Poetry to Meditate On

I wrote these poems a couple years ago, back when my mind tackled everything from the plight of the homeless in the face of so many empty buildings, the wastefulness of the American consumer and the lack of justice for drug dealers who get life sentences while child rapists walk the streets. In light of the recent economic black hole that is developing on wall street, these poems are even more meaningful today.


Not a black thing. Not a white thing. Ain’t got a thing.

Remember, when someone pulls
themselves up by the bootstraps
their back never completely straightens.
It’s our American duty to capitalize on that.



Not Referring to Eggs

And they’re scrambling
To the Jones’ they are
The epitome of affluence
To the banks another line
Of credit at its end

And he’s scrambling
Rummaging through the
Pockets of his mother’s purse
For train fare to the school
That teaches him a trade
That will be obsolete in five years

And she’s scrambling
Belly heavy, subway begging
For the child whose hand she holds
And an invalid grandmother
She was denied food stamps-
she missed an appointment
morning sickness

And he’s scrambling
He calls himself a dehypnotist.
Picks up barely used Ikea house wares,
resells them for walking money.
SSI checks will never cover the full cost
of New York City rent.

Clinging to
the precipice, he wishes he could pull
himself up to the next plateau.
Instead, he’ll hand truck barely used
electronics to the flea market.
There’s always an endless supply
down on the curb.

"Politics. Yawn." Fiction Written For One Friend

Becca,

Yeah, we've been going back and forth on facebook about these presidential elections. The pandering, the lack of issues, scary liars calling for change, crackers versus darkies and the whole nine. That's why I love you. After all that, we can still laugh and lament together. It's been fun, but not as much fun as the fantasy presidential match up I entertain myself with when I'm watering the orange trees out here in boring ass suburban California. I wrote this one down for you, love.

*********

November 5th, 2008
Headline: McCain Cinches Presidential Race

After a year of backbiting and mudslinging, last night the Republican Elephant broke out of a four month slump to ferociously snap at the jugular of the Democratic Ass to lap up sanguine victory.

At the end of the Democratic primaries it looked as if Barack Obama was poised to take the nation by storm. His acceptance speech at the Democratic national convention brought tears to they eyes of constituents. Unfortunately for Barack, it also brought heightened scrutiny from the anti-terror organizations. After reviewing close-ups of convention footage and comparing them to videos of Osama Bin Laden, anti- terror organizations alleged that Obama is none other than Osama Bin Laden. These anti- terror organizations, namely the Fox news channel, staunch Hillary Clinton supporters and the KKK, insist computerized composites of Obama with a turban and beard and the fact that the names Osama and Obama rhyme prove that Barack is, in fact, Bin Laden in the flesh. Although Obama tried to downplay the allegations as "hype to feed the fears of constituents," his campaign could not shake the allegations. International investigators scoffed at the claims, particularly since Obama does not use a kidney dialysis. This did not stop the federal government from bringing criminal charges against Obama, effectively killing his campaign.

Hillary Clinton quickly stepped into the role of Democratic nominee for President. "I always knew my loss in the primaries was a temporary setback," she gushed during her acceptance speech. Clinton went on to vow to lead her party to victory in spite of the infiltration by "radical Muslim operatives."

After the Obama ouster, the Republicans campaign was forced to restructure their campaign. VP candidate Sarah Palin had attracted an avalanche of attention to the Republican ticket. That attention, however, was as fleeting as it was powerful. The McCain campaign acknowledged that one woman on their ticket would be no match for the uber icon of modern femininity that is Hillary Clinton. It was clear that the McCain campaign would have to pull some punches to regain footing. They reasoned Clinton was better equipped than John McCain to handle tough questions under fire, or answer them at all, for that matter. They needed someone who could match Clinton in the personality game while beating her in the looks department. In the end, John McCain chose to step down to allow the individual who actually made campaign decisions become the face of the campaign- Cindy McCain.

Once Cindy McCain was unleashed on the campaign trail, she exceeded all expectations. McCain constantly addressed the media with humor, panache and traditional feminine grace. During her acceptance speech, Cindy said, "I don't need SNL to show America I know how to joke. I'll be laughing hard come November. Shrill Hill won’t know what hit her!"

