Archives for July 2016

Dad

My Dad always said, “Bees can be trusted but you must remember, the only
true friend you’ll ever have after you finish school is the money in your pocket
and not words your pretend friend will say when he wants to take your money.

My Dad should know because one friend of his on the way from Italy to the USA
took his eye and didn’t care if Dad died, then took his money.
Dad got to Ellis Island without one friend, one dollar, and only one eye.

He could clearly see to be welcome here; he needed not one eye, but two, to
pass inspection by the doctors there. So he went beneath the deck and in the
dark and dirty hold found a turtle with eyes the color of his.

“I’m your friend,” he said, “and I need to take one eye to use today, but
you can see okay with only one, I know because, my friend took one of mine.”
The turtle’s eyes glowed before he tore an eye from its head and used it as his own

to pass through the inspection line where those deformed, sick, or missing a body part
were sent back to where they came from. He got ashore and stayed for life because with only one eye he wasn’t welcome anywhere else, until he got one made of glass

that fooled everyone but my mom who loved him she said, but never let him forget his missing eye when she’d say, “You one eyed Italian bastard .” That happened a lot because his missing eye was the one to pick up clues that she needed more sex than he could give

and he didn’t see that with his other eye. That’s why I choose a woman instead of a man for a friend. She may take my money and steal my heart, but never, never take an eye, and she’d never mislead me, or call me half-breed any time during the day.

But I always keep cash in my pocket to be sure, I always have friends.

Every Time I See You

Fools like me rush in and want to be beside you and
always rejoice when I make a choice that’s sometimes
a sin disappointing you in every one I make.

Fools like me want to take and hold your hand to ask you
to dwell in my land. I offer you a choice. But you say,
“You and me were never meant to be, in this world or any other.

Can’t an angel like you bend your thoughts and tenderly wrap
them around my heart and return to me the feelings you have
stolen away?

Before I met you, I didn’t need permission to forget, I wasn’t a fool
and had my emotions under control, but one look at you sent them
spinning wildly around and they went up and down.

A smile from you lifted me to the heavens above, where it’s good to love,
A frown sent the sun down and sunk me to the deepest depths of my soul.
How you do this, I don’t know.

Emotions out of control are not a healthy thing, because you have my heart on a string.
I don’t want to see you any longer, because when I do my emotions are like yellow leaves falling from a tree and blowing into flames from a fire you set in me.

Noticing you strolling down the street, revs up my libido and I feel I have to have
you all the more, but I know that’s not good. I resist that loving feeling I get from
the sight of you.

I focus on all the ugly things in my life to stop the burning love I have.
Flames from my love causes my soul to blister and hurt, because of my feelings
that I can’t control. I’ll ask a psychologist why, when I see him today.

I can’t go on with the heat burning my insides. I have to put out the flames.
I try drinking beer, and whiskey too, but they ignite more fire that adds to
my burning desire.

Can’t you see what you’re doing to me. I can’t drop my feelings like an abandoned man.
If I see you, my love burns hotter than before. So please pretty woman,, help the fire to go by staying away until spring when your pretty face and warming smile will become cold

To be precise, fools like me can’t forget someone like you until springtime, when I can have another fling. Even though I try to resist, memories of you invade every part of me.
Touching your skin and face sends me into a place where my mentality refuses to see reality.

Can you show compassion to the passion a fool like me has for you? Don’t you know spring will never come if you don’t let me make love to you? If you don’t, I never want to see your pretty face again, so the burning fire can die out and my emotions return to come under my control,

and not climb and fall every time you come into view, I tell you this is true and proves me weak because with feelings that come from above force me to want to jump into the sea, so please help me to succeed, in forgetting you.

When We Die

When We Die

Years flew by and my heart kept beating without
a thought from me, until I counted the years.
Surprised, there were 75 and time had worn me down
to only half the man I was.

I thought of the places I’ve been during my life,
and the cold calculating women who acted like they cared
while sharing part of their lives with me, and babies they bore.

In 75 years, the babies grew bigger than I, and had kids of their own.
Because of this I believe my life wasn’t squandered after all. A bright
light, like the sun shone inside my head,and melted my guilt away.

I look in the mirror and with clear eyes see the end for me
is near and I say, “Goodbye old friend,” so without
fear it appears I’m ready to go and think memories
like this will go with me and last for eternity,

But I’ve heard all things must die. So how can there
be time without end as we’re often told God said so.
Thoughts such as this make me think when I die,

all I’ll do is close my eyes and hope what was said
about eternity isn’t all lies. If they are, my eyes will
never gaze upon happier days.

