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Monday, February 8, 2010

Content to Dream




Content to Dream

 I




Last night

I wanted to stay

Forever asleep

In my hidden temple

Of legends and dreams.


Where our souls were one,

And we ran as one,

Over the Misty Mountains

And far away.

Down into the lake of morning love,

Where we broke bread with God,

And dreamed as one

About the lives that we would be twice as sweet

If we stayed as one.

Flesh tan by the golden sun,

Souls stripped naked,

Endless summer fun,

Swimming through the oceanic mystery

With one and only one

Sacred pact to act,

Solely out of the unwavering love

For the Union,

The Creator,

And the creations to come.


 II

But then this morning,

I woke

To a screeching alarm

Late for class

With a stinking wet ass.

And as the dip spitters congealed,

It was revealed:

This high vision was sealed

Only in my infinite imagination.

It was not real,

It was not real,

It was not motha fukin real enough

To come true

Until possibly I made due

On my holy promise,

To be a Running Thomas

And wait ever so patiently

On Mother Fate

To give me just one more library date

With the woman with whom

I'd like to mate.


 III

Only then could we see,

That if in this divine mystery

The two of us

Were meant to be,

Or merely,

The one way wish


Of a lonely poet,

Content to dream,

Afraid to get his lazy ass up,

And crush five miles at Bream.

Letter to a Young Writer





Don’t feel pressured to create masterpieces—you can’t force art, wait instead for those sublime moments when the angel kisses you and then flow. Don’t sit at the computer and make yourself write flawless works, that style is going to produce nothing but shit. Writing is an exercise rooted in constant revision, reworking and rewriting, changing and restructuring until the piece is as good looking as it can be. Cinderella will look a lot better at the ball if she takes the time and effort to clean herself up and dress her best.

The writing that I present to the public is the product of months of slaving in the kitchen, working hard and smart to make a dish that some people will enjoy—not everyone. People have a diversity of taste buds and prejudices towards certain foods that makes it impossible for a universally enjoyed dish. Enjoyment of a piece of writing really comes down to a matter of taste.

I love pizza but I’d rather make a fresh, exotic, and new type of pizza rather than simply imitate an old pepperoni pizza recipe. That’s a matter of taste for me. What I’ll lose in popularity, I’ll make up for in innovation, originality, and style.

Perhaps a dish that combines BellyBuster’s Buffalo Chicken and Buontempo’s pizza that some may find genius—nirvana to their taste buds, and others may find unpleasant for it takes risks and adds a twist to a classic dish that’s out of their comfort zone, is what I seek to create, at least at this point in my career. A diversity of dishes emblematic of the evolution of my consciousness and diversity of raw life experiences I seek to translate will most likely follow. For now though, I’m shooting for the fresh, original, innovative works that make me stand out in a packed kitchen of chefs. The moral of the story is however, making art is hard work and even though you worked long and hard to make you dish, not everyone will enjoy it—subjectivity is the nature of taste.

Eventhough most critics deep throat Shakespeare, he’s not without his harsh critics. Not everyone will like the food that even a great chef makes, but that shouldn’t discourage the great chef. The great chef can making a living making food because enough people like its taste. Enough people desire his food and spread the word that it’s delicious. They may even call him an excellent chef or a creative genius to his face. All criticisms and praises however, are ultimately food for the ego—an ego which will be incinerated or slowly decomposed with your body. Ultimately, the only opinion that really counts for something meaningful is the one that smiles back at you in the mirror. It’s the only opinion that you have to live with. When you are completely content with yourself, when you are in love with the fate God gives you and can smile at yourself in the mirror—God smiles too.

You have the freedom to take an unfavorable review, soak an old dip spitter and continue to spit tobacco in it while it slowly disintegrates if you choose. And believe me, I’ve done it. Moral of the story, critics who sit in the crowd while you fight the lion in the arena and tell you how poor and unskilled you are, should never compromise your self esteem. True self-esteem is rooted in self-love. Self-love shines from the gorgeous ocean diamond within, from your essence—it is not selfish, narcisstic or arrogant to love yourself, it’s a prerequisite to truly loving others. The writer and the critic, unless they are friends and truly know one another, will always be engaging in a battle of egos. Sometimes the ego will be stroked, other times it’ll be bruised, but this is ultimately a meaningless battle. Better to be at peace with yourself that to fight unnecessary wars with critics.


