Fifty Cent Praises

Promises. Promises.

Truth be known. Truth not being told. All around.
Lies and spies and Jericho ties. Life is a game.
You play poker to win it. To be in it. Your sickness
is your addiction. Your attrition.

I have to take care of my own. Zone out on clicking
tasks that mask the virtue of a life lived taking care
of my family and taking care of my vast past
that isn’t over.

The last laugh laughs last, past cubicle rows that sow
the integrity of speaking the truth. Of not holding
a grudge. Of letting go of fifty cent raises that
glazes the praises of one man rubbing the other the wrong

I deserve my fifty cent raise. Fifty cent ways.
Slaves that click the time, tick off annuities not multiplying.
Sliding down the pockets of larger charges. Larger Mustangs.
Larger stains. Debts to be paid.

Put your poker face on pal. Roll the dice. Are you telling
the truth? And if not, how can you live with yourself?


Dream mountains. Massive. Strength. Focus on glory. Focus on how to live this life, now. I want to illustrate a how to guide. How to live. I want to leave icons, monoliths, and magic for the little one to live by. Sprinkle bread crumbs so she can find her way home. Out of the darkness. Into our arms. Wherever we are. Wherever we go.

I want her to know that there is such a thing as integrity. Honesty. Love. Carve stone castles to protect her from the injustice of life. Hide her in her own ivory tower of self knowledge.

A strange metamorphosis is happening in this life state. I find definition of self through what I want her eyes to see. I want all the murder and mayhem of this society to be outside. On distant moons. Far far away. I want her to be protected. Cocooned.

Kevlar sheets of bullet proof self love. Dove wings flying. Gliding over the ravaged fields of our wars, our hunger and our homeless inequities. Straight to her mountain top. Where she will find us waiting.

Blood.  Blood. Blood.

Alive. You jive. Symbolic transgressions of a battlefield with wars lost, blood shed, and no war is ever won. How do you want to be remembered? Can you not carve your legacy out of the lard of life? Honesty, Integrity, Personal Courage.

I stand in front of monoliths and kneel. I see all of our heroes in it’s black rectangular stature. John Wayne is a smiling and he wants us to kill the civilians. Kill them all. Let God sort them out. That’s God with a capital G of course. The one and only.

John and Clint shoot first and then ask questions. There are bombs going off all around us. The media is pumping terrible news of death and destruction. Conservative or Liberal it is all negative. I want requiem. A place to go back to the innocence experienced while holding my breath waiting for summer to be over. Bored out of my gourd, playing kick the can till 9 p.m. I used to sit in a little corner of my yard and lay still like a sniper and wait for birds to land for just a second while I zeroed my scope of my 20 pump Daisy air rifle.

I would brag about how if I pumped it to 20 it was surely the strength of a .22 caliber rifle. I must have wasted hours shooting round after round. Learning to Kill. I joined the army after 911 in order to kill. I had bought in. Hook. Line. And sinker. I didn’t go to war. I was stationed in California where I learned how to clean a toilet and buff a floor. And I now know that a police call is not calling any police, and a G.I. party is no party at all.

Several years later I sit behind another government desk, but now as a civilian. I never got to kill for this country. I never got to see death. I never got to see war. And I count my blessings. And I thank god. And I thank God. And try to be a hero. Now not for me, or for my country. But for my family.

Thank you God that I did not have to see death. Thank you God that I did not have to kill. Thank you God that my family will have me in their lives instead of some folded American flag. And please, tell John I said Hi.

Carpe Borgum

Active participant. Instant. Involved. Daily process. Workout. Exercise. Body and mind and soul. Pump oxygen. Clean out system. Dirt. Debris. Push filth through molded drainage ditch filled with all of your impropriety’s. All of your sins and all of your polluted energies.

I’m skipping rope now. Skipping hope now. I will not wait for miracles to happen but stand on the shoulders of legends and throw stones through stone mansion walls. Knock holes into gold pedestals of idols booted and scooted out of our American dreams.

Seizing the day. Seizing my life by making choices that will demonstrate, teach, tutor honesty, integrity, and lust for a better life. Lust for role models who model on the cat walk of the everyday life.

I remember sitting in the isle at Star Wars. I was a little child. I watched as the story scrolled by in large white text applied to a star filled sky. I remember watching E.T. as he nearly died and I cried. This was my heroic suburban epic told to me by Hollywood. Spoon fed and fancy free. Wrongs and rights given through stories told on screens more vivid than any Bible School summer day spent sweating puberty.

One day I will wake and take my life. Make my life with high obligation and high moral standing. Become immortal. While sitting in my screened in Florida room with my 50 inch flat panel monitor heaven, surround sound. While looking at my granddaughter’s Kodak gallery. Give me back to the heavens. Lift me up to eternity.

Roach Motel

Course contract. Backing up systems. Copy files to make sure asses are covered. Smothered in onions and pecans, pork, South Beach Diet, rules. Shrink waste. Shrink taste buds, turn you into one hell of a stud. I’m staring at blank walls again. Blank time again. Making up worlds and hurdling pearls strung through Aphrodite statue concrete, plastic millipedes, while reading technical manuals.

They sneak into your house. While it’s raining, and bite your ass at night. Taking away your virginity. Taking away the trinity of food, shelter, and disgrace in this place. Let’s pile in on thick. Barricade ourselves in. We are being attacked daily, by cockroach dissidents heads rapped in rags, laying dead in the streets of our forefathers. Folks too scared to call it off. Too scared to admit wrongs. Turning the other cheek will get you slapped. Mapped by drones flying low to pinpoint WMDs that never did, maybe did, maybe hid, from existence?

It all hangs in the balance. Thin lines walked. Thin lines crossed. And never going back. Never admitting that you are wrong. Sticking by your cowboy guns. Sticking by your cowboy funds. I’ve written it. Signed it. The cockroaches keep coming. You can spray and spray. But they will keep coming in. Your borders are not guarded. They will sneak in under your door, and through your floor. You have want they want. And they were here first.

from the archive. I used to write daily.

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