THE GREAT MYSTERIES OF LIFE

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

As we stand on the cusp of the new year, I'm in a reflective mood...so here's an encore presentation that I know many of you have not seen before that addresses what I'm feeling...and am always feeling to some extent. HAVE A HAPPY!

I'm cruising down to the convenience store to pick up some beers

with the words of my spiritual master ringing in my ears:

You must give up your worldly attachments if you want to advance.

Pulling into the lot I spot a raven-haired goddess

riding in with some biker who looks like

one of the lout-infested Vikings in that credit card commercial.

While he is distracted inside,

I whisper in her ear: "What's HE got that I ain't got?"

And she says..."He's got...a big...HARLEY!"

So I hop back into my car,

resigned to worshipping her from afar--

but my master is adamant on this point:

You musn't worship something that could give you an STD.

And I'm supposed to give up sex--

or at least not enjoy it, if I want to be enlightened.

And I must atone for a life of living fast and loose,

in order to extract my neck from this karmic noose.

And I must be engaged with the great mysteries of life,

as I ponder why the weather girls on the Spanish channel

are always hotter than all the others...

and I am picking up a Christian radio station

on my television: POSITIVE, ENCOURAGING, K-LOVE!

It drowns out the regular programming on my PBS channel.

And I'm certain that it's some kind of sign from the cosmos--

but why pick on a nice Buddhist boy like me?

Heading home, I see Kerouac on the corner,

trying to wangle a ride--

he's been standing there since 1955.

But hard times have fallen on vagabond scribes,

as "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?"

gave way to One Night In Paris.

But he's picking up some extra jack

writing the direction labels on shampoo bottles

in his stream-of-consciousness style...

Once upon a time in a Ford Galaxy

far, far away--I whispered empty words

of love to Suzie, and Lucy, and Betty Jean--

until...VOILA! Fourteen years of coming

home every night and saying: WHAT'S FOR DINNER?

Thinking this is it--the happiness that had eluded me--

as the prime of my life slowly...slipped...away.

As did she.

And I can see my mother and me

standing on the platform

as the train roars down upon us--

she is running away...again.

And it is said that boys grow up

and seek out their mothers--

and so it was

that I chose one

who would RUN.

And I tell my master it's easier

to give up your worldly attachments

when there's little left to lose.

And there's something about being done

with the greater part of it that turns you young.

And you find yourself saying WHATEVER

and you come to understand that it means

accepting things the way they are--

and you think maybe these kids are on to something

as they shrug and turn back to their internet porn.

And yet, here I stand, crying

WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT, ALFIE?

But Alfie's too busy scoring

to offer any kind of reply,

though he seems to be saying heaven can wait.

So I just want to know...

can there be any compromise

for one who is other worldly, yet worldly wise?

CONVENTION

They came from California, and Texas, and Philly--with ideas that were all over the map. The critically acclaimed and the self-acclaimed, gathered together for three days of readin', writin', and regurgitatin'.

A hundred intrepid writers...and me...there of a morbid curiosity, determined not to listen to anything with too much conviction, lest I turn stupid again and self-conscious about my work.

A haven where, for a fee, the voiceless can have their manuscripts--and womanlyscripts--poked, prodded, and given a thorough physical by an expert word surgeon who then conducts an emergency operation--first to remove the guts, then to take out the heart, then to had it back to you and say, "You can sew it up now!" (A woman beside me is quietly sobbing over her treatise...which didn't pull through the operation.)

In a workshop exercise an author tells us to write a story--in ten minutes time--based on the fable of Cain and Abel. I want to kill him for that.

So instead, I write some drivel about a slob named Frankie, who walks into the G-Spot Diner--a greasy spoon saloon--plops down on his favorite stool, hails the waitress, opens his mouth to speak and-

"TIMES UP," shouts the lecturer. "Now, who wants to read their story?"

The guest poet--who is from the School of Endless Tinkering--declares that the trouble with Ginsberg was that he didn't rewrite. If the guy had thought of it, he might have taken a few whacks at Kerouac as well.

But the best counsel came from the senior sage in attendance--who, in her ageless wisdom, solemnly addressed the assemblage after the lunch break and said, "Don't go back to the cafeteria...you can't even VOMIT that stuff up!"

As I left, I recalled Bukowski's advice to aspiring writers: Drink...f#ck...and smoke lots of cigarettes.

Wow...and he didn't even charge for that.