True Inspiration.

More often than not,

we mistake our inspiration, for



the grass that’s always greener,

when in reality,

our greatest inspiration, comes from



past or present acquaintance,

who showed us talent we sought to mirror,

who we quickly forgot,

fully unaware,


by the riches that whisper, like


the sweet, sweet nothings of the stage –

the merest hint of our true inspiration.

We’ve all got our own way of getting out.

It’s difficult to get out sometimes.

Like clawing at the walls of a well.

Fighting because you’re up there and I’m down here.

And even though you throw me many ropes,

they’re all covered in shit and slime.

My hands clench tightly, fingers ooze with stank

only to slide back down.

I stew in a bed of roses for a while,

picking at the petals one by one.

Then we’re back at it, ropes covered in roses, shit and slime.

I sort of use the slack from the rope to heave myself,

slowly from slime covered stone to stone,

eventually making my way out.

Only to find you sleeping next to a tree.

The rope tied tight around it’s base.

And I watch your eyes dance under your eyelids.

I’m in awe of your use of knots,

your ability to sleep so sound.

So I sit a while, next to you, and it’s peaceful there.

We’ve all got our own way of getting out.


It does not Discriminate.

It doesn’t effect you right now.

So sit back.


And enjoy a warm Jimmy Dean Breakfast Sandwich.

A cup of Folgers, hell

have two cups.

It’s Sunday, right!  What could go wrong on a Sunday?

Because the best part of waking up

is knowing it doesn’t have an effect on you.

And you’re safe.

Just save that Breakfast of Champions,

for the day your long since relevant,

and your children are up against the wall,

dying from the gross fact that it never effected you.



Paul Edgar Neilson Institute of Science.

Putting himself out there always felt false.

Like a needy child begging for attention.

So he didn’t.

In fact, he never did.

But all his paperwork he filed neatly and took comfort.

Then at an old, dignified, age he died.


Like a flash in a pan.

And having no children or siblings,

and parent’s long since deceased,

his work was collected, studied, and praised.

Subsequently, a non-profit was established in his honor.

It was known as the

Paul Edgar Neilson Institute of Science.

Two weeks later Donald Trump was elected president.

Rallies were held in resistance.

The subway fare increased by a quarter.

And somewhere in Ohio, a child was born.

Oddly enough, when developed research

from the Institute was reported, twice,

sometimes three times a day, news networks

always chose the Institute’s name in full,

rather than the acronym.

While reporting rape allegations against Bill Cosby,

suicides over deportation and middle school bullying,

LGBTQ night club shootings and terrorist beheadings,

reporters, like grade school kids

just couldn’t bring themselves to say it with a straight face.

Plus, having to rectify the situation, each time

assuring there was no pun intended got tiresome.

Then much later, unannounced to the public, they knocked down the Institute.


The reason being American’s no longer needed Science.

And in it’s place, built a grand hotel decorated in gold –

another Trump Tower.

That Kurt Cobain.

He had his finger on the pulse of a generation.

And another on the trigger of a shotgun.

Depending on who you believe,

a conspiracy theory won’t bring back the dead.

A corpse doesn’t lie, it sings.

It sings all the beautiful things it couldn’t see alive.

Through sentiment.


And praise.

Shedding it’s form.

It becomes an idol.

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

If he hadn’t wanted fame, Aberdeen would have gladly laid his grave.

And if not for boredom, then how could one know joy?

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

A sly dog, indeed.