Infectious Regret

 

The path once stepped cannot be unwalked
Perhaps the footprints can be erased
But each stride will be stitched to our past
Decisions litter the trails as we pursue
Blown about by the mighty winds of passion
The whistling harbinger of oncoming storms
Shaking the very foundation of our roots
Causing even the immobile oak to tremble
Devouring reason and judgment in its wake
Creating discord in the heart of innocence
The soul sets out in search of it’s pleasures
The inner wanderer captivated by its own destiny
Unless bound and gagged by the sorrows of regret
Regrets?
Having them is a natural feeling of inadequacy
Obsessing over them creates a destructive conflict
An infectious virus

 

 

If you try to count the drops of yesterdays rain
You will be trapped in an ancient storm
Where time and atmosphere never move
Thunder and lightning control your passion
Claim their dominance over what you call fate
As reason and judgment fold quietly into oblivion
Joy and sorrow can no longer balance the universe
Your ego placed upon a pedestal of fragile promises
How heavy the onus that regret lay on your shoulder
And the mighty winds of passions roar fear into the night
Imploring the earth to open its wounds once again
To let the bacteria of regret set in
The scars will fade and the pain subsides
But if you let it regret will infect your soul

 

 

 

You’re sweating and regretting instead of forgetting that
Forgiving is for the living not the minions full of sinning
Gadding about and bidding for anything thats forbidden
Just say good riddance
Don’t waste one second taking vengeance or your penance will be an endless menace full of venom
You’ll be in debt to your regret and the weight will make you fret
In the wake of self indulgence while convulsing and revolting
You’ll be beholden to revolting
No consoling will prevent exploding
So just pray
A brand new start to a brand new day as reality quietly fades away
Leaving a wraith misguided by faith who has nothing left to say
Because your regrets get in the way

 

 

 

Culinary Nirvana Takes Center Stage

 

(From Zen And The Art Of Culinary Maintenance by J. T. Hilltop)

