The Granite Mouse (Fortitude)

To be certain
To be morally certain
What a pleasure this must be
To know your place in the world
To face your future with a steady hand
     With an unflinching eye
This is a gift which must be savored
     This is a treasure
     This is a calling
     A reward
To stand in the face of opposition
In the face of mockery
     Of separation
To use judgment without being judgmental
To transcend your physical being
     Little mouse, little stonecutter
To be bigger than your body
To make them hear your voice
To make them LISTEN
There is no more you could ask for
Perhaps only the courage to say what must be said,
     Whether they will like it or they will not
These are the things for which I pray
Not to be a superman
Only to be certain.

Self-Assessment

“You are really very hard on yourself,” she said to me.

I couldn’t deny it.

There’s really quite a lot to be hard on myself for.

I chew my nails.

(As good a place to begin as any, I suppose.)

I am often negative in my point of view.

I find contentment difficult to achieve.

I am not a model employee.

I tend to worry too much about the future.

I can be sarcastic even when I shouldn’t.

I chew my nails.

(I didn’t say that already, did I?)

I am sometimes an angry soul.

I can be jealous of the success of others.

I find it difficult to forget past resentments.

I have thrown garbage from my car window.

I have trouble controlling my emotions.

I chew my nails.

(I believe I may have mentioned it.)

I have lied, cheated, stolen.

I have treated the pursuit of self-improvement with apathy.

I sometimes talk when I should listen.

I read from websites that promote shallow celebrity gossip.

I don’t exercise nearly enough.

I chew my nails.

(Please forgive me if I repeat myself – it is but another flaw.)

I have denied mercy to the weak.

I have trampled the crops of those I have defeated and salted the earth in my wake.

I have convened shadowy cabals in dark rooms to plot the demise of those from whom I sought to steal power.

I clear cut the Amazonian forests and used the wood to roast nitrate-laden hot dogs.

I burned Chicago to the ground and framed Mother Leary for the deed.

I chew my nails.

(It’s a nasty little habit.)

I told tales of gold to Pizarro and Cortes.

I whispered in the ear of Hirohito: “To surrender would dishonor you.”

I offered advice to Kennedy: “Take the bridge. It’s much faster.”

I spoke in the ear of Hitler: “I hear France is lovely this time of year.”

I sang songs about cats to Andrew Lloyd Webber.

I chew my nails.

(I have tried to quit. It’s a losing battle.)

I killed a man in Reno just to watch him die.

I am surely the catalyst through which the destruction of mankind shall come to pass.

I stole the last bite from Karen Carpenter and fed it to Mama Cass.

I punched the Dalai Lama in the eye when he said my taste in music was gay.

I danced a jig to the tune of the murderous reels in my broken brain as those who would speak ill of me were torn limb from limb from the sheer power of my despotic will.

I chew my nails.

Poem For My Gandfather

Old Man

I will admit that I have not done you enough honor

My tributes have fallen short

You stood tall and proud once

You manned a gun and fought men in planes, bent on your destruction

You worked your whole life

You laughed and fought and toiled

You loved and raged and cried

You had adventures, great and terrible

And you battled times of crushing boredom and sameness

I did not hear you apologize for who you were

You have been more of a man than I can hope to be

I wonder about you, now

Do you look for old faces and find them gone?

Is there pain in knowing you are among the last of your kind –

                A generation dwindling to nothing?

Is it an ache in your bones, low and dull and constant?

Or is it the sharp hot sting, the punch of a gunshot?

Or do you look to your Creator with anticipation?

Do you wait impatiently for His call, as for an old friend

                Long overdue?

Your breed is dying

It cannot be replaced

I honor you now, old man

I am only sorry I waited this long.

I will admit, I was feeling a little down

“Relax, dude” my friend says to me.

“Even Bukowski worked at the Post Office.”

“i know. i know.”

“No, really.” he says.

(My friend can be persistent, sometimes.)

“For like 20 years or something this guy hunched over a workbench sorting mail. And the whole time he was writing all sorts of great shit.”

“yes.”

“You can’t get down,” he says.

“So you’ve got a day job. That’s just how it goes.”

(My friend can be very practical, sometimes.)

“Faulkner was also a Postmaster, I’ll have you know.”

“yeah?”

“Yes indeed,” he says.

“I think it’s obvious what you have to do.

You have to take the Civil Service exam.”

(My friend can be quite a joker, sometimes.)

“very helpful.”

“All I’m saying,” he says

“Is that you do what you gotta do for a paycheck.

Kafka worked in an insurance bureau.

Van Gogh clerked in a bookstore.”

(My friend can be surprisingly knowledgeable, sometimes.)

“I’m pretty sure Hemingway was a shepherd, for a little while.”