If you’ve made your art the best it can be and you know that you worked tremendously hard to make your dream of this piece of art real and you poured your heart into the effort, then how can you honestly get down on yourself? Because another writer for whatever reason…because he was jealous, because your writing didn’t agree with his taste buds, because he wanted to attract readers, because he genuinely thought your writing sucked ass, because another writer may have more talent or because he can’t stomach dry sarcasm, gave your brainchild an unfavorable review? Please.

The Wise Oak



101 years full of good sap,
The wise oak stands tall.
Above the glare of tiny trees,
Soaking in the sun.

Her roots are deep in Eden’s soil,
Watered not discouraged by the rain.
Her leaves change with the seasons,
But her beauty she does retain.

Winter is near,
And maybe soon she’ll wither,
But not before I walk to the forest,
To hear her say, “come hither.”

Then I’ll kneel by her feet,
And listen long,
Let her tell me stories,
Grow wings from her song.

She pays no attention to criticism,
Let’s no other keep her from growth,
She stands tall and strong even in old age,
Never says no to sunlight.

She might fade with winter,
But I know,
Come springtime,

She’ll shine again.

Acorns and Oaks




Acorns and Oaks


I used to be an acorn,

Soon to be an oak,

Until one red hot night,

A demon launched me up the sky,

So high God held me in his hands

Sung me bed-time stories,

Made me think I was his only son.

I looked down on my acorn friends

In an arrogant gaze

Cuz I was the chosen one,

God talked through.

They were drunken acorns

Stained by sinIn need of cleansing,

From up high.

I was too high,

Too high to remember

That the ground

Is where acorns grow.

I was too high,

To listen to the calls

Of my friends crying out to me,

"Come down"

My oak tree parents,

I saw above.

Ignored their pleas.

To come home and grow.

Then one ice cold winter,

An angel kicked me down.

And in a quick flash

God was far, far away.

I fell like Lucipher.

Through the earth,

Into a nightmare.

Where demons laughed at me.

My acorn friends were growing into oaks,

Too high to see,

That each day,

I faded further away.

I was tormented forever.

Like a magnet to the low pole.

Brain chemistry experiment failed.

Dreams of a quick death

But, by the grace of the pen

I rose.

Poured my thoughts on the page,

Found a way out of the devil's trap.

Filed for a divorce from hell.

Literature gave me new life,

Writing exercised the demons.

Warped hell into heaven,

Emptied out the illusion that I was alone.

Then i could see my friends

Growing into oaks.

Calling me out,

Telling me to come home.

My story inspired,

Blessed the bedside of beautiful girls,

Teachers taught it in the classroom,

And I began to bloom.
Roots in the ground,

From an arrogant acorn,

Into the great oak,

We were all created to be.

Creative Christianity




Creative Christianity



If a curious character inquired

“What religion are ya?”

Avoiding a cliché worn and tired,

I would answer like this.



“For years my religion was of a submissive shade,

Bound to by fear of a grey, bearded slavemaster,

Chained by the dogma of powerful pedophiles,

Inner light trapped,

From coming to be.



Until my confirmation day,

When Jesus drew near,

Proclaiming “perfect love casts out fear!”

Setting me free,

To spit custom poetry,

And blaze,

A new trail,

Free of fear,

Full of the perfect love,

My mother and father gifted me.



Creative Christianity is

The religion that works for me,

Because it’s set me free

To practice the Golden Rule,

And be a wise fool,

Without having to worry about some tool,

Threatening the fires of hell,

If you don’t submit to his rotten spell,

That leaves no room for your humanity,

“Salvation through Christ and his virgin bride only?"

Nah I’ll try a fresh Christianity.

Loving my neighbor without condition,

Starting a new family tradition,

To be supernovas of unwavering light,

Warm, creative, undeniably bright.

Inspired in everything,

With God we co-create,

If it’s not committed out of hate,

It’s an article of faith.



Sunday, February 7, 2010

I Had to Pray





I saw you holding a child today,
It was oh so natural—
Like you were born to be a beautiful mother,
Every since your parents dream of you came true.

I know you’ve had your dark nights,
I have too.
But may I say,
That in the light of this spring day,
With a giggling child at your sway,
I had to pray.

“Dear Lord, make Maggie’s bulimia go away,
Make your peace here to stay,
Then give her a gift,
That makes her heart lift,
Up to the sky,
A truth that cannot lie,
A child so funny and smart,
With loving parents and a sacred heart.”

Maybe it won’t be me and you,
But I hope this prayer be true,
So the angels may break through,
And turn the midnight black,
Into ocean blue.