AND SO IT GOES

 

I littered the streets of my youth
With shards and fragments of ill
Deeds and wrongs left unpunished
Save for the breaking of my spirit
My saline teardrops iced to crystal
By the coldness of too many hearts
Dissolved into wisps of pining mist
From the flames of internal anger
While reflecting on the descendants
Of the ancient father of my yesterdays
Whose lasting advice I always follow
Remember always from which you came
So I cast one last meaningful gaze
One long sigh backwards in my horizon
Trying in vain to enjoy the final sunset
I now being the son of mine very own future
Plagued by memories like a sleepless mother
Tossing and turning as if on a hapless carousel
Yet in her heart should I find peace and freedom
And in my forbidden lovers arms I found bliss
Recalling murmurs from beneath satin sheets
In the twilight of the grand imploding passions
I can only hope my eagerness to please
Filled their souls as much as they filled mine
And always will I owe them the unpaid debt
Of presenting me with dreams to be dreamt
Nightmares as well as the specter s of joy
Easing my midnight delusions of utopia
Allowing my sun to always rise in smiles
Still as each day begins anew in my years of dusk
In each morn I taste the squalid irony this one thing
The time of my departing without my return
Shall be a time of gathering of memories for others
And so it goes……

 

Live and Love in Peace

A Slice Of Life (from Zen And The Art f Culinary Maintenance)

 

J.T. Hilltop
I was seriously depressed, spent 33 days as an unwilling guest at a South Carolina correction facility on my way to Arizona, and I never made it any further west then freaking Georgia. I played around in Atlanta, Columbia, and Myrtle Beach, and finally realized it was time to get back home to Long Island where I could at least waste my life away with some friends.

After two wasted years and a week of senseless sporadic hitchhiking in the south I finally made it back home to Centerlawn. It had only been two years yet as I quickly learned it’s a strange new world around here. Nearly everyone I hung out with has either gotten married, moved, or joined the “Establishment” and are doing their nine to fives. As for me I‘m officially unemployed and living at home with my Dad of all people. My next tattoo way just as well be a large “L” on my forehead so everyone can see what a loser I’ve become. What a cruel world. I had to do something, I was relented to the ultimate embarrassment of getting cash from my old man for doing menial tasks around the house, which had been seriously neglected as of late. A twenty three year old earning a teenage allowance. I needed to move out on my own again really bad but jobs were scarce, and I have zero money let alone security and rent for a month. Then my old friend Universe created its mysterious cosmic connection and the answer appeared in front of me. My cosmic companion placed fates ironic ad in the classified section of the local paper, “Looking for line cook for six day week. Room and board included. Inquire at Glen City Country Club.” “Fore!”

Thank you destiny! It opened up a whole new world to me. Long Island has tons of country clubs and most of them offer room and board as part of a compensation package. I could bounce from club to club until I get back up on my feet. Hey its not like Maggs Garden Apartment but it’s a room with a bed. I went to GCCC the very next day in my best clothes wearing my best attitude and charm. I got the job on the spot thanks to all my previous restaurant experience. Zen and the Art Of Culinary maintenance is back in the house.

The country club circuit is different from restaurants. For one thing it means split shifts. The members get breakfast and lunch Tuesday through Sunday, and dinner Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday which meant a break from 3-6 on those days. Mondays the kitchen was closed so we all had a day off. The hours were very mixed up but the work was steady and the pay was decent. A great staff, quality food, lots of waitresses, and we all got along and had fun. The room and board left a bit to be desired, the staff referred to it as “The Monkey House.” A small room with a cheap bed and dresser with showers down the end of the hall but what the Hell man, it was still better than having to see Dads face everyday.

Alas, I’ve learned that anytime anything good happens to me something has to come along and fuck it up. After losing at love three times in a row I opted to not get caught up in any serious relationship but that didn’t mean I would stop flirting. As I have also learned I have a pension for flirting with disaster, this time disaster being the General Managers daughter. Eight years younger than me but she was just too hot to let pass without making a pass. I put my flirtatious charm into overdrive and soon their was a very thick air of sexually charged tension. As the Rabbi said before the Bris, “It won’t be long now”

I was employed at Glen City Country Club for just under a year when the ill advised flirting with the bosses daughter teamed up with that old practical joker JT‘s fate and raised the level from disaster to catastrophic cacophony. An accident that would send me to the hospital would set off the next series of unfortunate events in my life.

