I dreamed I could write, day or night, but when I went to school, I learned
I was a fool, because to my surprise, I couldn’t pull words from the sky.
Writing wasn’t as easy as knocking on wood like I thought it would.
Living alone, without a wife or even a dog,
love and companionship were unknown.
I understood why J. D. Salinger, even though
everyone knew his name, became a recluse.
After class, I’d go home to write, but would sleep
And dream how sad life could be because I read
Within my dreams, famous now-dead authors,
Like Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Mailer came
Alive with advice on how to write.
Though famous as writers, not one of the three
Thrilled me as Kesey did when he arrived in a dream
and we’d get high and travel to planets and stars
And when awake and not asleep, memories
of the story, Kesey wrote stay, and feelings emerge
that gives me an urge to strangle Nurse Ratched.
I moved to California where I believed someone would understand me
and get paid for what I wrote. All I accomplished on that
Hollywood dream was a nightmare when I was Mexican, and
Fante told me to eat the dust.
But Thompson came along and chased Fante from
My dream. Thompson told me the fear he once felt
had been assuaged. So we went to Las Vegas with
pockets full of psychedelics carried from some distant
heaven so we could enjoy our Vegas trip.
But I awoke in my California bed with the moon overhead.
I thought it had all been a dream until I went for coffee
and met a man who said, “Stop dreaming and get to work”.
I’ll never stop ,” I told the stranger. “The night is made
for dreaming, so don’t be rude when you know that’s my job.”
“Now you got it,” he said. “It’ll be okay if you write about your
dreams every day and don’t just daydream your life away.
“Why are you so uptight?” I asked, as I tip-toed across the floor.
“I’m not uptight when I see a meteor in the night, I know I’m Updike,”
he said and turned away after I requested he stay.
Below the starry night, I’m uptight and hold my breath while I pray that
upon some magic star, talent will arrive from the sky to make me comparable
to Updike or like other writers who have appeared in my dreams.
That day I went into Bernard’s Bookstore, snowflakes fell like confetti on a parade making the ground slippery, wet, and me cold and damp. I wished the old store had a coffee bar. It didn’t but did have some fascinating ancient books. I spent an hour defrosting my toes while glancing through dozens of old tomes. A voice that came from where, I didn’t know, said, “Go upstairs.”
Except for the old woman who sat behind the early 1900s, cash register, I was alone in the store. Maybe I imagined the voice. I went back to browsing and heard it again, but more demanding this time. Compelled to obey this puzzling voice, I searched for a way to go upstairs, but couldn’t discover any way to get there, so I asked the old woman how I’d get upstairs.
At those words, her face transformed into a visage of joy. She didn’t speak but pointed to an elevator door. I pushed the button and the door slid open. I stepped into the wire cage the size of a refrigerator box. It didn’t have buttons to press, just a rotating handle with an arrow to point up or down. I spun the arrow to down and wondered what would have happened if I had pointed it to up because there wasn’t a floor above the store. The elevator refused to go down, so I twisted the arrow to up and the cage traveled upward at an astounding speed. How could I be going up when there was nothing above? Could the elevator some sort of virtual reality box?
It came to a sudden stop, the door slid open and a palatial room came into view. I stepped out onto a white marble floor. Sunshine poured through windows that abounded on all four walls of the 40 x 40-foot room. As far as I could see it was empty except for a podium with a book set on top. Lifting it I found it to be a parchment codex in octavo with a vellum cover.
I opened the book and saw illustrations of unknown plants, constellations or systems of tubes transporting liquids and populated by tiny, pudgy ‘nymphs’. I never saw a manuscript like this previously. It had to be special to be the only one in this glorious room. Where was this room? It wasn’t possible that it existed above the bookstore, but it did. I went to a window wall to try to see where I was, but the bright sun blinded me and I couldn’t see beyond the glass.
The language in this manuscript was handsome and painted with expensive ink and some bold botanical images in gold that were crafted long ago. If I could read the written words, what would I learn? Was the author of this work from our world or another? Is a cancer cure in there? As a book aficionado, I felt this was one I must have, but worried I couldn’t afford it.
