I'm Glad To Be Alive
By Mikel K



"Brilliant neo-america dream realism! I'm re-reading these words."
--Jada Hufstetler Alexander


Laird Haynes I like to read your posts Mikel, they cheer me up and suspend my state of self-pity. Also I can get online goto fb and usually one of the first things I'll see is something you've recently posted. Thanks for being who you are and don't quit writing. You even inspired me to post my own poetic thoughts!

‎"I like My friends like good tissue, soft to the touch and able to handle some real crap!"--Source Unkown





‎"Every strike brings me closer to the next home run."--Babe Ruth

"Nothing is worth more than this day."--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Without Constant Reader, you are just a voice quacking in the void."--Stephen King, "On Writing."

"Don't piss off a poet, you could become their next poem."--Author Unknown


"The basic rule of vocabulary is to use the first word that comes to your mind, if it is appropriate, and colorful."--Stephen King, "On Writing."

"A musician must make music, an artist must paint, a poet must write, if he is to be ultimately at peace with himself."
~Abraham Maslow

"One thing I've noticed is that when you've had a little success, magazines are a lot less apt to use that phrase, 'Not for us.'"--Stephen King, from "On Writing: a memoir of the craft."

"Sometimes we must get hurt in order to grow. We must fail in order to know. Sometimes, our vision is clear only after our eyes are washed away with tears."
--Author Unknown

On these pages, you will read EVERYTHING that is on my mind.

Deborah Richardson: I've read some more of your magnum opus, some of which concerns Jim Carroll and that legendary Metroplex show. I continue to be enlightened and entertained by your writing, which is often rather tender and sweet...things that hide under your gruff exterior. Good stuff.



"Reading a good book, is like having a good meal, or having good sex, but not quite as good as writing a good poem."--Mikel K


"Sometimes, I talk to myself, and that way I know that I am not talking to an idiot."--Mikel K Quotable

My reputation will be based on greed, and yours on kindness, and they won't know that it is my greed that is financing your kindness. I'm going to make Courtney Love look like Mother Teresa.

"People were usually much better in their letters than in reality. They were much like poets in this way."--Bukowski, "Womwn."



"Very insightful, I love reading your writings."--Cassia Croft

Muddy Waters moved from Mississippi to Chicago;
am I going to leave Atlanta when they discover me?

"Field hands took work on the assembly line at the Caterpillar factory in Peoria, Illinois, making money by making the machines that had taken their work."--Robert Gordon, writing in, "Can't Be Satisfied: The Life and Times of Muddy Waters.

"Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don't have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough."--Stephen King, "On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft."

"The worst thing for a writer is to know another writer, and worse than that, to know a number of other writers. Like flies on the same turd."--Charles Bukowsk, Women


July 6, 2001

I am up at 4:30 a.m. because I was wide awake at 4:30 a.m. The clock is set for 6 a.m. and I don't have to leave the house to catch the bus to The Diabetes Management class until 7 a.m. but this is a nice time to be able to sip on coffee, and write. The dogs got all excited when I first woke up, like they thought that something special was happening; it wasn't, I just fed the cats, the turtles, and then them, like I always do. I look forward to a normal day. I hope that your day is bright, and shiny. I'm glad to be alive.

July 7 2010

I start my new way of eating, this morning, with a goal of getting down to 220 lbs. from my current 287. My cucumber plants are going crazy: they are huge and spreading themselves out even further by the second, but, still, no cucumbers in sight. Somehow, I don't think that my tomato plants are going to bear tomatoes: they are too scrawny, and the plant that is doing so well in the pot that I planted basil is not, I fear, basil, at all. My garden is skimp, and, mostly, unproductive, but still I love it; from it I learn for the large garden of tomorrow that I will one day plant. I'm drinking the coffee without half n half, or milk, this morning: it tastes great. I am so very glad to be alive, and I am glad that you are alive, also.

A stamp is going to cost 46 cents??11 My god. My carrier is bi polar; unmedicated. She is more than unfriendly: she is mean, and we often don't get mail, so she is inefficient, or inadequate. She must take off all those days, that we don't get mail, as mental health days. I love to get mail, but having to deal with her, and, now, the almost fifty cent cost of a letter, email, and Facebook messaging are looking better and better. The lines that you have to wait in at the Post Office to do business are ridiculous, and the attitude of the clerk, once you face them, is often dismal. Perhaps the Post Office has outlived its purpose. How much taxpayer money is sunk into it to keep the dinosaur afloat? How soon will a stamp be a dollar? How much do the miserable clerks with their bad attitudes get paid?


Ads on the radio drive me away from even the greatest stations. The ads are either intrusive, or insulting, or both. I try to wade through them to get to the songs that I love, but it is impossible. Back to back they slap with me with 30 to 60 second sound bites that kick me in the teeth, and break my jaw. I head to my computer hard drive where I am in control of what goes in my ear; freedom of choice, once again, saves me from intense mental pain, and suffering. God bless my ability to tune out one source of music, and tune another one in. Let's hear it for screeching guitar solos, and not someone trying to sell me a diamond ring.


I love it when someone on Facebook tells me that they are "busy." Busy? Hell, what are you doing on Facebook then?!


Whenever there is a utility company truck sitting outside my home for any length of time, I start to think that, maybe, the government is watching me. It has been quite a number of years since I have done anything that the government might be interested in watching me for; over two decades, actually, so I realize that my thinking is a bit paranoid. When I see the utility company vehicle parked outside my house, I also think that, perhaps, they are going to jack my rate up: not so paranoid thinking. What rarely strikes my brain about this situation is probably the truth, that some guy from the utility company is fucking off for an hour or so, taking a nap, or listening to music in his car in front of my house.

I have turned on, "Green Grass and High Tides," by The Outlaws to pump me up, as I head to the shower, to get clean, and wide awake for my Yoga class. I have missed the first two classes of the session, but we have a good makeup policy, so I am not too much concerned about it. If I find myself getting stressed out over, or, because of Yoga, then something is seriously wrong!!


Some people save the best food on their plate for last, but not me: I eat the most tasty, to me, things first. (Cont. below).
4 seconds ago · Comment · Like

Mikel K Poet I gave Morisson a carrot pea okra medley, and he was slow to eat the Okra. It is 98 degrees out there, according to The Weather Channel. Tom Petty wants 80 bucks for a nose bleed seat to see him at Phillips Arena in August. When will these rock stars price themselves completely out of our league, and suffer the consequences. I love Tom Petty, but honey please...I'm going to have to get my full of him on You Tube. Henry came to visit, and I have, honestly, never seen Bundy so happy; it's been a few days since the two of them got together.

It is 96 degrees at 8pm on The Love Porch. I don't need to alter my diet to lose weight, I just need to change where I hang out, this hot summer, to the great outdoors. David Sedaris is touring. I have never heard of an author charging to stand in front of you, so that he can increase book sales. He is a great writer; he must, also be, a hell of a public speaker. I was trying to think of other authors that I knew of who you had to pay to see, and the only ones that come to mind are Henry Rollins, and Jim Carroll, who are, and were, well worth it. I wonder if I will charge you to come see me, when you are buying my books?

I just did a 17 minute brisk walk. I left the dogs at home so that the walk would be brisk, no stops to pee on telephone poles, no stops to smell the flowers. It is amazing to me, how even a walk talks its toll on my body. My arthritic knee hurt a bit, and my new hip was letting me know that it was in there; but I got the walk done, and tomorrow I am going to try to do two 15 minute walks, one in the a.m. before that sun makes our city too hot, and one at night, around the time that I did it tonight: 9 pm-ish. I am going to take the dogs around the block, as soon as I do my hip exercises, and some Yoga: I can not screw the dogs out of their exercise while I am getting mine!!

I stayed up late cleaning the turtles tank. I used a white vinegar hot water solution for the first time on the aquarium because, recently, the tank has been getting dirty faster than it used to, and I figured that the tank itself, and the turtles rocks, and filter, could use an extra cleaning. I love it when my turtles' water is fresh, and clean, and I am betting that they do also. When I clean the tank, I put the turtles in this little hard plastic container, and then put the container up on top of one of my tall bookshelves. Last night, the turtles made such a racket inside the container that they knocked it off onto the floor. I don't think that they were as scared as I was. If anything were to happen to my precious turtles, I would freak out. The turtles were ok, though. They are swimming happily, right now, in their tank which is located right next to my desk where I can keep a happy eye on them during the day. It is so great to see a new day, breath the air of a new day. Thank you Creator, for this great new day. I hope that your day is happy, and blessed. On with it, then...

When I woke, this morning, my kitchen counter was crawling with the small and medium sized cockroaches that have been plaguing me for awhile now. I used this cockroach killing spray, yesterday evening, on the lower parts of the kitchen cabinets, and I think that that drove the cockroaches to the part of the kitchen that I didn't/couldn't spray. I am going to wipe the whole counter area down with white vinegar, today. I don't know if that will help or not, but I refuse to feel helpless against these little bastards.

I saw, yesterday, where David Sedaris is going on tour, which made me think of him, and other memoirists who gave me great pleasure. I just want to state for the record, for no other reason than stating it for the record, and to thank these folks for the pleasure that they gave me by writing their books that Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs, Jeanette Walls, Mary Karr, Donald Miller, and Mitch Albom are incredible writers. My goal is to one day join their ranks.

It was 98 degrees, here in Atlanta, yesterday; my gosh. Thankfully, I am blessed to have two small window air conditioning units in this apartment, that more than adequately cool the space. I don't know what I would do if air conditioning had not been invented; I do not do very well in heat: it stresses me out, makes me angry, and confused. I would not do well in the desert.

I just did a 16 minute walk with the dogs. It won't count as one of my two 15 minute walks that I have a goal of walking each day, because, with the dogs, there are many stops for this, and that, as you can well imagine. The dogs love to walk. I am amazed how they know when it is their turn to walk. Last night, as I was about to do a solo walk, putting my socks, and sneakers on as I do when I walk the dogs, there was no excitement on the dogs part, as if they knew that it wasn't their turn to go out. This morning, when it was their turn to walk, the dogs were all excited, and I had not done anything different from when I am getting read to walk alone. Could it be voodoo?!

On my dog walk, I could feel the temperature climbing as I walked. It is going to be a hot day, today. I am going to meet my daughter, Scout, for lunch, so I will be out there in it for at least part of it, on the bus, and all.


Neha Dubey: "...because if you miss what you want, you get what God wants you to get, and needless to say that is perfect for you. :)"


I keep x-ing out the Glenn Beck ad, and then clicking the box that says that it is offensive.

It is 93 degrees out there. Scout, and I, just canceled our plans to have lunch, as we are both on bikes, and it just wouldn't be any fun to cook in the sun to have a nice cooked meal together!! I'm cleaning with vinegar, today, a continuation of cleaning the turtles' tanks, last night. I doubt that it will scare the roaches off, but the entire kitchen counter got a vinegar wipe down. Yeah. Clean, clean, clean.

It is 8 o'clock, and it's 90 degrees out. It's going to be a quiet night at home, except for a quick stop at the store to buy a mop, and some veggies. Can you imagine that I have lived in this apartment for almost two years, and that this is the first mop that I will have bought, and used, on the floors in this apartment. I'm quite a slob, really. Musician Billy Fields said that, "If it comes down to mopping the floor, or writing a song, the song is going to get written!"

I spent more tonight on cleaning supplies than I did on food. I'm not sure what that says; I do know that I like to eat more than I like to clean, so I am not sure what I was thinking.

I'm sitting back in my chair, scratching Morisson on the ass, and feeling proud, looking at how clean my kitchen, which I cleaned, today, is...when a cockroach crawls across one of the white kitchen cabinet doors. I look down, and see two roach motels on the floor beneath him, and the area on the floor, at the bottom of the cabinets where I spray at least once a week from this bottle of stuff that the man at Home Depot assured me was, "the best stuff." I went to Home Depot, tonight, and the lady who helped me pointed to another bottle of roach kill, and said that it was, "the one," and then pointed to the bottle that the other guy had talked me into and pretty much said that, "it sucked." It's probably time to go to bed.

4:50 am. I went to bed at eleven pm, so it is no surprise to me that I am up, up, up early. Also, I had to turn my air conditioner off; it was so cold in here that it was almost unbearable. The temperature dropped from 9, yesterday, during the day, to 75 right now. Those bastard cockroaches were crawling about my kitchen, as usual, when I turned on my light this morning in there. I so resolve to kill everyone of them, and their children, and grandchildren: every generation that would like to follow them into the space where I prepare, and cook, my food. I'm trying to get a new book ready for you. This one will be all the poems, and everything else that I wrote during the month of June. It was a great month for my writing: much inspiration, and creativity. I am going to keep the price down, so that you can afford it. It is such a blessing to be alive this morning. I am so very much looking forward to this new day, and I hope that you are, too.

I just did a thorough cleaning of my bathroom, except for the tub, which is yet to come. Next up is the kitchen floor, and my desk. I like having a clean abode, these days. For the longest time, to tell you the truth, I didn't care, and it was reflected in the filth that I lived in. Don't they say that, "Cleanliness is next to Godliness?" Well, I certainly want to get next to God, and if having a clean bathroom is the way to do it, well, I m certainly there.

The end may be in site. I called the do it yourself pest place, and they told me of a product called InVict Gold Cockroach Gel that is supposed to be the bomb. I can't wait to kill, kill, kill my cockroaches. I can order the product online, and be saved the long bus trip out to the bug killing supply store. This is really good news. I hate those little bastards. They grin up at me from my kitchen counter, and then run, every morning when I stroll into my kitchen. They wave at me from my bathtub. The products, that I bought from Home Depot only move them from one spot to another. Home Depot really shouldn't sell shit that doesn't work. Too bad that I'm not a receipt keeper; I'd take it back to them, and give somebody a lecture, and I'm not much of a lecture giver!

I'm having a 3 pm-ish cup of coffee, sort of my afternoon delight. On this new low blood sugar lose 66 pounds in 51 weeks diet that I am on, I am only supposed to have 2 cups of coffee a day, and I have already had them, today. I'm such a rebel.

I had a 3 oz. portion of ground turkey with 2/3 cup of rice, 1/2 cup of carrots, 1/2 cup of corn, one slice of ww bread with a tsp of margarine and a tsp of strawberry jam, with a spinach salad with oil and vinegar on it for dinner, tonight. It is both weird, and fun, to be measuring out my food. I love that I have a real guideline to follow, and do not just go at trying to lose this weight haphazardly. Tonight, I have a 15 minute walk scheduled, and an appointment with my Yoga mat. Oh happy day.

I just did a 21 minute bike ride, mostly through, and around Piedmont Park. There were a lot of people in the park riding their bikes, and walking, some hand in hand, some trying to figure out how, and when, to get their hand into the other hand.


This new way of eating, where I measure all my food, sometimes results in weird ramifications, like I just looked over at my little plastic dental floss container, and thought that it was a cube of chocolate.

The urge to cheat, on this new way of eating, is often with me, but I realize that by cheating, I am just cheating myself out of my goal of getting from 286 to 220 in 51 weeks, so I mostly don't cheat!

My cucumber plants are growing madly, outside in my garden, but there are no signs of a cucumber on them yet, just little yellow flowers. My tomato plants are coming along slowly; I doubt that I will see fruit on them, either. I think that I started too late in the growing season, and that the spot that I picked is frequented too much by pissing dogs, and a man with a lawnmower.

I believe that I have watered the plants enough, and that there is enough sunshine, but it seems that that is not enough, or, maybe I am not being patient, and great growth things are yet to happen. I have not used any fertilizers.

Each time that I have an unsuccessful garden, I am learning things for the year when my garden will be a total success; totally.

I have learned that not all AMA doctors are evil, money grubbing bastards, as I once felt, and I have learned that not all folk who offer to you holistic methods of existence are kind and benevolent folks with only your best interest at heart.

You have to look at each situation individually, and make the best choice that you can based on experience, and intuition.

We have all heard of the little old lady who lives to be 99 drinking a fifth of Jack Daniels, and smoking a pack of cigarettes, and we have seen in- shape folk pass in their 40's.

I try to do the best with what I have been given, and with what comes to me, and, after that, it is let the chips fall where they may. I have made great progress in many areas of my life, and I look forward to making much more progress, as my time goes on.

May the same happen for you.


His knowledge of music was both baffling, and intimidating. His goal was to conduct orchestras, and my goal was to continue to smile, and tap my foot, when a good song came along. I still wanted, someday, to learn how to combine a few chords on an acoustic guitar, but the rest of what he was talking about was way beyond me, and could stay way beyond me, as far as I was concerned. I was comfortably numb, so it seemed.

Let me compose myself. Bill Hunt, avant-garde composer, dropped off a cd, yesterday, loaded with music that he wants me to put words to. I am listening to the cd right now, as it rains, seeing the rain as drops of inspiration that are falling onto my brain. My son, G, and I are going to see The Banksy Movie, "Through the gift shop window." I thank The Vreelands for turning me onto this flick, and for the great music that they create, I have put words to Clark Vreeland's music before, and vice versa. You can hear some of the results by listening to, "Has anybody seen Bob Dylan," and, "Here comes a bum," on the K Playa below. Bring an umbrella if you leave the house, and a smile.

Salvation may never come, just like food never made itto the troops from the South, but the morning did, and I am glad that it is here. Most mornings are alike, but still they are different. That is a characteristic of the day. It is like looking in the mirror and seeing yourself; for the most part, you look the same, but you are not. I'm glad that Muddy Waters was discovered. Have you discovered yourself?

When I was a kid, the "cool" kids made up a song about me.

"Onward MK, onward MK," they would sing sarcastically, as I delivered my newspapers.

I was eleven, then, and was learning, first hand, and the hard way, how cruel children can be.

There was a ringleader to the bunch. His name was Robert Lee. He was the biggest, and the strongest kid, in the whole sixth grade, and in grades seven through twelve, where he was appointed to be captain of the football team.

I should have picked a fight with Robert Lee, but I didn't know how to fight, so I lived in fear, and lived under the taunting tongues of the pack of kids who did Robert's bidding for him.

I don't know why Robert had it in for me back then, but if he is still alive, and kicking, I would like to say one thing to him: fuck you.

In Junior High School, I figured out that if you were standing by the exit door, at a movie theater, when the movie let out, that you could immerse yourself in the crowd, walk the opposite way to the way that they were walking, and bam there you were first in the seats for the next showing of the movie.

I don't know if this would work, now. I might have an edge as a fifty something year old man, in that the kids working the theater might not think thata man my age who is supposed to be successful in a career, would be sneaking into their movie theater.


I used to accelerate, and then I would keep on accelerating, and accelerating, and accelerating until I crashed.

I would, then, wonder what happened, briefly, and I would start accelerating, and accelerating, and accelerating, again.

Do you see a pattern here? I didn't.

They say that the definition of insanity is, "Doing the same thing over, and over, and expecting different results. Boy, that was me.

I am insane no more, I am glad to report. Hallelujah.

On the free dating service, Plenty of Fish, this girl sent me a message at 10:53 a.m.this morning, saying that she wanted to have coffee with me, today; just say where, and when, she said in her message.

At 10:57 a.m. this same woman sent me a message saying that she had just called her brother, and now had to watch her mother, so she couldn't have coffee. I mean why didn't she call her brother first, and just avoid the whole thing. I'm still fishing, baby!

I'm going to change the world one floss at a time.

The man is cutting our lawn. The only plant that I had unprotected was one of my cucumber plants, so I just ran out and rearranged its direction. It is laying down next to one of my three tomato plants, now. I hope that it survives. In a sense, what I am doing is guerrilla gardening: gardening on the run in spots that I find wherever I am living, and I learn as I go along which spots that I picked are good, and which are bad for a variety of different reasons. Reading about Muddy Waters, as I am, makes me want to go see Nathan Nelson, tonight, at The Northside Tavern, but I can't get home on the bus, after the show, because it shuts down before Nathan does. Is anybody going that can give me a ride home?

Food in the house: what a wonderful feeling. I thank the good neighbors for their participation in my adventure with Scout at The Farmer's Mkt. What a great place to shop. Do you know that they only offer eggs from uncaged chickens. What a great thing. No angry eggs in this house. Mudcat is doing his thing at The Northside Tavern. I am not going to make it out, but I am with Mudcat in spirit. I know that it will be a great, great show. I'm eating a spinach salad cover in fresh cucumber, and Georgia tomato, soaked in balsaimic vinegar, and virgin olive oil, with just a splash of fresh lemon. Henry is barking at Bundy to come play, but when I eat, Bundy remains beneath me under my desk hoping for scraps to fall to the floor in front of him. Henry will have to wait.

The computer mostly satisfies my need for "human" interaction. When I am not staring into the computer screen, I am nervous. "Are you on Facebook?" is the first thing that I find myself saying to people who I meet in The Real World. I am sure that, if we become "friends" on Facebook, I can impress them online with my words, but I'm not sure how I stack up face to face. Maybe, when I lose 66 pounds, that will change.

Though I am getting into the blues, I am not singing the blues; and I am very thankful for that. I have risen to see another new day: what a blessing. I forgot to go to Yoga, last night, because I was so excited about going to The Farmer's Market with Scout. I guess missing class, every once in awhile, to hang out with your daughter, is an acceptable reason. There is a class with Lynn on Friday morning that I will go to, instead. I love Lynn; she is very calm. I am going to buy almond milk today, and start drinking that in my coffee, and pouring it into my cereal. It's a beautiful day to be alive. I hope that your day is spectacular.

It is a cool 74 degrees out, but I am making it hot in here by cooking sausage, chicken, and fish at the same time. I will freeze the final products, and pull them from their frozen home over the next couple of weeks, that way I only heat this home up once, instead of every day.

The fish that I am cooking is mackerel. It doesn't look all that tasty, but is supposed to be high in Omega 3, is it, oil, that is supposed to be so good for a body. I had shrimp for breakfast, as my protein. I made a cocktail sauce out of ketchup, and Sriracha sauce: it was tasty.

Whenever a cashier at a grocery store asks me how I am doing, as I am checking out, I always say that, "Any time that I am bringing food home, I am doing great." Ain't that the truth!


My cucumber plants are growing incredibly big, but there are no cucumbers in site, just yellow flowers. I think that the beetles that are eating other peoples' cucumbers have, also, gotten to mine.

What a bummer. Oh well, I bought the most tasty baby cucumbers from The Farmer's Market, last night, and had them on my salad. They were yummy. I also had balsamic vinegar, and virgin olive oil, with lemon on my salad.

Before this, I had always bought salad dressing the old fashioned way, say ranch or thousand island, will you, so to have this oil and vinegar combo was, and will be, a special treat.

Where would I be without spell check, and what did I, as a writer, do before computers came along? I have stacks, and stacks, of notebooks, on my bookshelves, that I started to write in back in 1982, to answer that question, probably full of misspelled words!

I thank The Lord that I was able to quit smoking cigarettes, and I pray for all smokers, that they can quit also.

I do what I do in the dark, as far as certain things are concerned, the main certain thing being publication.

I pray, but I do more than pray: I do the work. I write. I write every day, often for hours at a time. I don't know where the writing is leading me, but I know where I am, and that is where I want to be; Praise The Lord.


THE Revolution may never come, but we can still be kind/pleasant to our brother, and sister, to those in our immediate surroundings, to those we love, and to those who need love.

THE Revolution will come with you holding a door open for someone, when you are in a hurry. The Revolution will come with you not laying your hard hand on the horn in traffic, when someone pisses you off. The Revolution will come when you lend an ear to someone who needs an ear, when you are really feeling like talking, talking, talking, like we all, mostly, do. Everyone has their agenda. Nobody wants to listen to what the other guy, or gal, has to say.

Smile at people. Don't look at people as if they are dollar signs, ready to be had by you so you can increase your own personal stash. The Revolution will not be something that happened in Cuba, with some guy that you think is romantic named, "Che," leading it. The Revolution will not occur in China, or Russia, or Vietnam. It will occur in your heart. It will occur in your mind.

I have given you the seeds in this bit: you get the idea, you are not stupid.

The Revolution can be now, if you want it; it doesn't have to be "someday." I am talking to me, as well as you.

Someday, way sooner than we think, we can start The Revolution.

The Revolution that I speak of is of the mind. Be kind to strangers. Help the man, or the woman down on their luck. Don't do everything for a buck.

Compassion, brother. Comapasssion, sister. Let's start The Revolution NOW!!


The bi-polar mail lady was just hollering at either me about the dogs, or a the dogs about the dogs. With this lady, you never know when she is going to deliver the mail, or if she is going to deliver the mail at all. I had the dogs out for their afternoon visit, and there she was, the mail lady, about a block away hollering at me like she owns the street. As slow as she is about delivering the mail, and as mean as she is when she gets here, I didn't see any reason to hurry the dogs back in the house; I did my best, though, really, deciding not to be mean, but Bundy had to take a dump. The mail lady was yelling at him, as if her yelling would make a difference to Bundy while he was in that position. We had a nice mail lady when I first moved in here; I wonder what happened to her?

The weather affects my front door. For about a week, I have not been able to lock the door, and, just now, when I needed it to lock, so that Bundy could not get out, and sink his teeth into the U.S. Mail lady, it locked. Maybe there is an angel working that door for us. I just lit some incense near my desk. I was feeling agitated, and I think that, subconsciously, I reached for the incense thinking that it would help calm me down. Can incense calm you down? My good neighbor, Amber, uses incense all the time, and she is a pretty chill young lady. Hmmmmmmmm.


I'm hoping that Bundy would attack someone that came inside our space. He just might; he is very protective of our home. I am hoping that he wouldn't just bite someone on the street; he seems to share the street very well, but he might bite the mail lady, because she exhibits such fear, and anger towards Bundy, and Morisson. Sometime, you get what you put out there. Of course, sometime, you don't. Maybe the mail lady would just take a bite out of Bundy, and leave him bleeding there beneath a box full of junk mail. It's all speculation, because, as usual, the mail lady did not stop at hour house. I bet we have a big pile of mail piling up inside her bag. If she was older, I would call the mail lady an old bag, but she's not so I'll just call her a bag: a mean bag.

I have had these lyrics from the band Hole in my head all day: "go on, take everything, take everything, i want you to go on, take everything, take everything, i want you to." Courtney Love was rude to me, once, but I might not hold it against her.

There might be nothing as good as onions soaked in balsamic vinaigrette with virgin olive oil, a tad of lemon, some black pepper, and garlic powder. The dogs love it, too.

My blood sugar count was just 96. Most of my readings are coming in around 100. This new way of eating, where I measure my food, is such a blessing. The pounds are dripping off. I'm going to go buy a digital weight scale, so that I can check my weight everyday. I'm, soon, going to look so good in a bikini.

I just did some Yoga, and it has motivated me to take a walk. I am going to leave the dogs at home, so my pace is brisker. It is 85 degrees out there; I think that I can handle that. I just listened to this lose weight hypnosis cd that Penny C. sent me years ago. I wasn't ready to listen to it, until today. I got a lot out of it, especially about how to take bites of food. I always took BIG bites, really BIG bites. BAD, Mikel, BAD!!

My internet was down. I tried all the usual things: unplug the modem, unwind the cable. It tried getting a signal sent from Comcast over the phone, and I did the Dr. Comcast diagnostic thing; nothing worked, so I called Comcast. The man had me shut down my computer, and unplug the router, and the modem, and then, after a bit, plug them back in. When I plugged the router in there was no power. I fiddled with th chord; still no power, so I followed the chord down to the multi-plug electrical outlet that it is plugged into. It was plugged in, but the switch on the multi outlet had been turned off: one of the cats had stepped on it. I didn't have the heart to tell the man at Comcast what had happened, so I let him go through a few more steps before I said, "That's it, you got it!!" It is amazing how pets can get in the way of progress.

They are cut. I did it the way the West was won: by giving the Indians small pox infested blankets for feeding us. No, wait, I meant I did it myself: my toenails are now cut, and cut by me the first time since I got this new hip. That is really something, don't you think?