Working in a restaurant at age 14 was more than just a J.O.B., it was a spiritual transcendence. It was being part of something that lifted an entire staff of “Restaurant People” to a higher plane. At that impressionable age I was fortunate enough to find myself in the employ of Cavalieri’s restaurant in the socially envious position of pot washer. Four nights after school, and Saturday nights, I was the head pot washer. But, being the envy of my high school buddies was short lived when I discovered that the “head pot washer” had nothing to do with pot and even worse, I wasn’t really in charge of anything other than some sudsy water that involved way more than merely washing pots. I was also permitted, implored even, to use my hands to scrape and clean the organic food remnants and other indefinable residues left on the plates by our satisfied customers. So it was that this head pot washer was cleaning everything that anyone found so objectionable it was left on the used plates in the restaurant. Poised at the suds busting helm I decided that I was going to be the best Goddam pot washer they ever had.
On one particular night an epiphany of sorts smacked me in the head so I felt compelled to let everyone in the kitchen know my lofty intentions of becoming a black belt in the art of pot and pan scrubbery. When I told the chef, the sensei, the absolute ruler of the kitchen of my plan I was certain he would beam with pride. I really looked up to the chef even though he was so old. Man that dude must have been in his 50’s. I believe he always worked hard and the years had been kind to him, although not without consequence. Deep furrows stretched into spaghetti lines across his face, and he always seemed to be deep in thought even when he was drinking. I noticed he was quite fit for an old dude, and he was deceptively strong. Crazy coot could throw 50 pound bags of potatoes halfway across the kitchen with ease. Sometimes directly at me! He always wore a dirty and tattered black bandana which concealed the badly receding headline and his eyebrows sported the thickest hair he had. Like angry caterpillars on steroids those eerie brows housed some very dark and serious eyes. Eyes that narrowed instantly at the first sign of anger. Like holy shit man it wasn’t only the eyes but that bulging vein that stood out and threatened me personally. Eyebrows that said grab a scour pad you insignificant piece of shit the are dirty pots to be assimilated. Every second I prayed it wasn’t the angry face that was building up inside his maniacal mind but the funny one. Not siree it was not the anger I was about to get a full emasculating dose of. He looked me directly in the eyes and with his most compassionate paternal demeanor his eyebrows alloed his eyes to tear up as he laughed uncontrollably. A laugh that came all the way from the balls of his feet. In between his deafening guffaws the chef attempted to tell his sous chef Andre what my intentions were, and that was met with a roar of laughter that could cause a soufflé to fall to it‘s knees. Regardless of their snickering daggers of contemptuous chuckling I maintained a stiff upper lip, and decided I would take charge of my own soapy destiny.
The fuck with them! As empowering as it may seem it wasn’t the joy of busting suds for a living that kept me coming back. It wasn’t the dream of one day being admired, no revered as the Chef Ultimate, the absolute ruler of the kitchen. It wasn’t that soul warming food, it wasn’t even the lure of the attractive and flirtatious waitresses that continually tempted my teenage libido with a false sense of possibilities beyond imagination. No, there was something else about this experience that taunted my inner Cheshire cat. They paid me money so I could but weed.
So despite all the bad karma that seeped out of the sink drain I thought nothing could possibly drag me away from the restaurant industry. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be the Chef, and become a raving lunatic who screams at anyone dumb enough to stay within ear range of my booming voice. An insane Guru who proudly sports a tall white hat accentuated by a bulging forehead vein that popped out with ease whenever challenged. A slightly touched man who is permitted by law to carve carcasses with an array of razor sharp knives of all sizes. I can’t help thinking how proud that would make Mom and Dad. Oh the hell with the Stock Exchange Mom, I wanna make Chicken veloute and dine of foie gras. Trade in the stock market returns for recipes. I want to carry big ass knives around. My gastronomic voyage would be completed once I became the all powerful illustrious Chef
Anyway that was the dream. Truth be told the restaurant industry simply jumped up at me and shouted “This is it” Este Este Este!!. This is what you ask? It was the people, the “restaurant people”, an almost cosmic group of mix matched misfits. I was spellbound by this diverse group of dedicated individuals who work together in a form of impromptu performance art centering around biodegradable remnants of the tastiest and most orgasmic morsels of nutrition I had ever indulged in. Each person plays an integral role in this drama. Like an experienced stage hand I set up the props over and over so the chef could turn organic ingredients into edible works of art, perfectly arranged on the plate I had cleaned. Our lead waitress, Laura would put six of these recently cleaned, now presently food adorned plates on a large oval tray, also cleaned by yours truly, and with swanlike grace effortlessly carry it off to be placed in front of some more than likely alcohol saturated patrons. The patrons would then eat the wonderful dish of blissful organic delight, inadvertently leaving something on the plate that would eventually become my responsibility. The waitress would entertain them with a variety of skits, ranging from cute and flirtatious to downright suggestive. The performance continues. Meanwhile, backstage the chef, Jimmy ( his given name was too hard to pronounce) is performing voice exercises and using my deer in headlight eyes as his focal point. Rapidly building to an everlasting crescendo I listen intently to the chefs advice, disregarding the part where he assures me I should either procreate with myself or leave this God forsaken establishment. Or die. Sufficiently emasculated, red-faced, and disenchanted, I returned to my potsink in a highly evolved state. Taking a “the show must go on” attitude, I needed to ready myself for the onslaught of table remnants that our patrons found objectionable. In walked the lovely leading lady, flashing me that piercing knee buckling waitress smile, and began emulating the chefs thunderous performance. Thankfully, it was not directed at me, but rather on the only person here that was truly as lowly as I am, Rod the busboy. Now I got an opportunity to view my peer’s reaction to a brutal lexiconic workover, so I might hone my anti-beration skills for the next portioning of verbal abuse. It would not take long, and I unfortunately had little time to study my new mentor, so I was left to my improvisational skills. The burning narrowed eyes of my dream vision, the waitress, met mine and for just a few seconds held me in a frozen state. While flashing her signature seductive smile, Laura’s eyes softened, and in that songbird like voice, she asked, “JT, will you set up my next tray?” With a wink, she was gone, the busboy was fighting back tears, the chef was deciding my fate, and I of course, was oblivious to anything that didn’t involve setting up Laura’s tray like it had never been set before. As the chef pondered the proper selection of various swear words and insults in his bi-lingual assault ability to more effectively crush my spirit, I arranged Laura’s tray smiling silently. The chef began to explain to me who I was working for, but fortunately for me his lung busting performance was interrupted by the appearance of anther equally as enigmatic presence. The next character to enter, stage left, was a tall, tuxedoed, and very suave Frenchman bearing the title of restaurant manager. Didier. Didier’s job, as I understood it, was to make the entire cast so miserable we would reach deep down to our inner selves and come up with the performance of a lifetime. I wanted to reach deep down and pull out a Smith and Wesson but then again, I was young and impressionable back then, and of course a pacifist commie bastard, so I did indeed find myself motivated by the threat of that French penguin. Not to mention another opportunity to allow Laura to know that I may be way young, but I am also an awesome dude willing to please. Didier began to roar at all of us, and yet then again, to no-one in particular. It was delivered in a language foreign to me that sounded oddly complementary. Rod the busboy assured me that those seemingly sweet words that came thundering out towards the entire cast were in fact foul vulgar French slang that could make the onions break down and cry. As Didier loudly and cantankerously explained to us how important it was that we comprehend the significance of his tirade most of us merely trembled. Even Jimmy looked worried when Didier was in the kitchen. Oddly the only one that was not intimidated was Laura, my fantasy vivacious waitress, who seemed to render our fearful leader speechless using only her eyes. Or was it her gorgeous thighs? No matter like the Wicked Witch of the West Didier disappeared in a puff of smoke. Or maybe Jimmy was burning something, I really don’t remember. But he was gone, Laura’s tray was set to absolute perfection, Rod the busboy had regained his composure, and Jimmy was ready with the next round of tantalizing treats arranged in artwork on my clean plates. All had performed admirably in Act I, but Act II is yet to come. Rush hour, when the dining rooms reaches maximum capacity, the pressure elevates, tempers hone their skills, and back in the kitchen the shit really hit’s the exhaust fans..
TBC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mourning dew