The members of the clubs get a lot of perks and have a lot of all day golfing tournaments. On most big outings we had to set up two refreshment stations serving soda, beer, water, a hamburger grill and cold sandwiches. We loaded up a golf cart with folded tables, food and drink, and ice buckets to keep stuff cold. The tournament was over and one of the other cooks, Jose, was driving the cart we had just loaded with all the tables and leftovers from the refreshment stand at the 9th hole. He was driving the loaded cart along an elevated tee, a two foot incline, when he noticed something fell out of the cart and jumped out to get it. The cart kept moving towards the edge of the incline so I reached my foot over to hit the brake. Unfortunately the gas pedal bore a striking resemblance to the brake pedal so instead of coming to a stop the cart, full loaded with me in the passenger seat picked up speed. Or it’s quite possibly the beer I snuck or the two Valiums I washed down with the beer an hour ago, but either way I put the pedal to the medal and the golf Cart took off. Literally. Not enough speed to break any golf cart speed records but enough to send the cart full speed ahead to the edge of the elevated women’s tee into a triple one and a half twist gainer with a perfect swan dive straight into the ground. … I remember seeing a bunch of things rolling around with me but don’t remember any pain. In fact I was shocked when I saw the amount of blood coming from my arm.

Jose freaked of course and in his broken English I believe he said “Jesus and crackers JT, you losing focking blood”. Indeed I was, I grabbed one of the table cloths and wrapped my arm as Jose took off towards the main house screaming “help, help, help” That’s when I passed out. I awoke in and ambulance but I was seriously disoriented. The medic told me to relax and I told him I was in considerable pain.Next thing I knew a familiar feeling of warmth spread across my body. My old friend morphine was entering my bloodstream for a reunion. I closed my eyes, smiled, asked the medic to throw away the pill box in my pocket and drifted off into a different state.

I woke up about one or two days later, my arm was tied up top a pole with this huge sock that would be too big for Shaquile O’Neil, and sitting across from me smiling was the managers daughter. I knew instinctively that nothing good could come from this, so naturally, I asked her out which was extremely awkward considering when I got out of bed I realized the tied on hospital robe I was wearing exposed my big white hairy ass….. Was tha a good thing? Or a bad thing? Time and fate would tell….
TBC

 

I

You May Be A Racist

 

 

Money for opioid addiction. Man it seems to be a very important issue these days, and Politicians are jumping on the bandwagon in an effort to prove how important it is to them. It’s an epidemic! So is this a new phenomenon? Hell no, its been in the ghetto’s for years but it only infected the poor, the disenfranchised, or the thrill seeking suburban teens. It was a problem for the urban youth, code word for minorities. We were happy as hell to just lock up anyone who used drugs so mainstream America could feel safe, far away from the losers and evil criminals. But now it has infiltrated white suburbia and suddenly addiction is an epidemic that must be addressed. Now white America is prepared to spend all kinds of money because it’s a problem that has infected their youth, urban drugs in mainstream Suburbia America. That’s privilege and racism whether you are willing to admit it or not and like it or not, if it took these circumstances for you to consider addiction a disease which knows no race, class, or environment, you may be a racist.…..

