What was the world like before I  got here?

How do I know what happened BM (Before Me)?

Taking previous people’s word for it?

I mean, I’ve seen pictures, I’ve seen sites and I’ve read books.

But what if all of that popped into reality the moment I took my first breath?

I mean, I couldn’t talk or understand what anyone was saying when I first got here.


How do I know that the world of people might not need that extra time to get their parts right for the stage of my life?

What if I’m already in my heavenly mansion that was promised?

How do I know that this isn’t the heaven described to me by previous people?

How do I know this isn’t the hell described to me by concerned people?

If I take their word for it, it seems like it’s both.

It’s always burning. Hell

It’s always new. Heaven

There’s always suffering. Hell

There’s always hope. Heaven

There’s always a way out. Both

What if it all goes away the instant I kick the bucket?

God says “OK, let’s clear the set and set up for the next scene, people. We’re going with the script set in China this time and I need everybody on top of their game; this guy has trouble with his lines and hitting his marks with too much background noise”

What if I’m in hell?

What did I do to get sent here?

I must have been a terrible, previous me.

Well, if anyone’s listening, I’m sorry.

I’m really, really sorry for whatever I did BM.

If I had only known it was gonna be this bad I woulda behaved.

I know…

Previous people told me.


Previous books warned me.

But, how can I believe them when I don’t trust them?

What if I’m in heaven?

If I am….I’m very disappointed.

There’s too much blood on the golden streets of the heaven I was promised.

No one told me that the weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth was here.

I don’t see or hear any angels…

I don’t take direction very well, I guess.

I shoot from the hip…

There is good. Heaven

There is bad. Hell

There is promise. Both

So, why do I still hang around here, waiting?

Why can’t I just walk off the set whenever I want?

Why do I have to constantly battle a director and script that won’t allow me to express myself and interpret the scene the way it moves me, to fit the emotional commitment into my body of work?

I can’t walk away….

I’m an artist.

I will stay in character and put everything I can into it.

I will make the part come alive.

But, what if there’s a rewrite?

Oh well….

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts”

Dang, I can’t remember lines for crap!

I think it goes…


“And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”

Trust the Bard…

I am Shakespeare… BM

I am Alexander… BM

I am Newton.

I am life.

I am promise.

I am Death.

I am heaven.

I am hell.

I am All….

I can act any part in any scene.

Director, ready when you are…


“Roll cameras! Action background! Cue card! ACTION!! ”

This will be my greatest part, EVER!

Different Kind Of Love

There is pain in love.
There is love in loss.
There is always pain.
There are scars that constantly itch.

There is love
A different kind of love…
If I had known the cost of love
I’d never have sought it.

If I’d known the world
I’d never have come here.

If I had known that life would take so many different paths.
I’d never would have left the straight one.

If I’d have known the “spice of life” would be so bitter, I’d have spit it out.

A different kind of love…

A love to die for.
Such a silly sentence.
Oh, but love will kill you.
Yes, you will die a little each day.

Love killed Jesus.
Love killed Juliet
Love killed me…

Die a thousand deaths is about love.

I wish…
Oh well, I wish.
I’ve never had a wound that hurt as much as love.
Wounds heal…
Love festers….burns…. Stinks.
I miss it sometimes.

Can I live without love?
Yes, it’s called empty….
It’s called, alone.
It’s called, painful.
I abhor love and the heart that seeks it.

A different kind of love…

The first love.
The purest and sharpest.
The death of expectation.
Growing pains…
The warning sign, un-heeded.
Exquisite pain that we will long for, the rest of our days.
The absolute best kind of cancer…

“Kiss me like that, like you did the first time.”
I will give my soul to meet me before I knew love.
I would warn myself to stay away, to avoid love at all and any costs.
Then, I would see your face.
…and I would want to kiss it.
All over again, despite my warnings.

It’s only a kiss.

What a silly sentence.
A kiss betrayed Christ.
A kiss greets you to life
A kiss bids you adieu…
Poison lips.

“Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!”
“Give me my sin again!” said Romeo O Romeo…

I have a different kind of love.
“Love is a many splintered thing… ”
It is painful to scratch the scars.
But, I like it.

Hardest questions;
What is the meaning of life?
Is love worth the pain?
… Yes.

I wanna know what love was when I first met it.
And punch it in the mouth….

Death Scene

It was obvious that the man had been extremely handsome at one time not long ago…images (23)

I’m saying this because my soul is floating above my flu racked, allergy devastated, dying body.