 

In the lonely shadows
When morning is still dark
Nature cries
Into blades of grass
Morning dew or Mourning dew
They’re still tears
Natures sorrows
Crying through the ground
Wafting upwards
From the graves of the gone
The tombs of the gallery
Soulless bodies
I know quite a few
Some from natures equalizer
Illness and disease
Some from natures randomness
It’s wheel of misfortune
Accidents
Murders
Wrong place, wrong time
Some from natures irony
Suicide
Self destruction
Drugs
To numb the pain of leaving the womb
Facing the cold cruel world
Yea, I know a few…..

 

In a therapeutic session I got the impression that depression was the cause of my dejection
No emergency that I could see but an urgency for my emerging need to escape reality
I got no prescription just a transcription of my transition so I got a subscription to scratch an itch and
Standard transmission for a bitchin’ ride with my magician whose mission was to alter my cognition
What I mean is I got high
Splattered my brain across the sky
I know its not the way
But it made depression fade away
So I did it everyday
Until I couldn’t get away
But misery loves to have company
So I took my best friend Bump with me
The product of such ridicule
Starting back in middle school where asshole kids can act so cruel
Where they forget the Golden Rule
Together we headed into obstruction
Strolling side by side toward our destruction
Seduced by sexy opium seduction
Believe me son
When poppy makes it’s Jones abduction its gonna suck son
You end up shit outta luck son
When it comes flying you better duck son because its the suction of deconstruction
One better know better
What I’m trying to say is I snuck out but he stayed stuck Mon
Sticking himself and tricking himself all the time he was inflicting himself
And addicting himself with the powdered ball and chain
Took away the pain
Faking out the rain
Telling everyone he was cool
Making us seem loke fools for making him look cruel
But he could win it
I turned my head for just one minute
Never realized how deep Bump was in it
He never made a sound
Though I totally related he was so goddam sedated he thought he was elated but to this date he remains underground
Thrilled with pills knowing speed kills but drugs were the only true solace he ever found above ground
I never heard his heart pound
Paid no attention to his pleas
Help me please
I turned away like he was a disease
No one listened
No one cared enough
They laughed it up and
No one helped
Not even me, his best friend
An onus I will carry until my end
The day I betrayed a friend
Now this may sound hypocritical and I don’t wanna get too analytical
But its oh so typical when people ridicule the individual
Waving ones own banner is almost Biblical
This may be cynical but I was his umbilical
Because no one else understood he was atypical
Another wandering child in a world apocalyptical
Just wanted to be who he was
But they laughed from a distance and broke his will
Pointed their fingers to get their fill
Pshhhtt, Y’all called him ill
Now who’s the hypocrite?
Now who’s counterfeit?
Wish I could reciprocate but here’s a promise much too late
His tears rise as my tears fall
When we meet in the early dampness of death
Walking barefoot in the grass
I step upon the mourning dew
I think of him the man I knew
The brother I loved despite your view
His days were far too few
And if one of you fuckers ever laugh at him again…..
I’ll walk your ass out in the mourning dew
That’s it…..I’m through

