I Could Only Rescue One of Us

There are many ways

To self-mutilate

There are many ways

To self-destruct

I wanted to rescue him

He wanted to rescue her

Everyone was drowning.

I could only rescue

One of us

And that was me

Even as I watched them

Drag each other down

I had to keep swimming

For the shore.

Turning back

I only saw

Empty water

And heard the

Crying of gulls

Let me pretend

That they will live

Happily

Ever

After

Magically transformed

Into Poseiden

And a Mermaid

Happily

Ever after

In their shell.

Even though

My instincts

Know

It could only be

Painfully

Ever

After

Trapped in Hell

Here’s The Thing About Getting Older

Consider the alternative.

I moan to think it went too fast.

But then I think of all the events

And all the lovers and I smile.

People play the “If I were Rich” game.

Where you can buy youth in a bottle

And many, many youths for your bed.

Which will lead to bitterness for the poor.

Maybe it’s a female thing.

To find white hair and wrinkles

Beautiful.

Maybe our once racing hormones

Aren’t demanding to be served

Anymore.

Is it cruel to be honest and say that

You had all the chances in the world

And blew it?

All I know is that I have decided to be retired

And get out of the rat race of success and love

All I know is maybe it’s better to be alone

And loved by friends instead of depressed.

Yes, I have a regular income and investments

Yes, I have no children begging for cash.

But yes, I’m now free to work for the good of others

But yes, I’m now free to read and write and think

Of course, it’s not perfect.

Of course, I’m getting weaker.

But I have to remind you one more time:

Consider the alternative.

I Have Joined a Haiku Writing Page. We Begin

Nature will one day

Have enough of our torture

And send us away.

In a Subaru

Without air conditioning

I cannot go far.

Why did I allow

Time to run away from me?

It never returns.

Finally the Truth

Refuses to be denied.

You cannot be saved.

I am not your type.

Those who were abandoned you.

Just a reminder.

Lautrec and Van Gogh

Were laughed at by the ladies

But had the last laugh.

Please don’t ask my help.

You are the ones who raised him.

You broke it. Fix it.

The Collected Tweets of Reinhard, Number Two

It’s not the heat, it’s the humility.

Fairy Tales can’t come true, they can’t happen to you. No matter how old or young your heart is. Reality will have to do.

Your fantasies are as inspirational to you as mine are to me.

We need to write of life & death. We need to write of hunger. We need to write of wrong & right. In hopes to save the younger

He was a tall white stork; She was a porcupine; It could never work.

Out of time, out of money.  Still able to smile. Quiet costs no money. Savor it.  Give love to many, not just one.  Laugh through the tears.

You say I’m not your type. Where are the ones who were? They hurt you. Used you. Abandoned you. I guess I love you too much to be your type.

Feelings that are not returned start to rot. Time to clean the fridge and buy fresh apples.

Trust isn’t promises spoken. Trust is real and not a token. Trust cares if the heart is broken; Trust waits long to be awoken.

I’m Still Alive, I Just Don't Know What to Say

Like many people on Disability, I’m waiting for the idiocy to end. Even my parents, dedicated to Republican stupidity have realized that something is wrong. They don’t consider Social Security and Medicare to be Socialism because they use them and they hate Socialism. They’re starting to realize the truth.

The right wing of the Republican party are racist animals, dedicated to destroying anything that serves the poor and clever enough to convince poor white people that THEY are not actually the poor.  It is no surprise that they attack education. They need stupid voters to keep them in power where they can get the money of rich men.

But I’ve said that over and over. And the 2012 election is too far away. All I can do is wait. The petitions we sign on Facebook are never read or taken seriously.  The fact that 80 percent of the poll respondents hate what the Republicans are doing we are paralyzed by fear. That’s what having only one job that you have to keep does. My mother is worried, but more worried about “Al Qaeda armies training in Mexico.”

Prepare for anything, Kids. We’re in a bad place and it is international.

See You in the Funny Papers

You should pay attention to the Quarterly Statements put out by your company. I didn’t think about the first quarter of 2009 until 1 p.m. on April 15^th, after twenty-three years of holding the proverbial “Temporary Normal Job Until I Make it Big as a Playwright” position.