 

 

You’re a racist
Too busy bitching and moaning jawboning and groaning
Screaming so loud that your hatred showing
Your face is all glowing your bullshit is flowing
As you seethe in self pity your racism keeps growing
Believe it or not you continue Jim Crowing
You be exploding and disowning cause you need more melatonin
But shit man that’s whack
You can’t be more black
Sport lash tattoos on your back while smoking your crack
Pretending you’re stacked and hip hop ain’t just black
You don’t know Jack
Time to admit
Who da cap fit let them wear it
You’re a Racist shit
Being politically correct isn’t a solution
You ain’t some old white man exclusive
Verbally abusive full of mental pollution
Read your constitution the retribution and the revolution
Is causing confusion
You’re an unusual delusional on a stay of execution
Aughta be in seclusion
Just an obtrusive nuisance whose abusive excuse is to hate your brother
And become a recluse
Think you got game but you ain’t nothing but shame
Flickering flame looking for someone to blame
Hating on your brother just shows that you’re lame

 

 

 

We traded their blood for free white economics
With atomic vomit poking fun in Ebonics
Time to end the onyx vitrionics
And add to harmonics
Have you even listened
To songs of freedom
Ever really heard the pains
The chains and unheard claims
Of our brothers all bleeding
Pleading and seething in shackles of grieving
Or are you blinded by your heritage
Sipping on your favorite beverage
Using law as your leverage
Is it the garments they wear
Or the skin beneath the thread
That makes you fear and dread
Their lives have been fleeting
Whipped just for reading
They’ve been bleeding and pleading
Too many hearts stopped beating
This shit should end today
I hope the fucking KKK
Simply burns away
Charred by the flames on the crosses
Of the hatred they made
That shit leaves me perplexed
So what’s next?
We need to bear of the scars of the rope burns across their necks
Yes I’m pissed amidst this unforgiving hateful mist
You can continue to say racism doesn’t exist
But if you really believe that…..
Take me off your hypocritical CHRISTmas list

Peace out my brothers and sisters, Live and Love in Peace

Cardboard Purgatory

 

The Homeless. Everyone agrees it’s a problem yet no one has a solution. Many of us would refuse to walk an inch in their shoes but most of them would walk a mile with blistered bare feet just to have a pair of our shoes. They are looked down on, looked at with disgust by many, looked at with sympathy or empathy by others. Most of us walk past them pretending not to see them, or maybe throwing them a bit of spare change, but seldom do any of us stop and talk. Or better yet, listen…..

 

How did I get here?
Too many the days of pain
Too long the pain of days
Was what brought me to this
Alone in the jaws of depravity
In the confines of hopelessness
Left naked and empty of hand
Crouched in the shadow of despair
Possessing only the gifts of the Earth
And the stipends of the caring few
While the gates in my face are slammed shut
The gates of my heart remain ever open
What little I have I share with the world
But the world doesn’t often reciprocate
Ridiculed and held in distain from on high
I am the dust beneath their Persian rugs
Catching scraps from their linen tablecloths
Judged as lazy, useless, and worthless
Praying the generous winds of humanity
Will lift me away to place I can call home
And free me from this cardboard purgatory

 

 

Spit it BeBop Street Flow…..

Listen up to the story of existing in purgatory inside a cardboard dormitory
Where guts ain’t got no glory dying is pretty but livings gory
A metaphoric allegory that ends in a repository
Am I striking a chord here?
My shelter made of cardboard is an upgrade from the psyche ward
Got no money can’t afford more been abandoned by the good lord
My universe yet un explored I was floored
Had to fall on my sword
Guess I got a fitting reward but I hate falls
Want to tear down the corrugated walls
But that takes protocols and balls and my balls are all I got left
Feeling bereft because I turned right when I shoulda turned left
So I turned to theft
I was busted disgusted and couldn’t be trusted so I fled
In days past my life seemed complete, had the world upon my feet
Riding high living sweet a big time player playing Wall Street
Until my defeat
Took quite a fall and lost it all, took both eyes off of the ball
Dropped like a giant cannon ball into a tub of alcohol
Anyhow, that’s all I can recall
Lost my job and lost my home lost my family was all alone
They stripped me to the bone locked me up in the crazy dome
Then set me free
Below the Bourgeoisie
No longer have home so with homeless do I roam
Stockholm syndrome
Misfortune as my captor, my pastor and my master
Lead me straight into disaster faster than a slick Bastard
So I got plastered
To be clear it was wine and beer until my problems became severe
Then I blazed the drug frontier and all my worries disappeared
Acted cavalier
But it gets you in the end destroys your life and all your friends
No matter how hard you pretend all the shit comes back again
Only worse
Life becomes perverse obtuse and terse
You’re immersed you can’t converse the only way out is in a hearse
So you ride alone