 

 

A Dads Thoughts On Life

 

 

At the far too tender age of five my curious daughter peered deeply into my heart through my eyes. Knowing she had my full attention as I meditated she posed me an existential question. “What is life Daddy? Can it merely be blood and breath, flesh and bone, and independent thought?” (Okay, I paraphrased a bit but that’s what she meant) . With a childlike earnestness she continued, “please don’t tell me lies like the other adults Daddy, I trust you.” After a cautionary period of consideration I decided to tell her my honest thoughts. “No one really knows what life is we only know it exists. And some of us aren’t even sure about that my little love but this is my existential theory. I know this probably sounds like adult talk bullshit but the truth is it’s too hard to explain in an antiseptic arrangement of hard to understand words, so I will try an explain it in verse………

Are we here or are we there
Is anybody anywhere
Or is everybody everywhere
Is time real and should you care
When is now and when was then
Get to the end and go back again
Its always spinning so I let it all be
Life is just a cycle to a psycho like me
But who are we and why do we exist
Questions so tempting its hard to resist
Maybe the question that should be asked
What can we do to remove the masks
See each other for who we are
Not so far from outer bizarre
Various colors different beliefs
Similar joys, similar griefs
Free of compartments
But similar contents
Hating anyone simply doesn’t make sense
So the best I have to offer is my thoughtful consonance
One quick trip with the flow of my consciousness

 

As I contemplate my insignificance whether fate or just coincidence
I remember a certain incident that creates some dissonance
But given due diligence I can remove the belligerence
Lackluster ignorance doesn’t offer you deliverance
It just makes you numb
Makes you sound like you’re dumb
The outcome of which could make you succumb
To groundless conclusions and downright confusion
Delusion exclusion and illusion seclusion
Until some half wit human picks up a gun
Scatter and run
Because hate has no conscience
Once begun its been done
And though my eyes close theres one thing I see
Death in the end has not one ounce of mercy

We contemplate our significance to the Universe while arguably every other species on earth simply goes about surviving. But us, in this tiny pocket, of this small galaxy, of this immense Universe, we simply assume we must be the important species. Ants, Lions, Whales, whatever have no purpose, only humans. Instead of spending so much time trying to congratulate ourselves for being so damn superior, perhaps we should address why we are the most destructive species. We destroy eco systems, we throw our trash across the planet and call it progress, and still we live and breathe, love and die, and still fight, sometimes to the death, to prove to ourselves that we are important in the big picture. There is no big picture, there are only scant few moments to enjoy what life offers. Take life’s offer while you’re still here……
To all whom it applies Happy Fathers Day, to everyone alive,

Training My Puppy To Be Existential

 

 

This is Bailey, a puppy we adopted just before Christmas, thus naming him George Bailey. He dropped the George because he felt it too cumbersome for such a cute little canine. He was a rescue but truth be told we rescued each other. Two Dark souls who feel like the Universe is against them. The main difference is while Bailey has the youthful energy and exuberance of a child, I have reached a point where energy has been replaced by wisdom. A clever way to describe finally getting it after you’re too old to use it. Either way, it has become my responsibility to raise my puppy as an existentially evolved wolf.

 

So I have been tasked with teaching this cute little Labee (a term coined by some hipster Millennial with a ManBun describing a mix between a Labrador Retriever and a Beagle) to become an enlightened and existential canine. TBT, he already has a good grasp on some basic existential concepts, such as the importance of the self. He clearly accepts the fact that his self is the center of his universe. Unfortunately he also has a firm grasp on possessions with his sharp teeth and strong jaw. This habit is far more about anarchy than existentialism, but still the insignificance of ownership of material objects is an important facet of understanding existentialism. Like most canines politics are important to the pack mentality. Come to think about it, he views me not as his owner, but more like his Socialist Government who distributes food drink and shelter in return for a modicum of loyalty.