I might point out that it was twenty-three years of coming in early and staying late and forgetting my lunch hour. But The Bottom line can’t get sentimental. The Bottom Line has a business to run into the ground. The Bottom Line doesn’t care that you’ve been reliable for all those years. The Bottom Line doesn’t care about the snowy, icy mornings you didn’t call in sick, but came in with MS, moving on a cane, and you were the only one to make it into work and from seventeen miles away.

No. The Bottom Line dares not see or feel any of that. “Surely” it says, “they can find someone to do it for half the salary.” And when income drops, nothing else matters, certainly not quality. Say it over and over “It’s better because it’s cheaper. It’s better because it’s cheaper.”

And as an old employee of Executive Search, I knew that Aetna told them that I cost them too much and Aetna would give the Bottom Line more savings if they let The Gimp go.

At 1 p.m. on April 15th, I felt a cold chill on my neck and looked up to see five managers standing in a circle around my cubicle, and they didn’t look happy. I was the Work Horse, told a million times I was not Management material, but I didn’t mind. I could do a dozen tasks an hour perfectly. In the last week, my jobs had started to disappear, but I thought they would be replaced by new tasks and new programs. After all, I had guided the company through three major network setups since 1985.

The flying wedge of management told me to stop working and come into Debbie’s office immediately and forget about the work on my screen. And let me tell you, it was crowded and I had to pee. I don’t remember exactly what they said, except they spoke of The Bottom Line and layoffs and since I had told them over and over, that I was starting to think of Retirement, they felt comfortable handing me packets of legal papers. Then, I was led me to a small conference room full of the other 6 victims.

They described what we should sign and what we should return and what would be coming in the mail.

They told us that we didn’t have to do any more work. I could just pack up and go home. I asked if I was being paid for a full shift. They said “yes.” So, I said, “Then I am going to finish my work.” All the other laid offs had left. The managers were stunned, wondering if I was planning sabotage, but no. I had to finish my work and make sure everything was in order. Older workers have this useless, annoying habit of wanting to finish the job.

Finally, 4 p.m. came and I had put all my things, such as they were, in  box. In that box was a one hundred year old putty knife that I gotten from my grandfather, a carpenter, to remind myself that I was a craftsperson. I was a typesetter, not a desktop publisher. I knew fonts and kerning and leading and…never mind. It doesn’t matter any more. That all comes with the computer nowadays and that makes The Bottom Line smile.

Eternity

It’s not the concept

Of time never ending

That blows my mind so much

As the thought of time

Never beginning.

Wow!

The only assurance

I cling to

Is that if there is

No Heaven,

There will be

No Hell.

And we will just be

Where we were before

We were born.

I can remember

Nothing bad

Back then.

You’re the reason

I wish for

A good old clichéd afterlife.

Where nothing

Physical matters.

Especially sex.

Where I can just

look into your

Beautiful eyes.

And smile.

And see you

Smile back at me.

The Beginning of my Novel, "Liquid Silk."

She was not a person who wrote about sex. She believed that humans should simply do it. She did not need pictures or lace or leather or “dirty” words. She was a gray-haired older woman with her hair in a bun and she was speaking of long ago, but vivid memories. “You know from his touch. You know from his scent. This is my male. I want to mate with this one.”  Susan lowered her coffee cup and asked rhetorically:  “Does the Wolf in the forest know the age of his female? Does he check her over from head to toe and reject her for an asymmetrical paw or ragged patch of her fur? No. The Wolf has never seen a commercial or read a book. His mind is completely free of all the noises that infect that of the modern human male. They sniff. They mate. Then, trot off to live together forever.”

Velda and Brigltte exchanged the tiniest of quick glances, praying no one in the crowed atrium restaurant could hear. They were holding their breaths, praying that Susan’s lecture would not demand any audience participation. Velda, the redhead, and the taller of the two, raised her hands and mimed writing on a pad,  the universal gesture for “bring the check.” Brigette, the tiny blonde her purse up from the floor and began looking for something, anything, to change the subject.