An afternoon rain is pounding down, like angels are taking a shower, and we are blessed to get the runoff. Morisson cowers at my feet, the thunder moves him in not in a positive way. Bundy is barking at the door; he missed his chance to join us, which is rare for him. What could be considered nearly violent, I find relaxing, sitting on The Love Porch with my dog, watching and listening to The Southern Summer Rain.

I am somewhat practiced at mindful breathing; mindful eating is a new thing to me. Usually, I just put all the food on the plate in my mouth, and swallow. I'm trying not to do that anymore!

A nice side benefit of measuring my food out before I eat it, and thus eating less, and, then, eating it slower is that I do not have to rush to the bed for a nap after every meal like I mostly had to do before I developed this new way of eating. In the old days, a meal would steal all my energy, and, now, a meal gives me energy.

"It's getting to the point where I'm no fun anymore."--Crosy Stills & Nash

My previous bad, bad attitude is trying to insinuate itself back in my brain, this morning. It started sometime, yesterday, and wants to stay with me through eternity. I am starting to point the finger at people, and say to myself, "You owe me. You did this, and, or that, to me. I am mad at you for this, and, or that." All I know to do is to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and keep doing what I can to remain positive. For me, having a bad attitude feels like someone is beating me upside the head with a baseball bat.

Who said that every day is supposed to be perfect? Everyone has a bad day every once in awhile. I have been taught that you can start your day over at any time during the day. I am starting over, right now!

You can't voluntarily enter into situations, and then hold other people responsible when the outcome is not what you want. You are not in the results business; you can't control outcomes.

This little bastard cockroach just cockily crawled across my desk, nearly getting in my face, and then ran under my laptop, when I tried to kill him.

The dogs need love this morning, We all need love, this morning. The bastard cockroach just ran across my keyboard. He is taunting me. He doesn't need love; he needs death.

It is possible to have a Ph. d, and still not know what you are talking about.
You better salivate; you better salivate, baby. Time will tell us what we don't know now, maybe.

Come on tell me; come on tell me, baby, what you are dieing to tell me.

I have learned that I can't solve all the world's problems; not having cable in the abode has helped me come to this conclusion. When I constantly watch the "news," I am constantly aggravated.

I think that it is good to become comfortably numb, to stick my head in the sand, and just pretend that things like murder, rape, oil spills, and wars don't exist. This will not make these terrible things go away, but, really, what can I do about them anyway, but get bent out of shape about them, and ruin my day?

Isn't the news somewhat artificial? Don't "they" choose what to show you, with their main interest being to sell ads? Is a seagull in a flock of seagulls flying over some beautiful sand by a gorgeous ocean happier than you are?

There is nothing quite as satisfying as the appearance of dead cockroaches in places where living cockroaches used to crawl freely.

Dead cockroaches crawl across my brain dragging poison that I inflicted upon them. They are headed to hell, and will crawl down my spine to get there. I will feel them every inch of the way. I will blame the feeling on a new shirt that I have bought, and am wearing. A single dead cockroach will find its way into my cereal bowl. I will eat him, feel him in my mouth, and spit him out. When he lands in the cereal bowl, he will come back to life: he is the Christ Roach.

A funny thing is: I poured the water in my coffee maker, this morning to make my morning coffee, and for some reason I decided to check the water, and sure enough, there was a dead cockroach swimming in the water. Yuck: an almost self-fulfilling prophecy!

The turtles salviate like Pavlov's Dogs when I drop their food into the water in their aquarium. They rush from one end of the tank to the other, from where they feel most safe, much of the time, to where their food dangles from the surface of their water. They remain aloof much of the time, but feeding is not one of these times. Their lust to sustain themselves makes them vulnerable. A hunter from BP could kill them easily now.

When spell check corrects a word for me, I rarely check to see how I spelled it wrong, and how it should be spelled; i.e. I learn nothing from the experience, I just take advantage of the computer's superior knowledge. In writing this, I spelled spell check, spellcheck, and the computer told me that I was wrong. I find that kind of funny!

Yoga, for me, should be a journey, not a destination; it should be something that is with me for life, rather than something that I go at intently for awhile, burnout, and then leave behind me. I should be doing my asanas when I am 97 years old.

I'm high on coffee: it's legal, and I won't have to pick up a poker chip anywhere. I won't wind up behind bars, covered in blood, and puke. What a marvelous high this is.

I'm about to get on the Yoga mat for some home practice. Often, I resist doing my home practice, just like I resist exercising in the form of swimming, riding my bike, or walking.

Part of this is because of the arthritis in my right knee, but not all of it. Part of it is that I am addicted to sitting in this chair, and staring into this laptop screen.

My job is to be a Poet, so there is to be a bit of sitting around, but a Poet needs to get out there and gather information, have experiences to write about. Up off the chair then, and onto the mat, and later, today, I think that I will go for a swim. A swim, yes, that is the answer!!

The ac is broken at Henry, and Anna's house, so they are spending the night with Morisson, Bundy, Kobain, Jaggar, Prynce, Rue Paul, and I. It is amazing how many bodies that we can squeeze into this little space. I bought a digital weight scale, tonight, and I am going to start standing on it tonight, or tomorrow morning. Mirror, mirror on the wall one day I will look at you, and I won't see fat at all!! I ate healthy, today, and I did a home practice Yoga workout, and then went and swam some laps at the pool. I can feel good about myself, today, and tonight I will sleep well, though I am not yet ready for bed.

The air conditioner at Henry and Anna's house won't be fixed until tomorrow, or Monday, and their parents are both out of town, so it looks like I have two new roommates for the night, or for the weekend! It's a small space, but it seems to expand with Love. It is very hot out there, today, the little box on my laptop screen says that it is 95 degrees outside. My two baby wall unit air conditioners are killing themselves for me, and I so totally appreciate it. Where would we be at without machines?

Good morning at one p.m. world. I was up until almost 4 a.m. having marvelous real person chat with Michelle, and Elizabeth. It's always nice to drag oneself away from the computer screen, and talk to a living person or two.

I am listening to the band that some people think is the best band ever out of Athens, Ga.: Pylon. Thanks to Art Linton for posting Pylon to his page. Hey Art, Led Zepplin sucks: didn't they have to pay a great deal of money to the old blues masters, because they stole songs from the old blues masters, and tried to pass them off as original Led Zepplin tunes. Keith Richards gave credit where credit was due, but not LZ. What a lame, untalented waste of time the "She's Buyint The Highway To Heaven," outfit was.

Henry. the Great Dane, has a shoe fetish, of sorts, so I always put my shoes up high when he is visiting. I don't think that he is into men's sneakers, or sandals, though; Henry likes women's shoes: three hundred dollar street walking high heels! Yeah Henry.

Henry, and Anna are still crashing here with us, due to no ac at their place. We went over to there home for a bit to eat, this morning, but as soon as they were done feeding themselves, the most dynamic duo of Great Danes, headed right back to the air conditioning at our abode.

I got a cute note from daughter Scout, yesterday, when I pointed out to her that a song that she sent me wasn't ska, and that The Specials were. Scout replied to my via cyberspace, "The Specials are OLD SKA!!"

Love you, youngster!
I hope that everyone has a BRILLIANT day!!

I'm down ten pounds to 276 since I stared measuring my food on July. I'm thinking about going around the corner and telling this to my neighbor who, yesterday, called me fat as I got into an argument with him while walking my dogs. Not really; I am just happy, especially that my health will improve if my weight continues to go in a downward direction.

Jerry is singing, "Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door." Morisson, Bundy, and I just came through our front door, out of the heat, and into the air conditioning after doing a 26 minute walk. Bundy is SO bi-polar: at the beginning of the walk, he is a manic wreck, psychotically pulling on his leash to get the adventure started.

At the end of the walk, he is worn out, and happy to be home, but still must be the first one through the door, unless he is given the, "Back, Bundy, back, sit, Bundy, sit, Bundy" command.

I'm behind on both dogs shots, so I didn't do the circle in the park like I wanted to. I would not want to have to tell someone that, "No my dogs aren't up to date on their rabis shots, if Bundy bit someone. I don't think he would, but out of he, and Morisson, he is more likely to engage in such behavior.

It sounds like The Jerry Garcia Band uses a synthesizer in the Dylan song that they are playing, which is kind of weird, but it works. I'm posting my Tip Jar. If you have any extra cash think of me as a Poet busking on the side of the street, and drop a few bucks in for Morisson, and Bundy will you?

My dogs are knocked out from their walk. Henry and Anna, the great, great Great Danes from next door, are spending the night in an air conditioned hotel room with The Good Neighbors because the ac at their apartment is busted, and it is inhumanely hot in their home. What the hell did we do before air conditioning? Would you rather have your internet go out or your air conditioning?

I have so much editing to do. I have been writing poetry, and journal entries since 1982. What to do? What to do? I just keep writing, and writing...Someday, maybe, I'll be a big shot writer with books out, who won't have to beg on the internet to get money for shots for his dogs. Won't that be nice.

I'm learning how to get my breath deep. People have often told me about this, and I have read about this, but until very recently, I have not been able to do this. It feels real weird to get air into parts of your lungs where it normally doesn't go. I can't pay my rent with this, but I do think that it is a nice personal accomplishment. Will somebody please give me a gold star?

I did something this morning that I should have been doing a long time ago: I started the day by doing Yoga. Well, I did feed the dogs, cats, and turtles, and let the dogs out, and have a cup of luscious coffee before I did my asanas, but I feel real good about starting the day off this Yoga way.

"Unknown," just called. "Unknown," calls every day, several times. They want $1,300 for a $400 credit card balance that I blew off because they threatened me with higher rates. They must be high, down there at the collection agency offices; they really must be.

Henry, and Anna, the great Great Danes from next door have dropped by, this morning, to visit. Hopefully, the air conditioning in their home will be fixed today. It is 80 degrees at 6:36 a.m., but it feels way hotter, here at the abode. I think that it is going to be a scorcher.

Stay cool.

Nobody from The Plenty of Fish free online dating service has contacted me. Does this mean that I may have to initiate contact? I'm a coward. I hate rejection. I usually wait around until a woman shows interest in me. I rarely go after the ladies, so it is years between gals for me. I'm better off alone.

I went for a, "Productive Nap," but all I got was a productive rest. The Good Neigbhors are still without ac. The man put in a new fan, but the cool is still not kickin'. Henry, and Anna, are ready to go home. They keep putting their nose on the front door.

I am impressed with how well my two small air conditioners are holding up in this mid-ninety degree heat. It is a tad hot in here, today, but nothing like it would be if these two machines were not working for me. I give thanks to The Great God Air Conditioning.

I'm headed to my Primary Care Physician's office for a regular visit. I am bringing a sheet of paper covered in all the great glucose meter readings that I have had since I started measuring food on July 8. I am down another 1/2 pound which makes it 10 1/2 lbs. that I have dropped; maybe Dr. Wads will soon take me off of these pills that she has me on for my diabetes. Only great things ahead for me, and for you.

I just almost tipped the soy sauce bottle onto my salad. I wish that I had some portabella mushrooms.


There is a new Farmer's Market in Midtown, on Tues. and Thurs. from 3pm to 7, next to the Cacutus Car Wash on Ponce. Hey, that is in my hood. Yeaaaaaaah, and thanks to Lauren for turning me onto it. I want some tomatoes, and some mushrooms!


Danielle Strickland Heck yeah! Wanna go Thursday?

Mikel K Poet The scale at the Doctor's office said the same thing that my new digital weight scale is saying: I have lost 10 1/2 lbs. since July 8. Oh what a feeling. I have 48 more to go to get to 220 in a total of 51 weeks. Yeah me!

My doctor handed me a piece of paper with all of the following checked for me to take:Vitamin D--400 Units/day; Vitamin E 200 units/day; Selenium 200 units/day; Fish or Flax Seed Oil 1000-2000 mg/day; Multi-vitamin 1 a day; Calcium 1500-2000 mg/day; Baby Aspirin (ECASA) 81 mg?day and also I am supposed to Exercise 30 minutes, 3 to 4 times a week, elevating my heart rate to target heart rate, and eat more whole grain pasta and bread. There was a note: these recommendations may change at any moment.



Waller Dollar, and I, hung out at The Coffee Shop, and caught up. We had not sat down, and chatted in months. Jeff is a flight attendant for Air Tran, and is constantly on the go. I am a poet, constantly sitting down. I met this guy named Larry; he was reading a book about how to make extra money. He said that you can do this thing where you don't sell your stocks, but you sell someone the right to buy them for a certain period of time. I told him that I was a starving writer. He seemed to find that fascinating. Is it?


I'm not tired, and yet I am thinking nap, probably because it is that part of the afternoon where I often climb in the bed, put the C Pap mask on, and cruise off into REM sleep. I've read recently that your nap should not take you into REM sleep, and that you should not take it after 3 pm. It's 4, now, so I'm fucked.

The Psycho Mail Lady is it again, waging a battle with herself, by scribbling in black magic marker on a piece of my mail: "4:00 7-27-10, DOG ON PORCH SCREEN OPEN LAST WARNING." WARNING was underlined. Since she is always in a bad mood, and responds to greetings with a dirty look, and since she wrote on my mail, and since I couldn't find anywhere else to complain about her on the Post Office's site, their proffered method to having you complain being on their site, I reported her as a Vandal, since she vandalized my mail. I wonder where this will go? I be that I wind up having to pick up my mail at the post office. Keep on trucking!!

It is funny how one person can think that you, and your dogs are great, and another thinks that the bunch of you are Satan, and you are still the same dogs, and the same person in either case!

It is much like the situation with my parents, and my children. My children see me as good, my parents saw me as bad, and I am the same person in both situations.

I pray that the mail lady finds the happiness that she is now lacking in her life.

I've decided to pray for The Mail Lady.

Mikel K Poet I pray she gets a new route!!

Funny how life is, and funny how some of the funniest things occur in the normal course of things. I thought about not writing this up, because there is a tension to the situation, but then I realized that there is only tension if I choose to make tension. I can work through the Post Office to work with this woman, since she doesn't want to work with me, and my dogs. Breath in, breath out.

Bundy is hogging the area under my desk again, passed out in a nap, taking way more than his fare share of the space. I might just call The Post Office on him!

Pam Chiles I am in the middle of my own drama over here, lamenting over the mentality of the government employees who run animal control in our county. Your posts made me ROTFLMAO. Thanks so much, Mikel. I needed it B.A.D.

I have lost two more lbs. I am down to 274 from my start weight of 286. I just thought that you should know this.

I woke up with an itchy beard, this morning. Looking in the mirror, as I was about to splash the morning wake up water on my face, I saw white flecks all over my black shirt. I didn't know that it was possible to have dandruff of the chin.

It has been three weeks to the day that I last cleaned the turtles' tank, and it is, now, due to be cleaned any day. It is always fun to have clean water in the tank, though it is not necessarily fun cleaning the tank.

My morning coffee tastes delicious, just as it does every morning. I wonder if I will ever give up coffee. Yoga instructor Lisa Cohen reports that coffee contributes to rounding of the belly, and I am working hard to get rid of this fat tummy that I have been carrying around for over a decade. I was a very skinny kid; it is funny how things creep up on you; one day you're in high school, and the next you are looking at getting a social security check.

There is a new Farmer's Market opening near my house. It is also opening near a Whole Foods store. I wonder what Whole Foods thinks about that, and what they will do to knock it out?

I am seeing the occasional baby cockroach in this home of ours. I wonder if that means I should put down more of the very effective cockroach killing material. I think that I am going to wait and see if the amount of baby cockroaches becomes massive before I make any move.

As well as being a poet, I am a memoirist. All of these entrees that you see here get posted into a book that I am working on called, "I am happy to be alive." I recently finished two more memoirs, "Did you write the book of love?" and "Baking Banana Bread From Scratch." You already know about, "The Delivery Guy," which can be purchased at www.lulu.com/mikelk. The more recent books are more happy, and shiny than The Delivery Guy. It is the nature of a memoir to reflect on a certain period of your life, and not on your whole life as an autobiography does.

Devo were in town, last night. Christopher Micallef reports that the show was rocking. I think that my son, Graem, was in attendance also. "If a problem comes along, you must whip it!"

My very standoffish black cat, Jaggar, was sitting on the window sill next to the air conditioner as I put my hand up on the air conditioner to turn it on, and I thought that it might be a good opportunity to pet Jaggar on the head, but, as usual, he was having none of it.

It is funny how it is possible to love a cat that, basically, wants nothing to do with you. Have you ever loved a man, or a woman, this way?

I am going to The Sleep Doctor, today, to have my sleep apnea, and my C Pap machine checked. Sleeping with a C Pap machine has saved my life. You can literally choke yourself to death snoring so often, and deeply, when you have sleep apnea.


I turned the two window air conditioners that cool this small shotgun apartment off, last night, as I went to bed, because it was very cool in here. This morning it is hot, in this apartment, and I have, immediately upon rising, turned on the air conditioner that sits in the window near my desk.

My blood glucose level, this morning, was 90, which is excellent. My new way of eating, where I measure all my food, before putting it in my mouth, has not only helped me lose 12 pounds in 4 weeks, but it is helping me control my diabetes type 2. I really don't know why I didn't start such a plan a long time ago. I guess that it is easy to get set in your ways, and hard to break old habits.



I miscalculated the bus schedule, so I missed my bus, and, in talking to the appointments desk at the sleep doctor's office, I have had to reschedule. It is kind of funny in that I overslept a bit, and missed the sleep doctor's appointment; if I had woken up earlier, I would have noticed my bus mistake, and made an allowance for it.

It is funny, or weird and said the things that happen as time moves on. I have a friend, Kathryn, who is having open heart surgery on
August 11 for mitral valve repair. Kathryn is younger than me, so she seems very young to me, even though I have known her for about a quarter of a century.

You might live another forty years, with your history of bad habits, who knows. I might die tomorrow, even with my Yoga, and my new way of eating.

It is nice to have free time that you didn't think that you were going to have, like I now have by missing out on my sleep doctor's appointment. Maybe I'll go back to sleep.

I find that there is this moment, or two, of resistance before I get on the Yoga mat, before I get on the bicycle, before I put my swim suit, or walking sneakers on, before I grab the leashes, and tell the dogs, "Come on."

Yoga instructor, Lisa Cohen, says that, "getting on the mat," is 90 percent of a Yoga workout, and I believe her. If you can just get on that mat, get on that bike, get that swim suit, or those sneakers on, or grab the leash, and call the dogs, the job will get done, and you will get your exercise for the day in.

The dogs don't have to be called twice; they are always in the mood for a work out.

6:30 a.m. As the coffee is brewing, and before I drink it, I do some Yoga asanas. This is a good thing, a very good thing; a great way to start my day; doing Yoga before I even sit down at the laptop to see if there are any poems, or memoir entries within me.

Jaggar sat by the mat and I, and watched closely as I went from downward facing dog, to triangle pose, to side angle pose. My black cat was so cute. I am not sure what the fascination is, or why they have it, but all my animals, when they are awake, gather about me when I do Yoga. Jaggar was the only one wide eyed enough among them to watch, this morning.

My weight is holding fast at 276, which is ten pounds off of what it was when I started this new way of eating: measuring my food.

I am going to try to go for swim, later today; I didn't do much aerobic exercise yesterday, just a short walk with the dogs, because the arthritis in my right knee was bothering me.

This is a memoir that you are reading. It will wind up in a book. I hope that you don't think that I give you too much information on this page. If you do you know where you can go: to the hide button on the stream by my name, click it, and you will never see me again, or you can just defriend me.

I doubt that I will stop doing this, because you don't like it: writing in this memoirist form, and doing my poetry. I have been at it since 1982. It is what I do, and I love it, and I love those of you that love it, too!

I only have one item in my garden right now, a cucumber, and I think that it is going to be the last vegetable to come out of that garden, this year, but you know what, I get such a thrill looking down, and seeing that cucumber laying on the ground, when I come out to walk my dogs. I don't know what it is; the thrill of knowing that something came into existence from a seed that I sowed in the ground, I guess. I don't even know if that little, little cucumber will be edible. One day, I am betting, I will have a garden full of edible things.

I don't know what good hitting the spam button on my email does; I have been getting the same spam letters for centuries.

I woke up this morning, and I didn't get myself a beer.
I want a brownie, or a chocolate chip cookie, or a chocolate bar, but what I really want is a brownie, a chocolate chip cookie, and a candy bar!
I'm on hold listening to music that I didn't choose to listen to. Who picks this boring ass music that they have you listen to when you are on hold on the telephone?

My neighbor(who I love)has her(their) stereo cranked to 15 when the highest it's supposed to go to is 10! I'm trying to figure out if I should knock on their door, text them, or ignore it, because it is Friday afternoon!!! The thought to take my jam box into my bathroom, where they would hear it in their bedroom, and cranking it, crossed my mind, but you know what, I think it has stopped...maybe they were just listening to a favorite song.

A nap eclipsed my swim, but I'm going to ride my bike for a half hour, as soon as it cools down some. It is 95 degrees out there, at 6 pm; talk about crazy weather.
That is, as long as a nap doesn't eclipse my bike ride!

I was up at five; Morisson was munching on his leftover dog food. I got to chat with Neha, my friend from India; such a beautiful thing the internet can be to put you in such close with someone who is so far away. My weight is holding at 276, ten pounds off of what I started at. I don't feel impatient for the weight to fall off me; I figure that it is a process, and not something that is going to happen immediately. It is Saturday: what a beautiful day to be alive, the last day in July of 2010. We will never see this day again, so let's make the best of it.

Jaggar is scratching his claws on the back of my chair; both cats do that from time to time. It is an old chair, so I don't mind, an old chair not like an antique, but an old chair that is covered in stains from me having had so many meals in it over the years. I am always scared that, when the cats, start scratching that one of them might scratch me on the back, like they have, occasionally, in the past. There is nothing like a good back scratch, but not one like a cat will give you.

I went without lithium, last night, and it looks like I will go without lithium until Tuesday. The shrink's office told the pharmacy that they were not going to fill the prescription until I came in for a visit. I called my nurse on Thursday, and left her a message, saying that I was going to run out that night, and could she either fill the prescription, since I had made an appointment, or give me a gap on the prescription, meaning call into the pharmacy and let them give me lithium until Tuesday. She never called me back, so I called the office, and spoke with gentleman who said that he would call me back, when I told him what was up, but he never did, so we will now find out what this bi-polar person feels like without lithium in his system for the first time in over 15 years.

Milk rolls down my chin, as I eat cereal laced with organic milk, and slices of banana.

My Saturday begins again, after my morning nap. My usual pattern, the one that I am happiest with, is to wake up between 4 a.m. and 6, write for a few hours, then go back to sleep for a few hours. The early, early morning hours are fantastic for clear thinking, and for getting words out of my head, and onto the laptop. I hear glass bottles being rattled, which reminds me to take out my recycling. I am going to clean today, clean, clean, clean: so off the computer, and let the cleaning begin!

I can drink green tea, but it has to be laced with Stevia, and, this summer, I have been pouring it over a large amount of ice, so I guess that I don't really like hot green tea, which is kind of funny because, when it comes to coffee, it is the opposite; I can't stand iced coffee, and I love hot coffee.


The turtles' tank is clean. I am taking a coffee break before I clean the kitchen floor, and the bathroom. I might not do the bathroom; I mean who needs a clean bathroom, anyway? It looks fine to me!

Morisson is closing in on me, rubbing up against me, when I am sitting down, shadowing me as I walk about the apartment; that means that it is about to thunder, and lightening, and, yes, I can hear the storm starting, now.

My first cucumber plant is dead; it gave me one cucumber before it passed. It is sad because it is taking with it two, or three, very little baby cucumbers that were trying to grow into something.

I blame the evil yellow bugs, with the black spots, that I have seen on my plant, for my plant's demise. I have one cucumber plant left; it has one cucumber growing on it, now, between the size of a golf ball, and a tennis ball.

Maybe a front yard in Midtown is not the best place to grow vegetables. Wouldn't it be nice if every home in America grew a garden out front, and we could all just feed ourselves from each others' gardens?

I just did Yoga on The Love Porch, while birds visited our feeders, and Morisson hovered near; it was quite an experience, which is to be followed by a shower. Then I will clean the rest of the bathroom; I have the sink, and the tub done.

I'm spending a good portion of my morning x-ing out the dating sights that are popping onto my personal page, and listing why I am complaining about them. Some, I hit "offensive," for, because that is how I find them, and, some, I hit misleading, because that is how I find some of them, also. I have been doing this for awhile, but still they hit me with dating sights. Dumb asses.


I didn't put the little pebble back in the bottom of the turtles' tank, this time, having read somewhere that the tank would be cleaner without them in it, and I am always looking for ways to have a cleaner tank; but the aquarium looks naked without the pebbles, so I am probably going to pull the turtles out, later today, and put the pebbles back in. I think that the turtles are happier with pebbles to walk about on, also, than they are skipping about on glass.

Kobain got on top of the tank, last night, right before bedtime. Although, he can't get in the tank, this still makes me nervous, so I clapped my hands to make him run off. Clapping my hands makes Kobain run off. I don't know how I discovered this, but it works. Stay away from my turtles, Kobain.

I just made a hot tea with milk, and now I'm drinking it. The dogs, and I, did a 26 minute walk, at a pretty good pace; a much faster pace than the dogs would like to maintain. They want to stop at every telephone pole, every tree, and at every tall clump of grass and do their thing.

Bundy is still not much fun to walk with; he likes to get way out in front of me, and Morisson, and he winds up pulling me, which is no fun.

This day is almost over. It was a great day.

I like The Grateful Dead's version of, "Dear Mr. Fantasy," by Traffic. Is there anybody out there. We can never tell. I almost killed myself on my bicycle, minutes ago, I hit a curb on a driveway to a three hundred and sixty thousand dollar house that just sold; we'll have new neibhbors, but won't be able to let our dogs shit on the bank's property, the house they foreclosed on. Things are bigger than me; things are so much bigger than me. I see myself down the road, a skinny, successful poet riding his bike in the dark, like I did tonight, only then, maybe, I'll have a better light attached to the front of my bike. Whatever the light, you still got to watch where you are going. Where are we going, Matilda?

I don't like people pissing me off; so don't piss me off. I used to get a lot more pissed off, in the past, than I do now. I used to listen to Black Flag, now I listen to The Jerry Garcia Band, and The Grateful Dead.

I'm trying to get off this computer to get on the Yoga mat. I'm hungry, and I can't eat until I've done my Yoga, cuz I can't do Yoga with a full tummy.

If you're eating meat, does it matter if someone killed a turkey, or a cow?

Donna Strahla Brown:
odd you should happen to mention 'paying utility bill late'...that's EXACTLY what i was doing this morning...paid 1/2 to try and avoid disconnection...then called to confirm and was told it wasnt enough...still needed substantial amount. the helpful girl then pipes up: is anyone in the house sick or handicapped? do they NEED the electric for medical reasons? seeing my chance, I answered "yes, I need the air conditioning and fans or i will not be able to breathe". phone girl: can you get your DR to fax us a statement to that effect?" me" no, I cant get to town right now." phone girl: "thats too bad" CLICK.
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Mikel K Poet Donna, when I was going through the process of getting a new hip, in the winter, when my utility bills were fucking criminal, I was given a list of places to call for "help." The more well-known ones, like The United Way, and The Salvation Army were, to me, useless; I just wound up listening to muzak, and recordings. There was one little organization that did help me. You can't give up. You have to keep trying. You have to keep looking for help, when you need it.

Yolk's not on me

I did not think that I could remove the yolks from my eggs, and ever be happy eating eggs again, but, this morning, I am happily chomping on two egg whites covered in hot sauce, black pepper, and garlic powder. I am loving it, and I am fourteen pounds lighter than I was 4 and 1/2 weeks ago. I am not saying that egg yolks were keeping me fat, but getting rid of them has been part of a process that has helped me get rid of the weight. All the little things that I have been doing have added up to the big thing which is my goal of not being a fat mother fucker.


5 a.m. I went to bed early; I have woken up early. I had the weirdest dream about rats.

