Literature

when I was nine,

a carpenter who liked to whistle

the Rolling Stones,

and sometimes play guitar.

He was tall,

and filled up the empty spaces

of my own father’s absence

in ways I still can’t describe.

And though my step father had a temper,

and was twice my size,

he never laid a finger on me,

though once, drunk as a skunk,

he pushed me down on the grass,

he let me go, and the very next day

he apologized, 

and never touched alcohol again.

I was 12.

I was halfway through college

where the first war broke out with Iraq,

and everyone around me in my frat

was repeating things they’d heard on TV.

And some so caught up in the blood of war,

called the Iraqis “sandniggers,”

and “dune coons.”

I felt sad, alone, and confused,

trying to justify everything in my head,

and wondering what I was even doing in a frat

in the first place.

When I came home for Spring break, 

I told my stepfather

that maybe we needed to be at war

in order to protect our interests overseas,

and secure peace for America.

“Bullshit,” he said, “It’s all about oil,

and all about money.”

“But what about Saddam Hussein?”

I asked,”isn’t he evil? Shouldn’t

we bomb them to stop him?”

“Look,” he said, looking me in the eyes,

and into my soul.  “The only thing

I need to know about war,

is that when you drop a bomb

and kill somebody’s kid,

it hurts.”

I had no reply to this,

and everything I had said prior

to him about the meaning of war,

suddenly felt like a lie

I had been telling myself

so I didn’t have to feel bad

for what I knew was wrong,

so I told him I was sorry,

and he was right,

and I never took another drink

The great language philosopher, Wittgenstein,

down on his luck,

took up a job teaching at an elementary school

for some time,

and I can’t help but imagine him there,

staring down a class of ten year olds,

trying to get them to see

the difference between the world

and language we have to describe it,

which was his life’s work,

and how useless his postulations

must have seemed

when the school bell rang for recess,

and he heard laughter outside his window,

as he ate a tuna sandwich alone,

and wondered

My father took me to a whorehouse when I was 16,

but I saw too much sadness in the eyes,

and in the faces

for me to want to have sex with them,

and I left wondering

what kind of man wouldn’t see it,

and then

I thought of my broken, alcoholic, father,

two divorces deep,

with nobody to call when he got sick

or broke a bone,

and that is when I knew

This country is falling apart,

they say,

and all the kings horses, 

and all the king’s men

can’t put it back together again,

but if you look at our history

it’s never been together,

and the civil war

never ended,

only changed faces,

and hair styles.

So take some comfort in this,

my friend,

and know that when you shove

another potato chip

into your mouth,

your neither adding nor subracting

from the madness,

but enjoying

the moment like a zen master

at the top of the mountain

watching the Battle of Gettysburg

In order to be a true artist,

they say, you have to be yourself

because everything else has been done,

and so there are millions of starving artists out there,

tossing black paint, plucking shitty chords,

and shouting into the void

without so much as a single hand clap in return.

As it turns out, people much prefer

something they’ve already seen and heard

than something original,

so may I suggest that instead of experimenting

with new sounds that speak only to your wounded soul,

you try writing a one hit wonder

that sounds like every other top forty hit,

just so you can pay your bills.

Then with royalties made

from your little sellout,

you may go back to the basement,

and moan like a cow

into the microphone

like nobody

else 

on earth 

has ever

There is a new social media app called Tik Tok,

where you can scroll from one short video to another

without interruption,

and there you will be greeted by a million hungry faces

wanted your attention, money, and time,

and some are brilliant,

and some are mad,

and some are pathetic,

but by the time you’ve spent an hour on the app,

it doesn’t matter anymore,

because all of the faces will blur together,

and I feel kind of sick to my stomach,

not knowing if I am inspired,

disgusted, terrified

or bored by all the copy cats and joke thieves.

And though I have spent untold hours on that app

trying to figure out whether I love it or hate it,

the only thing I can remember

is a recipe for spaghetti carbonara

I was given

by a man dressed as a pizza. 

but even that is hazy,

and something I would have to watch again

in order to be sure

if it takes bacon or ham.

