in the beginning and in the middle

It used to be sex, and oddly enough

Sex brought me into my middle life, my daughter

I used to go after orgasms

But now I go for being the right example

As a father

It makes me smile

Knowing that the sex that brought me so much joy

Brought me something even more joyous

My kin

My everything now

It's so weird to connect the two but that's

Just how it is

A simple connection

Of a complex connection

Love and sexual passion brought

Another being into my everyday

Someone that continues and continues

To bring joy in my every way

Just by being the adventurer she is at 3 years old

Every time I say something or ask her questions

I know what I'm doing - kind of

I'm teaching her mass critical thinking

Even more of an ironic deal I've been given

Is that when she experiences new things

It gives her joy

Which seeing her do that is also a new experience

For me.

Post Modern Economy

I'm seeing landscaping people work in between the rain today

It used to be they'd take the day off and spend it with their families

I'm back in writing mode

Remembering the old ways of our American lifestyle

I forgot how much more quiet it is in my head

While outside my city it's rumbling with fire and anger

From the generally humbled population

Of lesser-known writers and other artists

Labor trends in entertainment

We all work harder and longer

We made it - A Post Modern Economy

While the city is rumbling with fire and anger inside of it

This time it's because of the time

Politics season

So now the people all of a sudden have an opinion

I, of course, am happy with an appetite of a woman's loving embrace

As we enjoy our red wine at the end of the night

Watching from a distance

The yelling man on Santa Monica Boulevard wearing a bra

His insides burn with fire and anger inside of him

If only anyone could understand why he yells at the top of his lungs

In front of the 7-11

While Duran Duran plays on our speakers

"Hold on a minute", I say as I put on my slippers

I grab $10 in cash - the last freedom we have is paper

The yelling man sees me walking up in pajamas

The fire in his eyes cannot be controlled

He begins his salutations to me by screaming in my face

But unknown to him, I can take a punch

I stare him down until he calms like a puppy for just a moment

That's not why I'm here so I bring the cash out

"This is for you," as I wave the money in his face

Without even a blink of his eye, he grabs it

And runs off into the depths of the neighborhood behind us

I go back home and enjoy the quiet of the night once more

At least until a new political season begins or ends.

Perception of Advice to No Avail

I'm incredibly creative. I make things out of nothing.

Sometimes I get paid.

I met an agent. He told me he didn’t like my given name. 

Said I should shorten it. Make it more “accessible”. 

I told him I would think about it. 

He’d keep coming up with new names for me, to see if I’d bite. 

Again and again I told him I liked who I was and who I am becoming.

He gave up and we moved on.

I brought a new project to him.

He said it was wonderful, but it wouldn’t sell.

Offered to make me the next big thing if I made less thought-provoking material.

I said I don’t like junk. 

He said my future bank account wouldn’t care.

He gave me a book recommendation on sales and I gave him a recommendation back:

A book on mathematics by a self-taught mathematician.

He said he’d heard of the author.

But he wouldn’t read it because the author didn’t make millions in sales.

I argued that some authors don’t always make millions in sales.

He never got that numbers are an imaginary thing.

He never got me any work but bought me lunch at a fast-food restaurant one time.

Talked about the biggest name in his industry as if they were friends.

I looked them both up on Facebook. They were not friends.

He’s no longer my agent.