Any memories and dreams that I’d be redeemed will
disintegrate, become part of the field in outer space
where all our energy returns to, after life ends.

When We Die

Years flew by and my heart kept beating without
a thought from me, until I counted the years.
Surprised, there were 75 and time had worn me down
to only half the man I was.

I thought of the places I’ve been during my life,
and the cold calculating women who acted like they cared
while sharing part of their lives with me, and babies they bore.

In 75 years, the babies grew bigger than I, and had kids of their own.
Because of this I believe my life wasn’t squandered after all
and the sun shone and my guilt and melted it away.

I look in the mirror and with clear eyes see the end for me
is near and I say, “Goodbye old friend,” so without
fear it appears I’m ready to go and think memories
like this will go with me and last for eternity,

But I’ve heard all things must die. So how can there
be time without end as we’re often told God said so.
Thoughts such as this make me think when I die,

all I’ll do is close my eyes and hope what was said
about eternity isn’t all lies. If they are, my eyes will
never gaze upon happier days.

Any memories and dreams that I’d be redeemed, will
disintegrate, become part of the field in outer space
where all our energy returns to, after life here comes to an end.

She Never Gets Enough

Thirty days and thirty nights of love have come and gone,
and all I’ve done when I see the setting sun, is dream about fights,
beatings, torture, and the things you’re willing to do to control my soul.

Exasperating, as you are when we fight, I know it’s not right, but don’t mind,
because when you beat me, my delight reaches new heights and the thrills
send ecstasy to my mind and I don’t know why.

you don’t know that I enjoy what you did to me for thirty days,
and ,oh, what you did during the thirty nights gave me colossal delight
until morning light killed your brutal sadistic urge.

Torture is something we find exhilarating. I revel in the brilliant ideas you have
when I’m on the rack. Captivating as you are I find hate welling inside because
you’re not on my side when you do all the things to me that I find excruciating, yet
my love for you conquers all other sensations I have when you beat me with a whip.

I know you read that 50 shades book so many times you learned how to control
and stimulate girls you put on the medieval torture rack so you can turn the wheel
for pleasure when you hear them shriek and do it for a week.

They pray, and beg to be set free, but in the end they give you their souls. I want to be one of them so thirty days and thirty nights become thirty years of seeing the dawns early light from your torture rack. You have the gift to know when I had enough.

Written by a white man who imagines.

Oligarchy USA

It’s not their fault. You know, they had no choice
what color their skin would be and didn’t
know what a difference it would make when
stopped by the police when they only want peace.

Those who protect and serve get homicidal thoughts
during a traffic stop and get the drop when they see skin darker
than theirs not in chains or in jail, and don’t realize dark men
think like them, and only want a life free from harassment

and pain. Fears that they may soon be dead bursts through
cop’s brains when approaching a car they’ve stopped. Dreading
what could happen, the cop’s hand grips his gun and his fears
ease, because he has power in his hand.

His brain has been programmed by TV and stories told, so he
knows how dangerous it is if a man with dark skin makes a
sudden move. The police to be safe will shoot and know if they
make a mistake, it isn’t against the law.

It’s part of the show white people see on TV, and it’s
in the news day after day when a white cop kills
a colored man for no apparent reason. Its broadcast sixty times
a day and becomes imbedded in every black man’s brain,

that the police want to kill every one of them. Rage takes over,
and the veteran feels not worthy to be called a man unless he gets
revenge, on cops for what they’ve done to people who look like him.

He knows that half of homicide victims in the USA are black and
almost all are killed by people the same color as them , but it’s never
shown on TV or in the papers, because it isn’t news when they kill each
other, but when a cop kills a man of color, it’s great for TV and the press.

A video is made to be shown so many times in a day to keep the hatred
flames burning when the media implies that the police want to kill any
blacks on their beat. Viewers believe it’s them against us no matter the
skin color.

The networks and press are to blame when military men taught
to fight for democracy by Uncle Sam and sent to Iraq and Afghanistan
come home to find they’re not as free as the people over there, and
can’t even drive down the street without the fear of losing their lives.

After watching so much murder on TV, the veteran thinks the time
has come to stand up like a man and fight the oligarchy ruling the USA.
Wouldn’t a white man’s brain become inflamed when watching his kind
murdered by black police so many times a day on TV?

What’s going on in the minds of those up there that make
laws and give those born with white hides privileges
dark-skinned people never see? Could it be true, like on TV that
ET’s have infiltrated the government of USA?