 

 

 

How did they end up here on “skid row”? Some are simply born into poverty and never have the advantages of good schooling we take for granted. Illness, loss of a loved one, domestic abuse, mental illness, PTSD. Some came back from fighting a war and were simply left alone in the cold. Some simply couldn’t find work. The point is don’t assume they put themselves there from lack of will, or unwillingness to do even menial tasks. Most homeless humans have stories to share that could curl self righteous hair.

So don’t point a finger and yell that lazy bitch got no will power, that’s all. Pull themselves up by their bootstraps and face the world, get a job instead of getting high. But getting high isn’t why most of them do it, they do it to numb the pain, the physical, the mental, and most of all the emotional. Bad decisions often lead to worse decisions and the dominoes of life continue to fall, a little harder each time. Judge not lest Ye be judged…… Live and Love in Peace

 

 

Last Nights Dream

 

 

He came from out of a rainstorm
More than halfway through his journey
Holding a piece of broken memory
Pushing it on a gurney
Recalling a single teardrop
A lonely drop he cried
Chasing his favorite sonnet
Hoping it will stay dry
Yesterday coursed through his blood
Letting out a scream
One more chance to dance his dance
One last happy dream
He was
Burdened by the stormy night
Chained to his existence
A broken mind a broken heart
Life in its persistence
His years keep piling running up
He counts down for his last breath
The time of his life is hanging around
With the hour of death
Been running towards it for so long
You can smell it on his clothes
The stench of wind suck to his hair
When from his dream he rose
Time is but a cognitive illusion
A series of frozen moments
Unfolding in chaotic order
You can’t control the slowness

 

 

 

I snapped a photo he didn’t like
Happens all the time
When he looked in the mirror
The face he saw was mine
Did the snapshot capture his image
Or did my camera set him free
Exchange him for a memory
Of who he used to be
But looking at the photo he was just like you and me
Waiting for the moment that time will set him free
And what’s to be shall be
Just another day
What good are photo’s anyway
They only get me pissed
All they do is make us smile
While reminding us we’re missed
Reflecting back we realize
He was dreaming on a whim
Searching for that one person
Who was trying to find him
A bus came by and he got on
Slipped inside the closing door
Please let me keep the memories
So I can dream once more

 

Live and Love in Peace

A Life Of Mediocrity

 

Will my world end
In the shadows of a lonely heart
Dissipate and disintegrate
Let out its final breath
With a whimper and sigh
Or will I choke violently
Upon the mistakes of the flesh
Suffer in my vanity
Such a sad way to perish
Watching time run out
Waiting for the sun to cease
When darkness bids me hello
Why do I even ponder this
I really don’t need to wait
Unless I want to

 

 

Standing right in front of me was a life of mediocrity the point of which I cannot see an existence lacking synergy. I was a sinner see? Like all who came and went before me, no matter how much Mom deplored me, I turned my head and ran. Right into self fulfilling prophecy
Now the question facing me is should I continue consciously or place a bullet inside of me become a suicidal wannabe, an oddity of novelty.
Not to be
I refuse to die for me
I’m gonna let my life be what it was meant to be
An anomaly of honesty, possibly a comedy or possibly a tragedy
Ill just wait and see

 

 

Up on the mountain of age
The sun heads somewhere west
Sinking into a deep sleep
Darkness smiles and says come with me
Reminds me of my bridges torched
Consequence watches and cheers
Sated that it’s time has arrived
Avenging all the misplaced causes
Accepting the rent due its heart
As always my payment is in arrears
You can’t pay regret with a bucket of tears
The ferryman waits for his toll
With oars that have been paid for in years
You can’t cross the bridge once you’ve burnt it to embers
You just have to cross

Live and Love in Peace…….
Invest in memories of love, only love pays dividends in life

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,