 

Spending most of his time with his Hippie counter-culture grandpa, a few unusual dog training methods were bound to be instituted. I had to train him to be a canine and also to survive in a humans world. First things being first I had to teach him some basic dog rules. The first rule of the dog world is all about common canine decency. Rule One I had to teach him was never ever, no matter how much undigested food there is in another dogs stool, you don’t eat other dogs shit! His nose sniffs the ground near an opposing canines unpicked up fecal matter like it’s a huge line of cocaine with a bonus at the end. Most trainers offered advice like say “leave it” or “stay away” while tugging gently on his leash. But again, being a Hippie grandpa I choose to use my own commands. I yell “Bong Water” and pull him away. Why? Because if you have ever woken up after an evening of massive bong hits in a mental haze of fog with the driest cotton mouth you’ve ever experienced and accidentally drank the liquid contents in your bong you will understand how ridiculously disgusting “Bong Water” tastes. For me it was one of the most objectionable tastes ever so to say it as my dog is about to partake of something gross it just seemed fitting.

 

Thing is dogs don’t understand our language, just the words we use. If you constantly say stand when you really want them to sit they won’t stare at you and correct your grammar, they will follow the command according to the words used to train and reinforce the desired result. A sharp loud “Dude” tells Bailey to pay attention to me. The softer “Here Little Dude” lets him know I’m pulling a Milk Bone from my pocket. It’s hard breaking through because Bailey is going through a self awareness crisis, I throw a ball and the Labrador in him chases it while the Beagle in him refuses to give it back. It creates a game of distrust and keep away that perplexes us both. Anyway, time to get back to my Existentialism Canine Training.

 

It was very difficult to get Bailey to understand the concept of all dogs don’t go to heaven because existentially heaven doesn’t exist for any of us. All the dogs in the neighborhood are counting on this concept but the truth is it’s just a rumor started by a Pitt Bull from down the block. This has made my existential training from the canine philosophical point of view somewhat difficult. To explain his separation from his earthly existence is quite a challenge. His sense of reason seems non existent. I can’t figure out why he does some of the crazy things he does. For instance, he will chew twigs and eat dirt but then stare at me for giving him what he considers to be shit dogfood. And the shit is like mostly chicken, because the first time I bought him food with too much grain in it the young store cashier looked at me like I was a piece of gluten. If eyes could spoil a dinner, I’d have been a meal in the garbage.

So I continue to hope, launching into philosophical dissertations as we walk I express my thoughts about God, existence, and living in a Kafkaesque world. I’m guessing it will take a lot of profound monologues to break down the thousands of years of evolution both our species have experienced aside from having gone through much of it together in a symbiotic relationship. So for now I suppose I’ll just have to be satisfied with repeating quotes from Sartre and Camus, while expressing my deep love of Hermann Hesse works and my affinity for Kierkegaard while we go out on our adventures in the suburban jungle. At least he gives me the courtesy of pretending he gets me…. Live and Love in Peace

 

 

Where The Fuck Is My Karma

 

The Universe is The Abyss
Vast and dark
Full of mysteries
Contradictions
What we call life
Some say it’s a miracle
Others say its Kismet
Or collective consciousness
Alpha and omega
Birth and death
All in the infinite chasm
The abyss has laws
And a truth
But laws are lies
Truth is honest
The one Universal truth?
Life isn’t fair
No good deed goes unpunished
All I really want to know of life is
Something that’s missing
Where is my fucking Karma
But maybe Karma is just memories
The memories that hide in darkness
Remembering is so much harder when we can’t see
Yet I put all my heart in the concept of karma
Hoping its real……

 

 

 

In the days of nights
I chased empty headlights
All the sights and frights
Plus a few fist fights
While reaching for the heights
I yearned and I learned
And what did I earn?
I just got burned
So I made a U-turn
To go home and make my amends
Was I successful
I guess that depends
Just don’t ask my friends
For they will defend my offenses
At least the real ones will
I chose to repent
Let others air vents
Let day shine in the night
Make the moon shake with fright
So what I really want to know
Where the fuck did my Karma go
Doing the right thing just didn’t bring
Redemption or forgiving or anything
Because Karma don’t give a spit
Bout who you are or what good you did
It’ll leave you stranded and buried in shit
A flame all alone in the wind of misfits
Flickering
It aint revenge for bickering or snickering
Its just a word to ease the wilt
Of what we tell ourselves to ease our guilt
Karma’s a hoax we have built
Because that’s our ilk
A scarred and lonely crowd that’s far too loud
Clinging desperately to a fast moving cloud
Maybe if we promise to make God proud
Take cover beneath the religion shroud
But that’s not allowed
Not by The Abyss
So we turn our fragile minds and hide in our armor
Come on big Pharma
Give me some pills or give me some Karma

