SuperWoman

I don’t know when I learned to fear my own greatness
but I do.
Somewhere along the way I learned to keep my head down low
and my voice silent,
and to disappear into the cracks as much as possible.
I learned that if they can’t see you,
You can’t get hurt.
But that’s a lie.
I get hurt everyday
and I’m sick of it.
Hell,
I’m the one who fixed the flapper in the toilet yesterday.
Just slid it right on
like I’d been doing it all my life.
One quick tutorial from the guy at Home Depot
and I was a regular seventy-five dollar-an-hour
minus-the-butt-crack plumber.
It was easy,
just like he said it would be.
But for two days I was forced to use the toilet in the back bedroom.
For two days I debated calling a plumber.
For two days I was lost.
After I fixed it I wondered what the big fuss was all about.
And it got me thinking,
if I can do that, I can do other things.
In fact, I can do most anything
I decide to do.
After all,
I’m the one who walked in Warner Bros.
and got put on staff out of a couple thousand people.
I’m the one who had my first album on NPR.
I’m the one who had a ninety-nine percent voter turnout in the precincts I managed in Clinton’s campaign of ’92.
It’s time to start that novel.
It’s time to make that film.
It’s time to finish that album
and publish my poetry,
and take that trip to Africa.
It’s time to remember just how amazing I am.

Nothing Means Anything

I guess I am a cynic.
Yes,
that’s what I am.
No matter how hard I try to stay positive
I always revert.
It is my natural state,
like hibernation for a bear
or lying for a politician.
Oh yes,
occasionally I put on a good face
and smile
and ogle a chubby baby and coo
like every other moron,
but
the truth is
I don’t get it.
Cooing at a baby doesn’t change anything in this world.
We walk around in some sort of sugar-induced daze.
Our T.V.’s pump us full of mindless crap
faster than any drug pusher ever could
and yet we don’t fear them or keep our children away from them.
Instead, we set them down in front of us and teach them what we have learned:
to feel thrill and excitement from watching other people
fail,
succeed,
win,
lose,
fuck,
kill,
and give birth.
We think that by doing this
we are somehow doing it with them.
“Did you see that guy climb that mountain yesterday.”
“Yes, so what?”
“Man, it was just like being there.”
No, it wasn’t.
Being there is just like being there.
Being there is freezing and numb hands
and starving and being terrified
and praying that you get to the top
before your rope breaks
and you plummet thousands of feet to your death.
Not being there is sitting on your ass in a warm room
drinking a beer and eating corndogs
with the remote in your hand.
Big difference.
The problem is we don’t understand that anymore.
Reality and fiction have blurred into one.
Angelina’s sex life with Brad gets as much airtime as a disaster in Kansas.
We cry just as much over the model who was rejected on a “reality” t.v. show
as we do over the children starving in Ethiopia.
We are more focused on erections and Viagra
than what’s happening to our civil liberties.
The result:
we are slowly becoming more and more numb to it all.
Everything is given the same weight.
So ultimately nothing means anything.
Yes, I am a cynic.
Thank God.

Hope

We have the poem.
The loveless soul.
The peach flower,
heavy shoulders,
and eyes.
We have the sea,
and the day,
and the rhyme.
It is not my face
shining
dead moon
or the eighty-five
crisis
I have survived
that leads me to shout,
“Now is the time.”
It is the one in the mirror looking back at me,
the one that greets me on my birthday.
The one that asks, “Where did the time go?”
For too long now,
I have waxed poetic
trying to stir up spirits
and corpses
when really there were only
dead rabbits
left behind.
Now, I must forget those
and move forward with all the ferocity of a young
sweetheart
in search of his love.
Now I must run,
throw off sparks,
and unhappiness,
(so much of it created in my mind),
and let
hope
be my flower.
There is still time
to live.

Enough

I am becoming
more and more alone
picnic.
The sounds I used to hear,
my mother’s voice,
my father’s laugh
are fading.
We drive Memorial down the road
listening to the radio.
The Beatles sing
“Help”and all that blue oyster
is out the window.
I am in the backseat mirror
watching the sun set.
I do not know how it got to be like this.
They are so far away
and I am here with nothing
but silence.
I want to go back to Texas.
To run inside my old house one more time.
To dip my feet in the orgasm swimming pool.
I want to go to the club
and never worry about how much anything costs,
and eat boiled shrimp by the plate.
I want to hit tennis with Jim
and flirt with Randy
and wander down the aisles of Neiman’s
buying six hundred dollar boots
I’ll wear once and then blister put away.
But all of that is gone.
Now we are broken,
limping along
like a three-headed duck
with no direction.
Enough.
It is time for a change.
It is time to greet the day
with a strawberry smile
and wash off what was
once and for all.

What Has To Be Done

What has to be done
usually doesn’t.
What should be done
really shouldn’t.
What has to be done
usually isn’t nearly as important
as what needs to be done.
And what needs to be done
should have been done
a long time before it needed to be done.
What has to be done
usually depletes my soul.
What has to be done
is mundane
and more about my wallet
than my words.
What has to be done
usually involves a machine,
or an appliance,
or a trip to some place
where I’ll spend money;
A grocery store,
or a department store,
or a gas station.
What should be done
implies guilt.
Such as a trip to one’s parent’s house.
Or something like that.
But what I want to do
rarely involves money.
Usually what I want involves sitting and writing
which is always free,
and always pays the biggest dividends
to my soul.

An Ounce of Prevention

The yellow daisies
on the kitchen table.
The white Spider Mums
in the master bedroom.
The golden sunflowers standing tall
in my office.
And the little lilac flowers in the black vase
in my room.
I tossed them all into the trash
and watched them make instant potpourri.
They were still good.
They still had life in them.
They still smelled fresh and pure.
But I am leaving tomorrow
and by the time I return
they will be lifeless,
folded over like fainting Southern Belles
left out in the sun for too long.
Their stems will be moldy.
Their petals droopy.
What beauty they once possessed will be gone.
Only the smell of death,
sick and cloying,
will be left to permeate my house.
I do not want to come home to death.

Cold Call

Whatever it is he’s selling
I don’t want.
I don’t like the tone of his voice.
It’s creepy.
All smoke and whiskey.
He sounds like he belongs in an AA meeting.
Jaded as they come.
I can see him now
in his leather recliner
leaning back on his black office phone
staring out at the window
Watching women walk by.
I bet he’s got yellow fingernails
and coffee stained teeth.
I bet he doesn’t sleep at night
and pops Tums like M&M’s.
I bet he drives a Buick
or some other gas guzzling American car.
I bet he thinks he knows the reason why
about everything.
I bet he thinks he knows “my type.”
It would never work.
I’d be down his throat faster than a spitting Cobra
at a circus.
Too much piss and vinegar.
He is all old school.
The clothes hanging on the line to dry.
Me,
I’m a SmartCar.
I want to get where I’m going
without spending thirty-five gallons
and get there in style.
If he calls back,
I won’t answer.
He’ll get the message.
He’ll know why.

Solitude Sunday


It is 1:22 and I am alone.
Ah!
There is something so decent
about solitude
(when you want it).
I’ll settle for six hours
on a rainy afternoon
any day without locks
and violets.
Just a long hot bath
inside myself.
Sixty acres of undisturbed ground
waiting to be explored,
made love to.
Suddenly I understand
the green grass
and the dead birds.
I understand old men in caves
and the Hollywood sign.
I think about the Mexican woman on the corner
with the shopping bag between her legs
waiting for her bus
and I wonder what solitude means to her.
Yes, this is the way I like it.
My pen.
My paper.
And me.