Wheeling & Dealing

It was a casual conversation.

It gave me hope.

I came back to the store and found my entire crew hanging from a rope.

Hmm, this could be because of dope, I explained to my right hand man who I kindly paid for his fair share of work.

He left smiling with Teresa who loves to twerk.

Kim’s not answering her phone, I wonder if she’s woke or just treating me like a joke.

Just yesterday, I was labeled a jerk, but here comes Sandy and Donna too. 

They put up a front just as good as Sue.

Political gurus, businesses, by all religious means, the reverend only seems to answer after he’s been seen.

Gina just watched terror run through her entire neighborhood, somebody was spying and spilled the beans.

Folks let me remind you, that when you’re wheeling and dealing nothing is what it seems.

At the end of the day everyone’s trying to make a buck and it’s all love until you run out of luck.

Wheeling & Dealing

Why?

 Am I just here to rot and die?

To grow old with young dreams.

Why?

What is this all for?

Is it the test of time?

Is it brutal torment to feel victory one day then the next watching everyone and everything I love fade away while I sit in a room alone with just memories?

Am I here to be hurt over and over again only to fall in love with the same fate?

Am I here to see prison bars, and inmates with pure hopes of redemption?

Why?

What is my purpose?

Am I here to watch cancer eat away at my longevity?

Am I here to lead a bunch of people to the promised land?

God, why?

Is it my fault that in the beginning there was a flaw?

I won’t question God, but I have to find a reason to keep going.

I have to find a reason to live.

Is it to be rich and have everything only to never feel satisfied?

Is it to watch the foolish run free and wild?

Is it to party until I tip over?

I guess without something to believe in there is no reason to ask why.

To whom do I question?

Is it you God when the wind blows my door shut?

Is it you God that gives me strength in times of weakness?

Whom do I trust in?

Why?

After I’ve proven my point over and over, I too someday will find the answer to why I have to get up every day and face the world.

I guess it’s to climb the mountain.

I guess it’s to run a thousand miles.

I guess it’s to fly like the birds.

If the answer is to fail over and over again, I guess the real reason I’m here is to keep trying.

Goodbye September

Goodbye 9/11

Goodbye Labor Day.

Goodbye sorrows.

Hello Autumn breeze.

Hello October.

Hello better days.

Impecunious

 It was late, and my donation sign had just gotten wet so I had no way to beg for money. Standing in the parking lot, I had to see about twenty or forty cars pass me by. I’d been stripped down to my natural human state, and all of my accolades now meant nothing. I literally had to shower in the rain and sleep in cold alleys. My days consisted of walking five to ten miles and standing out in the cold for hours begging for what most people took for granted. I’d been crucified, humiliated, and left to hang on a wooden cross in front of an old rundown homeless shelter. Everyone looked so comfortable driving by watching me begging at crosswalks, I’d become the itch in their fragile minds on whether to be blessed of left hanging. My new evolution of formal thinking had turned into an accumulation of real human emotions and intellect. The sad thing about my state of being is that I truly was a good person, but I’d been losing at the money game of life. Many of what I now called, them, were all driving in fancy cars, drowning in their ideologies, traveling to wealthy nations, trading precious goods for cash, eating out at the finest restaurants, and even wasting the one thing that I needed the most, money. I was once a decorated congressman who gave up everything by voting to defund a senseless war that many people never even heard of. Now I’m an impecunious bum, spying on God’s greatest creation for the greater good. Walking in between two worlds  I often found myself bargaining with the God of night and the God of day. I’d come to the conclusion that a humble soul who is left with nothing really only has one thing left and that is his soul. In a quest to satisfy my flesh, my mental state is the strain of slowly being beaten with a hammer with little to no mercy. The truth is that when you become impecunious you literally are the living dead. A thorn on the crowns of the fortunate.

The Field of Green

Partake, eat, inhale, chew, and be merry with the witches. Friend, walk away, cunning are their spells. In a field of green, many mighty men and women have sold everything they’ve owned to be cured from their fenced off gardens. How clever to obtain enough knowledge to master the nature of the sun’s gifts. As for me, all I have left is a poem to share. How many people actually recover? What is the solution to a mathematical health diagnosis? Friend, the language of medicine is understood by the doctor, not by too many patients. Mighty men find that they are not so mighty at all, they find themselves on their knees praying to be magically cured. Who really understands pain? Who really has the cure? Who really has the power to heal? On my quest to find the answer, I found myself in a maze surrounded by doctors and nurses poking at my flesh. Frustrated and confused, locked in a hospital room wandering through the halls in a gown half naked and drugged up, I realized that life is no different from death and every moment wasted falls in the hands of someone who outsmarted you. Suffering and high off of my medications, I hear the doctors and nurses laughing down the hall. I’m just a patient, my health plan is flawed, and I’m unsure if my God is listening. I’m alone in a room, I’ve been visited several times, sadly, everyone has already thrown in the towel when it comes to my survival. Friends, I’ve lived a life of optimism only to find out that life is like death when the odds are stacked against you, so friend, if you survive another day, write a love letter on the wall so that the next patient can get the message. There is no cure, there’s only pain, and suffering in hopes that the medicine man can save you, and when you die, the plants will feast off of your dead flesh to feed the next generation, but wait, I’m writing a story, so I say that there is no death. This is my life. If you made it this far without stoping your reading, friend, I say that death is an illusion made from life. How do you know that you’re not already dead? How do you even know that you’re alive? How do you know that the sun didn’t just plant you here like a seed? My friend, I’ve died a thousand times only to wake up in another world, yes, I have that much power. Pay close attention to who sells green grass for a cure, and in the end of one life, you will find that the grass is greener on the other side. There is no death, there is only pain and suffering to get to a better day and just because you don’t see me on your next day doesn’t mean that I’m not there, I’m just laying in a field of purple grass somewhere else waiting for a visitor.

The Field of Green.

The Lone Sailor

-A dignified sailor poem in a different day and age.

There he or she stands, seabag in hand, alone aboard a ship.

Young sailor, old sailor, on the docks looking to take a dip.

Everyone has moved on to gray old hair, but there stands a statue, of the lone sailor to share.

It’s like a moment in time that you soak in all alone.

It’s like calling from the edge of the earth with no phone.

The good old days, memories gone by, boarding the ship, studying the ways of war, from sun down to sun up.

Alone in a room floating on memories of good and bad days.

Sailing the rough seas watching eagles fly.

Get up, new sailors, and don’t give up the ship.

It’s a battle everyday, so stay on guard.

Far beyond, in a distance at midship, the water is deep and the waves are massive, but no one survives at sea by just being passive.

You’ve got to fight, be wise, and stay alert, because every night alone, helps you appreciate your hard work.

Sadly you must let go of what you left at home, you must be patient and do your time. Because of you there’s a trail with a light and compass for the next generation to find.

So this poem is for you the lone, lone, sailor, because when you’re young, you may not understand that he or she who stands alone must find a belief in something greater.

Trust in a higher power, and in the end you’ll see, that in God we trust is the true magic of a supernatural belief.

When the hearts of men are tested, the lonely sailor floats at sea, rising to the occasion for those yearning to be free. 

The Lone Sailor

Twins

At times I feel as though nothing went wrong.

At times I feel as though nothing went wrong.

But, sadly,

But, sadly,

Something did go wrong. If I recall, two planes and two towers.

Something did go wrong. If I recall, two planes and two towers.

I remember.

I remember.