Impotent Artist

Every time I try to write i am stuck.
A wall of doubt and misery overcome me.
I look to the writers of the past.
How can I ever create something like this?
How could I ever think I could say what they wanted to say?
I feel stuck in a dream where  cannot move or escape the monsters.
The image is in my head but it cannot direct my hands.
The paper is blank, the canvas white as snow.
It is all there, but forever it will stay.
Quick rewards of pleasure and pain ensue when I write something i like.
A minute later it is garbage.
I am fifty pages in then it doesn't make sense.
The canvas is filled but the last stroke is wrong.
Bukowski's grave says "Never Try".
Yoda says "Do or Do not".
There either "is" or "isn't"
I wrestle with life and death on the page everyday.
I weather the storm in my own head.
The angel and devil taunting and encouraging me.
Throw another page in the trash.
Burn another piece in the pit.
Watch the ashes rise.
Sit in the rain a little bit longer.

They

They, the ones that hurt the most.
They, the ones we love the most.
They, the ones that control us.
They, the reason to wake up.
They, the women whose bodies we covet.
They, the brothers we protect.
They, the fathers we try not to let down.
They, the world that revolves on without us.
They, the gods that wreck our fate.
They, the mothers we miss.
They, the sins we commit.
They, the ones who discard life.
They, the children we raise.
They, the strangers we despise.
They, the tyrants who rule.
They, the peasants who submit.
They, the shadows that blind us.
They, the heroes of old.
They, the shattered soldiers.
They, the cast out and forgotten.
They, are us.

Ignition

Calvin chuckled giddily as he poured the can of gasoline over his furniture and television. The nights events had certainly went strange. He knew it in his very soul. Let us go back a couple hours. 12 AM-The air of downtown was of pure merriment. Everyone was outside in the street twirling and dancing. There had been no block party scheduled and there was a certain peculiar scent in the air. The scent of fresh dew, the long demise of winter was near and the life of spring was starting to bloom. Calvin stumbled out of O'Shea's not to be mistaken for an Irish bar but more of a rough dive. He had downed his first and last Long Island, the drink he told himself on many occasions not to drink. The world swirled along with the folk outside. He did not feel sick yet and he surmised that he would not get sick since his gut had ironed up a bit in the last few years. "What was the occasion?" he thought to himself. He asked a couple across the street, his words seemed coherent but in reality they were just mumbles. He stumbled further up the street to the classier side of 3rd. The Oingo Boingo stood before him after some more twirling and dancing. He decided that he would go in for a Jameson on the rocks, maybe that would get him over the edge. Steve was bar tending thankfully. Calvin knew he would'nt be immediately thrown out. Steve turned and had a concealed smirk. "How you doin Calvin?" His face turned to worry. Calvin noticed and straightened up, feeling a sudden spark of sobriety. "I'm good, I'm good Steve I just need a Jameson then I'm out." "Alright man you need a cab?" "No,no I live up the street now I can find my way." Steve poured a glass of Jameson and slid it down to him. "You're a good man Steve." He held up the glass in thanks and started sipping slowly knowing the next sips would turn to gulps and the drink would be gone in about three to four. "You got a light?" a strange voice behind him asked. He turned and appeared a man in a black suit. "Light? no I don't." "Don't think you can smoke in here anyway." Calvin's voice peaked a bit. The mans expression never changed. "Not for here, for outside." "Oh, well i think they have books of matches." Calvin leaned over and grabbed a matchbook. He caught a glimpse from Steve but once he acknowledged him he turned away. "Any good place for pussy around here?" the man as if he were asking for directions. "Ha-ha what?" It felt as if all the liquor had poured out of his pores and onto the floor. "I'm from out of town." The explanation didn't go further than Calvin expected. "I guess you can get pussy anywhere you'd like." Calvin now fidgeting with his glass. "I'd say go to Cervantes', two bars down there's always nice lookin' ladies down there." "Why don't you go?" The man interrupted suddenly it seemed he was using a fake russian accent. "I'm done with pussy." Calvin croaked. "What are you a faggot?" The man's russian accent got deeper and faker. A spike of anger crept up Calvin's spine but was equalized by fear. "I'm not the kind of guy women want." "Ah, you are a caring man." "I understand now. You cannot treat them like objects." "Yes, that's it." "Emotion has no place in love." Calvin whispered looking down like he had repeated that phrase many a time. The man smiled and slithered into the seat next to him. He pointed to the mural in front of them. He turned form Calvin and looked ahead. "I hope she doesn't mind our conversation." Calvin took another sip and nodded. "Probably not." He smirked. The mural was of Mary Magdalene nude, arms spread out like the sign of the cross looking up as if looking to God. Jesus was in the back ground almost an optical illusion because his skin was reddish brown like the bark of a tree. "The combed pubic hair is a nice touch but her appearance seems very modern." The russian continued not moving his glare from the painting. "Are you into art?" Calvin asked now interested in conversation. "Do you know Hieronymus Bosch?" a slow smile creep'd at the tips of the russian's lips. "Yes I know of him, very ahead of his time." "Yes he got a lot of my home right. A little on the dramatic, the horror in his paintings over hype my little kingdom but I'll take the publicity."Calvin's face turned color, white to green. "Heh, heh yeah." Calvin turned to walk away but was caught in a mix of fight or flight so he sat down hunched on his chair. "What a peculiar night Mr..." Calvin regaining himself. "You know who I am." A flicker of orange glossed over his pupils like electricity. "Ah, well at least you make yourself known." Calvin now accepting he was insane sat down. "You aren't insane Mr. Ford" the russian looked at him with subtle features of concern. "Well that's a relief. What brings you up here?" "Well I pop in every now and then as you know I love to interact with my constituents." "Why reveal yourself to me?" Calvin looking puzzled and sick. "You looked like a man who needed some advice." the russian stood up gathering his coat. "And what would that be?" Calvin barked condescendingly. "Don't worry about the future my dear Calvin. Worry about here and now and just remember this one thing about the world. "What is that?" The russian smiled and said "Let it all burn."