I lived in an old house, and the rats only came out at night. You never saw them, you only heard them. They brewed a brand name scotch that was very popular. Go figure.

I ran into an old friend, yesterday, evening. He asked me if I knew if Lucy was dead. I said, "Yes, I know. You told me the last time we met."

It is very sad that Lucy is dead. Lucy was one of the good ones. Why is it that the good ones are always the ones to die young? Lucy was an addict in recovery. I can't remember if it was her addiction that killed her, if she relapsed, but it doesn't matter at this point. Death is death, and one of the good ones is gone.

Lucy I love you. Thank you for being my friend while you were here on earth. Say hello to the angels for me. I'll see you in heaven, but I hope that it's not anytime too soon.

I'm not sure if I should write new poems, this morning, or transcribe the ones that I wrote yesterday from notebook to computer. I lost a notebook, recently, and there are poems in it that I may never see again.

It's 6:01 a.m. and The Grateful Dead are singing about enjoying the ride to hell. I didn't enjoy my ride to hell, not towards the end of the ride, anyway, but they say that you can't appreciate Heaven until you've been to Hell.

I am constantly trying to figure out ways to not have to clean my turtles' tank so often, and, recently, I read somewhere online that removing the pebbles from the bottom of the tank would help, so I did this, but the tank now looks empty, so I am going to put the pebbles back in the tank very soon.

I,sometimes, feed you a lot of useless information, but, often, at the time, it seems very important to me that you know it.

I think that The Grateful Dead just sang that, "There is no simple highway." Ain't that the truth, sister, and brother.

I saw a picture, on the internet, last night, of my youngest son holding a beer bottle in his hand, and smiling. As a recovering drunk, it was, once, my hope that my son would not drink, because of the family history of alcoholism, and all that, but, you know what, my son is not me, and I am not him, and I wish him the best with his boozing, with the hope that he will not blaze the painful boozy highways that I did. I mean what the fuck else can you do?

Kathleen Pringle is painting her Yoga studio, and I get to help, today, at 10 a.m. I feel a bit like The Karate Kid.

I guess that it is because I haven't had a drink in 18 1/2 years(but who's counting), that I don't have much time for writers who brag about their drinking, especially the ones who tell me what kind of beer, or liquor that they are consuming. I mean who really cares. I don't want to hear about your drinking until they have started putting the handcuffs on you regularly, and you are finding yourself on the floor of jail cells covered in puke, and blood: now that's a real drinker.

My thoughts, this morning, are about two years ahead, when Scout, my daughter, will be done with high school. My plan, then, is to head to an MFA in Poetry Program, somewhere, but I don't know much about the schools that offer such, which one I would be suited to, which one I would get accepted to. I am sure that more will be revealed.

Yoga class, last night, was exceptional, as usual. Kathleen lead us through an hour, and a half, of backbend asanas. Since it was a beginning class((I have been in the beginning class for two months less than two years, now)we did not actually do any back bends, bud we did a wide variety of asanas leading us up to doing back bends one day. I am going to incorporate a couple of the poses into my home practice, which I will be undertaking for the first time, today, in a few minutes, here.

Paul Guest's memoir, "One More Theory About Happiness," is a great book. I am having trouble putting it down, and yet have to put it down, at the same time, in certain parts. Paul vividly lays out how he lost use of his body from his neck down, when he was 12 years old, in a bicycle accident, and it is so horrifying to me, that I find myself extra astute while riding my bike around town.

Bundy made it clear, first thing in the morning, as I was getting up at 5:30 a.m. that he HAD to go outside. He disappeared off behind the building, which is very stranger for him to do. For a minute, I was scared that he was off into the hood, but he came back after doing whatever it was that he had to do.

We're going to have new neighbors, soon. A young coupl bought the house nest to us, that the bank foreclosed on,last year, for nearly four hundred thousand dollars. I am reminded of the song, "Old Man," by Neil Young, which tells the story of the caretaker who lived on Neil's San Francisco farm, when he bought it in his 20's asking Neil how such a young man could afford to do such a thing.

The filter in the turtles' aquarium is gurgling away. It is time to feed the reptiles, feed the dogs, and start a new day. Revenge is a terrible motive. I hope that your day is wonderful, and I hope that mine is also.

Have you ever tried to reserve a blog name or a website domain name, and you couldn't get one that you liked, even in your own name, because they were already takne, and then you make a typo and hit send, and you have reserved one in a name that you don't want, like say mokelk.com?

I'm playing the cd, "Primal Heart," by William Hunt, as I relax into some morning Yoga. The poetry has been intense, this morning, you are not going to find all of it here. It may show up in a book, or two, that I publish, in my later years, or it may never appear. Does every poem written have to find an audience, can not many of them just be mine?


I had the weirdest dream, last night. I was in a car, with my childrens' mother, and a guy who was famous for being in a band that used to be famous rock band drove by. We were going down the same street as him, and we saw him pull off the curb to the left of us, and park against the grain of traffic. He went into a three bedroom condominium, that was attached to other three bedroom condominiums.

My thought was that he had not "made it" as much as I had thought that he had made it, or he would have a grander abode. He left the door open when he went in, and there were large windows fronting the condo at each floor, so you could, basically, see everything in his home.

Next, I was at the rock star's door with my children's mother, who is a photographer, and she was telling a man, who I presumed to be the rock star's roommate, that she was with the Natioanl Geographic magazine, and could she take pictures of the interior of the house?

The guy said yes, and G2 went all through the house taking pictures.

As we left, the Rock Star came down the steps of his house, with his girlfriend, who had a very expensive punk rock looking type of haircut, which made me think back to when punks did their own hair coloring.

They got in a beat up old, and scratched, Vailian, that was facing the SUV with large mag wheels that The Rock Star had parked against the Valiant when we first saw him.

There was a pair of socks on a pay phone, right indside the entrance to The Rock Star's house, that I grabbed because I thought they were mine. My friend Kevin was in the car with us, then, and as the Rock Star and his gal drove off, Kevin remarked, "That you never know how much money anyone has."

The only part of this dream that I really understand is the part about me grabbing the socks. It reflects the near abject poverty that I live in, and I need new black socks because the cats, and dogs, have taken, and hidden, all mine!

Dream is over!

There is an hour and twelve minutes left until they take down the sushi buffet at Ru San's, which means that I am probably not going to eat sushi at that buffet, today.

I'm so sick of the site of me; the weight can not come off fast enough. I want to look like a young athlete, when I go to the pool party on Saturday, but I won't: I will look like a fat older guy, oh well, "You can't always get what you want..."

The truth of it is that I am happy with the rate that the weight is coming off. I think of myself as a large man, rather than a fat man, and being "sick of the site of me," is a take of on something that he used to scream at me,when I was a kid, and he just couldn't take being a father anymore: "I'm sick of the sight of you!"

The good thing is that the next part of the line in the song is, "But if you try sometime you just might find you get what you need!"

Don't you wish that our bodies could go inside tube press a reset button and transport your body back to a time when it was thin, or cancer free, or pre-arthritis?

I just ate what is, basically, the last of the food in this abode. I am hoping that the government will deposit money in my account in time for me to buy dinner with it. If it is true that unemployment benefits come out of wealthy Republican senators wallets, and bank accounts, then I seriously wish that they would up my ante, as soon as possible. I thought that the former employer paid for a person's unemployment benefits?

I'm having fish for lunch, fish fried in ever so virgin olive oil, and I am wondering if my fish has been genetically modified; but then I realize that the fish that I buy is so cheap that no scientist would lend his experience to it because he wouldn't make even fifty cents off his labor.

II found my missing black notebook, the one that Allie, the 13 year old aspiring poet, gave me for my birhtday; I had fallen off my bed, and was lodged under the wheel chair that I used while recovering from hip surgery. Oh yeah, happy day...now I get to see how many poems I would have lost, instead of having lost them!!

Dylan and Paul Simon do a nice live version of, "Sounds of Silence". Funny how some songs are just such a fucking waste of time, and others can motivate you to want to do something positive in this existence, something good for the world. I 'm going to take a nap, though, first.

Seven minutes in water in the plastic container: do my green beans come out ready to kill me?

Dylan and Petty do a nice job of working together on this version of, "Knocking on Heaven's Door," that I just downloaded from the internet, but by the end of the song the female back up singers have taken over, and if I wanted to listen to the female backup singers sing a third of the song, I would have downloaded them singing it, if I could.

Why is it that every successful rock group, or rock musician, goes out and hires three female backup singers, as soon as he, or she(mostly he), has achieved success?

How often has that female backup singing job lead to success as a rock star for the back up singer? My guess is that their odds would be just as good, if not better, to fill out an application, do an audition, and find their way to a rock star career on American Idol.

"I've got mail..." as in, "You've got mail," but like the mail at the front door, it is alway junk mail!!

I was just standing in front of my opened refrigerator looking for my metal, folding Yoga chair!

Mail your submissions, now.

You don't want to live,but you're too cheap to die;can't see giving up dollars to become ashes in the sky.

There are 3 of them on The Supreme Court, now: Oh no, women are taking over!!

Power to the peoples.

Seven minutes in water in the plastic container: do my green beans come out ready to kill me?

I got in a half hour walk with the dogs, this morning, and a Yoga workout, before 9 a.m., which cut into my writing time, but started mine and the dogs' day off on a very positive, and energetic foot.

As we neared the end of the walk, the dogs kept pulling me to shade, wherever they found it. along the Midtown streets. Normally, I try to make the dogs keep a good pace, so I can get my heart rate somewhat up, and burn some fat, but this morning, I followed the dogs willingly to the shade.
The grocery store aisles were fairly empty, yesterday, but when I got up front to the checkout registers, the place was packed with a long line to each register. I commented on this to the cashier; she said that she had been in retail for a long time, and had noticed that there was a herd mentality to folks who shopped at the same time in a retail outlet.

I thought that this was interesting. Do people in a grocery store follow each other to the checkout lanes? Do people pick up yogurt because the person next to them picked up Yogurt? Does someone just have to have some bananas because someone else picked up bananas? Just how does this grocery store herd thing work, if it even exists?

The cashier said that she never followed the herd, and I was thinking that I never follow the herd, either, and you know what...I bet that most everybody in the herd would say that they don't follow the hear.

Besides that, today is a very ordinary day, a very ordinary day indeed.

Last night was both fun, and funny; I am writing about it now. Wow, I woke up at 9:30 am; I guess that's what happens when you go to bed super late. The animals are so understanding; I'm going to have to build them an ark.
I'm feeling mediocre, today, like I don't measure up, like I don't want to measure up. I am tired, and am having to force myself to do things that I normally do fairly readily, like write, and get on the Yoga mat.

It's probably o.k. to have mediocre days; I was out late last night, and my body, and my mind are not used to either going out, or staying up late.

Tomorrow, I will be full of my normal energy. I will write those poems with a zest, I will be full of zest as I do my asanas.

I am going to write, and do my asanas, today; it just won't be with a zest. (Is that so bad?)

Nobody wants to admit to being mediocre, do they? Well, today, my name is Mikel, and I am mediocre.

Whatever happened to a cop getting out of his, or her, car and politely asking people to move along, when they are dropping off loved ones, and friends, at the airport?

The cop of today follows behind you in his or her car; blue lights flashing, siren screeching more than urging you to hurry up.

You feel like some sort of a criminal instead of a person happy to be at the airport. Did you say goodbye to your son? You can't remember: Johnny Law was tracking you down.

It's a quarter past midnight. I'm too tired to read, and I forgot what it was that I was going to look up on the internet. I guess that I will just finish this hot tea with milk, and go to bed. I just downloaded about ten songs by The Monkees. Listening to "Cheer Up Sleep Jean," made me sad. I will never be a kid, again, perched in front of the television, totally in a trance with what is in front of me.

I took one of my kids to the airport, tonight. He is twenty one. Twenty fucking one. One of my other children has a child; that makes me a grandfather. Where the hell did all the time go; where is the time going now?

Jerry Garcia died today. First let me tell you that I think that it is weird that there is an ice cream named after a diabetic. Second, let me tell you that I think that it is sad that Jerry Garcia died in a rehab bed; all the love the guy created, and he dies alone in a rehab bed.

I did not get into The Grateful Dead until I was 53, but I am into them now.
Jerry is playing guitar while Jim Morrisson, sings, and Charles Bukowski reads poetry. Janis sings. Jimi plays guitar with Jerry. Kurt Cobain sit in front of them
with a big smile on his face. He is clean, as is Jerry, Jim, Charles, and Janis. They all had to die, and go to Heaven to get clean; but they got it.

Tonight, Bundy headed south, like he always does, and wandered onto the front lawn of a house that has burglar lights. Within seconds, my dog had both lights that the folk have attached to their house lit up like there were several cop helicopters busting up a fraternity keg party. And then he squats to take a dump. I'm like great, he woke the neighbors up by triggering their powerful burglar lights, and, now, they are going to look out and see him taking a crap on their front lawn. The adventures that Bundy takes me on are incredible. He is right now asleep on my Yoga mat, the Yoga mat that I don't want dogs, or cats on. I just want me on it, doing Yoga. Can't I get what I want around here?

She turned out to be NOTHING like what she looked like.
She wasn't sweet. She wasn't innocent. When I was young,
I used to wake up in bed next to women, and wonder how
they had got there, and what, if anything, we had done.

"Hello," I would say,

And she would say, "Mary," or "Anne," or "Sarah."

I visit the dietitian for the first time since she taught me how to measure my food in The Diabetes Management class. I am holding strong at 272, which is 14 pounds off what I started at a month and a day ago. Someone is cutting down trees, or a tree, several houses down from ours; what an ideal noise to wake to. Scout goes back to school, today. Just where did the summer go? (I am sure that Scout thinks this even more strongly than I do).

Someone is cutting down trees, or a tree, several houses down from ours; what an ideal noise to wake to. Scout goes back to school, today. Just where did the summer go? (I am sure that Scout thinks this even more strongly than I do).

My first cup of coffee, this morning, was delicious. Every cup that I drink duriing the day is wonderful, but I think that that first one that I consume upon waking has special meaning.

I was wondering, this morning, if drinking a cup of coffee upon waking is the wrong thing to do. I was wondering if I send my body bad signals, if I get the adrenal going in the wrong direction, or something?

That first morning cup of coffee passes into me too fast. I wish that it would last longer. I try not to have a second cup first thing in the morning. Coffee can make me jittery, and it can make me angry. Isn't that funny that something you love can make you mad. That used to happen with people who I love, but it happens less, these days. I now have the voice of wisdom often whispering in my ears. It tells me to, "Calm down Mikel. This, too, shall pass!"

Thank you, Lord, for letting me see this new day, breathe the air of this new day. Guide me in thought word, and action, Lord. Please keep me off of drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes.

Amen, Lord. Amen.

When he was younger, my youngest son, used to call drugs, drungs...he would say, "Lord, please keep my daddy off drungs."
I pray that my son has a safe, and fun vacation in San Francisco.
He has earned a two week paid vacation, by working the last 50 weeks. I am proud of my boy. I am proud of all three of my children. They are great kids; I am blessed.

6am. I don't know if there are any words in me, yet, this morning, but I am certainly going to find out.

The doctor, and the dietitian, were tickled pink about my progress, yesterday, when I went to see them at their office. I had lost ten pounds, by their scale, the official scale, and had been exercising in line with my stated goal of a month ago, when they had set me up with this new way of eating where I measure the amount of food that I am going to eat, and where I exercise for a half hour at least three times a week.

It felt good to have them verify that I was doing the right thing. Sometimes, as I go about my daily business, I feel as if I am not doing enough; not eating right, not doing enough exercise. I want to be perfect, you know.

The doctor was so pleased with my progress that he took me off of one of the pills that I have been taking for diabetes: actoplus. He said that coming off of this pill would mean that I would lose an additional 7 to 10, pounds, and I told him that that was just awful, that I like being fat!

I have an appointment with the sleep doctor today. I must be sure to bring my C Pap machine with me, so that they can check it. I feel that it is kicking out the right amount of air into my nostrils, but it is always good to have that verified every once in awhile.

A C Pap machine is this little contraption that kicks air into a hose that is attached to a mask that I put over my nose when I sleep. I have sleep apnea, which can be fatal, in that you snore so deeply that you can cut your breath off in your sleep, and die. This is kind of a fat guy thing, too. Someone said yesterday that when I lose all the weight that I am on track to lose, that maybe I won't need to sleep with the C Pap machine anymore. Good things certainly lay out ahead for one who can drop from 286 to 220, which is my stated goal to the dietitian.

I am looking forward to having a great day, and I hope that you do, too. I hope that my youngest son, Graem, is having a fun, and safe, time in San Francisco, where he is hanging out for 2 weeks, unless the behavior of his dog, Ninja, causes him to have to come back.

Ninja is, pretty much, a one person dog. Graem's friend, and roommate, Matt is watching Ninja for Graem, and hopefully the dog and man can get along for two weeks.

I also hope that my daughter, Scout, has a great second day of school, and that this school year is both enjoyable, and rewarding for her, and may my oldest boy, Willian, have a great work day, and yet another great day with his wife, Tomi, and my grandson, Elliot.

And, as I said, I hope that you have a great day, too!

Sometimes, I crave a second cup of morning coffee. I mostly hold off oh having it, these days. I don't want to start my day all jittery. Often, when I crave this second cup, I can look into my cup, and I will find that there is still a substantial swallow in there that satisfies my craving.

I remember how when I drank liquor, I was always thinking one drink ahead, was always focusing more on that next drink than on the one that I had in front of me. I guess that I drink coffee much the same way that I drank liquor. Coffee may not be all that good for you, but it is certainly better for me than alcohol was.

I went to my second political countdown party last night, this one for a candidate that I voted for: Keisha Waits, who was running for Fulton County Commissioner.

There was no buffet, like there was the last time that I went to one of these events, but there was a Chef cooking wonderful things for those gathered, who included Matthew Cardinale, my neighbor, and the publisher of The Atlanta Progressive News, and Alice Gordon, a writer for The Atlanta Progressive News, who chauffeured us to the event. http://www.atlantaprogressivenews.com/

A high of the evening was when Ms. Waits came up, introduced herself to me, and gave me a great big hug, as if we were long lost friends. As we were leaving, and I was thanking her for running, Ms. Waits asked me why I don't run for something.

"Because I'm running from my past," I told her with a great big smile.

The man sauteeing the wonderful food all night, at the Othello Event Hall, in Southwest Atlanta, was Chef Dante, a very talented Chef, and very charismatic human being. Chef Dante's smile, and wonderful attitude lit up not only the table where he was producing such great food, but the entire banquet hall.

Keisha Waites did not win this election, but I am hoping that she will run again for something. She made the night a winner for all of us who attended her countdown party.

I'm having oatmeal with peach pieces for breakfast, this morning, and it is very tasty. I have been eating bran cereal for breakfast, recently, but I am down to about one serving, and I want to save it because it is so luscious: I love bran cereal, especially with almond milk, and half a banana in it.

Rationing food is something that I have come to do recently, for weight, and health purposes, and out of financial considerations. If I eat all my food too fast, and eat too much of it, I will not achieve my physical, and health goals, and I may run out of food before the next money shows up, which would not be a good thing.

Yoga rocked. We did inversion preparations, head stand, and Praynama. I left feeling like I could walk on air. Bundy's obscene barking snapped me back to reality, though, when I got to my door. The dog is psycho when ANYONE is near HIS door. It is really aggravating. I'm thinking about chopping him up into small pieces, and casting him to the wind.

This morning, it seemed like Niagra Falls had invaded my turtles' tank, and taken over where a quiet water filter used to be. It is amazing how disturbing a little bit of water pounding onto a little bit more water can be. I guess that is the theory behind Chinese Water Torture, where a captor drips water on the forehead of a captive in search of answers to questions that will help the captor win the war. I felt kind of like someone was dripping water onto my head, this morning; not the most pleasant way to wake up, but you know what: I am glad to be awake and breathing the air of this new day!

My goals for this day are to do home Yoga practice twice, walk, or ride my bike for a half hour, and take the dogs for around a 15 minute walk, as well as stick to my new way of eating, where I portion my food, and write down what I have eaten.

I got a home Yoga workout, and a 25 minute bike ride in before 8 a.m. which is a miracle for me; I never do more than drink coffee, and write in the a.m. My bike was calling to me, and I wanted to stretch before I rode it, so the whole thing seemed natural to me. I am amazed at the the people, mostly healthy people, who jog or walk the park this early. Are they crazy?

The doctor froze a pre-cancerous spot on my lower left arm, and he cut off a gnarly little looking thing, on my upper right arm, that I will call Larry. Larry is going to have a biopsy done on him, because the doctor did not recognize him. Biopsy is such a harsh word, don't you think?

There is nothing in my brain this morning. Thoughts of exercise have superseded poetic thoughts, the desire to be skinny, having replaced the desire to win a Pulitzer Prize. I will take the dogs for a half hour walk, this morning, not as good exercise for me as if I walked alone, but it is good for the dogs. They deserve to be healthy, also. I slept well, last night, no dreams that I can remember.

The pre-cancer spot on my arm that the dermatologist froze the other day, today looks like a small planet, a very ugly planet with red rings circling it. The process of its disintegration is fascinating. It will leave the surface of my arm in stages, until my arm will look as if it was never there. That is what I am figuring, anyway; who knows, the spot may turn into a small scar on my arm, a battle scar of sorts, showing that I fought the battle, and won.

The spot on my upper arm, the right arm, where Larry was cut off, looks almost normal. There is a little red mark that is barely visible just off the tip of my angel tattoo. As innocuous as it looks, it's presence is not benign yet, until the test results come in. I am hoping for the best, of course.

A young lady came up to me last night, in the club that I was spewing some Spoken Word Blues at, and said, "You are the most beautiful man."

She was pretty drunk, but this was still a nice compliment to receive. Her boyfriend soon showed. Why is it that single women are never interested in me?!

A friend of mine may be pregnant, and she said that she hoped that I didn't mind if she stole the name Graem, which is my son's name. I told her that I didn't mind at all. What I didn't tell here is that, frankly, I am flattered. I think that Graem is a great name, and for her to so agree that she would name her son such, if indeed her baby is a son, is a wonderful thing.

I love grocery shopping. I just went grocery shopping at The Farmer's Market. The white girls act like you're a serial killer, most are with their man, and you don't exist. The black girls will smile and say hello. I bought a five pound bag of spinach. I'm going to be a spinach eating man, like Popeye. Maybe when I'm strong like Popeye, the white girls will say hello.

That manic roar of the crowd that I hear on other people's albums has somehow escaped me. Even if the band that I am working with has a good crowd, the folks look up and say,"Who is this guy, and why is he standing on that stage?" The bond with an audience that a performer has is a false one; believing in it can leave the performer very vulnerable to loneliness. I am not lonely. I have my turtles, and my cats, and my dogs.

One of the dogs puked in two places on my carpet, this morning. It is going to leave stains. I think that it was Henry, who soon went home. Ole puke and run Henry I'm going to call him.

Barry, Zak and I are about to Party Down on some salad. I bought some jalapenos from The Farmer's Market, this afternoon; they should really make that salad jump. Barry said that I was a closet hippy because I am playing The Jerry Garcia Band.

That manic roar of the crowd that I hear on other people's albums has somehow escaped me. Even if the band that I am working with has a good crowd, the folks look up and say,"Who is this guy, and why is he standing on that stage?" The bond with an audience that a performer has is a false one; believing in it can leave the performer very vulnerable to loneliness. I am not lonely. I have my turtles, and my cats, and my dogs.

One of the dogs puked in two places on my carpet, this morning. It is going to leave stains. I think that it was Henry, who soon went home. Ole puke and run Henry I'm going to call him.

It has gotten cooler, (76 degrees right now at 9:15 a.m.), and I am thankful for this, but it is still hot enough in here that I need to turn the air conditioner on. One of the dogs puked in two places in the apartment, yesterday. Another of the dogs ate the gross chunks, but there are two awful spots left on the carpet, one greeting visitors at the front door, and the other greeting me at the entrance to my closet. (Does anyone know how to get puke stains up from a carpet?) I am thankful to be breathing the air of a new day.

The Great Danes from next door, Henry and Anna, are visiting, as they so often do, Henry is sucking down water, as he so often does, and Anna has discovered my Yoga mat, which I have decided to share with the animals instead of shooing them off of.

I find that if I leave the mat out, on the floor, that I use it more often. If it picks up some dog, and cat, hair due to the animals' attraction to it, I will just wash it more often.

I just had the most lovely nap, if a nap is what I can call going back to sleep for a few hours, after being up and writing for a few hours, which is my normal pattern.

Someone asked me, yesterday, what I was doing today, and the answer was, "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." What a beautiful way to spend a day!

Mick Jagger could be anything that he wanted to be, but he wanted to be Mick Jagger. The same is true for Kris Krisofferson, not that he wanted to be Mick Jagger, but that he could be anything that he wanted to be. Tiny Tim was different, he was limited, he could only be Tiny Tim.

It is early, and I will soon go back to bed, lay my head on my cherished pillow. I love my pillows. I love my bed.
Up at 7:30. The dogs have decided that it is o.k. to pee, and poop, on the carpetnat the head of the hallway. I will have to Google it to find out how to stop this behavior. Where was I in life before Google; I depend on it for just about everything. I can't imagine a life without Google, laptops, and cell phones; things just wouldn't be the same.

I am reading, "The Total Money Makeover," by Dave Ramsey. I have long heard that Dave is the man when it comes to personal finance, when it comes to helping you get out of debt, and staying there.

I am going to take a Yoga class, tonight, as well as go to open practice for a bit. It is going to be a Yoga kind of day.

The dogs are quiet, this morning; so are the cats, and turtles. The cats are usually pretty quiet, and the turtles most always are, except when they are sunning on their rock under the heat lamp and something, usually me coming to feed them, scares them. It is funny, often the turtles do not get scared of my approach, but they anticipate it, and wait at the end of their tank for me to drop food in on them. During these times, I am amazed at the trust that they have for me; they fear not that I am going to turn them into turtle soup.

It is cooler this morning, than it has been for weeks. 77 degrees at 8 a.m. is much more comfortable than 87 degrees at 8 a.m. I would assume that it is going to be cooler throughout the day than it has been. Does it mean that you are getting old when the weather is one of your topics. I am getting older. We are getting older, those that are younger do not realize it as much as those of us who have survived our youth. I was counting the days to my death, the other day. My father died of a heart attack at age 72. I am 53. It is possible that I only have 19 years left. The first 19 years of my life went by very slowly. The first 18, where I lived with my folks were not the most pleasant. I was not regarded as a very good citizen in that household. My kids love me, though. It is funny how you can be the same you, but be regarded totally different by different sets of folks, like Republicans might dig me, and my writing, now, while Liberals might find me too conservative.

The last sip of my morning coffee was divine. I was listening to the song, "Box of Rain," by The Grateful Dead, as I sipped on it. I think that this is a song that The Dead chose not to sing often; I can't understand why, it is a beautiful song.

Bundy just crawled over my leg into his spot under my desk: we are off to another day.

I'm listening to The Stones, and I am, too, a fool to cry, but I am not a fool to have leftover sushi for lunch. Kobain, wanted in, so I through him a little piece of fish. He wanted more. There was not more for him. I thought about giving Bundy, and Morisson a California roll, each, but I was greedy; I wanted all the rolls for myself. The rice in sushi drives my sugar level up, so it is a good thing that it is not available everyday, for, then, sushi, as much as I love it, might be the death of me. Can love kill?

Yoga class started off slow for me, tonight; time was dragging, I couldn't concentrate on what I was supposed to do, I just wasn't into it. I was thinking what a lousy class, why am I here...

but somewhere, somehow, soon, along the way, the class transitioned into a fantastic class, with the time running away like a madman on speed, and class was over before I knew it, leaving me wanting more, more, more.

I got up into shoulder stand in a different way than I ever have before, tonight.

