3pm
train station
full of dancing/flirting
people
( just so I feel more lonely)
off to Amsterdam
another shot
at recognition
(but I hate to move)
I'm fighting windmills
like some other
long lost hero
(I'm more the
'traveling without moving'
type of person)
and yet
I think I should
keep pushing
& fight oblivion
keep on piling up
madness
& kicking down
myths
old A'dam looks
as a tourist's Mecca
(as always)
and I just can't stand it
'We liked your style
and view on things......
so controversial/arty/uncompromizing
and free...we know we can make a fortune..hehehehe..so,everybody's
happy.
the address checks out
& I have to show credentials
(not much freedom
so far.........)
the waiting room
smells of Utopia
and I clutch the
pages of my inner
forest
so to exorcise
the possibility
of rejection
'No,no.....we REALLY adore
the way you 'touch'people'
(and now,I'm thinking of
'manticores' & long pliers)
the gay secretary
looks like a CK
creation
and I really like his
Gucci shoes
'Mr.Grafsteen will see you
momentarily'
(Grafsteen=gravestone)
(and I kinda like the way it sounds......
being a pessimist and all......)
the absence of
ashtrays
betrays a non-smoking
policy
(and I could kill
one fag for a fag)
but a guy behind
a keyboard
squeezes a can
of Heineken
tossing it
in the wastebasket
to his left
somewhere
a telephone screams out
'BUSINESS!!'
but nobody seems
to care
the Gucci endorser
returns drooling
thru his grin
& leads me to
a round,massive oak,office door
'Welkom.......'
croaks a cigar-trained
obscure voice
'Care for an 'aperitif'?'
( the tough smoke
could survive a sabre strike)
"Sure.....I'd love one"
(drunks don't count
the time on an avarage beat)
the office's like a sphere
(which is odd,I always thought these guys were squares.......)
everything looks round and edgeless
the leather shines
in grandeur
the bookshelves
drip with 1st editions
(priceless,of course)
'I must say........
I always had a good nose for talent,mr.Henry....I recoginze genius when I see it,you know?'
( I hide surprise,the best I can.....he should know better than to con a con-man.)
'We'd like to offer you a EUR 80,000
for 3 books over a 5 years period.....sounds reasonable?'
( I finally pull out a Camel
& fish for the lighter)
'Ehm....no cigarettes,please'
(as he draws like Mondrian with his Havana Supreme)
'Oh...one more thing.......it's about the religious 'innuendos'
& 'bad language'in your work.....I'm sure you can fix those....'
( he looks like my father when I told him about 'freedom of speech' & 'taking chances')
I stand up.draining the Daniel's with little enthusiasm
saddling up that Camel,anyways
and smile at his numb richness
"I'll let you know,mr.Grafsteen"
grinning while turning away
from corporated fame
3:10pm
train rolling in
with a melancholic sigh
and my choices are wet with tainted promises
as the conductor whistles.....
'All aboard?'
My second book is about a boy who has Asperger's Syndrome and is bullied to the point to where he shoots up his school. I have divided the excerpts from it into three parts: Before, during and after the shooting.
I Made My Boy Out of Poetry is a powerful literary vision of rare scope, beauty and emotional intensity composed of stories and poems that flow in and out of each other like the most lucid and articulate of dreams. These are portraits and studies of