During town hall meetings, seeing the two female figures side by side was striking. Cindy’s skirt ensembles constantly upstaged Hillary’s pantsuits. While Hillary went for a conservative professional look with simple pearl earrings, Cindy never failed to accessorize with tennis bracelets adorned by diamonds bespeckled with fresh African soil. Cindy's makeup was always impeccable. Dazzled by her beauty, debate moderators let Cindy answer with jokes, winks and smiles. Hillary, on the other hand, was barraged on tough issues. Hillary fought back. Without blinking, Hillary launched into diatribes while pounding her fist on her podium, earning herself the nickname, “Hammer Hillary.” 700 Club host Pat Robertson went so far as to characterize Hillary’s body language as “butch” to the chagrin of middle American women and to the delight of hardcore lesbians everywhere. Hillary’s firm stance enlivened left wing radicals, but alienated the core constituents of middle America.

Realizing her gaffe, Hillary tried a celebrity makeover on The View. Hillary was Cinderella to Barbara Walter’s fairy godmother, while the other host played the mice. They transformed practical into perky, using the magic of clip in weaves a-la Paris Hilton, Victoria’s not so secret push up bras and bold colors instead of pastels. By the time Elizabeth Hasselback applied the last dabs of gloss, Hillary was a prime candidate for an “age defying oil of Olay commercial.” But Hillary’s reawakening to womanhood came too late. The American people had chosen consistent beauty over practicality. Cindy McCain led Hillary by double digits in the polls. Hil decided to use her newfound beauty to hit her opponent in her weak spot- policy.

Dates were set up for what was billed as "tea party debates." The tea party debates, proposed by Cindy McCain, were to be dignified forums where the two women could discuss the issues of the day while fielding questions by other women at the forum. These invitation only affairs featured hockey moms, weather girls, and war widows. Women of color and women with advanced degrees were conspicuously absent.

Cindy glided into the forum wearing a bold red ensemble highlighted by black stiletto heels. In contrast, Hillary stumbled in, tripping over her three-inch Jimmy Choos while tugging at her blue skirt that was riding up in the back. Twitters of laughter floated through the crowd. The stage was set up like a, antebellum parlor room. Both women sat in their respective Victorian chairs. Before the women in the audience could properly butter their crumpets, Hillary launched into her spiel about how nationwide healthcare, reeducating the workforce, and ending the war on terrorism were the only ways to get the country back on track.

“Cindy McCain has no platform!” Hillary ended emphatically.

Cindy yawned. Striking a note that was a perfect imitation of Hillary’s shrillness, Cindy said, “I have a two hundred and fifty-seven step plan to redirect our country. First we will expand existing housing programs so the people who lost their homes to foreclosure and floods can build huts from recyclable flax. That way the plastic waste from the new tent cities around the country won’t end up in our landfills. Then we will have all the sick people who lack health care go to VA hospitals until we can convince doctors to stop taking golf vacations or buying new BMWs. God knows the VA hospitals have adequate space to meet our current healthcare needs. Finally we’ll give grants to automotive companies who create flying cars that run on sewer water. We’ll give each black family the 40 acres and mules that they have been waiting so long for. I’ll open up the borders so Mexicans can take our American dollars back to their homeland to turn them into pesos, so eventually we can become the United States of Mexico. At the end of my term, we’ll join hands across the nation, light joints and sing old Jefferson Airplane songs with love soaring through our hearts.” Guffaws rose up through the audience. Cindy’s tone turned snide. “C’mon ladies. No one is going to buy this soft-core socialism peddled by an acid addled hippy. We tried all those nicey nice plans during the last Clinton administration. Where did that get us?”

“It got us to an abundant time after years of Republican bungling,” Hillary shot back. “It got us an economic surplus.”

Cindy tossed her blonde waves. “Wrong,” she hissed. “It put us right in the hands of terrorists. We cannot afford these sorts of kumbaya parties while indigenous people are plotting to push American corporations out of their native homelands. We need to strengthen our troops to protect our financial interests.”
Hillary raised an eyebrow. “Whose interests Cindy? The American people’s interests or the interests of your father’s corporate cronies?”

Cindy’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Hillary rolled her neck. “Don’t pretend like you don’t understand what I’m getting at. Just like the Bush’s, your family is at the center of corporate organized crime. From keeping people addicted to alcohol, to the dirty money from Sudan, you people are vampires living off of blood money.”

Cindy’s face flushed scarlet. “That’s not true,” she whispered, closing her eyes gently. “We don’t live off of blood money. We feed on blood!”