In his memoir, "One More Theory About Happiness," Poet Paul Guest talks about taking "the short bus," home after becoming a quadriplegic in a bicycle accident when he was twelve years old. In the two years that I have been taking Iyengar Yoga, I have been, metaphorically, riding the short bus, too. Often I am put to the side of the class, and given special instruction, and a different way to do things than the way the rest of the class is doing them.

Tonight, marked a departure from my short bus ride in Yoga. I am kind of happy about that. I know that Yoga is a journey, not a destination, but I really dig when the bus stops and lets me off at a really cool stop.

I forgot to put onions on my salad, tonight, and I bet that the reason for that is that I bought a five pound bag of them. When I just have one onion, or half an onion, I never forget to add onion to my salad, and then I am soon out of onion; but now that I have plenty of onions, I am going to forget that I have them.

I need to consult an onion therapist.

Corporations are people. It does no good to call out a Corporation, you have to call out the people who are hiding behind the corporate logo. Use your imagination. Get creative. Revolution now!!

The nasty looking protrusion on my lower arm that has resulted from my pre-cancer spot being frozen is receding a bit. I will be glad when it is gone. I have enough ugly marks on my body already, without this one blazing its way to the front of the ugly marks on K campaign.

As I sit here at my desk, this morning, I keep feeling something moving on my knee, and keep moving my hand to brush off a cockroach, but there is no cockroach there. I have a fan blowing behind me, as I sit at my desk, and I think that it is blowing small hairs on my knee, and making it feel as if there is something crawling on me. What an interesting way to start the day.

I think that I may have found the low residency MFA program that I am suited for. It combines study of the memoir with study of poetry. I am real excited about this.

There is a great show happening in October at The Five Spot. Great, great band Deep Blue Sun will play with great, great band The Wayside Riders. This is one that you ought not miss.

I have been washing my hair with a water and baking soda mixture, and pouring an apple cider vinegar, or white vinegar and water combination mixture on my hair as a conditioner. The results have been great. I have had no problem with dandruff, and my hair is soft, and beautiful, like my heart.

I am taking a second Yoga class for the week tonight. It is a makeup of a class that I missed earlier in the Yoga session. I am looking forward to this. Yoga. Yoga. Yoga.

Even though I have no money, I am reading Dave Ramsey's book, "The Total Money Makeover." I have been very lousy with credit in the past, and if(when)I do earn some money, I want to know what to do with it. I have long, and often, been told by various friends that Mr. Ramsey is the man, when it comes to healthy personal finance. I find the book easy to read, interesting, and full of very useful knowledge.

I am still reading Paul Guest's book of poetry, "My Index Of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge." I find Paul Guest to be an interesting, and challenging poet. Sometimes I don't understand what he is saying, but I love the way that he is saying it. I read the piece, "Travel," shortly before I went to bed last night. I found it to be brilliant. I think that it is a good idea to go to sleep having something brilliant on your mind. It leads to brilliant sleep, and dreaming.

I am looking forward to the day. I am glad to be breathing the air of another new day. Thank you Lord, Creator, Higher Power.

I'm enjoying a nice coffee after a wonderful Yoga class. Morisson, and I, are about to take a long walk to The Pharmacy. I want to take Bundy, but he pitches an unbelievable fit when I walk off and leave him tied up anywhere: he has got this psychotic case of separation anxiety. It is too bad, because he just screws himself out of nice walks like the one that Morisson and I are fixing to take.

The biopsy result on Larry is in. Larry was a pre-cancer mole. I have to go into the dermatologist's office next week to have the spot left after Larry was cut off frozen.

Morisson and I had a nice long walk to the pharmacy, tonight, almost an hour it took us to walk to and fro. On the way home this guy says, "Hey what kind of a dog is that?" I figured that he was setting me up to spare change me. "A mutt," I said, "Like me." The guy thought about it, and said, "Yeah, me too." Getting him to think about it gave us time to get away from him before he asked for a dollar. I need to remember this trick. Of course it will only work when Morisson is with me.

I am down to 270.5 on my scale. That is down from 286 five weeks ago. I can't wait to break into the 260's. Go Mikel Go.

If a woman has gone to law school, and then chooses to be a Public Defender, do you think that she is a Conservative Republican?

I talk about how great those first morning swallows of coffee are, all the time. I talk about my turtles, my cats, my dogs, all the time, and this morning I am here to report that my first coffee of the day is divine. It is just the right temperature(on the hot side) with just the right amount of sweetener(Stevia), and just the right amount of milk(1%). I could not ask for better swallows of coffee.

I have yet to turn the turtles' light on, and feed them. I have fed the cats, and dogs, and I have taken the dogs outside, and it is still a half hour to seven. I am operating on six hours sleep. I will write for a couple of hours, and then go back to bed. I love my bed. I love my pillows. I have clean sheets, now. They smell great, and they feel wonderful. Don't you just love having fresh, clean sheets on your bed?

An angel dropped a ten dollar bill on me yesterday, and it meant that I could pick up some pills on time instead of a day late when my check came in. The same angel brought me a massive bucket of flowers. They are, now, arranged in a water pitcher of mine, and are sitting on Scout's desk. This may be the prettiest arrangement of flowers that I have ever seen. I thank this angel, so much. Some people are givers, some people are takers. This angel is a giver. Lord, make me be a giver, too.

I am a memoirist. What you are reading here, and what you read every day, are memoir entries to a book that I am writing. It is called, "I am happy to be alive." I have written three other memoirs: "The Delivery Guy," which was written by the old me, the angry me, the me emerging from several decades of alcohol, and drug, abuse; "Did you write the book of Love," which was written by the happy me, and details life as it is now for Mikel K; and Baking Banana Bread From Scratch," which is a series of Facebook entries strung together randomly but, still, making sense.

I want a few people to read, "Did you write the book of Love," and "Baking Banana Bread From Scratch," who can write reviews of them for me. If you are interested, please let me know.

I need to buy some containers to put Scout's lunch in when she calls me from school and wants me to make her a lunch. Today, I cut the top off of an oatmeal container, and loaded the bottom of it with salad for her. I hope that the kids that surround her, when she is eating it don't make fun of her. It is a good salad, though, a very good salad full of spinach, green pepper, mushrooms, tomatoes; it is topped with a light ranch dressing. I gave her a Jello cup, also. I don't think anyone will make fun of her for that.

My son sent me the neatest text message, last night, while I was asleep. It said, " I just recited one of your poems to my homies--"Public Transportation." I've had that one memorized for awhile. They liked it. Love you.

It is funny; often you don't think that your kids are listening to you, or observing you, but they are, and, sometimes, that does not become clear to you until many years later. Having that kid was probably the best move that I ever made in my life. It lead to life, for me; a life without alcohol, and drugs, which were very possibly going to soon kill me. You can read about the transition, about the time period where I moved from a drunk poet rock star wanna be to a sober father sitting in the bleachers watching my son grow up, delivering pizza, and chinese food, door to door through all of it in my memoir, "The Delivery Guy." It is a harsh book, but it has a happy ending. You really ought to buy a copy, now.

Today is Thursday, and I have already drank the gallon of milk that I brought home on Saturday. I'm thinking that that is not good. Should I ingest some chemical powder creamer to cut back on cow?

Tonight is Vreeland Jam Night at Twain's in Decatur. This event attracts the most eclectic super talent of any event ever. World renowned bass player, Tony Gordon, is supposed to come out, and jam with us/me tonight. The fun starts at 8:30pm. It really doesn't make any sense to be anywhere else. The Revolution just might get kicked in, and you don't want to miss that.

I'm fixing to head out to Twain's in Decatur to rock the house with The Vreelands. First, I got to stop and buy dog and cat food cuz that's the real rock star thing to do.

7:11 am A huge hunk of dog shit greeted me in the middle of the hallway that leads to the bathroom. In order to pee, I had to step over it gingerly. I love to start my day picking up dog poop. I can't figure out which dog is doing it. I think that they are both guilty from time to time. The last thing we did, before going to sleep, was to go outside. There is no excuse. Heads are going to roll. I am going to Google, "How to make your dog stop pooping in the house," and see what they say. I'm in charge around here; I really am.

I have been sending mail from this one organization to, "Spam" for years. There is no provision within the email to have them stop delivering it, either. What good is hitting, "Spam," if the email provider is not going to do something about said, "Spam?"

Somebody get right on that, will you?


84 degrees out at 2:30 pm; no need for the air conditioner, today. Yeah!. I am amazed at how many vegetables I eat these days, and how much salad that I ingest.

The reason is that these items are, "Free," on the meal plan that I am on, these days, meaning that I can eat as much of them as I want, and not have it count in the plan.

Consequently, I find myself eating more, and more veggies, and salad, and less of the fattening things that I am so used to.

I am not perfect. I had a burger with fries, last night at Twain's(thank you Andy!!) I felt a bit guilty about this, about eating more than I was supposed to, but I got right back on track, this morning, and, honestly, that burger, the first of that sort that I have had in over two years was delicious and enjoyable.

I say a prayer of thanks to the animal who died for me, so that I can live. I am the snapping turtle, and the cow is the pigeon that I saw the turtle capture, and eat, in the video. The inhuman way that the animals that we eat are raised and killed still has to be addressed. I want to get undressed, and make love to you. (:

What should I have for lunch? What did you have for lunch? What did you have for breakfast? What will you have dinner? Aren't meals beautiful? Aren't we lucky/blessed to be able to have meals? I'm listening to Trombone Shorty and Avenue A. They are making me feel happy. It is good music. Thanks Adam Ayers for turning me onto Shorty. The dogs are quiet. I need to take them out before I eat. They love to go out. It is 86 degrees out there today; not too bad, but still we won't stay out too long. I'm an air conditioned gypsy.


Morrison, Bundy, and I just got a nice 28 minute walk in, in the 88 degree weather. I had planned to walk down Peachtree St., it's always fun to walk the dogs, and people watch, at the same time, but the heat would have been too much for, at least, Morisson, who had his tongue out near the pavement, and was panting like a pervert in some young girl's window.

We passed the neatest bunch of orange flowers that were loaded with bees, and beautiful butterflies. One day I will have that type of flower in my front yard, so I can look out at the flowers, and see the pretty butterflies flutter.

I picked some flowers, of the same variety, from a public location on the way home, and they are sitting in a vase on Scout's desk. Do you think that butterflies will come into our home because of the flowers?

There was one beautiful orange butterfly, fluttering about the flowers, at the public place. It went from flower to flower, and then landed on the flowers that I had in my hand, that I had just picked.

I tried to take its picture. It is hard to capture a butterfly with a cell phone camera. Whe we were kids, we made nets out of stockings that we got from our mothers, and wire coat hangers that we got from the closet. When we caught the butterflies, we would put them in mayonnaise jars, that we had punched holes in the tops of, and we would marvel at the beautiful butterflies.

Then we would let them go, smiling as they fluttered away, having made a new friend, or two.

The dogs, and I, have different goals when we walk. I am trying to get my heart rate up, and they are trying to piss, and sniff, as much as they can. I try to please all of us by letting them have their way with their leashes at the beginning of the walk, and then tightening up on them after that. Also, I walk in the middle of the streets, as much as possible, keeping them aways from the flowers, and long grass, that they so love to interact with.

I weighted 267 on the scale, this morning; that figure is down from 287 six weeks ago.

I need to change the turtles' water, today, and bath the dogs. Those stinky dogs, Bundy, and Morisson, are usually pretty amiable about getting lathered up, and rinsed off. Bundy gave me a bit of a problem, the last time out, but the time before that he was an angel, so I am hoping for an angelic performance from Mr. Bundy today.

It's 7:30 am, and the coffee is brewing. The aroma deadens the smell of dog that permeates this apartment. Kobain is trying to get inside one of the cabinets. My cat hangs out in there a good bit. I'm not sure what the lure of the place is. Maybe he likes the privacy.

Mudcat and his band were incredible, last night, at The Northside Tavern. There was a large crowd, and Mud had them eating out of his hand. Lil Joe was back from Europe blowing that trombone like there was no tomorrow. The guys let me join them to do our usual, "Everybody Works At Wal-mart / I need a rich girl / Someday I Will Start The Revolution routine. The crowd was into the idea of Revolution, and there were a bunch of girls who raised their hands, and said that they were rich.

Earlier in the evening, I did the same medley shortly after the incredible band, Smoke That City played at Sylvia's Art Gallery. The crowd there was very intelligent, picking up on certain nuances of my poetry that seems to escape other audiences. I have to thank Brian Halloran for whispering in Sylvia's ear that I was there and needed to go up to the mike early, so that I could split to go hang out with Mudcat and the fellas.

It was a great night, and it is going to be a great day' let's all make the best of it!!

I am cleaning out the turtles' tank, and then I am going to bath the dogs. I'm about halfway through cleaning the turtles' tank. I always take several breaks while I am cleaning it, for several reason, primary among them is that I find cleaning the tank to be a real chore, and a real bore.

Maybe I should get a Poet Intern in here to assist me.

Instead of asking her to fetch me coffee, I will say, "And when you're done looking through those old notebooks of mine for worthy poems, would you mind cleaning the turtles' tank? I would say it as a matter of fact, like it was included in her job, which is to be an intern, and pick up some college credits.


I'm having my first cup of coffee of the day. I'm reading a great book by a great writer. The cat has stopped puking. I am thankful.


Sardines for lunch, maybe half a potato, and some vegetables soaked in balsamic vinaigrette. I'm not really hungyr, but I'm supposed to eat one meal within 5 or 6 hours of the the last meal: that is good for my blood sugar levels. Morisson must licked my leg from top to bottom; I don't understand why my dogs lick me, and I don't really like it, but I let them do it, because it seems important to them. My youngest son got back, last night, from two weeks in San Francisco; it is good to have him home.

(:


Should cats be allowed to become pregnant, and have kittens, or should all cats be spayed and neutered? My downstairs neighbor, Matthew's, cat, Daphne, is hanging out on our front porch, these day, pregnant. Her master does not believe in spaying, or neutering, saying that it's not, "God's," way. I have always been trained to spay, or neuter, and have done so with all of my animals. Matthew is not a God freak; he is loving the process, of the birth of Daphne's kittens, is pampering Daphne, making life easy for her to have the kittens. I can see both sides of the spay, neuter question. What do you think? Should cats be allowed to have kittens, when there are so many cats already on the earth in need of a good home?

"Somebody at one of these places [...] asked me: "What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.z"--Buk


I'm reading Carl Sandburg. I really like Carl Sandburg, but I am in the middle of this really long poem that he has written, called, "The Windy City." I don't feel like reading a long poem, right now. I don't much, ever, feel like reading long poems. I think that a poem should be short, less it starts to be something other than a poem, say a short story. I don't much care for short stories. Most of them are boring. Most people can't write short stories. I can't write short stories, so I don't even try.

I could turn the ac down low, and you could come over and keep me warm with your smile.

I want tonight to be an exciting night, therefore I am going to read a book.
I suspected you were still thin-skinned, insecure, and snit-prone. I guess I'll have to somehow live without your fascinating updates on what you ate, how far you walked, and how you found a peanut in your poop. Mesmerizing stuff. And you really know nothing about poetry. If you did, you'd be embarrassed by the opinions you posit in pixel on the subject.--PR

I haven't evoked this type of emotion in anyone since I was doing my "poetry" with The Mikel K Band, years ago. Back then, I learned then that critics try to make a reputation for themselves by trying to bash your reputation. I don't know why this PR guy was out to bash me, but it is always amusing to see someone get into such a snit over nothing. God bless PR, may the road rise with him!

Bundy got too excited when I was about to take him and Morisson out for a walk, so I left him at home, and did 18 minutes on the sidewalks of midtown with Mo. When I got back, Bundy had calmed down. (Probably realized that he had just gotten screwed out of a walk). I took him out around the 12 minute block. We did it in ten. Bundy walks much better alone than he does with Mo. When the two are together, Bundy is always straining to be out front. He likes to be the leader of the pack.


4:07 a.m. I didn't think that the dogs would get up with me, but they did. Bundy was asleep on my Yoga mat, but did a quick downward facing dog on the mat, and then headed to the edge of the bed to interact with my slowly waking hand. I have resolved myself to that fact that, if I am going to leave the mat out, that I am going to have to share it with Bundy, and the other animals.

"Forgive us if we work so hard
And the muscles bunch clumsy on us
And we never know why we work so hard."

--Carl Sandburg

I start my day, again, with another cup of coffee and a box of rain. While I slept, someone from my Doctor's office (Primary Care Physician), called and said that I needed to reschedule an appointment that I had coming up because the office would be closing. I hope that they don't mean closing for good but I suspect that they do because they said nothing about it being temporary, or for vacation.

I have been going to see Dr. Margaret Wadsworth for almost twenty years. It will be a bummer to not be able to see her again, if that is, in fact, the case. I am hoping that she will move to another setup, instead of her own office, to see patients. In ten minutes, her office will get back from lunch, and I will find out exactly what is happening.

It is almost two, and I haven't eaten yet. This is because I woke up, for the first time, at 4 a.m. Waking up this early has, somehow, thrown this day's eating schedule off a bit. It won't kill me. I will survive.

Morisson, Bundy and I just did a nice 35 minute walk, which included a loop through Piedmont Park. The midtown skyline was beautiful. Bundy was mostly cooperative, except for this one time when he fell in love with this little female dog. He just stopped next to her, and refused to walk anymore with Morisson, and I. Thse dog walks may not be as good for me as solo walks, bike rides, or swims, but I really hate to not have the dogs in on the exercise action: they need it too!

As I leaned over to pour milk in my coffee, this morning, something appeared to stick its head out from the cabinet below me. "Fudge," I thought, I have a rat. I had had rats in the place that I had last lived in, two years ago, and I think that once you have had rats, you are always expecting to have rats, again, no matter where you live.

I finished pouring my milk, and I looked back down at the cabinet where the rat had been: there was my cat Kobain's paw; he was being playful, sticking his paw in an out of the cabinet door.

A feeling of great relief rushed over me; I didn't have rats at all.

I was thankful. What a great way to start a new day: coffee, and no rats! I praise God, the Creator, my Higher Power; Amen, and Hallelujah; let the new day begin.

I ran across an old therapist on FB, this morning. I thought about adding her, but then I changed my mind.

I was very fucked up, when I was seeing her. Someone I was in love with brought us to see her, trying to fix me.

At first, I would just sit there, and not say a word. I did this for several sessions, and then I started to talk, started to tell the therapist what I thought was going on.

When the therapist started to see my point of view, the woman who I was in love with quit going to see her, quit paying the one hundred and twenty five dollars an hour that it cost to see the therapist. I quit going to see her, too; I didn't have a hundred and twenty five dollars.

One of the things that was screwed up about me, one of the things that the woman who was in love with me, was trying to fix was the fact that I didn't have a job, and could never, at that time in my life, keep a job.

The woman who I was in love with, and I, drank a lot. We were drinking partners. That could have had something to do with my being screwed up. What do you think?


Yesterday, I woke up at four a.m., and I got up for a few hours, and did my thing on the keyboard, sipping coffee, as I cranked out poems, and memoir entries. I can't remember what time I went back to bed, but I can remember that I was tired all day, and spent much of the day in bed, trying to become not tired.

This morning, I woke up at five a.m. My dog, Morisson was in bed with me, because it was raining outside. It is almost impossible for me to sleep with Morisson in the bed with me. Often, I get up at five or six a.m. and write for a couple of hours, but, this morning, I felt that I would be better off sleeping longer, so I acted like I was getting up, by sitting up, which caused, and always causes, Morisson to jump out of the bed. And then I went back to sleep. I slept until 10:30 a.m., and felt really good when I woke up.

It is cooler out now. The little box on my computer says that it is 79 degrees out, at 11:06 a.m. Just a week ago, the little box would have said that it was 92 degrees at this time of day. I don't have to wait until 10 p.m., now, to take my dogs for a walk. This is a blessing.

I have been reading Charles Bukowski for the past couple of days; not his poems, but his novel(memoir?) "Women," and his book of short stories, "The Most Beautiful Woman In Town." I have always liked Bukowski's poems. He is a master story teller in his poems, and his poems have a flow, and charm to them that I enjoy. In his novel, and in his short stories, Bukowski has that same master story teller ability, with the same charm and flow that I enjoy in his poems.

I have to go to the dermatologist, and get the spot, where Larry once sat, frozen.

Thank you, Larry, for leaving such a legacy. Thank you to The Good Neighbors for leaving me one of their cars, so that I don't have to ride the bus.

Henry is visiting. He is drinking all the water in our dog bowl, as he so often does, and I just caught him trying to eat all of Morisson's leftover breakfast. Morisson does not eat all that I put on his plate because he prefers to eat the human food that I throw at him, and Bundy, from my kitchen during the day.

Morisson is a very wise dog, but he has become a bit of a mooch. This is my fault. If I had not started offering him tidbits from my refrigerator, and off of my oven, he would not be this way, but, really, I don't mind sharing food with my dogs.

Morisson especially loves bananas. Whenever I eat a banana, I cut off the ends and share them with the dogs. Bundy thinks that bananas are ok, but Morisson goes crazy over bananas. As soon as he has eaten one, he is back in position, at the edge of the kitchen, waiting for another one.

Maybe Morisson was a monkey in another life. Monkeys love bananas don't they?

My interaction, today, with my dermatologist took less than five minutes. We asked each other how each other was, answered each other, and, then, the good doctor froze the spot where Larry used to sit on my arm; and that was it: Larry had left behind a pre-cancer spot; what a rotter.

Henry, the Great Dane from next door is barking at people from our front door. (Henry is visiting us). I don't have the energy, right this second, to tell him to shut up. I am almost used to Henry's barking, and can let it go for awhile before I shut it down by yelling at the dog. Henry, have some respect for the planet, will you?!

Bundy seems to be not much interested in barking at folks who walk by on the sidewalk, as Henry still does, and as Bundy used to. Bundy is still on top of it when someone comes onto our front porch, though, and I like that. I like to be warned that someone is getting close. It makes me feel protected: good Bundy!

I'm off to the Yoga mat, which I have deemed the family mat. Jaggar sits on it, Bundy sleeps on it, and I do Yoga on it: it's a family affair.

My dogs, Morisson, Bundy & I just did a very aggressive 37 minute walk through The Park. When I tell Bundy, "back," Morisson also goes back, which really slows us down. I think it is funny how one dog will learn a command that you are teaching to another dog. I think that it is great that my dogs will, mostly, keep up the pace so that I can lose a few pounds on our dog walks; they hardly stopped at all, tonight, to sniff things.

All is great, here, dear. The Love Porch has been invaded, and somewhat taken over, by our downstairs neighbor, Matthew, who needs a safe place for his cat, Daphne, to have her kittens. Daphne is a very mean cat, but I wish her well with her babies.

I weighed 267.5, this morning, when I woke up, which is a record since I started this new way of eating, where I measure my food before I ingest it. 267.5 is down from the 286 that I weighed six weeks ago. A few minutes ago, I stepped on the scale, around 9:30 p.m. and I had gained three pounds, over the course of the day, up to 270.5. I usually weigh less upon waking, I think. Does sleeping help you burn the pounds?

"You're really hot. I find it hard to concentrate knowing that you are online. Do I stand any chance with you?" I write this, but I would never send it. I don't like to make an ars of myself. You know when you stand a chance with a babe, and you know when you don't. A woman lets you know that she is interested in you. It's not something that she is going to hide from you. I don't want to say stupid things where I have to hide from me. Do you understand?

The dogs, and I, went for what seemed to be just short of an hour walk, yesterday evening, but it turned out, when I looked at the stopwatch on my phone, to have only been a 37 minutes walk. Despite the time difference in how long the walk felt, and how long the walk actually was, it was a very enjoyable walk. Bundy is getting better, and better, at staying with the "pack," i.e. not straining himself to constantly be way out in front of Morisson, and I.

Our walk was at dusk, so the park was not packed, which is fine with me, and my dogs. We prefer to not be around a lot of people when we walk. I am about two months overdue on shots for my dogs, so it would not do for either one of them to bite someone. It is highly unlikely that Morisson would bite anyone in any situation, but Bundy might take a bite of you, if you scared him, or threatened me.

My youngest boy phoned me, last night, around midnight, and while picking up the phone, I was scared that something was wrong, because he never rings me up that late. He said that he saw that I was online, though, and wanted to call and say goodnight. As usual, it was wonderful to talk to this young man. I will have to call my other son, and see how his week is going. He is a busy man, these days, being a father himself, a husband, holding down a full time job, and making that hip hop music.

Scout did her BMX bike thing, yesterday, so I did not see her. I need to arrange a ride, and go see one of her races, sometimes soon. She is quite the trooper. I love all three of these kids, and am so blessed to have them in my life.

Both turtles are sitting on their rock, underneath their heat lamp. I fed them breakfast when I first woke up, about a half hour ago. I love those turtles so, also!

Bundy has fallen asleep, in his usual spot, underneath my desk, and Morisson has done the same, where he usually does it, behind my chair, and off to the right a bit. Both dogs have been fed and are ready to face the new day. I have no idea where my cats, Kobain, and Jaggar, are. I do know that, when I woke this morning, they were standing by their bowls waiting for me to put their morning wet food snack down for them. My cats salivate like Pavlov's dogs the first thing in the morning.

Sometimes, it seems like there is not a lot to write about, living in this little apartment day after day, and spending all the time here that I do. I don't have the wild adventures of Hunter Thompson to report on. I am not living the hardy life of Ernest Hemingway, but then, again, I have not put my head in the oven like Sylvia did, and I have not taken a gun to my head, and pulled the trigger as did Thompson, and Hemingway.

I have become comfortably numb, and I like it that way. Thank you, Lord, for letting me see the new day, breath the air of a new day.

Amen.

I'm lethargic. My nap drained energy from me, instead of giving it. Perhaps two hours is too long, and I am only supposed to sleep 20 to 40 minutes like that article that I found on Google that day said. Mostly, I feel good with a two hour nap. I need to get up from this desk, and get onto my bicycle for a half hour. Such a ride will create change. I need change to be created.

I have two marks on my body, where the dermatoligist froze pre-cancer spots on my arms. The older spot, the one that he froze several weeks ago on my lower left arm is very ugly. The Doctor said that it would look normal when the scab fell off.

You can hardly see the one on my upper right arm, because he just froze it a few days ago; it has not developed into an ugly scab, yet. The doctor said that I might need to get the tattoo that is underneath this pre-cancer spot touched up, once the spot heals.

An ugly spot, and an altered tattoo are, certainly, not too much to pay to get skin cancer halted. I'd rather deal with ugly spots on my arms, and a little bit of arm missing from my angel tattoo, than be going through radiation, and chemotherapy, if those are the treatment mechanism for spots such as I have, if they have not been treated, as they have been. It is much easier to accept the little things, the minor inconveniences than to let them blow up to be something big.

Don't you think?

I've got the blahs, tonight, which mean that I am seriously lacking in energy. The only thing that I chose to do tonight, after doing a half hour ride on my bike, is to shower, and go to the grocery store.

Grocery store shopping excites me. Is that weird? I like having food in the house, and I like the process of acquiring such food. Mostly, I make a list before I go, and I stick to it, so my shopping does not take a long time. I go right to what I have written down, grab it, put it in the cart, and move on to the next item on my list.

When I was younger, if you had told me that I would enjoy spending my Friday nights grocery shopping, I would have told you that you were higher than Kurt Cobain probably was when he pulled the trigger.

I'm tired of pretending that I like bastards who I don't like. I don't find myself in this situation all that often, these days, because I, mostly, stay to myself, but, on occasion, something interests me sufficiently to go rub elbows, and egos with the mass of man. It is usually the dimwits who are thinking with dollar bills for brains, who irritate me. There is something in the attitude of a man who is trying to accumulate as much cash as he can while alive on the planet that, somehow, disturbs me. If you look closely, such a man is stepping on the heads of as many people as he can so that he can get ahead. To him, people are to be used as a means to his end.

It is cool outside this morning; I felt it when I took the dogs outside, so I opened the one window that will open in this shotgun apartment of ours. It is my hope that I will not have to run the air conditioners, today; I have two of them, window units, that do a very nice job of keeping this place cool when it is hot, but it is nice to get some relief from the high summer utility cooling the abode bills before we dive into the even higher winter cooling the abode heating bills.

