk about at the end of a worn-out night Humor is the best aphrodisiac Honesty is the slipperiest of lubricants It's naively offered up with open arms Like a soon to be broken Vow Vows are for love-struck suckers It’s a fabled belief in security and sincerity Sometimes, it's a broken record that skips and pops All noise and no melody Like a sympathy composed for the deaf Most want love to be soft and tender Like sappy verses from a smarmy poem But it's none of those things It's a prize fight, a spectacle of blood, rage and courage It can suddenly switch from an endearing hug to an enraged choke hold It begins with a polite first kiss, ending up in a dark room that reeks of raw savage sex--that is--if you get lucky Yet, there are those rare flashes of something Some may call it love, but that's an over-used euphemism It stirs an ancient ache that resides deep inside us all Where does it come from? Why does it go? Who knows? It's a vexing enigma It comes with no warranties, no guarantees It’s fragile, so handle it with care If ya break it, you'll have to pay for it Once shattered, you’ll never be able to put it back together No glue or counseling can dull its painful shards Once the shelf-life has been reached You’ll need to decide——should it be thrown out? Or painfully watch it continue to curdle and sour Salmonella is a bad way to go The trouble with love—-is It’s what happens between life’s otherwise mundane moments It has no soul or conscience No sense of right or wrong It makes fools out of it’s gullible victims
At The Speed Of Foreverness

In spite of our long days and the swiftness of these passing years We’ve reluctantly grown old Old as in running out of time The potholed street of aging leads to a cul de sac of convalescence Age robs us of youths vanities It rubs our hair off, dulls our eyesight and deafens our hearing We slowly cave in on ourselves We can no longer get by on our sexiness or youthful bravado We’re left with a fading wit and the shreds of a once charmed personality This leaves some bitter, while others are liberated There’s nothing more attractive than someone who no longer gives a shit about what others think of them Shriveled skin, brittle bones, hemorrhoids and varicose veins ain’t so bad It’s the fading of memories and the onset of feeble mindedness that leaves us befuddled There’s that moment of confusion when we enter a room and forget what we needed there, or what we were looking for, or even why we came there in the first place??? But, I’ll fight like hell to forever remember your face
Tigers Or Table Scraps

The universe keeps trying to convince me that I’m mediocre, but I refuse to give in. All the greats have had to fight that urge to shrink and fit into normalcy.
Crazy is better than normalcy, going mad is better than normalcy. Do something, do anything to prove that you’re still alive—-that you’re a worthy opponent. Release your bullshit on the world like a tiger ripping into a fallen gazelle.
Kill or be killed—–most are already dead and feeding on table scraps. The true holy ones aren’t afraid to climb free solo—they know that no one is tethered to security.
Make fear your best-friend and nothing will ever scare you again.