 

 

I subscribe to a positive vibe and apologize for this diatribe
But Goddam it how does one describe this feelings inside?
Mama told me I’d survive once Karma arrived but I was denied
Worse still I was alive and Karma was deprived…
I just cried
How long must I wait for my moment to thrive
Will I get my comeuppance while I’m still alive
Or will I die waiting to be revived
I was rehabilitated and humiliated while standing naked
Vulnerable and afraid of my own dehumanization
Praying creation would not bring my damnation
But making things legit became a fixation
Tried so hard to make things right
To make life tight
For so many years I did the good thing
Gave of my time offered my wings
But karma laughed and gave me the spurn
Got no return
Just got burned
Karma left me without having my turn
I believe in a spiritual transformer
I’m a tried and true performer
Righted my wrongs
Harmonized my songs
Still I never belonged
Destiny you owe me
I sowed the seeds that you sold me
Did good deeds like you told me
And what did I get in return?
Went from harmer to charmer
From reaper to farmer
But no matter how kind
What I need I could never find
And I don’t want to alarm her…..
But where the fuck is my Karma

 

 

Confession Carousel

 

Every minute counts
Literally
Sixty ticks just snuck out my window
Sixty heartbeats closer to death
Sixty more seconds stolen from my future
Given to my past
What do you regret?
Running up a debt in your dark silhouette
Or better yet
Having to fret from the merciless threat
While you break out in a sweat
Choosing Heaven or Hell
Soul to save or to sell
Maybe you cheated
Repeated and repeated until your life was completed
Your love deleted
Life laughed at me
Passing me by like a cosmic hitchhiker
No rides for the aging solitude
So rude
That’s when you feel the need
That’s when its time to do it
To jump aboard your confession carousel
The final tour of atonement
Hoping hate peels away wrongs for a new birth
The remembrance of the love in which we were born
Time goes into overdrive
Kick it…

 

The spinning confession is an aggression of complexion
But for the sake of this session I’ll repeat the question
What’s your main sin?
Running up a debt in your dark silhouette
Or better yet
Having to fret from the merciless threat
While you break out in a sweat
Choosing Heaven or Hell
Soul to save or to sell
Maybe you cheated
Repeated and repeated until your life was completed
Your love deleted
Did you screw up the few
You think this shit is all about you?
Your so fucking conceited your ego goes untreated
That’s nothing new
Perhaps that’s your shame
Think you own the whole game but your so fucking lame
Who cares who’s to blame
Its not yours to regain so now you refrain
Just let go your indiscretions
Unburden your possessions
We all think we have the world by the balls
Until reality calls
Puts up its walls
And its innocent who fall
Realities perception such an icy reception
Without exception
Act quick before time runs away
To voice its rejection
Guilt will own you and place you on a spinning wheel of angst
Natures pranks
Spiritual thanks
Filled with dejection
Waiting in vain
For your confession……
Slow it down

Fate is your shadow
If follows you from the day you’re born
If you move fast, fate moves faster
Move slow, it creeps behind
But fate is always there
Following and waiting
In the corners of your shadow
Creeping closer every second
Its time to fess up before fate eats you up
Pick a horse for your carousel
Choose the ringer of the death bell
Tell someone your secrets
Reveal them your soul
Confess
Unchain the ghosts
That burden your shoulders
Peer into the infinite sunset
Face destinies soldiers
The abyss stares back in disbelief
Giving no relief
And time is quitting
So the seconds sneak by
The years seem to fly
And time catches up to you
Confess today…. before it’s too late

 

Some people follow God their entire lives
Some find God once their fate tastes bitter
But everyone gets on the confession carousel
No one escapes the final ride
Once time claims its victory over flesh
And screams out for spiritual release
You choose to tell, or remain silent
Be the pitcher………. or the batter
But for fucks sake, once your dead
Does it really matter?