If I could only read and understand the written text, I sensed I’d find immortality; world peace and other impossibilities. I carried it to the elevator, but when I tried to go through the door with the volume in my hands, some invisible barrier prevented me from taking it with me. It had to be some sort of modern safekeeping device. If this room existed atop the old store, it must be magic or some sort of technological security.
I boarded the elevator without the tome with the intent on asking the old lady how much it cost. I’d pay her if I had the amount and ask her to turn off whatever stopped the book from entering the elevator so I could take the volume home. I boarded the elevator, closed the door and the voice said, “What’s written in that book are heaven’s words.”
I turned the handle to down and the cage room silently descended. I got out and rushed to the desk. “How much is that book upstairs?”
The old lady gave me a wary look. “We don’t have an upstairs.”
“Yes, you do. Don’t you remember? I asked you how to get there and you pointed to the elevator.”
“You asked me where the bathroom was and I pointed to it.” She pointed to the elevator door. I opened the door to the elevator and the metal cage had changed into a room with a cracked sink and a tile floor in need of a good cleaning. I couldn’t understand what happened. I wanted the book so badly that I’d do anything to gain possession of it.
I heard the voice again, “Only angels can read and understand the words in Voynich’s Manuscript.
The voice told me in poetic words that Angels Speak in
The language in Voynich’s Manuscript that
is handsome and said to be heaven sent.
The botanical images painted with expensive
ink and some in gold came here long ago.
If I could read the written words, what
would I see, the voice asked? Was the author of this tome
from our world or another? Is a cancer cure in there?
I’d learn immortality may be had if I could only read
the inked in terms. World peace and other
impossibilities could be had by eating some of
those magic plants drawn on pages of animal skin.
The voice said that the text put down in that book
were heavenly words that only angels could read and speak.
I Dreamed I could read the text and it said,
Angels and Stars Will Someday Die
Going through time on astral waves makes me wish when
moonbeams shine 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 some words.
I recall the words they want me to forget but, are ones I’ll never erase.
They’re lyrics of affection I sang to you when we were in love.
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 I’m here with angels and stars but without you, so if you want
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 one
starry night. Until then, I close my eyes so I can’t watch the stars
dim and the sun die. I want you to know that my love for you is the one
thing that will never die.
Does being born in an afternoon with a silver spoon make a man better
than one born with a bush-whacker as long as a baby’s leg?
Ask Joe. He knows how it goes. When he was sixteen a mealy
mouthed whore wasn’t acting her craft when she saw the size of his
womb broom spit out, “You’re not putting that Bigith Dickith inside of me.”
“Are you trying to say, Bigus Dickus?” The whore laughed and agreed that
was what she was trying to say and Joe’s name became, Bigus Dickus
A transvestite named, Cherry wasn’t ashamed to fall for Joe’s
One-eyed monster. She was a fairy and told many like her why she
was in love. To show those who didn’t believe, she drugged Joe
and said, “We’re not wed, so you owe, but I’ll blow if you’ll put on
a show. I’ll invite others like me. All you have to do is stand on stage
and show Long dong silver to those who’ll admire and desire what you have.
Joe stood on stage and had an inward rage because he couldn’t
read the page. The audience in disbelief and scorn, chanted, “Take it out,
take it out before we put your eyes out.
“Joe became embarrassed for not knowing just what he was supposed
to do. Cherry stepped up on stage and unzipped Joe’s fly, and used both
hands to fish inside his pants and pulled out, Joe’s super-sized Dicktator.
Shouts, without doubt, came from the audience and Cherry holding Joe’s
undisguised but oversized One-eyed monster told the crowd for only forty
bucks they could touch Joe’s Treasure. Many got in line when word of the
Pleasure Pump spread and weirdos came from all around to stroke the only one
of its kind. The line got so long it went out the door and around the store.
Joe protested while Cherry drank and rested with her hands full of money.
