A new short-form, spoken-word piece released every Tuesday and Thursday. Books produced in a similar fashion, but at a slower rate. Branding, content creation and training/coaching for a handful of magnificent clients. I am always writing, writing, writing.
Last summer was hard on the trees
it was very hot and dry
the rhododendrons didn’t make it.
but this spring, the leaves are back
as if it never happened.
But I can see that dead branches
And I remember the heat.
If this were an action movie,
the trees would be back for revenge.
But this is life.
This is spring.
A time for pruning old branches and moving on.
In the spring, the pollen gets so thick around here
you’d swear it’d kill horses
and cows and chickens
and anything else without a filtration system built into it’s shell.
The air gets so heavy with the stuff it weighs down the birds.
They fall from the sky
pelting the strong men who wear yellow foam on their lips.
as if they had been savaged by some rabid, yellow dog of Spring.
While, miles away,
in their hermetically sealed labs
the makers of allergy medicine breathe in recycled air
and breathe out laughter.
My son has shown a real aptitude for poking things with sticks
Although this is not a highly marketable skill
He goes at it with gusto and takes pride in his work
He is happy and carefree at the end of the day
He’s able to put the job down
and sleep just like a baby
If I could speak one-year old
I’d ask him how he got this gig
and if they were looking for some part-time help.
As I write, the garden statue of the Buddha says to me
“Work out your own salvation. Do not depend on others.”
That’s a fine religious principle you got yourself right there.
But how the hell are you supposed to sell books
fill pews
whip the masses up into a lather
with an attitude like that?
Where’s the merchandizing? The recurring revenue stream?
The catchy hook for the talk-show circuit?
Terra Cotta Buddha just smiles.
He’s just like that.
There’s something to be said for the majesty of deadlines.
For the drama and energy that pressure lends
to the most mundane of tasks.
Say, delivering a pizza.
If there’s no deadline, the transaction is dull and gluttonous.
But 30 minutes or less?
The Driver’s screws tight to the steering wheel,
the Buyer watches the clock down to the second
and to his gluttony he gets to add a side of greed
like a free order of breadsticks
to his extra-large, extra cheese, pepperoni and anchovies on half.
Sure, it’s the same thing
Pizza A gets to Stomach B
But it’s not at all the same.
If you’re a singer you lose your voice. A baseball player loses his arm. A writer gets more knowledge, and if he’s good, the older he gets, the better he writes.
Mickey Spillane
On vacation
halfway through a paperback by Stephen King
he meets a pretty girl who asks
“Is that book any good?”
Without hesitation, he tears the book in half
hands her the first part
saying, “I’ll give you the rest when I see you”
She laughs, takes the book, and continues her vacation
knowing she will never see this strange, sad, sweet reader again
But days later, after finishing his half
He sees her again.
And gifts the rest of the book.
they talk, laugh, drink, bed
rejoining what has been put asunder
and spoiling the ending.
Poems? What the hell is going on here?
That’s an excellent (if somewhat vulgar) question and I’m glad you asked. There are three reasons poem-like objects have started appearing on my site.
Stuck in line at the DMV
time sliding by like a methadone drip
I am overwhelmed by the certainty
that life wasn’t supposed to be like this.
We are the spawn of survivors,
a hardy race, bred for running distances,
fit for toppling kingdoms,
building empires,
and jetting the stuff of more arrogant republics.
My people, we have not survived these centuries to become herd animals.
So I stand on a chair and I intone these sacred words,
Between the time when the oceans drank Atlantis
and the rise of the sons of Aryas,
there was an age undreamed of.
And unto this, Conan,
destined to wear the jeweled crown of Aquilonia upon a troubled brow.
It is I, his chronicler, who alone can tell thee of his saga.
Let me tell you of the days of high adventure!
Not only does no one join in,
they ask me to leave.
Snobs.
Even if they don’t have the blood of heroes running through their veins,
How can they not love poetry?
I’m transferring some feeds from an old Feedburner account because I’ve got a lot of new content coming. And when you do that feedburner sends a confirmation email to the accepting account. And at the bottom of the email is this line.
If you do not wish to accept this transfer, simply ignore this message. Nothing else will occur except for the graceful passage of time.
I don’t know who wrote that email, but bravo. Way to not phone it in.