 

Pocketful of Memories (This Ones For You)

 

 

I sit in solitude in my gallery
Filled with ancient reminders
Sad that I own of ours so few
Moments past that wade in teardrops
And dangle on the heads of pins
Falling into the faults of fate
Like autumn leaves so full of verve
But signaling the end of a life
In my pocket I hold little treasures
Those still memories of ours I keep
Though they are small of number
Reminders yield power over me
Because love knows nothing of time
And though the hours were not enough
I rely on my pocketful of memories
For memories are all I possess

 

 

Memories
No matter where we made them
We like to buy and trade them
Collect them and parade them
With the happiness they’re made in
Or the sadness they have stayed in
And the misunderstood they strayed in
In the land of quiet reflection
Memories are gilded dreams
Sometimes it’s all I have
Or is it just the way it seems
I’m left to view my memories
Through a prism of regret
The penance I must pay up
So I never will forget
Because love never leaves….
Nor should it

 

 

Life in reverse is a series
Of episodes and reruns
Smiles and cries before you die
Shards of living good or bad
Glistening in the sunshine
Reflecting who we are
Remembering who we were
And memories, what of them?
A compilation of what time made
Skies full of clouds of hope
Clouds we can never hug and hold
Because they come and leave
And clouds get blown away
Forgotten
Because they aren’t really memories
Not creating memories
Is the saddest thing in the world

 

Every single minute of every single day we have an opportunity to make a memory. Don’t waste one single second, make them all moments to hold on tight to and recall on those lonely sorrow filled nights when you keep thinking I wish……I wish I had made more…Live and Love in Peace

The Story Of My Main Man

 

 

Time can be cruel by suffocating us in our recollections of youth but it can also shine a reflective light on our accomplishments. Today my son, a husband and father, has seen his 36th full trip around the sun and celebrates another Natal Anniversary, which in and of itself is not necessarily an accomplishment. The relationship we forged and his successes are an accomplishment to me Like a fine wine our relationship has matured into an exceptionally superb full bodied tale that sates the souls of our camaraderie. As most fathers will agree it was complicated at times but the result for us is a father and son connection offering richness in flavor and bursting with a floral aroma’s of love. I think more of him as my favorite mate than merely a result of half my DNA. The love of a father and son has matured to the point of best friends. His story is one of success and happiness, a devouring of life that satisfies his essence and fills him with gratification and verve that never ceases to fill my heart with pride. Happy Birthday Little cool Man…..

The Story Of My Main Man
When my final chapter is written
And my story becomes history
My son will be a large part of it
The boy who shaped me into a father
The youth who fashioned my patience
Forged my boundaries of tolerance
A young man who challenged me
Allowing me to grow into fatherhood
How do you thank someone for that?
Simply for being themselves
When I’m gone maybe some will tell my tale
It will be the story of who I was
What I became
And my son will have a big role
His life will be all about me
That’s a lie!
The real truth is
I will be a small part of his glory story
The man who whispered to him to be true
Sent him out to carve his own history
The story of a boy who became a man
Forging his own path in a forest of thickets
Overcoming the dangers of treacherous waters
To become a man with head held high
A story that should be mandatory teaching
A tale that should be shouted across the universe
The song of a boy who challenged his own limits
A young lad who overcame the perils of his parents
A great father
A great husband
A great human being
A modern male Cinderella who controlled his destiny
If pride is a commodity I am so rich for having you
You are wealth beyond my imagination
I would prefer being full with your love
To all the riches I ever dreamt of
And believe me, I have dreamed plenty
If I could borrow from my own future
I would gladly give my time to him
So I thank you my son for being you
And having me be a part of your story

So that’s my son. My main man who taught me at least as much as I taught him and then more, who is now my best friend. I could never repay you for all you have given me, and all I have ever really had is words, so I am giving you these three words for you to keep, three words of mine which you will forever own, and forever have dominion over. I give these three words freely….I Love You
Happy Birthday Justin

THE VERITAS

 

 
There is no reward for hatred
Yet so many stand in its shadow
Rising in their self spirituality
To serve as the executioner
In the name of a religion
Such ignorance!
Religion is a set of principles
Spirituality is whats in the heart
The murder of innocence has no chamber
In any heart nor any principle
So you worship a religion with it’s heart removed
Leaving you only hate, anger, and cowardice
Never do your own bidding in the name of any God
For it is only evil that shall gladly embrace you
And yet here we are again today
Having to grieve for strangers
Because we and they are human
And love and pain fill our hearts together
I convey my love and thoughts to the UK this day
Because you all suffer collectively
For the loss of unimaginable hurt
The loss of true innocence
Looking to live out an evening of fantasy
Filled with joy and love
Only to be forced to live a lifetime cut short
In the name of a twisted ideology
I love you my brothers and sisters suffering
Together we shall make a show of strength
Again
I pray that love will always win over hate
But I fear my heart shall be bruised once more