First Draft of my Short Monologue for Church Service

The Bottom Line doesn’t care that you’ve worked someplace for 23 years, overseeing the transition from three different systems, skipping lunch hours and not putting in overtime. The Bottom Line doesn’t care about the snowy, icy mornings you didn’t call in sick, but came in with MS, moving on a cane, and you were the only one to make it into work and from seventeen miles away.

No. The Bottom Line dares not see or feel any of that. Surely, they can find someone to do it for half the salary. And when income drops, nothing else matters, certainly not quality. It’s better because it’s cheaper. And you know that Aetna told them that you cost them too much and it would give the Bottom Line even more savings to let you go.

One day, you look up and realize that there are five managers standing in a circle around your desk. Your mind is stuck in the task at hand and all the important things yet to be done and they tell you to come into their office and forget what’s on your to do list. It’s now a to don’t list. They hand you packets of legal papers and describe it in a blur in a group of other stunned employees. You have to go to the bathroom and you left your work onscreen.

They told me that I didn’t have to do any more. I could just pack up and go home. I asked if I was being paid for a full shift. They said “yes.” So, I said, “Then I am going to finish my work.” All the other laid offs had left. The managers were stunned, wondering if I was planning sabotage, but no. I had to finish my work and make sure everything was in order. Older workers have this useless, annoying habit of wanting to finish the job.

Women Writing P*rn*graphy

There is probably a very brief thrill passing through the male…heart…upon hearing these words, but it quickly falls…passes. After all, we don’t really get it. Men know that it has to be a young and willing vixen and not an old Cougar swinging her legs wide. We have the problem is that the words “compatibility” and “intelligence” fall into our minds right behind the word “Love,” which, in pornography, means sex, not a mortgage and two point three kids.

A happy ending means completely different things in male and female pornography.

Can that ever be the same? I don’t see why not. I’ve been examining my intentions of late; my demands and expectations. The problem is, reaching the age of 62 eliminates the idea of “happy ever after”, but leaves you with a body hardly suited for porn. But most importantly, we know what that young girl is thinking in this messed up society. It’s not the joy of serving the man as much as it is the joy of thinking what the reward will be for giving it to him.

And no, please, not an orgasm, you can do that and probably better with a machine. If she’s putting on the costume and bending over backwards for you, it is for pleasing the man and that reward is in keeping the elusive male. Maybe leading to marriage and children and a house, but that is a deep, dark secret. No, Big Boy! It’s to make YOU happy! A true porn woman is noble as Mother Theresa.

OK, enough intellectualizing. It may be time to lay down and spread ‘em. Calm down. Not mine. But let’s try it and see what I can come up with. I’ve already  been asked to stop avoiding the word “fuck”, let’s see what we can do with the action.

Off the Market at Last

There may be a Grandma Moses out there

Ready to burst out at eighty-something.

It won’t be me.

It’s possible to stumble into love.

Some may even be invited to bed.

It won’t be me.

I have hours and volumes of memories

Rattling around my tired old brain pan.

That would be me.

That’s my story and I was able to walk

And write and screw and laugh more than enough.

Enough for me.

I’m tired of competing with young chicks

Who will do anything to please a man.

I don’t have time.

I’m tired of trying to write new plays,

When all they want is retreaded movies.

Write for myself.

I am retired, and maybe it’s time

To stop worrying about making sales.

Of ass and plays.

Oh, I didn’t drop the market, Sweetheart .

The market dropped me, but don't worry, Kid.

I’ll make it fun.

Kinda, Sorta Haikus, More or Less

Closed up in the cool air

I miss the brief rainstorm.

Real air blows for free.

In Nature, man will live

Only thirty-five years.

Hardly enough time.

We dared to stand and fight.

We dared to hear the truth.

And both of us won.

All the sacrifices

And what I miss the most

Are cats and kittens.

I quit my clay sculpture.

The written word doesn’t

Get under your nails.

He is a tall, white stork.

She is a porcupine.

It could never work.

My Kingdom, My Kingdom

For just one stinking shot

Of top shelf bourbon.