There is cancer in our milk, I read in an online article, yesterday,but we will go on drinking it. Monsanto, and the cancer doctors, will profit from our addiction to it in our coffee, and in our cereal. It is sad, really, that God has no control over how we die, just wealthy men, and women, trying to become even wealthier.

For the most part, those who are familiar with you do not respect you, or the gains that you have made. For the most part, they will be jealous, and try to drag you down, if they can. Support will come from strangers, people who see what you are doing, and love it.

Do you still look like you used to when you would turn heads as you walked down
the street, buried away, now, in the retirement home where they refer to you as "the bitch." Strange that; they used to refer to you as "the bitch" when you still had your looks.

Sometimes, I think that she is just waiting around for me, but then I think about it some more,and I realize that she probably isn't just waiting around for me.

Why start on any kind of a romance, when you know that it is going to end? Why not spare yourself the misery of the end, even though the beginning is quite enjoyable? I need to go get my coffee. It has been ready for several minutes. I need the peace, and joy, that it brings to me, this morning, especially. You have to grab peace, and joy, where ever you can grab, at certain times in you existence.

A good way to get a woman to run from you is to tell her that you love her.

The water from my sink that I drink is bad for me. The air that I breath is bad for me. Most of the food that I eat is bad for me. This recession is bad for me, yet, mostly, I smile through this existence. I must be dumb.

There must be a lot of money in bringing two people together, because I am surrounded by ads that claim that they can find me love, the only problem is that I don't have a credit card. Thus, if I had a credit card, I would surely have love. Funny how that works.

I waited, and waited, and waited for my youngest son to call me, earlier this afternoon, because we had made plans to have lunch, today, and when I was so hungry that I could wait no longer, I called him. I said, "Why haven't you called me?"

And he said, "Why haven't you called me?"

And so it goes, and so it went. He blew me off, anyway, for an afternoon of skateboarding with the boys. I think that I might head into Little Five Points in a bit, and have coffee. You have to be flexible when you have children, especially when they get older, and you don't have complete control of their lives.

Figuring that my boy, and I, were going out to have a bite to eat, I ate less for breakfast, this morning, because breakfast, at the time that I woke up, was going to be close to the time that I was supposed to have lunch with my son.

I at half a cup less of oatmeal, and had no protein; now it is just a few hours later and I am starving. I figure that I will have a protein, and some salad in just a bit, here. Right now I am enjoying a coffee with the milk that Monsanto has inserted cancer into. There are probably an intense amount of pesticides in the coffee beans that I ground into minute specks to pour hot water over, and enjoy. Everything is killing us, I tell you, everything.

I think that people think that this is really Banksy, just like people over at the like Bukowski site think that Bukowski is still alive.

I used to wear my underpants once, and then I would throw them in the laundry basket. Somehow, my underwear have been disappearing. I guess they go to the same place that my socks go. A woman who I used to date, who claimed to have a lot of money, bought me Calvin Klein underwear.

I was not concerned about the brand in going along with this high class underwear transaction; what I was after was the color: the Calvin Klein's were black. This was the perfect addition to the rest of my clothing, which was also black. I had black pants, black shirts, black socks, and, now, black underwear.

I don't remember how much this ex-gal paid for the black underwear, but I will bet you that, during these highly recessionary times, that I can not afford to go out,and buy them myself, but I am unwilling to go back to wearing the cheap white underwear. The cheap part I don't mind, it's the white thing that I can do without, so I wear my underwear more times than I used to before I wear it. I really felt that you should know my underwear situation. If anyone asks you be sure to tell them that I wear old, worn out black underwear.



Mabye your dog eats em!

My dog has too much dignity to eat my stinky undies.

Look behind the dryer. I find socks there all the time.

I can't get behind my drier; there is no room to. It is one of those small, upstairs downstairs, washer driers. I bet you are right though; I bet that that is where these dogs, and maybe these cats, and maybe even these turtles, are hiding my socks, and underwear. I might take the lot of them out into a well-to-do neighborhood, and drop them off on some guy's well-manicured lawn. How dare they steal from me, the hand that feeds them.

There was this cute little dog tied up, tonight, outside the pizza place in the square. People would stop to pet the dog, because he was so cute, and people would feed the dog leftover pizza, because the dog happened to be tied up outside a pizza place.

The person who I was having coffee with, and I, went about our business of having coffee, adding the cream, and pouring in some sugar, and all, when the person who I was with said with more than a bit of surprise in her voice, "Look, someone has fallen asleep next to the dog."

Passed out, is what I thought. Passed out drunk, on his way to the drunk tank. He passed out in the square next to the pretty dog, and he was going to wake up in the drunk tank.

There was something awful about this drunk guy juxtapositioning himself next to the cute dog. Now we couldn't feel as good about life as we had when the dog was there all by himself. Now we had to deal with the sight of this filthy, alcoholic man.

The person who I was with was very concerned about this man. "Should we wake him up?" she asked me several times.

And then what? Load him in the vehicle that we were driving and take him home with us, try to sober him up, help him get on with his life?

No, she said. I said call the police, if anything, but you know what, nobody probably will, or did, and that guy will just lay there all night ruining the view of the cute dog.

Play the blues with anger, and call it punk rock; then play punk rock with anger, and what do you call it. "Call me anything, but late for the mirror," said this guy who used to enjoy doing lines of cocaine, but that was then, and this is now. I haven't seen him since 1982; he might be married with children now, a totally different perspective filling his brain. He could be dead, too; maybe his love of cocaine killed him. I left that coast, and have no regrets; things turn out the way that they do for a reason. I need no reason to sip on this coffee, this morning; it gives me pleasure, and after a lifetime of hell, I am due a smile or two.

I am lost when it comes to eating salad, right now; of course it is 7:32 a.m. in the morning, but what I mean is that when I am supposed to eat it, later in the day, I am not feeling it. What is it about salad that so often makes me stay away from it. Is it that it is good for me, and I want to treat myself bad. Is it that I am burnt out on balsamic vinaigrette, which I have been coating my salad leaves with for awhile now? I have no answer, just questions that will hopefully lead me back to doing what I need to do to live forever. I want to live forever, don't you?

So, have an Israeli breakfast --- some cheese, a bit of smoked fish, and loads of salad

I am full from eating too much protein before I went to bed. I feel guilty for eating meat, and stupid for drinking milk, yet eat meat I do, and drink milk I do. I see perfection, but I fall short. My clothes are starting to not fit me; soon I will be perfect, and to prove it, they will put me on the cover of magazines. My smile from the news rack will validate that I have made it. Daddy why did you die before I could prove this to you. Pass the smoked fish. I love you, Peter; you never quit trying, and that is not a sin in anybody's religion.

I have not had enough sleep, so I am going to drink this large cup of coffee, and go back to the bed. One of the cats may join me. The other cats, and dogs, have already gone back to sleep. It is Saturday morning. We do not watch cartoons around here, in fact we never watch tv., it is against our religion; our Christ says that it is a sin to tune into the cable news and see what they say is going on. We must look at the world around us, and judge for ourselves which way the wind blows.

People are awake early on a Saturday morning. What is wrong with them? What is wrong with me, awake also, sucking from this large cup of coffee like it is an elixer sent from God with the answer to what happiness is for the rest of my day? Coffee is evil, it is poison like the rest of the things that God sent down for us, but man, in his infinite quest to make yet another buck, altered to squeeze yet another penny out of our heart, and soul. I'm quitting my bitching, and moaning, and going back to sleep. There is not even one sip left in the cup that held my coffee; I have sucked it all down. I have no answers.

I just realized that it is Sunday, and not Saturday. Oh Lord, I'm a sinner, send me to hell, but just don't make me go to church on Sunday.

I linger longer than I ought to. Something about this particular cyberspace page has captured me. I am a victim to it. I have no control. I am hungover, homeless; waiting outside the liquor store for it to open to see if I can talk the man out of a fifth of vodka. I know I can't, but my insanity tells me to try.

Sometimes I worry about following laws that I know should be broken. Sometimes I worry about the milk in my tea. Sometimes I worry because mommy didn't love me, but there is only one thing that I can be, and that is me.

I think that we should do it; no, wait, it's Sunday we might piss off the Lord by not being in church, and doing it, so let's wait until Monday to do it, but then Monday is the first day of the work week; we'll be tired, or at least you will be, I don't have a job.

I have just woken up for the second time. 2:35 pm. The dogs have been patient in waiting to go outside. They haven't peed or pooped on the carpet. The cats were standing by their bowls, expectantly waiting for food, as they do when I wake for the first time. I haven't turned the turtles' light on, yet, and fed them. I must do this now.

Down with Monsanto. Monsanto must fall.

Yeah. The scab on my lower left arm where the dermatologist froze a pre-cancer spot just fell off, and, now, I have near normal looking skin, and no pre-cancer spot. Let's hear it for America.

rBGH makes cows sick. Monsanto has been forced to admit to about 20 toxic effects, including mastitis, on its POSILAC label.
rBGH milk is contaminated by pus, due to the mastitis commonly induced by rBGH, and antibiotics used to treat the mastitis.
rBGH milk is chemically and nutritionally different than natural milk.
rBGH milk is contaminated with rBGH, traces of which are absorbed through the gut.
rBGH milk is supercharged with high levels of a natural growth factor (IGF-1), which is readily absorbed through the gut.
Excess levels of IGF-1 have been incriminated as a cause of breast, colon, and prostate cancers.
IGF-1 blocks natural defense mechanisms against early submicroscopic cancers.
rBGH factory farms pose a major threat to the viability of small dairy farms.
rBGH enriches Monsanto, while posing dangers, without any benefits, to consumers, especially in view of the current national surplus of milk.
The risks of cancer to consumers and particularly their children, especially those enrolled in the Public School Lunch Program, are indisputable.

http://www.organicconsumers.org/rBGH/rbghlist.cfm


Daphne just bit me, oh wait, Daphne just got her claw into my finger, but it feels like she bit me. Daphne is trying to have babies, on my my front porch, and I was trying to say hello to Daphne, as she was sitting on her Master's chest, getting petted, and loved on. Daphne didn't want no love from me.

11:13 pm Things don't always turn out the way you planned them, and then you have to roll with the punches, or cut your losses and run, fast as hell; get out of the situation, go somewhere else where you feel comfortable, or at least where you feel less uncomfortable.

Other people can get you into these situations without meaning to, or maybe they don't really care if they do, or they don't, because they are doing their thing, or screw you if their thing doesn't jive with you.

When I was younger this guy, Robert Ringer, wrote a book called, Looking out for #1", and it he said that there were three ways that people could screw you 1) They told you that they were going to screw you, and they screwed you 2) They told you that they weren't going to screw you, and they screwed you, and 3) They didn't mean to screw you, and they screw you.

What happened in all three cases?
You got screwed.

Now, I didn't get screwed today, by any means, but I did have cause to reflect on all that I have reflected on in this passage. May the road rise with you. God loves you, but I don't want you knocking on my front door without phoning ahead to get an invitation. I might not get a lot of phone calls, but the people who do show up on my door step are ones who I want there. Peace. Peace and Love.


Maybe I drank too much coffee, and am feeling uptight. I did drink a lot of coffee earlier; maybe that is why I feel the way that I do. Maybe I can blame how I feel on the coffee, and not on the situation that occurred.

Maybe I can take a Quaalude, and escape.

Do they make Quaalude anymore? I don't think so. I think that the companies that make pills have moved on; they have pills that would make taking a Quaalude be like taking a sugar pill.

I took one Quaalude in my life; it was in a hotel room in Orlando, Florida around 1976. This young lady, and I, took our pills, and then we made passionate whoopie. In the morning, I woke up, and the young lady was giving me very dirty looks.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She said, "You fell asleep while we were making love, last night...on top of me."

I had some profuse apologizing to do, and had just gotten my one, and only lesson in Quaalude. Don't they give people synthetic heroin now for pain pills?

One last story, before I go to bed. My father, I am assuming, did not like dirty toilets, because one day, when I was young, he grabbed my by the hair, and pushed my head into the toilet, screaming, "Do you see that? Do you see that?"

I'm not sure if it was naiveté or my age, but I saw nothing but a toilet bowl full of water. I did not want to further piss my father off, so I started nodding my head, and saying, "Yes, yes, I see it..."

My father yanked my head back, and threw a wet rag at me, and said, "Well then, clean it." My father was certainly no expert at being a father. Almost to the day that I turned 18, and could do so, legally, I moved out of "his" house. I never looked back. Some nuclear homes are hell.

Something that really pisses me off are Democrats who really, if they were being honest about it, would call themselves Republicans.

I'm not going to tell her who she is, because that might jinx it, but there is one woman out there who makes more sense than any of us; and she has been through the ringer (and I don't want to date her, or fuck her).

I wonder if it is necessary to have been through the ringer to cut the layers of bullshit off, and tell it like it is? While you still have money, while you still have love, while you still have food, and a place to live, you can not get honest, is what I am thinking this morning, as a cockroach crawls slowly across my left knee.

I thought about leaving the cockroach on my knee. I thought, heck, this is his world, too, why should I alter his existence. I sometimes wonder about/cry out for the rights of cows, should I not let cockroaches proceed at their own pace?

While you are barking orders at a waiter, you are not seeing reality. While you are being abusive, physically, or emotionally, to your wife, or husband, you are not seeing reality. While you are getting your car washed by Mexican, and African American car washers, you are not seeing reality. Money is your buffer. God bless your money.

One last dirty story to start your day: I don't need to read prose by Charles Bukowski, I really don't. The guy had a bad attitude in so many ways, and I am a man recovering from a bad attitude, who can easily slip back into a bad attitude if he is not careful, and one way to not be careful is to expose myself to the bad attitude of others.

I would rather talk about my dogs, cats, and turtles, and about how I saw a butterfly flutter in the front yard, than to talk about all the women who I have put my dick into. I would rather talk about the good in the world, than about what a shit stinking place it is. An attitude can go either way, depending on what you are exposed to. I have worn combat boots, and listen to punk rock lyrics like, "They hate us, we hate them; it's no use," and, "Whatcha gonna do about the man in blue," and it lead me to altercations with men in blue, and to a very hateful existence with imagined enemies. (For me, the enemy is, and has always been, within.)

These days, I am growing hair, and tomatoes in the garden, and I listen to peace, and love lyrics, and my life is, mostly, full of peace and love. (Go figure.)

I'm going to need to follow the advice, today, that I often give others, that you can start your day over at any point in the day. It is early today, not even 9 a.m. yet, and my brain is burning. It is not any fun to have your head on fire, I am sure those of you who have had your head burn, baby, burn will agree.

I am not good looking. I am not intelligent. I am not a good writer. I am kind to my cats, my dogs, and my turtles. I am also kind to my children, but the opportunities to be kind to them are fewer and further between as they age.

I saw these two kids, this morning, new neighbors, I guess, get into a nice car. They were wearing backpacks, and were headed off, I guess, to school. I was going to say that their rich parents were paying for that nice car, and that apartment, which is in a nice part of town. (How the hell I wound up here, I have no idea. I seem to be always able to find the dumpy rooming house, in the midst of the five hundred thousand dollar houses).

So, anyway, I was going to say how those kids were spoiled little rich kids, and how they could have a nice car, and head off into it, to college because mommy, and daddy have money, and my kids can't, because I don't but I don't know that, that is that they are spoiled little rich kids.

I was once their age, had a decent car, was going to college, and I was paying for it all myself. I did quite well, actually, working and going to school, until my romance with Jack Daniels, and Budweiser fucked me up.

The moral of this story is to not judge a neighbor, or anybody else, by the cover, because what good does being pissy about the states of other people do you?


Since I was recently attacked for having an opinion on poetry, maybe I will keep this little ditty to my thoughts on my poetry. Screw that, then the intruder will have one; he will have dominated my thoughts with his thoughts, which is all that he was trying to do in the first place, exercise his ego over mine, show how more powerful his thought process is than mine. Why? I'm not sure. I guess things were slow over at his page. There was no on to attack on his page, so he wandered over here with his insecurity, and anger, and found what he thought was a suitable mark.

All poets, if they are any good, express the full range of human emotion. One day, you might find them happy. One day, you might find them sad, or mad, and the poems that they write those days will affect the emotion found in their poems.

That's it. That's all I have to say. I may shuffle off, now, and get the oatmeal.

I have no bananas for my cereal, this morning; no peaches. I will have to eat my cereal fruitless. I am not sure if I should eat oatmeal, this morning, or bran cereal. Does oatmeal make you as regular as bran cereal does?

One trick that I have of eating less, is to feed my dogs more; so besides their usual cup of regular dog food in the morning, and cup of regular dog food in the evening, they get my extra oatmeal, my egg yolks, and half of every banana that I slice open. I wonder if, as I get skinny, my dogs will be getting fat?

I will not be worked. I will not have someone hanging around with me, pretending that they are wanting to hang around with me, when really they are wanting to hang around someone who I am hanging about, who, in the case that I am thinking about, happens to be a beautiful girl. I will banish this person, I will kick them to the curb, I will make it so that they wish that they had never met me, instead of being glad that they can work me for their ulterior motive.

I just took a nice long nap , if that is what you call it, when you go back to bed after waking up, and writing for several hours. I feel much better now, than I did when I woke for the first time. Lack of sleep can make me be in a very ill mood. Life is a precious gift, and I am so thankful to be living it. May all your dreams come true; and mine!

You don't have all the answers, though you think you do. You have some answers, but everybody has some answers, which means that you are not super special, like you like to think, but that you are super normal just like everybody else. It is hard for me to subject myself to your perfectionism, so I just don't come around much, anymore. I prefer to stay where things are a bit more normal, where the pressure to exceed, to "succeed" is not so great. I am cabable of creating my own pressure on m; I don't need you doing it for me. I love you, but I love you from a distance, where it is safe.

Have you got any butter for my toast? Have you got any toast that you can lend me? I need to use your toaster, too. Could you come pick me up, I don't have a car to get to you. I don't have any money for gas. I need new clothes, could you, maybe, buy them? Rent is due and...

I have been unable to concentrate for the past few days. It is as if ADD has taken over my brain. I can't read. I can barely write; nothing much interests me. Even food seems bland to me. There is a cyclical nature to bi polarity. When I am cycling I am like this. I am self-diagnosing, now. Don't tell anyone that there is anything wrong with me, that I am less than perfect. I was raised to be perfect.

In a few minutes, I will take a shower because I am going to go to the Yoga studio for what is known as, "Open Practice." Open Practice is a time alloted for teachers, and students, to practice in the studio on their own for no charge. I have been going to this Open Practice for almost the whole two years that I have been going to this Yoga studio. Free is me.

Most of the other people who do open practice on Tuesdays are instructors. I do not let the fact that they know more, and can do more than me, intimidate me. I just do my thing, baby.

I don't know if I will ever be a certified Iyengar Instructor, but I would like to experience my Yoga practice at that level. That would be awesome!

One day I will walk on water, and all my dreams will come true. What a wonderful world it will be.

For the last couple of days the online mechanism that I use to store most of my writing has been acting up, which makes me realize that this system of backup is not infallible, and that I will have to back up the back. I need to do this sooner than later, but it is going to be a pain in the ass. There are certain things related to my writing that I like to do, mainly the actual writing itself, and things that I don't like to do, which is, mainly, everything else. I think that I am less a trained seal, willing to hop on a bucket and perform for a snack than I ever was, and I am not sure if that is a good thing, or not. Will it do the writing any good, to have it sit in notebooks gathering dust, and on hard drives waiting to crash?

Shawtie is coming to visit again. Some of you may remember that Shawtie's last visit was a bit traumatizing, as the young lady was wont to pick fights with my two young men, Bundy, and Morisson. I was, basically, kicked out of my family, when I was a kid, for not conforming. I chose to leave, but the choice was made infinitely clear by how I was treated. I am not going to kick Shawtie out of our family because of a few fights. Families should be strong, nuclear in strength as they are called, but, as many of us too well know, they are not. Oh well. Life gives you grapefruits, you make grapefruit juice.

It is the first of September, and I can't believe it. Thank God the hot, oppressive Atlanta summer is behind us. I really should be summering in The Hamptons, or on Martha's Vineyard. It's just too hot, down here in the ghetto.

A friend of mine brought me some eggs, this morning, but they weren't the usual eggs bought from a store; they were eggs given up to her by her own chickens. She has eleven chickens, and lives in a regular house, in a regular neighborhood. Somehow, this cracks me up. I also enjoy her industriousness; and the industriousness of her chickens.

As I walked in the house with the box filled with many many eggs (she gets 8 eggs a day from her chickens) I said to the dogs, "Your cholesterol is about to go up, and I am not going to run out of egg whites any time soon."

It is a beautiful thing how people will help other people. And it is a beautiful thing how chickens will help you, too.

I'm going to The Yoga Studio to do some back bends, and shoulder stands. I can't do these at home.

The charge to my checking account that came out of nowhere, and overdrew me, is going to be investigated. Do they free up your money the minuter you file a complaint, or does their investigation have to be complete before they give you your money back?

I may have to miss my meds for at least several weeks due to this, so if they carry me off to the funny farm, I hope that you will understand. Thanks to all who helped, yesterday. I feel the love.

Much of the time, this is good; some of the time this is bad. I have been taught that even meeting a bad person, that even winding up in a bad position has a lesson in it, which means that there is always good in the bad. I wish that I could be everything to everybody; I wish that everybody could be everything to me, but I can't, and you can't, so there we are.

I wish that my attitude was good all of the time. It certainly is a lot better most of the time than it used to be, but I would like to have a perfect attitude all of the time. Is this possible, or am I barking up a tree with bad apples, and rabid squirrels?

I believe that I am about to start writing music articles for a neat music website. The deal is not final yet, but I am looking forward to the gig. I once told myself that I did not want to wind up being 50 writing about 18 year olds' bands. I'm breaking my own policy, I guess, but you have to be flexible in this life. I will give you more details about this happening as things further unfold.

I am checking my bank account balance, regularly, to see if I am still overdrawn. What a pain in the ass the almighty dollar can be, especially when you don't have one. I pray to the creator for more financial stability in my life. Ha, does that mean that I am praying to God for a buck?

It was nice and chilly outside, this morning, when I took the dogs out to do their thing. I don't think that I have ever been so psyched for it to be sweater weather in my life. I regard summer weather, these days, here in Atlanta, as brutal. I think that I read somewhere that we were the fifth hottest city in the country, this summer. Gosh, I really feel bad for the top four.

The little blue weather channel box on the bottom of my laptop says that it is 69 degrees outside. I hope that you have a cool, and wonderful day. I have some paperwork to do, that I have been avoiding, that has a deadline, and a financial cost associated with it.

I need to get my ass in gear.
Hugs.

Jaggar likes to look out the window. I have a screened in window that he sits in for hours at a time. Last night, I was installing a new air conditioner that the landlord had given me. I had the old unit out, so the window was wide open. I live weirdly, in that you walk in my front door from the street, but because the house is built on a hill, there is a large drop from the window that I was working on to the sidewalk below. Did you catch that I said that I live weirdly? That was supposed to be a joke.

Anyway, I have the old ac out, and I am coming back with a broom to sweep all the spider webs, and dust from the window, and who is sitting there looking out, but Mr. Jaggar. Now, I know that cats have great balance, but still I was scared that my cat world fall, or, maybe jump, so I swatted him back into the abode with the broom, and installed the new ac.

That is my cat tale, as opposed to cat tail, for this morning.

People are checking in about this show that I am doing with the improv folk, tonight.

I just pulled my mike stand out of the dust of the front porch; the poor thing has seen better days, but we will have to do the show together, again, my dear. I'm living below the poverty line. I'm overdrawn at the bank, but I feel like Mick Jagger, as I blast The Stones, while filling out The Food Stamp Review paperwork.

"Ain't I rich enough?" I scream to no one there, but the dogs, the cats, and the turtles.

Yoga: just when I think that I have got it, or have, at least, gotten some small, small piece of it, I see someone in position, an instructor, usually, who shows me how it is actually supposed to be done, and I am off on, yet another, yoga adventure!

Fear and fear in Atlanta: My cat Kobain likes to climb on the back of the chair that I sit on while I am at my desk and scratch his claws. Several times, in the process, Kobain has scratched my back, and it has hurt like hell, so, now, every time that he starts to scratch the chair, I start to live in fear.

The dogs are out on the porch, The Love Porch; they have found spots in the sun, and they were not interested at all in following me back into the house, when I came back inside after rooting around on the porch to find my mike stand.

I imagine that it must get boring for these poor dogs to sit around this dinky apartment all the time. They probably yearn to wander acres and acres of an Irish farm. My father was from Ireland; he would never let us have dogs, because he grew up on a farm in County Cork where the dogs could wander for miles, and miles if they wanted to. He felt that dogs should not be confined to a house or apartment. I feel that he is full of shit, that love determines how happy a dog is, and not acreage. I love my dogs, and take great care of them, and I know that that there is nowhere that they would rather be then here. Screw a bunch of Irish farm talk.

I wish I knew her name. I wish I knew her name.

There is this lady, who works in the evil empire pharmacy, who is always super nice to me. She always calls me by my name, and I am always hem ming and hawing with, "Yes mam." It is so embarrassing, to me, to have someone know my name, and I don't know their name. I am bad with names. Fuck.

It is also funny, to me, how The Evil Empire Corporation, that contains a pharmacy within has so many nice people working for them, making so little money. Maybe it doesn't take huge bucks to put a smile on everyone's face.

I'm smiling right now, flatter than broke, but my friend, Michelle, is bringing me some Italian sausage, so I won't starve, and my friend, Emily, brought me two bags of groceries, the other night.

Just when you think that you are alone in this world, and about to starve to death, people let you know that they love you.

I'm going to start crying.

Banks suck, so I belong to a credit union, and, right now, they are sucking too. I explained to you how I got overdrawn, how a phantom 76.35 charge showed up on my account and as a result I was charged thirty five dollars twice because a twenty dollar withdrawal of mine had gone through at the same time


By accident, really, I am listening to classical music.

I left the radio on NPR, tonight, as I have been doing for the dogs, cats, and turtles, when I leave the house. I think that the critters like NPR better than the country station that I had been leaving on for them, bcause it was the only station that came in very well on my radio.

NPR plays great classical music.They play such great classical music that I am listening to it even though I am very tired, and, normally, when I am very tired, I turn all music off.

There is something about fatigue, and music, that doesn't blend well for me. In the morning, when I am rising, and am groggy, it is still the same: no music until later in the day.

Sea Salt tasted different to me, on my oatmeal, than Kosher salt does. Someone once told me that salt is salt, but I think that they are wrong.
‎
"Omit needless words."--Rule 17, "The Elements of Style," by William Strunk Jr., and E.B.White

I just found my copy of, "How To Make A Living As A Poet," by Gary Mex Glazner, a book that I bought based on the title, several years ago, that I have never opened. Maybe I should open it.

My friend, and Yoga instructror Scott Schroeder turned me onto the book, "On Writing," by Stephen King. I'm on page 10, and, so far the book is interesting, and humorous. I have never read a Stephen King book before in my life, and I am 53.

What a beautiful day out; the sun is shining, but there is a cool in the air, instead of an intense heat. I had lunch with my youngest son, we went to the Edgewood FIGO. The service was spectacular; the food was so, so. I love hanging out with my kids, though, whatever it is that we are dog. My son called me a, "Social Butterfly;" several times. I love living, and I love talking to folks. I'm off to the Yoga studio,now: Om.

It's midnight, and the dogs are very active, as if they think that we are going to do something, other than wind down the day, and, soon, go to sleep. I don't know what is up with them. I don't know what has gotten into them.



Today will be an interesting day.

I already have three dogs, two cats, and two turtles here with me in this very small abode, and I am about to get two more dogs added to the mix.