That is why I no longer go on Tik Tok,

nor have faith

As a white belt getting smashed on the mats,

I thought our black belts were gods.

I couldn’t do anything without getting strangled,

locked, or pinned.  They were like superheros to me,

and I thought, with enough time and effort

I could be like them, even though I was middle aged,

overweight, and not much of a talent to begin with. 

I had 3 stripes on my white belt, the day this blue belt

walks in from off the street with his girlfriend on his arm.

He looked cock sure, and confident, so I couldn’t wait

for the black belts to take him to task,

and for one of our professors to show him the way of the world,

But this “blue belt” went through our first black belt like butter,

and had our wise professor tapping like Grace Kelly

before he broke a sweat as all the lower belt students

lowered their eyes, and prayed to Jesus, 

he would not look our way.  There was nobody left to stop

the bully, and God had left the building.

It was only later we discovered this “blue belt”

was a national champ, and wrestled all his life

before turning his passion to jiu-jjitsu.

He was going from gym to gym preparing for a World Championship

while our black belts were just trying to pay the rent.

It didn’t matter. The damage had been done.

I no longer believed there was anybody out there

who could protect us from the world

where the lions will never stop devouring the lambs,

the way the rich continue fleece the poor,

laughing all the way to the bank.

I remember walking out of the gym

and into the sunlight,

where it felt nice to be blinded for a moment,

before my eyes slowly adjusted,

everyone in my family is an addict,

struggling with something,

booze, phones, sex, food, cocaine,

prescription pills, diet, you name it.

and even i,

who quit almost everything years ago,

and pride myself on my sobriety,

still struggle with adderall and ambien,

and shitty moods that come on like colds.

followed by the constant need to be alone.

everyone in my family is an addict,

either dead, using, or struggling

in some less lethal form from

my wife disappearing for hours

into the television, my daughter

smoking weed, my son playing video games

until 3 am every night,

his eyes bloodshot and spent.

everyone in my family is an addict,

feeding or abstaining or somewhere in between.

my uncle drinks himself to bed each night,

my cousin who can't get off the meth,

my father who already drank himself to death,

my mother who takes 58 vitamins a day

trying not to be addicted.

Addiction must be part of life,

as i don't know anyone who is above it or below it,

as even holy men can't stop praying to God,

and always go back up the mountain

this is it, this is all there is,

blue skies and trees,

strangers holding hands in the park,

dogs melting in the sun,

the breeze cooling your face,

salted potato with ketchup,

the smell of beef burning in a pan.

this is it, this is all there is.

the feel of your mother's hand on your face.

the hot scent of alcohol on your father's lips,

shouting behind walls,

whispers in the classroom,

and schoolgirls that smell like tangerines in the sun.

this is it, this is all there is.

news and politics,

corruption, and lies.

this is it, this is all there is.

a first love,

a first kiss,

a first fuck,

a broken heart,

a joint in the garage,

the sound of your own voice

crying in the dark.

books and records

and celebrities on TV.

this is it, this is all there is.

cityscapes and taxi cabs,

reflections of your father's ghost.

crowded markets that smell of fish,

and you looking for the one who broke your heart

hoping to find her again.

like a stranger with familiar eyes.

this is it, this is all there is.

a woman who doesn't remember you

from a past life,

a heart like an ice cube in summer.

this is is, this is all there is.

hand in hand,

day by day,

My Colombian grandfather,

the bastard son of a Native father,

and British mother

was beaten by the British side

until he left home at age 9 to forge a life for himself

begging on the streets.

And though he couldn't speak a word of English,

he believed he could by mumbling "fifty-five fifty-five"

over and over again. His skin was the color of bricks,

but still he identified himself as white,

and a British gentleman,

refused to accept the conquered native inside.

Cnce,

he was thrown in jail for getting drunk

and shooting pistol rounds

into a neighbor's car.

My father said

when they went to get him out

he was giving a speech to the other prisoner's

telling them that he was the "only honorable man"

in the place,

and they were all a bunch of "savages,"

so you can see why race

can be a complicated affair,

and not something that can be solved