Will they show on TV when illegal alien ET’s arrive from outer space
and fly over all the walls built to keep them out and land on the
White house lawn to go inside and eat politicians filled with lies
making them delicacies’ to the hungry Aliens who can’t find food
as good as them in any other place place. The ones they eat can be easily replaced.

Angels and Stars Will Someday Die

Going through time on astral waves makes me wish when
moonbeams shine on down you’d find one to lead you to the
stars where you belong and will have a fine time with beautiful
souls who used to be alive but are now here in the sky.

Heaven is cold and lonely without you and my tears freeze in place.
Please look up here and behold the newest shimmering star next to
Mars. That’s me winking at you, letting you know to have no fear
because my words don’t rhyme, it’s not a crime out here where I
mingle with angels tempting me to forget certain words.

I recall the words they want me to forget and will never erase. They’re
lyrics of affection I sang to you when we were in love. To become an
angel like me, all you have to do is to drink the Kool Aid I left behind
for the poor and blind. When you drink, you’ll get a ticket to ride here
on a moonbeam on a starry night.

All things must die an angel who loved to be heard whispered in my ear,
but my feelings for you never stopped and are so powerful they bring me
to my knees, and make me wish I would have stayed with you. But now that
I’m here with angels and stars but not you, I want to put my eye out so I can’t watch
the starts dim and the suns die. I want you to know that my love for you is the one
thing that will never die.

Hunter S. Thompson

Maybe for success as a writer I should listen to Hunter S. Thompson who said, “I hate to advocate for drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”

n 1970, Hunter S. Thompson found himself back in Kentucky to write an article about the Kentucky Derby for Scanlan’s Monthly magazine, but he was too high to focus on writing. He later said; “I’d blown my mind, couldn’t work. So finally I just started jerking pages out of my notebook and numbering them and sending them to the printer. I was sure it was the last article I was ever going to do for anybody.” The resulting article, “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved,” was a huge success, even though it never mentioned the race or the winner.
Reposted from Writer’s Almanac.

I’ve tried drugs and alcohol, but didn’t improve, so maybe I need to become insane and then violent to write a winning manuscript?

Life is Fair

I’ve often said life is fair – so don’t despair
Though I knew better – I said it anyway thinking
it would ease the pain of being alive even though
men and women have no control where they go

Lives can begin or end when they come to a fork
in their life where they have to choose without asking their muse
which way to go – it’s out of our control and where it’ll lead
no one knows – but we can’t refuse to go

Truth be told – life isn’t fair at all and we’re forced to take roads
That sometimes leads us to a painful place where no matter
How wise we are and try and try – but can never leave
the road we took

It may be a disease or a girl – but you have to face the facts
And if you’re not dumb – you’ll come to believe
Life for us isn’t fair and we suffer while alive
While others who took a different road than we

Live a life of luxury and ease among others like them
Without ever experiencing regret for taking the road
we chose to take by mistake because we thought it led to paradise
But we discovered it led to purgatory first and then to Hell on Earth

We made a choice to take a road and we wished we never did
When we arrived at the end – sorrow and despair came to us
Why did I ever say life is fair when I knew all along I’d never sing
a happy song and life would end amiss – like this

Writers–Erle Stanley Gardner shows us what it takes to succeed!

It’s the birthday of detective novelist Erle Stanley Gardner, born in Malden, Massachusetts (1889). He earned money through high school by participating in illegal boxing matches. He went on to Valparaiso University to study law, but after only a month, he got kicked out for boxing. So he studied law on his own, and he passed the California bar exam when he was 21. He went to his swearing-in ceremony after a boxing match, and said that he was probably the only attorney in the state to be sworn in with two black eyes.

He liked working as a lawyer, but it wasn’t enough to keep him busy, so he started writing detective fiction for pulp magazines. In 1933, he published The Case of the Velvet Claws, his first novel featuring detective and defense attorney Perry Mason, who always pulled through and won cases for the underdogs. Gardner wrote more than 80 Perry Mason novels, and his books have sold more than 300 million copies.

He said: “I still have vivid recollections of putting in day after day of trying a case in front of a jury, which is one of the most exhausting activities I know about, dashing up to the law library after court had adjourned to spend three or four hours looking up law points with which I could trap my adversary the next day, then going home, grabbing a glass of milk with an egg in it, dashing upstairs to my study, ripping the cover off my typewriter, noticing it was 11:30 p.m. and settling down with grim determination to get a plot for a story. Along about 3 in the morning I would have completed my daily stint of a 4,000-word minimum and would crawl into bed.”

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