She said, “You’ll become famous and travel the world If you allow
kings and queens to touch your Blue-veined aristocrat and let them know
your noble King Dong is something money can’t buy.”
Joe’s young brain thought it okay.
“Not only that,” Cherry said. “You’ll become a highly paid movie star
so wouldn’t have to live a life of crime or ever go to jail if you’re caught
doing wrong all along. Trust me; Like a flash, I’ll handle all the cash
we’ll get from those waiting in line to pay to see Justin-in beaver.
“You were given a gift to have Wedding wrecker that’s bigger than the
world famous thirteen-and-a-half-inch long dong, longer than an average
wine bottle and about as thick, but you’ve got him beat with your fifteen
inch Long dong silver. I measured it myself, and there’s no dispute. When I held
your Clam hammer I almost fell to the floor.
“Be proud of what you have. If anyone doubts what you say, take down
your pants so they can see, and if they want to touch it, charge them an
arm and a leg, because what you say is true
What’s the Reason for the Design
As my cognition grew and I knew it was true
even though I was baffled for a day or two
I became blue when I wondered why our world
was designed by a deranged and cruel mind
that determined all things must die
Was the creator like Louise whose disease
gives her deranged mind ways to have satisfaction
playing with unremitting actions of horrible scenarios
where despair and murder of all was the norm
Humans without reform or a drop of remorse
were put atop the food chain that compelled all
to kill others in order to survive
did compassion like a passing wind enter the creator’s
mind when plants and trees were designed
To never get tired and no need to kill they survived by
eating sunlight freely given by that giant star
were they first in the design and like bread and wine
to give the creator a thrill that floated by when watching
them live and die
Is that why man was here and near so they could hunt
and kill living things to bring a thrill
until the food chain became a fictitious name when the new
creations and all generations had to eat one another even
the mother Is the creator a conspirator that revels in watching
The hunt or torture each does to another before they eat
Is it a sexual thing because there’s only one maker
if the fabricator has a sex drive and enjoys mortal noise
while watching torture mayhem and murder
as some creations have that urge and bring it to fruition
Sex goes on all the time to produce more of the same so
there’s always a source to murder to get murdered or to
enjoy torture to please our creator while the beast
enjoys the overwhelming sex drive while drinking wine
and that’s fine because now we know that’s the ultimate
reason for the design
I believed when my human heart was told
at birth that the poor would inherit the earth, and
I’d be loved even if I had no wealth, as my inheritance
would ride in on the tide after I died.
I believed it didn’t matter if I was born high or low
I supposed even if I was no prophet that if my skin
was pigmented brown or yellow, I ‘d be considered
a good fellow, equal to those lucky enough to have
white skin to begin.
I believed all this when I looked to the sky and got hooked
by atmospheric blue, white clouds, and other colors that had no mother
but mingled together as if they were rainbow colors that equally shared
the firmament and proudly displayed every tint, tone and shade there was in
the palette of the one who hand painted the sky and at the closing of the day
with delight, put out the lights at night.
I believed that forgetting my pride and getting on my knees was
the key to show I adored you and unafraid prayed without shame
when I declared, I cared and my deep love for you made me beg
your name and wish that you’d feel the same.
With greed and the need for your love, I stayed on my knees
until they hurt and my two legs felt like broken eggs.
I thought it wouldn’t hurt when you said you were tired, but gave
what I admired and desired to so many others.
I believed compassion was in fashion with a passion, until I saw
those without an ounce of kindness renounce consideration and
grow duller next to any color they passed, when they cast discrimination
onto others hoping to achieve their goals without selling their souls, like I
must do if I take what I wanted from the sky and hoped I didn’t die.
I believed the air I breathed was as pure as my thoughts,
but I despaired when like the wind, my mind traveled to bordellos
and other places with faces that were considered dirty because of
the things they had to do to survive and were considered polluted.
I believed animals that weren’t fleet, were here for me to eat, until the day,
I looked into the eyes of a cow standing in the slaughterhouse
line and saw into its mind where terror and pain mingled when she
thought of having her throat cut and the memories of her Calf getting put
into a dark box to become veal for humans to eat as tender meat.