Cindy’s eyes flashed open, blazing with the blue flames of one thousand hells. Instantaneously, Cindy’s skin hardened and scaled over, coming to resemble the pelt of an ancient albino alligator. Her scapulas elongated into paper-thin wings that trembled with the beat of the blood coursing through their prominent veins. A long pointed tail unfurled from under her skirt. Perfectly manicured nails grew into talons. Tastefully colored lips peeled back to reveal professionally whitened fangs. The audience gasped. Clinton recoiled in fear. Before anyone could regain calm, McCain was alight. With her horned tipped wings, Cindy pierced a hole in the auditorium roof. Climbing high in the sky, with the graceful finesse of a ballerina, Cindy arced in the air, making peak height when the crescent moon appeared to be a crown over her head. Then Cindy plunged into a nose-dive. Clinton sensed an attack. She tried to escape to her limo, but to no avail. Just as Clinton’s bodyguard opened the door, Cindy slashed with her talons, decapitating the man. Then Cindy grabbed Clinton and dug her fangs into Hillary’s throat.

Two days later voters overwhelmingly cast their ballots for McCain. Researchers are still trying to determine if the landslide can be attributed to voter reverence or if people were just scared shitless.

Writing Cuz it Feels Good

Ok y'all. I actually practiced what I preached by getting a job where I can write and work at the same time. I greet you from a university library at an undisclosed location. Finally months of money stress has been vanquished by thoughts of a pending paycheck. Huzzah!

When I was going through the money stress, my focus was off kilter. I had just finished writing my first book, Python Jinn Warrior. I wanted to edit it so badly but my mo-jo just wasn't working. I couldn't figure out why. Now looking back I understand. I was pressuring myself to complete work in order to submit it for publication to make money. Big mistake. I'm glad I didn't make myself slog through it.

Why? Doing something creative, simply out of motivation for a check is a bad idea. Especially if the individual is a "pure artist" (If there is such a thing. I don't claim to be one. I'm tainted and I love it!!!). It's one thing to go to your nine to five to get a check to pay the bills so your kids have a roof over their heads and the golden retriever can get his rabies shots. It's a whole other thing to write a song with the specific intent to make a hit. It might be a hit, but there won't be any heart in it. And chances are that hit will be a one hit wonder with no lasting impression on the art form. A person has to create simply because they want to. The act in creation itself brings joy. If one uses creative work as a tool to attract something else, very rarely does joy come out of it.

If we look at great artists over the spectrum of time, all of them had one thing in common. They created not to impress people or because it was a fast way to make a buck. They created because they loved the medium they were working in. Whether they painted, danced, sang or wrote, they used their art form as a means to express themselves. Some made money at it, some didn't. But regardless of that, they did the work because they were compelled to. That's what made them great.

In the past couple of years I was in college, finally finishing up my bachelors. I got sucked into this mode of completing work for the end result- a grade, a deadline, whatever. Now that I'm out of school, I found that writing with the notion in my mind that I had to finish in order to achieve some other end result- publication, royalties, bragging rights, or whatever- was sucking my creative mind dry. 

Don't get me wrong. I like money. A lot.  But I don't like it more than sitting down with some paper and writing a scary story about wealthy people secretly paying homage to imagined spirits by spilling their children's blood. See? You can't put a dollar in my ear to get a story line like that. That's pure fun filled imagination at work, motivating me to entertain myself. If I snag you and your best friend along the way, well, I'm happy I could entertain you.

It took me a while to reorder my thinking back to writing for the sheer pleasure of it. I'm glad I made it back though. I wrote so much I actually gave myself a carpel tunnel attack in my left hand. I took that as a good sign that I'm actually progressing with some of my plans. That's the writer's perpetual fear- the haunting idea that not enough work is being completed during the course of the day. Looking back on the past month I can honestly say I edited two poem, wrote two songs, two short stories, a poetry review article, a one act play and made some business connections. Not too bad. I'm warming up.

Now that I'm able to take a step back from the work and look at it as an end in itself, not a means to an end, it is a lot easier for me to finish work, which gives me something to work with when I DO want to submit to make money. It's funny how that works. God's got some twisted jokes I tell ya. I'm laughing though. Now that I've had time to let the book air out , more like 3 I am almost ready to tackle editing it. Throwing a dash of action here, a dollop of blood there. In fact, I want to amp the thing up to be 1000 times crazier than it was before. It's easy for me to envision those descriptions now because I'm thinking about the agony of my characters, not the agony of my wallet.


Still I have this vague feeling that is not how all writers work. There have got to be some screenwriters who work on deadlines and the like. How the hell do they make it? I'd love to hear what some of you other writers think.  Drop me a note on how you keep your perspective when walking the narrow line between money and creating.