Does This Only Really Matter if We Get Paid for Doing It?

Oh, behave. I’m talking about writing and painting and joking and photography.  Thousands of tweets and postings and sharings for free here on the endless internet full of “friends.” This is supposed to be the big ass machine of business of the globe and it is, in many ways, but does it make an amateur into a professional if we’re not paid?

I’m in the Dramatists’ Guild and I’ve had productions and earned about $6,000 in prizes 30 years ago. Am I an amateur? Granted, I can now enter contests and submit to theaters via the Internet, but if I lose them all, if my submissions all fall flat, am I still a professional?

And I am 61 years old.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get all the Rumi postings and uplifting inspiraions, but if in the course of my shit landing in the hands of a producer, am I dismissed out of hand for being too old? I don’t let it stop me, but I have to, I HAVE TO be aware of the prejudice to deal with it.

I’m on Disability and Pension and like most of us, my life doesn’t depend on the Arts or the Internet to survive. It’s fun. My friends are great and supportive and I hope I can provide a little hope and entertainment for all of you. I have friends trying to earn a living here and man, do I respect them. I try to buy a few small things when I can, but I am getting eaten alive by the medical bills that will be the only thing any of us can afford soon enough.

I don’t know. I’m just wondering. I’m just asking. It’s my job as a writer. The newspapers and magazines will HAVE to be online and not on dead wood. They will HAVE to sell ads and subscriptions. This is slowly becoming our Library and our Art Museum, although can we assume everyone will be able to always afford MACs and PCs and internet lines?

Just asking.

The Dreaded “F” Word

I am the Queen of

The Dreaded “F” Word.

The word no one

Ever wants to hear spoken

About themselves.

I’ve avoided facing

The Dreaded “F” Word

For so long and now

it’s in my face.

I tell myself that

I have money

And insurance.

The Dreaded “F” Word

Does not apply to me.

But I will never be loved.

Never see a play produced.

I have no house or  children.

I have Multiple Sclerosis

Getting worse every year.

I can no longer avoid

The “Dreaded ‘F’ Word.”

Cover your ears,

Remove the children

From the room.

I have to say it.

I have to face it.

And say it loud.

Failure.

I am a Failure.

There.

I said it.

Maybe now

I can change it

To Hope.

Independence Day

If I put my words

   In actors’ mouths,

   they soar high.

In my own dry mouth

   They dribble out

   A dull lie.

Slowly, I am learning

   How to hear the

   New voices.

Slowly, I am seeing

   What the world wants.

   Their choices.

It may be too late,

   But now is it.

   All we have.

 Forget Tomorrow.

   The past is gone.

   Breathe my Love.

Just grab the sunshine

   And hold it tight.

   Near the sea.

On a mountaintop.

   Small figures reach.

   Flying free.

The Collected Tweets of Reinhard, Number One

Any point to walking on eggshells? Slowly, on your toes, arms flailing.

Ungainly and obvious. You might as well stomp and make an omelet.

Spirit Guide’s 6/25/11: Outsiders. We’re going in here to discuss something, but Outsiders will have to remain outside.

If you say “I care,” Say nothing more. No “therefore” or “ergo,” because nothing Is required in return. If it is, you want, and do not care.

FREE VERSE DE TWIT: Summertime. Take a break from growth and insight. Sit on the hood of the car eating Frosty Freeze. Watch the fireworks.

When pain has numbed U & hollowed out your soul, U R ready to receive fresh life again. Don’t look for it. Let it come to you.

Has the world become impassive to shock?Or in this hell of greed and scandal, is a loving heart and gentle touch truly the most radical act?

Old but not our grandparents. Lovers of Freedom shocked that she rejects us now. We redefine aging while fires burn around us.

Debating the pharmaceutical costs,  I stop to consider my worth. Neither child nor the mother of children, What do I contribute to Earth?

SPIRIT GUIDE 6/29/11: RETICENT We are careful of it, it is fragile. The boys and girls are reticent towards each other. They do not speak.

Be prepared for people being angry at you for preparing. They resent your comfort, not wanting to hear that you too are scared of the future.