Dude, and Shanghai will join us, and my hope is that Shawtie will get along with Dude. Shawtie normally lives with Shanghai, over at G2's house, so there should be no problem there, (Shawtie is staying with us for a week), but Dude is new to our extended family of dogs; Kevin brought Dude home several weeks ago to live with him.

I am hoping for the best, but will be keeping a strong eye, and an ear, out for any pre-battle growling. I am tied to this house for the day, for certain.

It is 61 degrees outside. It felt marvelous, when I took the dogs out this morning. It is Sunday; rejoice that we have the gift of life.

I'm having boiled eggs, fried eggs, omelettes, poached eggs; eggs for breakfast, eggs for lunch, eggs for dinner, eggs for midnight snack.

Dude is sad because Kevin is gone. He keep looking out the glass door at the front of our house for his master who has just left. He is having a bit of separation anxiety, whining quite a bit. Shawtie, who I am most afraid, of getting in a fight with Dude, keeps following Dude around. Shawtie, for God's sake, give the dog some space.

Morisson, and Bundy, have attached themselves to me, since Dude, and Shanghai's arrival. Surprisingly. Morisson snapped at Dude, the first thing, when Dude came in our front door. Dude is now trying to ferret out Jaggar from underneath my bed. Kevin, Dude's master, seemed concerned about Dude and the cats. Kobain, and Jaggar, know their way around this apartment. It is Dude who better look out, if he starts messing with my cats.

Everybody(all five dogs, and two cats)have sniffed each other out, and are now laying down.

I am surprised to see Shawtie down below me, near to me; she usually is off on her own, when it is just her, and Bundy, and Morisson, here.

Perhaps since Dude is a new dog to her scene, she is feeling the need to be close to me. It's kind of touching, actually.

Dude has staked out the kitchen floor for himself. He is staying away from the other dogs, but has his eyes wide open, and they are focused on me.

Dogs are such beautiful, brilliant animals; what a blessing to be able to share time with them/so many of them, today.

We made it through the nap successfully. One of the dogs dropped a load near my desk. If it was Dude, it was his third dropped load of this visit. Some dogs sure do crap a lot. I am fixing myself a coffee, and then I am going to take the dogs outside, in two groups, one group at a time. This nap was refreshing. I am ready to go. Wait, I can't go anywhere; I have five dogs to watch!
‎"Sometimes we must get hurt in order to grow. We must fail inorder to know. Sometimes our vision is clear only after oureyes are washed away with tears."--Unknown

Jane Reis We all have our stories, we all have our pain, do we choose to stay dry in the midst of the rain? Let's get wet, let it pour, do not choose to ignore, irrigation is good for the soul.

Mikel K Poet Who wrote that?

Jane Reis that would be me ...

Mikel K Poet I like it. Do you write often?

Jane Reis thank you....yes, I've turned to writing more lately to express.It seems to want to come out. Both my parent's write and speak.

Mikel K Poet What type of writing do you find yourself mostly doing? Journaling? Poetry? Fiction?

Jane Reis Now, seems to be poetry. My attention span has always been a challenge so to speak...lol. Poetry, metaphors, etc...I find easier to relate to. I go back also to having my Father read to me from these old nursery rhymes....old books, and I was always captivated by his voice, and the simplicity of the prose. The "message" was there in a clever way. That's always stayed with me.

Jane Reis and frankly, reading your daily prose, is very inspiring.....:)

Mikel K Poet Thanks. How so?

Jane Reis The rawness of it all, the varying thoughts, topics..putting it all out there...just expressing...many reasons....

Mikel K Poet Does that make you want me?

Jane Reis Mikel...you cause a girl with a lotta words sometimes to become speechless. blush blush.....

Mikel K Poet Cumere little girl!


Shawtie has positioned herself at my front door and is barking through the glass at everything, and everyone that walks by. I'm pretty sure that even falling leaves get barked at by Shawtie; she is ruthless, and she is relentless when it comes to guarding the fort, or is it her neurosis that makes her do what she does?



I just saw my black cat, Jaggar, for the first time since around ten a.m. this morning. Jaggar stayed hidden under my bed while Dude was here. Dude is a half Lab half Rotweiller with a strong curiosity about cats; and Jaggar just doesn't like it when a big dog is curious about him. Kobain, my other, cat and Dude came to an agreement, of sorts, with my help, whereby Dude would not chase Kobain about the apartment, and Kobain would not slap his paw onto Dude's face.

It was an interesting day, here at The K Abode, having to watch five dogs, two cats, and two turtles. The turtles are chill; mellow, and don't require a lot of attention. I turn their heat light on in the morning, and feed them; I turn the light out at night, and feed them; and that's about it.

When you have five dogs, and two cats, though, you have to keep a bit of an eye on the scene. I was sure that Shawtie would pick a fight with Dude, but she didn't. Good thing, too, cuz Dude would have wailed on her.

I'm tired. I hope that your day went well, like mine did. Sleep well.


The crispness of the morning was so very refreshing, this morning, as I stood out there in the dark at 6 a.m., and let the dogs do their thing.

I don't think that there will be a need for air conditioners, today, and we will be spared the need for the use of heaters for awhile. Too bad that the utility company often doesn't read the meter; they just bill you based on past bills. It seems like there is no incentive for saving on electricity when they are going to charge you for it anyway.

Ah, but this is not a day to bitch, this is yet another day to be thankful for having woke, this morning, to see yet another new day.

Shawtie has been really well behaved on this visit. She has not picked a fight with either Morisson, or Bundy, and I am thankful for that. I acquired Shawtie quite a few years ago from some neighbors who were going to take her to the pound, and she has lived with me, and two other family members, at different times, over those years. She is part of our family, and it is always good to see family members doing well.

I have a pregnant cat living on my porch (The Love Porch). Her name is Daphne, and she is not very friendly to me; in fact she scratched me, one afternoon, when I tried to pet her. I just put down a little bit of food for her, and she was hissing at me, by way of thanks, as I did it.

I think that love can conquer most anything, so I am going to continue to love Daphne, no matter how she feels about me.(I will keep my hands away from her, however!)

I took the day off, yesterday, from Yoga, and exercise. I have been told that you should take one day off. I had five dogs here yesterday, so I didn't really have the time to think about whether I missed my workouts, or not.

I have been real good about doing a Yoga practice every day, but I need to be more diligent about getting my aerobic workouts in. I weighed 267.5, this morning, which I have been holding steady at for several weeks, down from 286 when I started exercising, and measuring my food before I eat it.

My goal is to weigh 220 in 51 weeks. It is funny how people react to you with less weight on you. The babes are flocking to me, like I am a babe magnet, now, and they stayed away from me en masse 20 pounds ago!

I took a nice two hour nap. Perhaps I should not call it a nap, but, rather, an extension of sleep, as I usually wake up between 5 and 7 a.m., writer for two to four hours, and then go back to sleep. Is that a nap? Not really? Kind of, sort of?

Shawtie near constantly barks at the front door, even when I have it shut. She hears things, when she can't see them. This is not being a good guard dog; this is being a pain in the butt. Shut up Shawtie; shut up.

I have entered into online comma, and semicolon conversations with a young lady who I met online. This has given me room for pause.

I am loving the weather, today. It was cool, and crisp when I strolled out into it, earlier, this morning, to take my first timed walk. I am now walking with purpose. I found a walking plan on a walking website, and I am following it. Yoga, and walking are my things, right now. As I get in shape, I feel as if I can conquer the world; at least my little bit of it. Being in shape, and exercising, makes you feel, as well as look better. My moods are so great when I am eating from the exercise plate.

Ha ha.


I'm burping salmon, tonight, the last piece in the freezer. I will burp eggs for the next three days, but I don't mind; I'd rather be a poet getting protein where he can, than anything else getting fat off the land.

I'm torn as to whether to go to Yoga, tonight, or tomorrow night, or Wed. night. I'm sure that the answer will appear.

I am going to start buying the poetry books written by the teachers who might teach me at the school where I am going to apply to get an MFA in Poetry/Memoir. I think it is a good idea to see if you, and they, are anywhere near on the same page.

I just took a nice nap. I don't know where I would be if naps didn't exist; if naps were not possible. I'd like to be scratched on the back like the honey bee.

My neighbor down the street is moving out because her landlord died, and his wife wants to sell the house. My neighbor left a box of coffee cups, and drinking glasses by the street. At the bottom were some cassettes: R.E.M. eponymous, and Elvis Now, by Elvis Presley, among them. Amazingly, I still have a cassette player. Elvis sings, "Hey Jude," on the tape. The Beatles did it way better.

He's trying to get me to conform to some sort of language expectation of his, that I can't conform to because it isn't within me. I told him what I thought straight up, and, now, he is trying to tell me how it is: a clash of wills.

I was taught a long time, ago, how to end a fight, mostly one that would take place in a bar. I won't get into detail, but each technique involved either a wine bottle, a beer bottle, or a lit cigarette. There was no karate belt involved, no karate yell, no jiu jitsu take downs, or choke holds, or take downs,just the willingness to hurt another human being very, very much to "win."

I'm glad that I lived through that time period. Alcohol lead me into some pretty dark, and dangerous situations. I think that I have some knowlege about "fighting" that could benefit someone, but, you know what, if "someone" doesn't want to listen, then someone will wind up where someone goes.

My oldest boy spends no time with me. He married this gal, and they moved near her folks, and he spends a lot of time with her dad. I feel like kind of a scumbag, over this, sometimes, but, hell, the youngest boy lives several football fields apart from me, and I don't see him either, and my daughter is popping into the house less, and less, as she nears her senior year of high school.

I left home when I was 18, telling my father that he was, "an asshole,now, and had always been an asshole." I tried to make up one time, was supposed to spend the night, but he locked me out for being late to his curfew. I have not seen my mother in 35 years; and have no desire to see her. I guess I am no example to speak of for how a child is to treat his parents once he has reached the legal age to do whatever he wants.

People often do not conform to my expectations of them. Sometimes people do turn out to be the pricks that I expect them to be; it might take awhile, but that inner nature that they initially revealed to you, is in there simmering waiting to come out. I am not sure why they don't act like an asshole right away; usually, though, I think that it is because they want something, or they want to see if you have anything that they might want to have.

Take a pot smoker, who I might call, "Sniff." He, or she, might be all nice to you because they know that you have pot. It is funny how they have an uncanny knack for knocking on your door when you are lighting a bowl.

The pot won't be enough, though; they are somehow going to encroach upon your territory. Watch out for the Pot Sniffers, and other Sniffers, on the planet. An antihistamine won't scare them away.

I took Bundy out for a long walk, this afternoon, so Morisson, and Shawtie, were owed one, tonight. I called to Morisson, and he came. I called to Shawtie, and she went and hid under a table. Her loss: no walk.

On our walk we passed only one human, a very old skinny gay man, who reminded me of William Burroughs. The guy was plastered; he didn't even see us, man and dog. I am thinking that he was in a blackout, and was seeing nothing, but was on auto-pilot to walk home. I had that same auto-pilot on for very many years. I hope the old buy makes it home. I hope that he gets sober, one day, like I did; it's a better way to live.

A cat that is likely to bite you is not a cat that you should keep on your porch. I gave a neighbor the bum's rush, yesterday, after he wrote me a snitty note. I had been letting him keep his mean ass cat on my porch so it could have babies, but it appears that for some people helping them out is not enough: they want to take over, and start telling you what is up on your own porch. No. No. No.



Shawtie got as close to the cats' food bowls, this morning, as she thought that she could without getting in trouble, and then, when the cats were done eating, she tried to stick her nose in one of their bowls.

She got a firm, "No Shawtie," from me. Even if the bowl is empty, I don't want Shawtie, or any of the dogs to think that it is ok to stick their nose in where it doesn't belong. As it is, Shawtie has Morisson scared to take his usual place by the kitchen when I am in there. Shawtie is now lead mooch in the household, I guess for the length of her visit.

Shawtie snapped at Bundy, yesterday. It was her first overtly aggressive act since she got here three days ago, which for her is very good. The dogs were fighting, at the front door, over who was going to get to say hello to Scout first. I think to say that it is fair that Shawtie won that battle.

The people that get close to me think that something is wrong with them. They got this idea from someone(s) that they just ain't quite right. To my way of thinking it is the folks that are pointing the finger that ain't quite right. Keep your rules, and regulations, out of my mind. I ain't hurting anybody. I'm just trying to be all that I can be.

This guy came onto my porch, yesterday morning. The dogs went ballistic. The guy stood back from the closed glass front door, pointing at the dogs, as if to say he was scared.

"Are you selling something," I hollered at him, over the din of the dogs.

He kept pointing to his name tag, as if that was the answer to my question.

Why should I go the distance with some guy, just because he has shown up on my porch, and step out there and let him try to sell me something? Why should I step outside, and talk to a man who has been trained to handle my objections, and ignore all my "No's" until he gets a yes.

Why should I interact with a man who has bothered my dogs.

"I'm busy, and I'm not interested," I hollered at him. He seemed relieved to be able to go. The man was probably trained to not leave the porch until he got some money. He is the victim of ruthless sales managers. The poor bastard is just trying to make a buck. I am down to nineteen bucks in my checking account, and I will mostly eat white pasta, and brown rice for three days until my next unemployment check comes in.
I'm not complaining. I am just stating the facts, mam; facts that a guy who goes door to door is mostly trained to ignore.

Kill, kill, kill the enemy.

I am awake, again, feeling mean, and groggy. Crossing me, right now, would be a silly mistake. Maintain a healthy distance. I had the most bizarre, unsettling dream, that seemed so real; it has thrown me off. I need coffee, and more water splashed on my face. My beauty sleep has resulted in no beauty. As the robot in the tv show, "Lost in Space," used to say, "Danger, Danger!!"
Shawtie, and Bundy, got at it, very briefly, this morning when I brought them in from their morning outside visit. I don't know what was up with their aggression, this a.m. but, thankfully, they broke off when I screamed, "Shawtie," very loudly. I was glad that she listened.

Scout, and I were discussing Shawtie, yesterday, and she was saying how she doesn't like Shawtie because, back at Scout's house, Shawtie sometimes attacks her dog Shanghai. I don't much care for Shawtie for the same reason, that she is prone to attack my dogs Bundy, and Morisson. Morisson has been able to keep away from her on this visit, which I am thankful for. Mo is not much of a fighter. He is a lover, for sure.

Scout was saying how Shawtie is part pit bull and part sharpee, and how this might contribute to her aggressiveness, and her ability to be such a mean fighter.

This visit has not been as bad as the last. Shawtie has only picked two fights, as opposed to six, last time; of course there are five days left in her visit!

We'll see...

You have to check your writing twice, ten times, twenty; the inspection is needed to find errors, and, at some point, becomes called a rewrite which is essential to a poem, and I would think could not hurt any other piece of writing.

Even checking things as often as I do, mistakes still, sometimes, slip by me, and make it to the eyes of the general reading public.

It was chilly out there, this morning. The little blue Weather Channel box at the bottom of my laptop says that it is 68 degrees out. What a pleasant temperature, especially when you compare it to the 90 degree plus weather that we endured, this past summer. It is predicted that the temperature will not climb any higher than the low 80's, today; for this I am grateful.




I got into a discussion about wisdom teeth with a friend the other night. She was saying how she was knocked out when they pulled hers, and I was saying how they just shot me up with Novocaine, and pulled mine.

"That must have been painful," she said, and, as I recall, it certainly was. I was young, and didn't have much money, or insurance, so the staying awake, and getting shot up with Novocaine, was the option that I had to take.

Right now, I am older and don't have any money, so if I had to have teeth pulled, the tooth, or teeth, would have to wait, and I would have to live with the pain. Such is life in the fast lane.

It was Monday, and I was all set to eat pasta and rice until the check came in on Thursday: no protein, no salad, no fruit, just more, more, more of the stuff that made me fat in the first place. What can you do if it's all that you have to eat?

Well, a patron of the arts, reading what I was about to eat was kind enough to put some money in The Mikel K Tip Jar, enough money to feed me until Thursday. I can not tell you how thankful I am for this. And then The Good Neighbors came thru with some dollars for watching their dogs, this past weekend; I feel rich.

I'm behind on the DSL, hoping that the internet won't get cut off, the utility company wants their money, and so does ATT for usage of their cell phone satellites.

I limp by, but I limp by happily. I am free, most of the time, to write. My time is my own. I don't have a car, I don't own a house, I don't have credit cards, so, I guess, that I could be looked at as either way out of the system, or happily functioning within it.

I feel pretty good.

All that said, if you want to put some money in the tip jar to help me with these bills, you will also be helping me continue to write this poetry, and to write the current memoir that I am working on called, "I'm happy to be alive."

If you do put some money in the tip jar, I will give you an E Copy of my memoir,
"Did you write the book of love?"

My telephone food stamp review did not go so well yesterday. So many of the women from the food stamp office are so very condescending. It is as if their philosophy is to kick them when you are down. This lady acted as if I was a bad person for most of the conversation. I wonder if they are trained to do that, to make you feel like shit for having a need for food stamps. Doesn't she realize that without my need, without the need of others for food stamps, she would not have a job?

"Every strike brings me closer to the next home run."--Babe Ruth

I like this quote; there is something real about it. I can relate to it, and incorporate it into my life, into my belief system. I already believe the saying that, "Something good comes out of all bad." I believe that; I have, already, incorporated that into my belief system. It helps me in tough times, to believe this way. I also believe that you, often, have to look for the good, that it will not automatically manifest itself to you. It is there though, trust me.

The summer Yoga session ended for me, yesterday. We start the winter session next week. This session was my first session back, after having hip replacement surgery.

I am proud to say that I attended all 12 sessions. I am happy to say that my new hip has taken to my Yoga like my dogs take to water that I have just poured for them in the kitchen.

I feel that, after two years, I am starting to "get" Iyengar Yoga, or that it is starting to get me. My poses are starting to look a bit like the pictures on the wall, and the pictures in the book, "Light on Yoga," by BKS Iyengar.

I am not saying that my poses are as good as Mr. Iyengar's, but that they are starting to resemble how they are supposed to be, and I am very thankful for this.

I just had another thought on striking out; maybe the quote can be applied to love, also. The more you strike out, the more you get turned down, stood up, and down right ignored, the more you are getting closer to that one true love, if there is such a thing. Is there such a thing? Were we created to go through life with one other person, or is variety the spice of life?


My father used to take pride that he knew what was going on in the world; I like to think that I know what is going on in my world. Reading the paper makes you aware of other peoples' stories; looking around, and observing the world around you, makes you aware of your own surroundings.

For too long, I was addicted to cable tv news. I lived on the fear that those channels put into you. I was addicted to their world. I was force fed whatever they wanted to feed me. I believed most of what they wanted me to believe.

The result was that I was often angry.

How can you not be angry when constantly watching tales of rape, murder, war, etc.?

Now, I am comfortably numb. I can't tell you what The Republicans, or The Democrats are up to, I can't tell you if there were any fires in California, or murders in Atlanta.

What am I missing by tuning out, turning the tv off?

(A cable bill, one reader replied!!)

My mind is shutting down; signaling that it is time to make my way to the bed. I must put the last of the dishes in the dishwasher, wipe down the kitchen counters, and sink; feed the turtles, and put out their light, brush my teeth, say goodnight to my Higher Power, and thank him / her for keeping me sober, and off drugs, and cigarettes for yet another day. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I'm reading Stephen King's memoir, "On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. What a great book. My friend and Yoga instructor, Scott Schroeder was bragging to me, the other week, about how great it was. He said that, as a writer, I must read it, and then he said, "Heck, I'll just lend you my copy."

I'm glad that he did. I have never read a Stephen King book before in my life, and I think that this one is a great place to start. King starts off talking about his childhood, how it was his dream, and goal, to be a writer. He, then, takes us through some near-starving times that he had as a husband, and a father, leading right up to when the miracle of his book, "Carrie," happened. I am about to embark on the part of the book where he starts to give writing lessons. I am sure that this will be fun to read, also.

Shawtie was snoring, last night. This is the first time that I have ever heard her snore, and it was very disconcerting. She was so loud that I had trouble going to sleep. I thought about prodding her, but I thought that that would be unkind. I tried to focus on my breath coming in and out of my nose down to my stomach, and just meditate her snoring away. I guess that that worked because I don't remember going to sleep, and I woke up feeling very, very fresh this morning.

Coffee is made, some Yoga asanas have been done, and I am ready to start the new day. I thank The Creator for letting me see the new day, breath the air of a new day.

Scout is having problems with both math., and a math. teacher. The teacher does not like Scout, and Scout does not like the teacher, and, consequently, Scout, who never does very well in math,, is, once again, failing a math. class.

I met the math. teacher, yesterday, and it was clear the contempt, and animosity, that she had for my daughter. I am hoping that the situation is salvageable. Scout agreed to go to the lady's after school math. help sessions. Just the thing: you can't stand a teacher, and you wind up spending extra time with her.

I love Scout, and really would like to have yelled at the teacher, knowing all that I know about her, but that would not have helped the situation at all. Sometimes, unfortunately, you have to bite your tongue, and say a prayer in this world, and hope that certain situations will just pass. Scout needs to learn that you won't like everyone in this world, but, sometimes, have to get along with them in order to achieve your goal. I reminded Scout that her goal, in this situation, is to pass math.

Say a prayer for Scout, won't you?

Downward facing dog, or Adho Mudka Svanasana, as it is written in Sanskrit, is one of my favorite Yoga positions. I like the stretch that it gives my legs. It is supposed to, also, calm the brain, an effect that I certainly enjoy. Right after walking the dogs, this morning, I got on my Yoga mat and got into the Adho Mudka Svanasana position. I think that downward facing dog is a beautiful way to start your day.

A "friend" of mine, and I were supposed to hang out, last night. We were supposed to go see a movie, and have a cup of coffee, and some intelligent, and fun, conversation beforehand.

Two hours before the movie was scheduled to start, my friend, sent me a message on the internet saying that her car was overheating, and that she couldn't make it.

I found the timing weird, and wasn't sure if I believed her, or not. My feelings were hurt, and I was disappointed. I had been looking forward to hanging out with, and getting to know, this young lady.

Life does not always go the way that we want it to. I have no idea whether this gal's car broke down, or if she just came up with a clever excuse for getting out of something that she didn't want to do. Time will tell. I said to her that I was not going to ask her out again, because I did not know what was up with her, and that if she wanted to hang out with me, she could do the asking.

This is a clear cut time to just carry on with life, and not worry about the behavior of others: I have no control over what other people say, or do. I had a great night in spite of being canceled on: it was like I had been handed some extra free time.

Her loss; ha, ha.

The lady who owns the Yoga studio, where I take classes at, and is also my primary instructor, Kathleen Pringle, has let me have a key to the studio, so that I can go in and practice on my own.

I have been going in and doing so, five days a week. The advantage to going into the studio, as opposed to practicing at home, is that I can use the props, and get into several positions that I can't get into at home, such as shoulder stand, or Sarvangasana, as it is called in Sanskrit.

I practiced for an hour, yesterday. I am so thankful for this, because when I started to study Yoga, I could not practice for much more than ten minutes, because I did not know enough asanas to practice for any more than that.

I am glad that I have stuck with my Yoga, this Iyengar Yoga that I was lucky enough to find. There are two things that I have wanted this bad in my life, wanted to be a part of, and to do well at, and the other is my writing. I am blessed to have both of them in my life.

If I had a car, things would be easier for me, on one hand. I could get to places faster, and more easily, and I could carry things about. Now, when I need to get a huge bag of dog food home, I have to beg a ride from folks, which is kind of a pain in their ass, and is kind of embarrassing to me.

On the other hand, I do not have the expense of a car. I don't have a payment. I don't have car insurance. I don't have to pay for tires, oil changes, and busted radiator hoses. And because I am not scrambling to pay for all these things, I have more free time for me, my time is my own, and I can use it to write.

A writer must write, he must not be on a time clock somewhere, just because he wants a car. Does this make any sense to you?

When I was a kid, in the seventh grade, there was this really cute, and funny, girl sitting next to me in home room, who I will call Janet. Janet, and I, used to laugh, and chat, all the time, but then Janet started hanging out with this group of kids who did not like me, because I had quit hanging around them, and Janet quit talking to me, quit laughing with me.

They were the "cool" kids, and my 6th grade teacher, had said to me that I was better than them, and shouldn't be hanging out with them. I took her advice, and those kids taunted me, and made my life difficult from the sixth grade until the eleventh grade when I moved to Florida.

It is funny how what one person, or persons, says about you can affect what another person, or persons, feels about you. I wonder if Janet, as an adult, still makes her decisions based on what other people say to her?

Some lessons in life are harder to swallow, especially when you are younger. The "cool" kids weren't really cool, now were they?

When I got to the Yoga studio, yesterday, I realized that I had left the key to the studio at home. When I walked onto my porch (The Love Porch) Scout was outside with two of her friends, and one of them had one of my turtles in her hand, and was petting it.

"Do they feel it when you pet them on the shell?" she asked me.

My heart was beating a million miles an hour. I was feeling for the safety of my turtle. Never before had he been out of his aquarium, and in someone's hands besides mine. Part of me wanted to freak out, and say, "What the heck are you doing to my turtle," but I knew that that would be inappropriate.

Part of me also knew that it was probably good for the turtle to get some loving, so I went and got my key, and left the girls on the porch babysitting my turtle. Sometimes, you just have to have faith in the process.

Stephen King has inspired me to spend more time on this memoir. Usually, I just write on it, until I don't feel like writing on it anymore, but this morning, I did an hour long timed writing. I am thinking about doing another hour later in the day. I need to spend an hour writing poetry also. This will be something very new to me, if I stick with it. I have always written when the muse hits, and not tried to hit the muse up for some inspiration.

Let's see how it goes.

It is Friday. For many, many people this is the end of their work week. I applaud you for the time that you have put in to pay your rent, or mortgages, the time that you have put in to keep your car on the highway, the time that you have put in to feed your children. Having a job is a wonderful thing; in a sense it gives you freedom, because without it you would be screwed. I used to look at a job, as having a noose tied around my neck, because it kept me from doing what I want to do; it kept me from "being" a writer. I will write in whatever situation I am in.

Take that!


I love sausage. I realize that it is not very good for me, and I further realize that it is not any good for the animal that it was made out of. Poor animal. Poor me.

I haven't eaten any chocolate in six weeks. This is an amazing feat of willpower on my part, because I love chocolate, but I love the idea of weighing 220, down from 286, in 51 weeks, more than I love chocolate.

I had the weirdest dream, last night. There were characters in it, out of my past, who I thought that I had forgotten about, but there they were so very vivid, almost alive, in my dream.

I wonder what dreams mean? I wonder if dreams matter, of if they are just things that occur to help us pass the night? I know that much has been written about dreams, but I have never been interested to read any of it. I have always looked at dreams like I look at Tarot cards, as if there might be something to both of them, but neither one is something that I really care enough about to investigate.

Mostly, I never remember dreaming. Maybe, if my dreams get vivid enough, for long enough, I will do some investigating. "Dream until your dreams come true," a band once sang.

Now that I have written how well that I have done in not eating chocolate, I have this sudden craving for brownies. I won't cave into it though; I want to be a thin man. I want to have one of those awesome Yoga bodies that you see on people who have been practicing Yoga for a long time. I want to be Superman.

I really want to throw things at Shawtie, and kick her, at times; and tonight was one of those times. The UPS man knocked on our front door, so, of course, Shawtie, and Bundy, went ballistic.

I got Bundy to quiet down, by hollering at him, "Go home, Bundy. Go home." Bundy knows that this is one of my signals to him to get him to stop barking. Well, since Bundy stopped barking, Shawtie stopped barking, and she followed Bundy behind the old chair, in the corner of our living room, which is one of the places where Bundy "goes home."

The next thing I know there is a loud dogfight happening behind the chair. The dogs are fighting over who is going to get to stay behind the chair. Shawtie likes to take over, whenever she comes over, and I don't like that. She should fit in, dumass dog. I really want to kick her, sometimes.