The Man Possessed

The coffee mug, the coffee mug, the god damn coffee mug.I stare intently to the black mug filled with cold caffeinated sludge. The tearful, fog of anger swirls about. What is the problem? What is the cause? What is going on? It is the anger? The anger I cannot get out. The anger that is caught between my brain and my tongue. A great battle to keep it in limbo. Do not show it, do not let it out. Tears of joy? Tears of anger? What am I angry about? I want to punch something I want to scream but that is not what I supposed to do. I am to express myself but that is not my place. I do nothing to appear normal. I show nothing to appear brave. I am a volcano, an earthquake, something gone terribly wrong. I've thought so since I could remember. I'd been told that since the day I was born. 
This room is empty even when there are three people in here. Are there two ghosts and one person or are there two people and one ghost? I still eat, sleep, drink but still the mystery. I try to walk through them but I bump into them. They do not notice me and continue to walk and. Who are these people? I try to speak to them but they will not respond. I try to ignore them but they know I am here. I try to sit with them but they stare off into space. I try to grab them but their cold arms peel away. I try to yell and scream but they cannot hear. I am to scared to tell them to leave, but I cannot. It is because I love them. Love them for all of my heart, but they still will never see. I pick up after them, the toys and the pictures and the paintings. I do their dishes and take out their trash. Sometimes they let me fall asleep with them. In their dreams they hold me until they are awake. They bite and tickle me sometimes when they do notice me. I am left scarred and smiling hoping for the next time they see me. I leave notes for them sometimes on the walls and on the floor. The little one sees them sometimes but the other one tells it not to mind. I follow them outside sometimes, I try to hold their hands but they let go after a little bit. We swing on the swing sets then leave me alone. They go running off but I cannot follow them. I search and search and always give up. I go home alone but they come back after some time. At night I hope they disappear but they don't. They pray at night for me to leave, but I won't. I read the story of Sisyphus aloud sometimes and realize the joke of it all. I go out by myself now giving them time to leave but they are always there when I return. They pour salt around their beds so I cannot be held by them. "Then I'm the ghost" I realize. Finally I leave a note on the floor. "It's you or me." The little one sees it and tells the other one. It lets out a loud sigh. "If we must." It responds. They leave the salt on the table that night and they held me. I woke up the next day and they were gone. The fog and anger were gone but also a sense of purpose. "Now I have nothing" I replied. I never returned home again after that. "I wonder if I'll find them again"? Whistling and chirping down the road. The wind kicking dirt and spinning it. "Time will tell."