I believed then that all living things could think and feel just like me until I found
how cruel, like hard jewels the unabridged world was full of prejudiced people
like farmers and their wives who after a day or two, destroyed their neighbor’s lives
so they could survive? I wondered if it hurts to live after dismissing other lives?
Who created such a harsh place? Maybe a mortal man or creature
who knows too much and is not afraid to touch dreams of peace and content
that were only illusions painted in unsuspecting minds before life began.
I came to believe all life here was only part of a survival game blamelessly
played by other worldly beings who only made this world to place their unjust
assessments on the other side of space, so they’d never be used where they lived
to cause pain and dissolution as it did here. By sending angry thoughts and
desires to inflict pain and suffering here, hoping their world became ideal.
I no longer believed any alive on this world had a soul, because we’re
created as game pieces with a name to be manipulated and used until
our time gets cut short by a participant in that game called, Life.
The amused beings who played sent us hallucinations so that
We’d believe we were really alive.
Because I believed, I believe I’m nothing but a fool
Time passes like molasses
Until we encounter morasses
That last and like the speed
Of light, time passes and we
Wish it was like molasses again
So we wouldn’t see the lines appear
And the gray hairs that fall out exposing
Us to phrenological thinking that shows
The shapes of our heads shows our brain
Has twenty-seven parts laboring with religiosity
Combating functionality practicality utilities
And images and color of heaven and hell
Where time is never a factor and molasses
Or morasses are not feared by any of
Twenty-seven lumps that shape our heads
Our thoughts, our emotions our sense of touch
Along with the way we see the world which
Isn’t the same for you and me or any two who
Have twenty-seven lumps and bumps that
Any phrenologist can measure them to see who
We really are
All Things Must Die
You have a soul you know.
I agree and say, I have two, not one
and point to the bottom of my shoes.
Not those soles you fool echoes intimately inside my skull.
A fist grips my heart and the beat suddenly stops.
Now that you’re dead, you can see where your soul resides
echoes throughout my corpse with a still functioning brain.
I know, but why do I have to go long before I want,
and when I do, where will I go?
Is there really pie in the sky?
It has been said, life is better after death, but I want to live
while I’m alive, to put ice cream on my pie and have one
more chance to have sex.
I search through all my body parts, but there is no soul
to be found. I’m a soulless man,” I cry to the skies above.
When you don’t believe in me, that’s the price you pay, the
crashing voice resonates throughout my dead body, causing it
Unfair, unfair, my lifeless form declares.
Tell me which God you are? Are you Achtland, the Celtic
Goddess of wanton love?”
Love is a word falsely attributed to me. If I loved, would your
world be such a mess?” the voice assumed I understood.
Tell me then, are you Xtabay, the Mayan Goddess of Seduction
without love in your heart?
Or are you an evil being who made me and the rest of humanity so
you’d have someone with whom to play?”
For a soulless man you should be begging for clemency instead
of questioning me.
You must be the Son of perdition,” I exclaim. The antichrist,
the deceiver, chief of demons, Beelzebub, the father of lies.
Laughter shook the entire sky and I got a preview of my soul being
carried away by birds of prey. Wait! I cry, I see my soul.
Laughter shook the sky and the Earth. Too late my boy,
it’s gone now and will never return. You’re doomed to the
bottomless pit for eternity since you didn’t know my name.
One more chance, I cry and see dark clouds fluctuating
throughout the darkening sky, merging into an image of a
terrifying old man with an unpleasant face.
The mouth made of clouds opens and releases crashing thunder
clearing all other clouds from the sky. You’ll never have another
chance, I’ll see to that, booms round the heavens.
I gather all the electro-mechanical energy within my brain’s
limbic system and send it to my amygdala to project my
thoughts onto the only cloud left in the sky, causing it to burst.
Screams fill the air as my mental powers disintegrate the God
who has made me and all others.
He should have known, because he made the rule, all things must die