It's 4:34 a.m. my thought is that it may be too early to write, I'm not sure whether to fix a cup of coffee, yet, as I may be going back to bed. I woke to pee, and here I am at the laptop keys. There is not really much on my mind yet; whether to go back to the bed, or not, pretty much dominates my thoughts.

I'm starting my hour timed writing at 10:59 a.m. this morning. I just glanced over at my turtles. They are running back, and forth on the bottom of their box. Their water needs to be changed, but I won't have money for new filters until Tuesday, if then.

Whether I have money for new filters, or not, will depend on what kind of a deal that I can work out with the utility company on paying my bill. If I get to spread the payments over three weeks, the turtles will get a new filter this Thursday, if they make me pay in two payments, the turtle will have to wait at least two weeks for a new filter.

In his book, "On Writing," Stephen King describes how broke he, his wife, and their two children were as Stephen was embarking on his writing career. Stephen had a low paying job as an English teacher, his wife worked at Dunkin' Donuts; their car needed a new transmission, and they couldn't afford one; they didn't have a phone.

Stephen King, and I, have this broke thing in common. The strange thing is that he is about my age, now, not broke, and I am still broke. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over, and over, and expecting different results. There might be a lesson in there for me.

Hmmmmmmmmmmm.

My friend David Herrle just published his first book of poetry. "Abyssinia, Jill Rush," has just been put on the market by, Time Being Books. David knows that I am broke, and is sending me a copy! Since I haven't read the book, yet, I can't tell you anything about it; I can only tell you that David Herrle is a very intelligent, and creative fellow, and it would behoove you to buy a copy of "Abyssinia, Jill," and read it.

http://www.timebeing.com/index.php?page=shop.product_details&category_id=56&flypage=FULLflypage.tpl&product_id=122&vmcchk=1&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=24

Someday, I will get my act together and publish both my poetry, and my memoirs. For now, I seem happy to just write. Remember the lines from Jim Morrison that went, "Time to live; time to die?" Well, my motto is, "Time to write; time to publish!"

The other morning, I was doing my walk early. Squirrels were scattering to the side of me, as I walked, and birds flew to tree branches above my head. It was a weird, almost surreal experience. Perhaps the animals were not used to intrusion at such an early point in the morning. I said hello to them, but they did not talk back.

Even though my youngest son is 21, and is very self-sufficient, I still worry about him from time to time. I think that, primarily, I am thinking back to what a mess I was at that point in my life. In the period directly before becoming a mess, I certainly did not think that I was a mess. I thought that I was having fun, drinking, and chasing the ladies. Most of the ladies eluded me, but the booze caught up with me. I don't have any idea what my son't social life is like, it's not the type of thing that he discusses with me, but I pray that his outcome is better than mine was.

Shawtie has only one or two more days with us, as a visitor. This time out she has been so much better than the last time that she stayed with us. She has gotten into only three very minor skirmishes, all with Bundy; none with Mo this time.

Shawties has spent a lot of time on the edge of the kitchen, hoping that I would throw her scraps. Right now she is at my feet, curled up next to Bundy. I am amazed that the two of them can share the small space that exists under my desk. I am, also, amazed that Bundy is willing to share this space. This space is his space. Shawtie is tougher than him, so I guess that there is really nothing that he can do about it.

Today, is the 9th anniversary of what has come to be known as 911. Bin Laden, allegedly responsible for the catastrophe, has not been caught in all that time. People have different claims for what happened, and who was responsible. Some people say that The Government staged it. I have no idea who was responsible.

I do remember the fear that ran through my head and heart, as I watched the Twin Towers die, with all those people losing their lives inside.

There was that same feeling of powerlessness, that I had felt in Tallahassee, Florida, when Ted Bundy had killed my friend Margaret Boman, and several of her Chi Omega sorority sisters, and we didn't yet know who had done it.

Was the world ending? Was the US under attack? Who were the madmen at work on this, were the thoughts going through my mind as I watched the horror show take place in New York City.

Am I next? Who is next? Who could have done such an evil thing, were the thoughts running through my mind, after my friend, Margaret, was randomly, and senselessly killed.

I hope that I never feel like I did in either of these instances, again. I hope that you never have to feel like that again, for I am sure that September 11, 2001 was a mind-altering, life-changing thing for you to experience,also.

God bless us all.

Someone asked me via the internet what the weather was like here. He said that he was wearing topcoats, these days, there, where he was. I'm not sure where there, where he was, was, and, weirdly, I don not know what the weather is like outside, here, where I am, even though I stepped out into it a bit, for a bit, not too long ago, this morning, with the dogs.

Sometimes, the dogs, and Bundy, especially, are challenging. Bundy likes to wander off to my neighbor's lawns, and then, at times, to the great beyond, and he seems to come up deaf when I call to him not to do so.

It was that kind of morning. Shawtie, and Morisson, stayed close to our property, like good dogs, causing me no trouble, but Bundy headed north. There is a fire hydrant that borders my neighbor's property, and ours, that Bundy seems to be in love with. I might let him have his short fling/thing with the fire hydrant, but the minute he is done loving on the fire hydrant, Bundy wants to head to points further north, points where I can't see, and supervise him.

I used to have this problem with Morisson. Morisson used to be the run away dog. Blink and you would miss him. Let him get out of your sight, and he was gone. But Mo has not run off in quite awhile now. I am thankful for that, because the last time that he ran off, he was found dodging cars on a busy street near here; not a good thing, at all.

I believe that my mother is around 86 years old. I have not seen here since 1978. She used to love me, but once my father died she adopted his attitude that I was evil. My kids love me. I find it funny, and interesting, that the family above me thinks that I am bad, but the family below me thinks that I am fantastic. One out of two ain't bad!

There is nine minutes left in this timed writing. I think that this is a good thing that I have picked up from Stephen King in his book, "On Writing." Mr. King talked about a writer who wrote for 2 1/2 hours to the minute every day, stopping mid-sentence if that is where he was when the alarm went off.

I am not setting an alarm, but I think that the discipline of timing some writing for me is a good idea. Normally, I just write until I don't feel like writing anymore. That could be a word later. A writer must write, or else he, or she, is not a writer.

I think that I am going to listen to The Jerry Garcia band play, after I finish this hour, and write some poetry. I am not so sure that poetry will function well under timing, but I won't know until I try. Actually, I tried the other day, but I wandered from it. The internet is a great distraction to a writer. It is also a great gift to one who writes. In a sense, the whole world is at your fingertips, when you have the internet available to you.

My internet service is costing me sixty two dollars a month, which is, to my way of thinking, far too much. It seems like a fair price for the internet would be around 25 dollars, but then, are we living in times of fair prices?

I found a place, Angel Food Ministries, that seems to offer food at a fair price. If the lady on the phone is to be believed, the food that I am going to get from them is going to be way more than I need, for a month,and will not eat up all my Food Stamp Money. (I hate to admit that I am on Food Stamps. It seems like such an un-Republican thing to do. I want the world to think that I am a huge success, dependent on no one for anything.) But, I'm not; no man is an island, they say, and, I guess that they are right.

It is now noon. I wrote a minute over!

I wrote 942 words, today, in an hour, on my new memoir, "I'm Glad To Be Alive."

Stephen King likes to write 2,000 words a day, which results in 180,000 words over a three month span, which he says is a "Goodish," length for a book. I need to work on my current memoir for another hour today, and try to get two hours in on it each day.

Thank you, Mr. King for being a leader; so often it is nice to have a guide to where we are going.

I also need to edit my two recently finished memoirs, "Did You Write The Book Of Love?," and "Baking Banana Bread From Scratch." I tend to be better at cranking new words than I am at looking back at old words that I have written.

I, also, need to go through all the poems that I have written since 1982, and form them into submittable books.

Why not?


"Only under dire circumstances do I allow myself to shut down before I get my 2,000 words."--Stephen King, talking about the number of words he must write daily, in his book, "On Writing."

Mid-week, the bottom shelf in my refrigerator door broke, sending all the items on that shelf onto my kitchen floor. One of those items was the pancake syrup container.

I did not notice, at the time, that the fall had caused the plastic container to crack at the bottom. I put the syrup container back in the refrigerator along with all the other things that had fallen. As time went on I started to notice sticky stuff all over the place, starting with my kitchen counters, and winding up on all the jars that I pulled from the refrigerator.

Then, a large brown spot appeared in front of the refrigerator, and the kitchen floor started to get sticky. The pancake syrup container that I had not noticed was cracked was leaking syrup all over the refrigerator, and beyond. I'll never eat pancakes, again.

Today's Yoga practice, in the Yoga studio, was not the best. Things did not feel right in most of my positions. I seemed to lack an energy, an enthusiasm for the work that I had had all week. Tomorrow is Sunday, my day off from everything exercise. Perhaps my body was ready to take a break a day early. I did not skimp on anything because I felt lethargic. I did my whole workout. I am sure that there is more benefit in having a less than perfect workout than there is in having no workout. The mat is my friend. The bricks, and blankets, and other Iyengar Yoga props are my friend. The Yoga studio is my friend. I had a smile on my face, as I locked the door behind me. My friends would be waiting for me on Monday.

The most beautiful places, those of past, present, and future, are in our minds, For some of us, they are the only place that beautiful places exist. I am lucky that I am not one of those folks.

The introduction to the song, "Cinnamon Girl," by Neil Young really rocks. As I am fixing my dinner in the kitchen the song makes me want to shake it like a Rock Star.
I'll have to play it, again, when the boring part of the evening, doing the dishes, comes along.

Be passionate in all that you do. I am a passionate sleeper who is about to go to sleep. Lord, I pray for my friend, Vivan, that you get him the heck out of that emergency room that he has been if for ten hours, with a knee that he injured falling from a ladder; may they patch him up as good as new. We need Vivan whole; he is gone of the good ones. You are a good one, too. Sleep well. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

"I would rather have a mind opened by wonder than one closed
by belief."-- Gerry Spence


I'm glad to be alive. Yesterday, I found a bag of beans that I had forgotten that I was in the possession of. It's a big bag of beans; it should last me until Tuesday, when my EBT will be credited with my monthly handout. Should the government be feeding me, or should I be a real man, pulling myself up by my bootstraps? Who is a worse drain on society, a bi-polar writer, or a an arms dealer relying on government money to purchase his weapons of destruction? Is this some sort of an excuse that I am trying to pawn off on you? I could go more into my situation, but I'm not going to right now. I qualify for the food stamps, and I need them; just take it at that for now.

Alright, maybe I will tell you more.

Have I told you that I am bi-polar, that I don't handle stress well, that I have never held a job for more than a couple of years, and that was a flunky deliver pizza/chinese food type of job; and I had trouble with that type of job. I walked out of several places. I got fired at one. How the hell do you get fired from a delivery job? It doesn't take a lot of brains to put a bag of food in your car, and then take it to somebody's residence.

Stress is what kills me. I can't handle it. I start freaking out. I start yelling and screaming. I have what are officially called, "anger outbursts." I wish that I was like everybody else. I wish that I could have got a job at 9 a.m., when I was 21, and kept it until I was 65, and it was 5 p.m. I really do, but we all have our paths. I'm a writer, and I need time to write, so maybe it is best that I am the way I am. You have to accept yourself as you are, don't you?

In the front of one of his books, Hunter Thompson thanked all the people who kept him unemployed. Stephen King talks about a job getting in the way of his writing. A writer must write. I am thankful for all the people who have helped me along the way. Where the hell would I be without you?

The water that the beans were boiling in just boiled over. You have to watch the beans. When I start writing, all else is forgotten. I am in the page that I am working on, and nowhere else.

I can't believe that I just told you that I am bi-polar. My friend, says that I should sing it from the mountain. She thinks that my admission would help other bi-polars. I don't know about that. People are going to do what they do. They don't really need my help to do it. I am a successfully recovering bi-polar person. The pills, and the therapy have worked for me. This pharmacist who used to give me my pills told me that her dad was bi-polar, and that she told him about me, as a good example of a bi-polar person functioning well in the world.

The pharmacist said that most bi-polars were not as well recovered as I was, were not as pleasant to deal with. What she said made me feel good. There is a lot of guilt in me for being bi-polar. I feel like I am flawed somehow, like I m taking a permanent ride to not fit in-itness on the short bus.

I remember when Axl Rose used to explode, back in the day. I recognized his behavior. I was pulling the same temper tantrums here in Atlanta, on our music scene. Nobody likes an asshole. They don't care if you are a prick because you didn't take your little pink pills. They just care that you are a prick.

My first cup of coffee of the day is already gone. Sometimes, I hate like hell when that cup is gone, but I am trying to limit myself to just one cup of coffee in the morning. Coffee can contribute to mania. I don't want to be a maniac.

I wonder how much of my drinking was done to mask the feelings that a bi-polar person feels? I remember curling into the fetal position for days; depressed. I remember thinking that anything would feel better than the way I feel now, anything would feel better than this depression. One night, I consciously remember drinking a large bottle of cheap wine to escape my feelings. I woke up the next day, after a blackout, very, very hungover, but you know what: my depression was gone. I think that there was a lesson learned in that drunk, that I acted out on for years. That drunk taught me that being drunk could kill depression. Isn't that funny; I was killing depression with an anti-depressant.

I remember living in the basement of a rooming house on Myrtle Street, in Atlanta, and, one morning, coughing red blood into a white sink. I was smoking Marlboro lights at the time, and I was smoking a lot of them, especially when I got drunk, which was almost every night of the week. I was working as a waiter, and that gave me cash in hand, nightly, to head to the bar, or liquor store with. I am amazed, now, that I kept smoking, kept coughing blood into that sink. You would think that when something is bad for you that you would quit it.

I met this guy who had pot. I bought several bags off of him. I think, at the time, I thought that it might be glamourous, and profitable to be a pot dealer, even though I knew nobody to sell pot to. In a near blackout at 688, the punk rock club in Atlanta, that was so popular in the early '80's,I met this tall, skinny fellow. He seemed like a nice guy, I remember thinking, as I slipped into my blackout.

The next day, I was walking my hangover home from somewhere, and someone started calling my name. I looked up and saw the tall, skinny fellow, standing under several lit strands of Christmas lights. It was July.

I sold the tall skinny fellow the two bags of pot that I had left. They are the only two bags of pot that I have ever sold to anyone. The tall skinny fellow was Ru Paul. My dope dealing career began, and ended, with the world's most famous drag queen.

Ru Paul live in a physically dieing building that was full of life; artistic life that he was the primary creator of. There was a painter in the apartment below Ru Paul named Dave Nihiser. I had met Nihiser, the night before, also, at 688. He had come up to me and said, "Got a joint?"

I liked Nihiser's cocky attitude, and I fished through my cigarette pack for the joint that I had put within. We smoked it right there at the club. Nihiser, and Ru Paul, and I would smoke many joints together over the next few years. Nihiser, and I, and a weird, and beautiful, cast of other misfits, and artists would follow Ru Paul around Atlanta, from club to club, watching him put on shows. The experience was eye opening, and entertaining.

Ru Paul's posse consisted of other drag queens, drag queen wanna be's, singers, dancers, performance artists, punk rockers, new wavers, hippies, drunks, and drug addicts. Ru often threw parties at his 1oth and Juniper apartment. Some of them he called, "Funk Fests." It seems that just about anybody who hung out in Atlanta in the '80's made it to one of Ru's parties. People still talk about them.

I remember Timothy O'Leary, and Jim Morrison talking about LSD. They seemed to think that it opened the doors to perception. I had long been curious about the drug. I was drinking enough, and smoking enough pot that I was receptive to going a notch up on the drug taking scale. It wasn't Timothy O'Leary, or Jim Morrison who turned my onto LSD. It was Ru Paul. Ru gave me my first hit of LSD.

I met these two girls, one weekend, in Little Five Points. Little Five Points is the hip part of town, the Haight Ashbury of the 60's, kind of, in Atlanta. There was some sort of festival going on, and one of these girls was giving me the eye. She was cute, so I gave her the eye back. Her name was Puchi. We dated for a short, bit, and, now, 30 years later, are still good friends.

The other girl, who's name was Penny, didn't give me the eye that day, but she wound up giving it to me for almost three years. Penny C., and I, had more in common, at that time, than Puchi, and I, did. Puchi didn't much drink, but Penny and I were lushes.

You never know where something is going to lead you. I had been lead to believe that LSD would open some sort of doors of perception for me. What it did was contribute to a series of mental breakdowns that lead to some three to five day stays in state mental institutions. Ha ha on me. The people at those mental institutions seemed uncaring, and inept. I was housed, not rehabilitated. Nobody ever took a good look at why I was there. They just waited until they could put me back on the street.

I haven't had a drink, or a drug in nineteen years. Looking back on my past, it, thankfully, almost seems as if somebody else lived it, lived that life of mine. At the end of my drinking, and occasional drugging, I was blacking out most of the time, and way too frequently winding up covered in blood, and puke, in a jail cell. The puke was certainly my own; no telling who the blood belonged to.

I don't know if any of us can be certain that there is a God, but something pulled me out of that hell hole, something has made me a survivor for these last nineteen years. I choose to thank my Higher Power.

I should be dead, really. One night in midtown, a cop had Penny C. in the back of his police car. I, drunkenly, of course, went up to him, started pointing my finger at him, and told him that, he better, "Fucking let my girlfriend out of the car."

Do you know where I wound up? Sitting next to her in the car.


My dogs have a bad habit. They are shitting and pissing on the hallway carpet that leads to the bathroom. I am going to have to rip out this carpet, and put down some sort of a tile floor. I called my youngest son to see if he had any experience in this type of thing. He didn't.

My dad never wanted me to work with my hands, because he did. It was always his hope that I would work with my head. Look how that turned out.

Today, I am eating the lunch of a bum. I'm having this delicious cornbread topped with these incredible beans. The beans were given to me by this church group, who was kind enough to pay my high, high utility during one of those cold winter months when I was incapacitated due to my hip surgery. They were nice enough to include with that payment several bags of groceries.

The cornbread comes from a mix, that my friend Emily gave me several weeks ago. Emily was kind enough to give me good food, food that I could really use. I don't mean to bitch, but, sometimes, when people give you food, it is the food that they won't eat, food in rusted cans.

Because of Emily, and because of that church group, I am free today; I am free to write. God bless both of them. And God Bless you, even if you have given me nothing!

My new motto: When life throws you lemonades, turn them into a Mercedes!!

Hey Mikel! First, I want to tell you that I miss you! I've been so busy lately and haven't been out too much.

Second, I want to tell you that I read your blog this morning and I'm so happy for you that you wrote what you did. I think it can help other people. I can tell you that it's helping me right this second. I'm going through a lot right now and have had so many ups and downs and craziness and outbursts lately. I'm starting to wonder about my mental health. I'm going to seek help as soon as I can. I have to.

Thank you Mikel.

Love you,
Kelli

I am the star of my own show. The lights are shining on me.
And you are the star of your own show; the lights are shining on you.

Man, how does a refrigerator get so dirty; all you do is put food in it? Has anyone ever heard of adding a pinch of baking soda to beans as a method to make you not fart after eating said beans? It's a crazy world that we are in; I'm just living in it.
I'm not picking up where I left off. I'm picking up where I got dropped off. I started hitchhiking in Jr. High School. I don't know what made me start, but I do know that it was a quick way to get to, or from, school. My parents never found out about it, and I never had any trouble with it; no weird rides, no weird guys.

Sometime after I stumbled away from Tallahassee, drunk, one class short of the coveted college degree, I decided to do my, "On The Road," thing. I wanted to see what it was like to exist out there following your outstretched thumb, no more than a back pack being carried with you. The Crosby, Stills, Nash lyric, "You who are on the road must have a code that you can live by," was etched into my brain. What was this code that you must live by?

As in Jr. High, I had great luck with both getting rides, and with getting rides from people who weren't serial killers, or sex freaks. Well, there was this one girl who picked me up, the only time that I can ever remember being picked up by a female, who came inside with me when we go to where I was staying, instead of just dropping me off. We made love, and when we were done, she confessed to me that that had been the whole reason that she had picked me up; she had wanted to get me naked.

I once got a ride from a guy driving a new Mercedes. I was really surprised that a guy driving such a vehicle, and such a new vehicle, would pick me up. I asked him about it. He said, "Young man, I may have money now, but at one time, I was young like you, and I used to hitchhike myself. This is just my way of paying back all the people who gave me rides."

The rides didn't always come when you wanted them to. In New Jersey, it was illegal to hitchhike on the interstate. Once, I got caught at a truck stop. I was there for several days, walking up to rigs, hollering up at riggers hey could I have a ride with no luck. I was really glad to put that truck stop behind me when I finally found a way out, and I vowed to never return to New Jersey without a car.

One time, these two guys who looked like Hell's Angels who hadn't bathed in a few weeks picked me up. They were drinking, and shared their liquor. They were smoking, and shared their smoke. We put down in Ft. Knox, and I was going to hang out with them for a bit, when suddenly two cops came up and started harrassing them. "We don't need your kind in Ft. Knox," one of the cops said prodding one of the guys with his billy stick.

As nice as these guys had been to me, I knew that this was a bad scene, that being with them was a bad place to be, and I walked into the shadows, as they dealt with the police. I had only been in a jail cell once before in my life, and I did not want to repeat the endeavor.

It amazed me how nice people on the road were. I left Captiva Island, one morning, very hungover, very tired of the scrub busboy job that I had been working, with only eleven cents in my pocket, and made it to Louisville, Kentucky, several days later, all excited about getting a great job with The World's Fair that was taking place there. People would always ask if I was hungry, which I guess I was, because you can't buy much food on eleven cents, now can you?

I got a couple of jobs at The World's Fair, but they weren't great. They sucked in fact: minimum wage restaurant work with some cocksucking, bonus chasing, mother fucker breathing down your neck about food costs, and moving faster because you were on the clock at $2.01 an hour.

I blew out of Louisville in about a week, following the thumb into Boston. I stayed at a fraternity house at MIT. How the fuck did I wind up there, I now wonder, but in my on the road travels, where ever there was a college, I would show up at the front door of the frat that I had been in at F.S.U., and say, "Brother K, here: have you got a place to crash?"

The Phi Delta Theta brothers at M.I.T were conservative kids with pictures of Ronald Reagan tacked to their walls. At the time I was getting some good growth on my hair, and was prone to wearing a bandana. I looked nothing like them, like the Izod shirt wearing, khakhi pants mother fucker that I had used to be. I was turning on, and tuning out, baby, and these kids weren't. They were on their way to NASA, and Lockheed Martin. They must have thought that I was a freak, but I knew the passwords, and the handshake, so they had to let me in.

I wound up, one night, at a party at another frat house, Lamda Chi. The Lambda Chi's were gone home for break, but the kitchen crew was still there. These guys were punk rockers, my first expose to that genre in person. These guys partied, and these guys were cool. I moved into the Lambda Chi house for the two weeks that I was in Boston.

One night the lead punk rocker, the lead chef, told me to put my arm against his. I did, and he put a lit cigarette between us, and said, "Chicken mother fucker." He wound up being the mother fucker running off yelling, and screaming. I guess that I was more punk rock than he was. I still have the scar on my arm to prove it, almost 30 years later.

I experienced another first in Boston. I met the first gay guy who I ever met there. He was a bus boy at this place in Cambrdige called The Wurst House. The only experience that I had had with gay people before this was to be in the car with friends, drinking in high school, and these friends would yell things at this building on The Tamiami Trail. I vaguely understood that they were yelling at the building because it housed gay people.

It turns out that my co-busboy was the lover of the man who had hired me, the manager of the restaurant. He said that the guy was giving him a hard time over something, that he was a very jealous man. The kid didn't know what to do.

I found this interesting because here was this kid involved in the same type of thing that I had been involved in in my relationships, only with another man. There was love in the relationship, as well as jealousy, and anger. I realized then that gay people go through the same things that straight people do. I was to learn more, and more about gay people when I hitchhiked to Atlanta, Ga. several weeks later.


My dogs, and cats are overdue on their shots, this year, by about 2 months. Last year, I borrowed the money for the shots from my oldest son, and his wife. This year, I didn't borrow it from anybody (wouldn't Dave Ramsey be proud of me!)and am just now, with the help of friends, and strangers from the internet getting enough money together to head down to the discount shot clinic.

I feel very bad about not being able to take my dogs to my regular vet. The folks that work there have looked out for me over the years. They are good people. The old saying, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride," somehow comes to mind here.

Kevin, my daughter Scout's biological father acquired a cool part Rottweller dog that he named Duke. My dog, Bundy, is half Rottweiler, also, but the lab half of Bundy is dominant. Bundy has the Rotweiller black colors, where Duke is red, like my dog Morisson. Duke has the body of a Rottweiller.

Duke stayed with me for the day, recently, before he had his operation; the snip, snip no balls operation. It looked really weird to see a dog with balls in this house. I'm just saying.

Penny C. met this Czechloavakian guy, who I ll call Herb. Herb was a junkie, a man who put heroin in a needle, and then put the needle in his arm. He had moved to Atlanta to get away from the needle and the damage done, and was doing pretty well hanging out in our little circle of alcoholic punk rock friends.

Then Herb started requesting, and getting packages from New York. Penny had a great fascination with heroin. She wanted in. Herb gave us both a line. I had read, "The Basketball Diaries," and watched the movie, "Trainspotting," and was damned if I was going to add heroin addiction to my alchol overuse.

The line put me to sleep. Yeah, what a drug. Keep that shit away from me.


At about five yeas sober, I gathered the most incredible set of musicians available, and called them, "The Mikel K Band." This was not your typical rock band. In fact, this was not a rock band at all. Our bass player was a guy named Tony Gordon who was a improv genius on the bass. Tony refused to play songs. You would never hear Tony play the same thing twice. Danny Simmons, Dale W. Miller, and Billy Fields liked this concept. They never had to practice! They could just show up to gigs, and belt out whatever felt right at the moment. Combined, these players were improv geniuses.

I took the geniuses into the basement garage of a local well-known guitar player; it really was his garage.

For $500 I got out of Kevin Morrison's garage a large chunk of what would be The Mikel K Band's first cd. It was called, "Sober."

One of the highlights of the, "Sober," cd was a "song" called, "Fuck Heroin."


Morisson always acts like he needs a special invitation to go outside and do his thing, where Bundy is biting at the chomp to get outside, and is out the door the minute I give him the command, and, even at times before I give him the command, like this morning.

Bundy took off down the road, and when it was time for the dogs to "go home," he was nowhere in sight. He does this, on occaison, just takes off. He never stays gone more than five minutes, dang dog sure knows where home is, and, sure enough, this morning he was back, almost as soon as he was gone.

While he was gone, I played out all this horrid fantasy, like what if someone found him, and turned him into the pound, and I couldn't afford to get him out, and they put him to sleep.

Part of me would be happy being a one dog owner; I would be fine if it was just me, and Morisson. Morisson is easy to get along with; no problems with that dog. Bundy, on the other hand, as far as he has come, is still trouble at times, plus there is the fact that you have to spread your attention out, spread your love about, if you have multiple dogs, kind of like if you were a polygamist.

Shawtie is barking at the invisible wind again this morning; the slightest noise sets her off. She has barked near constantly for the week that she has been here. I love Shawtie inspite of herself. Boy, if I thought, or think, that Bundy is a special needs dog, I ain't seen nothing yet when it comes to living, and loving Shawtie.

Shawtie goes home, today, around one p.m. This visit has been much better. There have only been three small skirmishes, all between Shawtie and Bundy. Morisson seems to have learned to stay out of Shawtie's way.

Shawtie never picks on, or antagonizes my cats, which I am thankful for. She will try to stick her snout into their food bowls, when she thinks that I am not looking. My cats do not leave anything in their bowls, when I put wet cat food in there in the mornings, so there is nothing for Shawtie to plunder, and the cats dry food is up on the washer, hidden behind a bottle of laundry detergent. Bundy taught me to hide the cat food well. The other dogs have learned not to go near the cat bowls. Of course, behind my back, anything is possible. They are, after all, dogs.

It is Monday, the start of a new week. Many folks have to go back to a job. Some grumble, but I know that if they really thought about it, they would be thankful for having a job. That job provides for most of what is good in their lives. That job gives them meaning, gives them purpose. Not everybody has a shit job.