I look from above at myself with sympathy and awe….

I am not embarrassed by the fact that my dying body is not wearing any underwear.

We don’t worry about naked fat men here…..

I know that I have gone thru all 3 pair of tighty whiteys that I owned during the contagious stage of the dreaded illness that has destroyed so much promising talent, sexiness and man-dingoness from the world…..

I cannot fault the Fruit of the Loom people……The underwear were not designed for this type of abuse, being restricted by the laws of physics and thermal dynamics, the drawers are useless in their attempts to thwart the sudden, shattering expansion and explosive releases of dying organs…

My plagued body drags its pitiful flu-infested frame across the floor of the truck stop bathroom, pulling itself forward by sheer piteous will with little rapidly, waning spurts of desperation….and fading hope.

“Auntie Em……..Toto” the dying lips whisper in its delirium…

The stained fingers claw at the smooth bathroom floor, trying to gain purchase, or maybe, just trying not to spin into the abyss of agonies that is its current state.

The sorry sack of meat paste drags itself forward inch by lurching inch, leaving a snail trail of boogers and spittle that immediately kill the flies that swarm too close to the exposed buttocks of the dying man.wpid-320.jpeg

The body slowly rolls over onto its back and gives up….Strength gone…….



The right foot trembles slightly, shaking the piece of toilet tissue that is stuck to it, making it wave like the lonely, defeated flag of surrender…..

The wheezing of the breath, the fevered brow, the sudden shivers, are the only signs of any physical strength left that are visible from the sorry carcass.

The left hand, lying across the body’s stomach, slowly twitches…..

The Nyquil Flu liquid stained lips barely move, they tremble slightly uttering “….going to Alabama with a banjo…” the whispers fading….

The shadows of buzzards circling slowly pass across the waxened, booger crusted face.buzzards

(In a bathroom?) Told you it was delirious…

I hear angels singing……weeping daisies fall from the sky….

Anywho….Back to the Drama King’s death scene….

A slight breeze from a hand dryer stirs a lock of hair across his face….

The dimming, glazed eyes are fixed on a spot in the air, as if though they can see me here looking down.

A slow trickle of spit edges from the corner of the dying bodies lips, pooling inside the ear.

The body uses its last ounce of strength and sticks a finger in the ear and wipes out the mucous….

“Gross” the dying man whispers….

My soul screams from the air above “NOOO!! That can’t be your last words!”

The left hand trembles, the surrender flag waving from the sticky foot….

The body whispers “I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee: no way but this; Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.”

“Oh my god you’re pathetic!” I scream with my spirit lips! “Don’t quote Shakespeare in a freaking bathroom death scene!”

The head of my dying flu-ravaged trucker body turns and looks at me, the misty eyes dancing, trying to focus and see me, his floating soul.

He raises his booger caked left hand and gives me the finger and says;

“Etu Brute’?”imagesceasar

Later, as I passed thru the pearly gates, I approached Saint Peter who gave me a quick nod to his right.

I followed the nod and saw Shakespeare standing there with a baseball bat…his foot tapping.

He didn’t look happy


“Too much?” I asked……

Hump Day: A Shakespeare Sonnett


(not Shakespeare)

Oh Wednesday
Oh Wednesday

When doth cometh unto me thy poor servant
A simple dabbler in verse or prose

Ye draw the stage curtains across my quill and type, a sense of thy redress

Whereas not a single soul is stirred in yon Land of WordPress.

Oh WordPressia
Oh WordPressia

Draw not thy stalwart shutter
Hump day is no bastion that must be held

‘Tis not the joyus painful rapture of a cell

An artist must creates

To manifest their wares before a Web site whereas Hump Day doth desolates

Is there voodoo in this place to keep admirers away

Is there an unreachable summit of the hump on this Hump day eve
That breaks my horde of followers to their very knees

I am abandoned oh Absalom(?)

Oh Absalom
Oh Worthy words

Fail not from thine worship of my inane verbs
Cast off thine fear and relief for Hump Day

Although Sunday was only 3 days ago, thy bitch and moan
“Hump Day, Hump Day whoop whoop!”

Carpe’ Diem #6: Distillation

I will use Shakespeare also…. As did our Haiku leader…

I’m loving this new experience of expression, at least new to me…

See also…


Stay with me

Life ebbs as music ends

A kisses taste forever

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