I remember reading my mom's novel for the first time. I was working in a profession that required 150 percent of my attention, only 50 percent of the time. In other words, I had a lot of time on my hands, in between the busy days. It took a day to read her life's work. But I was useless for days after I read it.

Her novel was scrawling. She was a very smart woman, but it was still weak. The obscure, rambling, language wasn't strong enough to form a foundation for anything substantial. She was crazy. Schizophrenic, actually. It didn't matter how smart she was. She was writing from a dream world. The bravado of her writing revealed that she was convinced, in her limited and convoluted perspective, that what she was writing was the best story that had ever been written. It wasn't.

Her book was jarbled and half-hearted. From my perspective, the book was nothing more than the ravings of a mad woman. She rambled on about celebrity encounters that had never happened, using multi-syllable words indiscriminately. It was sort of tragic. It was evidence that she used to be smart, but was now just...well...crazy

And now, I've written a book. I'm scared about others reading it, of course. I'm terrified of their judgments. But more than anything, I'm terrified that others will read it and respond to it in the same way that I responded to my mother's "book". I'm worried that they'll read it and think that there is no real value or structure to hold it up.

But then I am reminded that I am my worst critic. And I don't have the option to drift into a fantasy world comprised of fake encounters with celebrities, like my mother did. I don't have the option to create a fake sort of confidence. I am forced to be subject to the harshest critics. Including myself.

I hope that people don't read my book and think that it is the work of a lunatic. Actually, I don't mind if they do. As long as they'll publish it.

When a child is being potty trained, there is much that is revealed about humanity in general. Many children have a difficult time seeing their first premeditated "effort" flushed down the toilet. It may seem strange to fully bathroom trained adults like us. But these youngsters hate to see their achievements disposed of. You see, these lumpy logs are part of them. Like a limb, or something.

I just realized that many of the poems of my youth have been lost. They may be doodoo, but I'm still sad that they are gone. In fact, most of my writings, drawings, songs, paintings, etc., will never see the light of day (although some of them have been shown through your shining monitors due to the miracle of facebook). Still, I'm sad that these things that I created are gone.

I guess that I'm not potty trained yet. 

Plink

The rain in Los Angeles
Hesitates like a wave,
Stalled by a tied tally.
Whether or not to weather?
The drops, like lover’s spats,
Range from slight speckles
To slaps of splats.
The sky waits, agape,
For a rating.

The rain in New York
Enchants you, at first-
The scent of the soles
Of a million drained souls
On drowned concrete.
It teases, tickles, and trickles.
Then it builds to a bullying bay.
Until, trudging
Through leaves, oil, and waste,
You’re left with its acrid taste.

The rain in Miami
Is sultry,
Pooling slyly in dry places.
Its rhythm, a welcome relief.
The sweat of the city
Between boundless bouts
Of dance and drink.
It’s a plink
Of a cool cube of ice
As it taps a perspiring glass.

The rain in Seattle
Is light on the righteous cheeks
Of sprightly artists
And aspiring thugs.
It mists, but wants to flood.
To pour underground.
To course through intangible trenches.

White Lie

The starched white collar of a rented suit
Scours the back of his tender,
Sun scorched neck.
His smile sits stiffly,
Like an uninvited guest at a wedding,
Who is perched uneasily on an unyielding seat.

The weight of shame sinks in his stomach.
Trepidation tightens and tugs at his throat,
Like a rented bow tie.

His daughter, dressed in the snowy
Flimsy film of hand stitched silk,
With fingertips sore from a thousand
Accidental stray points of a needle,
Has offered her last desperate dollar.
Now she strains to sell the facade.

His invitation to her wedding,
Escorted by a packet of cumbersome cash.
Now stuffed in his pocket
With a pack of cigarettes,
Beneath the commanding weight of
A borrowed cummerbund.

The destitute father,
His pocket brimming with hired pride,
Bars his heart from resentment
For the bride.

Staking Claim

The fat of the land
The idea enamors you
Living off of it's fruits
Perhaps the land, the dirt, reminds you of your own nature
Unevolved, unconscious
And unlike the beasts that ruled the land
Before humanity devoured it
You don't seek the challenge of the hunt
Perhaps you love the land because
Dirt does not challenge your place to tramp on it
The earth does not judge you

Yet you despise the fat of humanity
It's supple, comfortable nature
It's complexity, and uncertainty
It's weakness is what you hate
You love hard sinew, dirt, and sweat

You see me, and want to stake your claim
You see the dry, unfeeling, timeless parts of me
That remind you of yourself
And want to own the thing that you can walk on
Without judgement
Dirt
I am dirt
Billions of years of ground rock and minerals
Forced apart by oceans, winds, unknown and unexplainable things
Then brought back together
So complex
So simple
That is me
And you do not own meShe brims with enamor over the notion
Of the rolling curves; the fat
Of the land.
She forages through the land’s lovely crevices,
Prospecting for the offering of its fallen fruits.
The pristine, primeval soil lays dormant.
Like her, its surface is only stirred by
Sporadic storms.
Unlike the beasts that ruled the land
Before the cruelty of humanity devoured it,
She scorns the challenge of brutish pursuit.

The land is her darling.
It never challenges her place to tramp on it.
It cannot threaten her with infidelity.

The supple, comfortable nature of
The fat of humanity repels her.
Its complexity, uncertainty,
And the manner in which it moves, thinks,
And refuses to regard her.

She reserves the right to sink her stake
Into the gritty soil, the unresponsive regions,
Of others.
And only into the parts that allow themselves
To safely be walked on.

But the soil shelters something,
Rooted far beneath the fathoming of man.
Beneath its layers that are marked by
Innumerable manufactured years,
Hidden within its body of powdery rock,
And profoundly inexplicable parts,
Which were fiercely forced asunder by the
Fervor of floods,
The icy blanket of inclement winters,
Slashed and scorched, but never consumed,
By ancient flame:
A secret.

She, a mere sliver
Of rapidly disintegrating sinew,
Will never know
That the dirt of the earth
Won’t be owned.