“you’re making it up, now.”

“Alright,” he admits.

“I made the last one up.

But hey, Stephen King taught history.

Keats was a pharmacist. Or, rather, a licensed apothecary.”

(My friend can be quite precise, sometimes.)

Dashiell Hammett was a private dick. Tracked down a guy who stole a ferris wheel once.

True story.”

“bad example. that's actually pretty cool.”

“My point is,” he says

“My point is that what you do to pay the bills is just how you survive.

What you love to do is what lets you really live.

I say that’s what counts.”

(My friend can be kind of deep, sometimes.)

Sixth St, Late Fall (Charity)

I was standing outside the door

                Smoking a cigarette.

(This was back when I smoked.)

She came up to me with a sad story:

She was visiting from Chicago

                And her car was broken down

                And she just wanted $5 for something to eat.

                And couldn’t I just spare it?

Couldn’t I just be a saint?

Later, when I related the story,

The guy I was telling it to laughed.

Said she was around a lot

                (And hadn’t I seen her?)

Said she’d hit him up several times, himself.

Said “Chicago my ass.”

He nearly spat.

And when I told him I’d given her the five

                He told me I was a fool.

This is not a poem

“This is not a poem”, I said.

“And I’m not trying to be all Matisse-clever, either.

This is not a poem

And I am not a poet.”

“I think that’s sad,” she said.

I guess she probably meant it.

“Fuck you.” I said.

What else do you say to someone who calls your point of view “sad”?

(Also, I’m not very nice, sometimes.)

There was a pause.

“Why should I call myself what I am not?” I asked.

“Why would I?

I am not a poet.

I work in an office.

I am a shoe salesman.

I am a waiter.

I run parts through a furnace.

I deliver pizzas.

This is a hobby. Maybe.

On a good day.”

“Well, I am an actor,” she said.

“I am an artist. I create.”

“I hate to argue,” I said

(even though I don’t, really).

“You are a bartender.

You are a college student.

You are a trust-fund baby.

You are a landlord.

You watch other people’s kids.”

“That’s not WHO I AM,” she said.

(And I could tell from her face that she was beginning to get mad.)

“That’s just what I do.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked.

There was another pause.

This one lasted quite a while.

Fanfernee

“DADA!", he screams

and runs quivering to the door

quivering, shaking, vibrating

so delighted is he

this is what makes the rest worthwhile

these few seconds of every day

these will have to do

Voted Most Likely To Be A Poet

Bang bang bang away.

Scratch away.

Where will it get you?

There is nothing you can

Say

Think

Do

Feel

Write

That hasn’t already been

Said

Thought

Done

Felt

Written

X 1,000,000

There is no such thing as original.

It doesn’t exist,

And it never will again.

The best you can hope for

Is to copy someone good.

On The Other Hand, He WAS The first Pope (Prudence)

There was a woman once who told me that

                Peter is a fitting middle name for me.

She was a church-going woman.

She knew a thing or two on the subject.

And she was laughing when she said it.

I’ve spent my life being angry for no reason.

I’ve cut off more than my share of ears.

A friend of a friend once asked if maybe I wasn’t a psycho

                Because I looked ready to murder all the time.

My friend told him, “That’s just how he looks.”

I’ve had my doubts (and I’ve pretended to, as well).

Sometimes for no other reason than the pure shock value.

I told a teacher once, “There is no God.”

And I knew while I was saying it that it wasn’t true,

But I reveled in the look on her face all the same.

(She really was such a sweet woman.)

The point is, I’ve had this struggle

From time to time.

But I really DO believe in God.

And I like to think that I, too, would leap from the boat and swim to the shore.

I don’t know it for sure.

But I do like to think so.

Work In Progress (Temperance)

Lord,
Let me find
True comfort
In moments of silence.

You Have Been Warned

I don't really go in much for blogging. Or I haven't in the past. But life is what it is, and the opportunities for a creative outlet are few and far between. So I guess I've decided to grab them where I can.
I'm not a poet. I'm not an artist. I'm nobody special. I'm not a politico. My views are my own. I don't expect anyone to agree with me, like my writing, tell me I'm wonderful or read anything more than once. I don't really care if anyone does. Sometimes you just have to get the things in your head out into the sunlight, is all.
I'm going to post poetry. I'll try my best not to make it sappy, stupid, adolescent bullshit. But I can't promise anything. Because I'm a bad judge of my own work. I have written things that people have thought was really good and I hated, and vice versa. I've also written stuff that people liked and I agreed. And frankly, I've written some real shit.
I'll post newer things that I'm working on. I'll post old stuff I've written, some of it from several years ago. How good any of it is is really difficult for me to say. Hopefully it's more good than bad.
But again, no promises. You have been warned.