Listen to me, a guy without a job, talking about jobs. Wait, being a writer is a job, is it not; or do you have to be making money at it for it to be considered a job? I have started making office hours. I allot time for memoir writing, for rewrite, and for poetry review, and writing. I punch my own time clock. Now I need to pay me!

I always say that it was in the second grade that I realized that I wanted to be a writer. This is the year that the nuns wanted to skip me a grade, but my parents decided against it. I wish that they had skipped me a grade because it would have helped me avoid the asshole bully who I had to contend with for five years when we moved from Hartford, Conn. to West Hartford, Conn. between the fifth, and sixth grades.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have broken a beer, or wine bottle across his face, or put a lit cigarette out in his eye. I would have put the fear of God in him, as my dearly departed father used to say, and made the bully stay away from me.

Instead, I was a skinny, scared kid who didn't know how to fight, and I had to put up with this asshole, and his posse of lame yes men for five years. This cowardly pussy became the Captain of the high school football team, senior year of high school. He was the biggest guy in the school. I can't figure out why he had it in for me. Maybe it was that I had something that he was lacking: brains.

I guess he saw me as some sort of threat, especially on the basketball court, so he did all that he could to shut me down. We played on the same kid's league team for two years, winning one city championship, and coming in as runner up the next year. I bet that this douche-bag is coaching high school football, somewhere, probably at the same high school where he played the game. I am letting this clown occupy too much time in my brain, this morning. I hope that something really bad happens to him; har, har. I hope that my karma kicks his ass.

I was always good in school when it came to writing, but somehow they thought that I was a math. genius, so they always had me in honors math. The secret to math. I was taught, or learned on my own, was to spend a lot of time with it, going over the work time after time, until what was foreign to you became a friend. I talked my way out of calculus in the ninth grade. I think that I was less scared of the work, than I was being in a class with all the geeks. (Does the fact that I was there indicate the that I was a geek?)

I remember thinking that the regular math. class that I found myself in was just as hard as the honors class that I had just left. Things go like that, sometimes, you think that you are going to get to take it easy, and wham, you get a brick upside your head that strongly indicates that you are not going to get to lay back at all.

I moved to Florida with the folks my senior year of high school. As I told you, I was accused of hitting the principal, in the bathroom, drunk on brandy, at my first high school dance up North. I was glad to get away from that school, that reputation that I had developed, and that bully that I told you about.

I became the sports editor of the school newspaper. At the time, I was big into sports. I was on the high school basketball team, and ran track. I was supposed to play tennis for my new school, but the tennis coach was also the basketball coach, and I had quit the basketball team because I wasn't getting along with coach.

At the time, I thought that our difficulties were because Coach had a shit attitude, and didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. He said that I was taking far too many shots. He was right, but would have been wrong if I had been putting the ball through the net?

Funny how that goes; you're a hero if you score, and you're a useless gunner if you miss. My attitude sucked, but I didn't realize it at the time. I felt totally justified to feel like I felt. I felt like the world was my oyster, and that if you didn't do, and say, exactly as I felt you should, then you were a piece of shit.

I think that this attitude greatly contributed to my demise into the bottle. Do people with good attitudes wind up covered in blood, and their own puke in drunk tanks?

The high school sports editor gig gave me my first experience at interviewing people. On Monday mornings, I would wander over to the gym, and interview the Head Football Coach about the past Friday's game.

"So, Hixon threw for four touchdowns, Coach; what do you think about his performance?"

Nothing too indepth, just enough to put some flavor in the story that I was writing about the game. It did make me feel kind of important though, and taught me that a guy with a notepad and a pen could get in places that others couldn't.

Rod Drake was my chemistry teacher, and he was also the JV football coach. I hated chemisty, and I knew that Coach Drake loved football, so I would wait about five minutes into class, and then I would raise my hand and ask Coach Drake how his team did on Friday.

Coach Drake's eyes would light up. I know that Coach Drake loved Chemistry, but I'm pretty sure that he loved his JV team more. Coach Drake would then talk JV Football until about ten minutes left in the class, look at his watch, then quickly switch back to Chemistry, covering the essentials of the day's lesson.

Coach Drake was also the track team coach, and he was very surprised when I told him that I wanted to run the mile for him.

"I thought that you were going to play tennis?" It was known that I was supposed to play on the tennis team, and it was known that it was very likely that I was going to be the number one player." I'm not sure how well known it was that I had made up my mind not to play tennis for the basketball coach.

"I've changed my mind," I said.

Coach Drake did not know that my God given talent was to run distance. The sixth grade PE coach had discovered this when I came in first in a competition that he had held to find out who would run in some city event that was held annually.

The PE Coach in my Jr. High School had discovered that I was a gifted distance runner when I came in first in PE class in some distance thing he had had us run. He was then, constantly, trying to get me to join the cross country team, which was not going to happen. I was good at long distance running, but I did not like it; it was too painful. It was very painful to get out in front, keep that lead, and come across the finish line first. There was something that drove me to do it, but I paid a price once it was done, that I did not like paying that price.

I came in first running the mile in my first high school track event on Coach Drake's team. As I fell to the ground, after those four laps, I heard a voice come over the P.A. saying that I had just set a new school record.

At my desk the next day, I remember feeling smug, and self-righteous, as my feat was, once again, announced because I knew that the basketball coach was listening.

That ought to show him, I thought to myself.

I was the one losing out, though. I was passionate about tennis. I had started playing tennis before the sixth grade, when we moved to West Hartford, and I was passionate about the game. I played for hours and hours. When no one was around to play, I headed for this wall on a school near where I lived, and I worked on my strokes for hour after hour. I got pretty good at the game. I loved the game.

And, yet, here I was running track.

Coach Drake put me in the two mile race for the second meet. As I fell to the ground after running those eight laps around the track, I heard the guy on the PA say that I had just set a new school record in the two mile. My time was 10:06. My time in the mile had been 4:42.

To achieve those times, I had run every night after work. I had a part time job in the produce dept. of a Winn Dixie. I always liked having a job, because my parents never kicked out any extra cash, and I liked having cash. I had the Vega, now, and I need gas money. I was drinking on the weekends, too, mostly beer, and I needed money for that.

I ran around the subdivision at night, challenging myself. I had the image of the basketball coach fixed in my mind. I was going to do well in track to spite him, and spite him, at the time, I thought that I did.

It was to be years later, that I would realize that I had only spited myself.
Henry, the Great Dane who lives next door, is visiting, and for a brief second, the thought flashed in my mind to give the three dogs some beans. This thought occurred to me seconds after I had been looking in the refrigerator, wondering what I was going to have for dinner tonight, the final supper before my monthly credit went on the EBT card at midnight. Well, I do have oatmeal, I thought (not in the refrigerator, of course). I have eggs. I have rice. And I have beans.

I have been eating beans for a couple of days now, and I think that I was thinking of getting rid of some of the beans by sharing them to the dogs, but then I realized what a mess that would be. Morisson, and Bundy would be farting, and Henry would probably take a large, wet, brown, stinky shit on my carpet. He had done if before when I was stupid enough to feed him something that he should not have been fed.
Morisson, and I, just did a timed, fast, 15 minute walk. Morisson was good through most of it, only forcing me to pull over so that he could piss once. It took us about 7 minutes to walk home, so that's a 22 minute walk, on top of a 1/2 Yoga workout that I did immediately proceeding the walk. I'm patting myself on the back, yes I am.

Now it is time to rewrite for an hour. I am editing my memoir, "Did You Write The Book Of Love." I knew that it was a good book when I was writing it, but it is a great book. You will have to buy it, some day, when it is published, or you can get an E Copy of it now by putting money in The K Tip jar.

I've worked out a plan with Georgia Power to pay my bill a week late, and then pay it over two weeks. They're pretty flexible. Still I need cash. Be a patron of the arts, help a near starving artist pay his utility bill, and get you a copy of a brilliant K Memoir.

What could be a better deal?

I started this new walking regimen. The first week, which was last week, I walked for ten minutes, timed. The walk was at a brisk rate, the goal being to try and get my heart rate up. This week I am walking 15 minutes, timed, and brisk, and I will add five minutes a week until I am walking for forever. That should shed some pounds off of me.

Jim Morrison is screaming, "LA Woman." The turtles have clean water. The dogs are resting. The night is pure, except for the fact that my cat, Kobain, puked on my Yoga mat.

I am kicking into the second hour of this two hour a day write, for today, on my memoir thing. The Rolling Stones just finished singing that they were, "waiting on a friend," and Chriss Hynde is now singing about, "Shitting bricks."

Do you know how many bands that there are out there these days? A shit load. My fantasy job was always to be a lead singer. Punk rock almost made me think that I could pull it off, and I have had a couple of bands where I did the spoken word thing, and screamed a bit.

Living on the road would be tough. When I was younger, I would have fucked it up because I was drunk. Now, I like being at home, hanging with the dogs, cats, and turtles, drinking some coffee, or tea, and seeing where applying these fingers to this keyboard will take me.

The Monkees are singing now, wishing to borrow somebody else's shoes. My kids turned me onto this file sharing site that, I think, was illegal when they turned me onto it. I never had any use for it, until recently, when I thought that my main laptop had crashed. I Tunes doesn't come with you, if you haven't saved it. If your computer crashes, all the songs, and cd's, that you have loaded onto I Tunes crash with it.

I thought that I was starting over, with this little laptop that I bought as a backup, so I started over in a different way, downloading songs from the aforementioned file sharing site, which, I believe, is now legal. (I guess the only way that I will find out is if someone knocks on the door, and says that they are taking me to court.) I hope that doesn't happen.

The Doors are playing now, and I will stop with the play by play announcements of what I am listening to.

Today was a great day. Most days are great if you let them be that way; if you, or I anyway, start the day of thanking God for yet again letting me see a new day.

I did some Yoga, today, not a full hour like I have been doing, but a good solid half hour, with five minutes of it being taken up by shoulder stand.

If you had told me two years ago that I would be able to stand on my shoulders for five minutes, I would have told you that the crack wasn't working pal, and you better go back to the hood, and get you a refund, or different hits. I mean it was just that impossible for me to envision myself doing such a thing.

And, you know what; I have also done a head stand several times since I started taking Iyengar Yoga classes, over two years ago. They were assisted head stands, where I was using the wall to hold me up, but darn it, they were headstands. Me. The fat guy who showed up at the studio, and started huffing, and puffing it alongside all those trim folks who were capable of forming their bodies into such beautiful asanas.

Getting sober taught me something: you have to keep coming back. You have to keep coming back to that place that is teaching you how to be sober, and you have to keep coming back to the Yoga mat,to the Yoga studio, if you want to have a nice Yoga body, and be doing beautiful asanas like everybody else.

And keep coming back I do, and it is paying off. Scout took some pictures of me, for me, recently, in various Yoga poses, and I was amazed at my progress. I actually looked like I knew a thing, or two, about Iyengar Yoga.

Suit up, and shut up, is something that I think I heard while I was taking Jiu Jitsu with Jakare, and it applies to Yoga, also. There is no magic to it. Consistency, and practice will take me wherever it is that Yoga is taking me.

Right now, I look better, and I feel better, and I thank Yoga for taking me to this point, and I want to keep on trucking with Yoga. I want to fly on my mat if that is possible. If not I will be happy to feel like I am flying.

I took Morisson with me, today, to the Yoga studio. Morisson loves to go with me everywhere that I go, and when I had a vehicle, he mostly did. I tied Mo up outside the studio, opening a curtain so that he could see in to see where I was at. When I was done, Mo and I went to the parking lot, which was mostly empty. I set the timer on my phone for fifteen minutes, and Morisson, and I, took off on fast paced walk.

I am doing these timed walks. Timed walks. Hourly writing sessions. Man, am I getting organized!

I am broker, now, than I have ever been in my life, and I have, probably, never been happier. Right now I need a light for my turtles' tank, a refill filter for their tank, and I have not been able to take several of my diabetes pills because I have no money to buy them. I have been eating beans, rice, and oatmeal for almost a week, but...I'm happy. I am a writer, and I am getting to write. My time is my own, for now, and I am thankful for that.

I started filling out the application to the school where I would like to get an MFA in Poetry and Memoir. It is exciting to be embarking on the process. Tonight, I did the mundane part of filling in the blanks on things such as who to contact in emergency, and where did I get my undergraduate degree.

I was stumped by the question that asked me for exact starting, and finishing dates, of all undergraduate colleges attended. I will have to make a couple of phone calls tomorrow, one to FSU, and one to GSU. It took me almost nine years to get an English degree. I drank my way out of FSU, one class short of a business degree, And then, thirteen years late, while a father, I slowly worked my way through GSU, and got the piece of paper, that I wanted, an English degree, which is, now, stranded in an ex friend's house. (She was supposed to put Mikel K over my given name, but we fell out of touch.

I also, tonight, put the ten poems together that the college wants as part of the application. That was the fun part. I chose poems that I think put my best foot forward, some of the ones that I have been performing on various stages here in Atlanta. Keep your thumbs crossed for me, will you?

I want to quit now, with twenty minutes to go in this timed writing. I feel as if I have nothing else left to say today. Maybe I should switch over to poetry, and try to write a few poems. That would be cheating though, and it would be cheating on me. I am the one who volunteered myself to write memoir stuff for two one hour separate periods each day, except for, maybe, Sunday. I haven't decided whether to take a day off, yet, the same day that I take off from Yoga and all other exercise. Stephen King, the guy who taught me this system of writing, doesn't take a day off, but then I am not Stephen King. What works for one man doesn't necessarrily work for another.

I know that I said that I would stop talking about the music playing in my space, but I just have to say that Jim Morisson is screaming, "I'm a backdoor man." I always thought that that was a Doors original song, but it turns out that Willie Dixon wrote it. That is right, isn't it; Willie Dixon wrote it, and Muddy Waters might have sang it, or was it Howling Wolf?

Clark Vreeland is a friend of mine. Clark is an incredibly talented painter, and musician. The guy can play, and sing, the blues like nobody else sings, and plays, the blues. Awhile back, Clark lent me a biography about Muddy Waters. I had no idea what I was getting into. As I read the book, I went to You Tube, and played the songs that the book was talking about. Muddy Waters pissed me off because he didn't take very good care of the musicians who worked with him. Like with so many other stars, it was all about Muddy. But, the guy was fucking talented. (Understatement.)

The Rolling Stones took their name from a Muddy Waters song. (Rollin' Stone.) and so did Rolling Stone magazine, I think, unless the magazine took its name from the band, which would mean that Muddy directly affected the naming of the magazine. I am tired,now, with seven minutes left in this hour of writing, too tired to do the Google research on who was named what, and why.

I thank God for another beautiful day. I thank him for keeping my kids safe, and healthy. I thank him for giving me a new attitude, a good attitude. I thank him for keeping me off of drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes for another day.

Morisson is knocked out. That 15 minute walk that we took, today, really wore him out. It did me a great deal of good, also. I will sleep well, tonight. Good night to you; I hope that you sleep well, also.

5:19 a.m. When I was younger, I would just be getting in now, drunk, having partied at some club. I don't know how the hell I did it, night after night. Being a waiter was a key to the whole deal, for awhile, because it gave me cash in pocket every night. I waited on one famous person during my many years stint as a waiter: Shirley McLaine. She was real pleasant; she called me a hunk; she tipped fifteen percent.

Why do I think that rich celebrities are going to, or should, lay down at least a hundred bucks on a waiter? Because I think they have it?

I met Sylvester Stallone when I was living in Los Angeles in 1982. I was working at a place called The Beverly Hills Gun Club. I was the greeter. I was the guy who said hello to the people who came in the door, and gave them a tour of the club. One day, the owner got a phone call. It was from Mr. Stallone. He said that he wanted to come down and check the place out.

When he arrived, I said to him, in my best Rocky voice, "Where's Adrian."

He looked at me, smiled, formed his hand into a gun, and said, "I shot her."

Great guy. Quick wit. Not an asshole at all.

There was a guy in the building, also, that day who they said owed Stallone a hundred thousand dollars, and didn't look like he was going to pay him, because putting white powder up his nose was more important to this guy than paying back money to people who had been nice to you.

As I heard it, they had to restrain Stallone from beating the guy's ass. When you live in LA, you run into famous people because many of them live out there. No brainer.

I belonged to a gym on Venice Beach called, Gold's gym. The owner was a guy named Joe Gold, who was a well known gym owner. Many of the top, and famous, body builders of that era worked out in there. On any given day I could be on a bench press next to Frank Zane, Franco Columbo, or Lou Ferrigno.

One day, after a workout, I was taking a shower, and in walked Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger . Now how many of you can say that you've taken a shower with the Governor of California? Wait, now wasn't he supposed to have been a bit of a ladies' man before he married Maria?

Does rubbing elbows with the famous, and rich, make you any better as a person? We all know the answer to that.

In California, I lived in a real dump of a house. I had landed in LAX with a hundred dollars in my pocket, probably not the wisest thing to do, but I made it. That first night I slept on the beach near the Santa Monica Pier. The next day some guy told me about a man that had cheap places for rent. His name was Al Feldman, and he took ninety bucks to rent me a very small attic apartment at the top of an old, old house that was full of rooms that were full of Mexican families, and little old ladies, who I suspect were getting social security checks.

I didn't realize it, because I was happy to have a cheap place to live in Santa Monica, California, but Al Feldman was what they call a slum lord. The local paper called him a slum lord in print, one issue, right around the time that Al put a lock on my door because I was snorting cocaine instead of paying my rent.

I lost the job at The Gun Club, which was a pretty decent job, really, because I took a day off to get drunk. The primary owner was a very conservative type of man, and he would not put up with such shit as a guy taking a day off to get drunk; he had a business to run. One of the minor partners was an actual Beverly Hills Cop. He told me that he had seen a lot of drinking problems on the force, and that he hoped that I would get help.

Help is not what I was looking for at that time in my life, so I got a job as a doorman at a really popular rock and roll type club on Venice Beach. Women who had ignored me when I was a regular patron of the club, were now coming up to me at the door, and giving me their phone number.

I made quite a few good bar room buddies while working at that gig. One of them was a wild man, who I call Nikki Richards. Nikki had a passion for blow. One sunny Southern Califonia afternoon, I went with Nikki, where he was going to buy a gram of coke. Nikki scored, and as we were headed back to his place, a cop pulled us over for jay walking, and wrote Nikki a ticket. To say that I was sweating bullets would be an understatment. The ludicrousness of getting a jay walking ticker while the person you got pulled over with is holding was not to be laughed at right then, but I can certainly see the humor in it now.

When we got back to his place, Nikki went into his bedroom. I followed him in there, and saw that he had a needle in his arm. I yelled at him that he shouldn't be doing that, and I hauled ass. I was scared of needles. I was scared of what they represented, and what they could do to you.

The funny thing about this, is that Nikki dropped me as a friend soon after that, saying, "Mikel K, when you get drunk, you don't know who your friends are. You are a lot of trouble, Mikel K."

I scratched my head about this, about how the guy who stuck needles in his arm, a guy with a wild man reputation about the beach, and in the club could think that I was wild. I soon left California, and when I got to Atlanta, Ga. things got really crazy.

It was in Santa Monica that I first started to get arrested for being drunk. It became almost an every weekend thing, where the Santa Monica police would pick me up off the street, and put me into the drunk tank for the night. In the morning, they would feed me eggs, and let me go. No charges, no standing in front of the judge. One night I got arrested for weaving on my bicylcle. DWB, drunk while biking, I guess.

I'm up at five a.m. and working on the memoir. The cup of coffee that I just drank was as good as any that I have ever had. The dogs, cats, and turtles are still asleep. They think that I must be smoking crack to be up so early. I have never smoked crack, so there. Life has never been so good. I haven't had a drink in over 18 and a half years. I am thankful to have survived the drunk that started when I was 14, ended when I was 34, and really picked up when I was 18, at the tail end of my first time in college.

I never smoked crack. I never free based coke, though I really wanted to. I never got around that type of scene. Alchol was my drug of choice. I was a drunk. I did cocaine, once in my life, about a gram a night for fifteen nights. It put me on the sidewalk in LA. As I told you, Al Feldman bolted my door because I didn't give him his rent money. Can you blame him? A slum lord is not Mother Teresa. I made a choice to snort away, instead of paying on the day my rent was due. For about a week, I climbed up the side of the house, and into the window, of the space that had been mine. Somehow, I thought that it was still mine. Weird that.

When I had gotten to LA, I wanted to get a job with a company car, and I found one in the newspaper. I remember sitting down for the interview, in Beverly Hills California, and spending the last of my money on a ham and egg sandwich. You better be good in this interview, I said to myself. At first, I didn't get the job. Some other guy must have had roast beef before his interview, because he got the job.

That same day, I saw an ad in the paper that said, "Work today. Get paid today." I was all about it. That was my first experience with a labor pool. I was damn glad to have the work. It meant that I was not to miss any meals.

Several weeks later, the company car job guy called me back, and said that I could have the job, if I was still interested in it. Fuck yes, I was interested in it. I started on Monday. One of the few things that I had brought with me to the west coast were a couple of suits that I had acquired in my frat boy days. I figured that they would come in handy for job hunting, and they did. I had hunted out a job that didn't pay the greatest amount of money, but I now had a new near car to tool around LA in.
Talk about landing on my feet. I had a job in Beverly Hills.

But there was still one small problem. I was a drunk.

I lost the company car job because I failed to show up one day, a day that I had a great deal of money in my possession that belonged to the company. I was called a salesman, but my job was to count inventory. My employer was what you call a wholesale financier. People that owned motorcylce shops, and places that sold ovens, and refrigerators mostly did not own their inventory of goods; my company did, and the people who owned these stores paid us interest for lending them the money for their inventory, and when they sold merchandise, it was my job to note that it was gone and to collect for it.

Easy job, but I blew it. My boss showed up at the dump, and collected his money. He said to come on down later in the day, and we would talk. I didn't show up for a couple of days, and he fired me. I could tell that he hated to let me go, but what could he do. Not only had I took a day off with his money, I hadn't even bothered to get my ass into the office in a timely fashion to discuss the matter.

As he fired me, he gave me my vacation pay, two weeks pay, and my regular pay. Can you imgane? I'm getting canned, and I am walking from the job with like a grand, which for me, then, and now, as a matter of fact, was/is like a million dollars.
I checked my p.o. box, that very same day, and there was a tax return check in there for five hundred bucks. I was rich. I bought a bike, and started growing long hair. Venice Beach here I come. I had no worries. I had plenty of money, and I had the night time job as doorman at the rock and roll club. I could cruise, baby. I was cruising.

But...

One of the other doorman was selling grams of coke. I had never done much coke, but hell, I had fifteen hundred bucks, what could it hurt to buy a gram of coke. And then another. And then another. And then fifteen days later I was broke. Enter Al Feldman with lock for door.

I then got fired from the doorman job for getting arrested, drunk, in Tempe, Arizona while on a company party trip with all the doormen, and other employees of the rock and roll club. Bummer.

A friend showed up and offered me a ride back to Tallahassee, which, after having burned several bridges there as a drunk fraternity boy, was the last place that I wanted to go, but...there was that damn lock on my door, and I didn't have a job in LA anymore.

Goodbye west coast. Hello, again, southern east coast.

Hot date, tonight. Hooooooooot date. This chick is the living end, the cat's meow, the deal breaker. I'm going to spank her, I mean I'm going to take her to go see Spanky and The Love Handles at Blind Willie's. I mean, this girl is it; she is simply it. (: No high expectations, at all. None.

Morisson will eat the core of an apple. He will eat every bit of it, stem and all. I wonder if when he dies, he will come back as an apple tree. I was president of the Johnny Appleseed club, in sixth grade, briefly. We were an organization that was going to save the earth by planting apple trees. I really didn't care about the earth, I just wanted to be president of something, because this other kid was president of the student government. There wasn't much action in The Johnny Appleseed club. I kind of just drifted away from the presidency of the club. No one seemed to notice. I don't think any apple trees got planted.

I played drum for a bit in the B band. Come to think of it, I did that because the same kid that was president of the student government, held first chair in the A band on drums. I guess that that kid was Mr. Everything, or at least I perceived him to be Mr. Everything, and I wanted to be Mr. Everything, too. I hope that I have evolved into my own thing. I hope that I don't want to be someone else's Mr. Everything anymore.

They cut my food stamps by ninety bucks, this month. It is kind of like throwing a drowning man a cement life preserver, but what can you do? Eat way less, I guess, or not eat at all for a couple of weeks, which is what it boils down to.

I knew something extreme was going to happen as I did my food stamp review with the lady on the phone. She was being a bitch. She was acting like white people shouldn't get no food stamps, or at least this white person. That is how it seemed. That is how it felt. She couldn't believe that I was getting both an unemployment check, and a disability check. I mean she couldn't fucking believe it. She acted like I was Al Capone, or one of those Republican Senators, who are so often getting busted, for taking illegal campaign contributions right after they have left church with their wife and children. I bet she took glee in cutting this white boy's food stamps. It empowered her, and made her happy.

I have learned that something good always comes out of something bad. Have I said that before? It is a theme that I constantly remind myself of, so I am going to start looking for the good that will come out of this bad. The Lord is not going to let me starve, and, so it appears, neither are people who are reading my writing, much of which I often post on the demon Facebook.

I told my friend Emily that they had cut back my food stamps, and she said, that if it was any consolation they had completely taken hers away.

It might be time to start The Revolution; maybe. Give me some time to think about it. I might look into it. How do they take the food stamps from an unemployed mother of two? What is their justification for doing that? I think that they should make all the people who have those food stamp jobs live on the amount of food stamps that they dole out to their client. There is a lot of self righteousness in their world. Compassion is a word that is lacking. Maybe they are overworked. Trader Joe's hires nice people, why can't the food stamp offices?

Scout nearly got busted this morning while skipping school with her friend, Taylor. As the two of them were stopped in traffic, another friend of theirs jumped on top of Taylor's car, and started dancing. Some concerned citizen then followed Taylor around, wrote her tag number down, and called the police.

Seven cop cars, seven, busted the girls, threatened them with arrest, tried to intimidate them as best as they could, before they marched them into the principal's office. When asked if he would like for the cops to arrest the girls, or whether he would rather take care of the matter himself, much to his credit, Mr. Foreman, the school principal, said that he would take care of the matter himself.

Both girls were suspended for two days. Great punishment; a kid gets busted for something that happens while she is skipping, and you give her two more days off. I just don't understand the logic.

One of my greatest critics, and one of my greatest loves, has always been my kids' mother. Yesterday, she called me and said, "Don't get mad, but your place smells like dog piss, and shit."

That makes sense because the dogs have this habit of pissing, and shitting, in the hallway to the bathroom. I have been planning on ripping up this carpet, and laying tile, but I don't have the money to do that right now. As soon as I do, though, hopefully my place will not smell like dog piss, and dog shit.

Speaking of things related to dogs, Henry is visiting this morning, and he is being very demanding of my attention, sticking his head underneath my arm very frequently. Morisson notes this, and does his best to get in on the get some affection action and get some affection going for himself, but it is hard for him to compete because Henry, a great Dane, is some much taller than him. I love these dogs when they are not pissing, and shitting, in the hallway. Of course they never piss, or shit, when I am looking. I have yet to catch either one of my dogs in the act. They are very clever.

So, I was wrong about the food stamps. No one cut anything. There was a deduction from Angel Food Ministries for some food that I am buying from them, this month. What I said about attitudes at those offices still stands though.

It's a new day. I am thankful to be here. I'm glad that you are here, too.

Should you put all your eggs in one basket? I am thinking here of women, and my writing. Should I have a back up career in mind, say as a cop, or as a meat cutter? At what point will I say that I am not really a writer, I am a forest ranger? At no fucking point. There is no backup when it comes to this writing gig; there is only this.

My good friend, Dale W. Miller, an excellent drummer, and an even better father, recently told me about a drummer from a famous band who was heading a drumming clinic. Someone asked the guy what he does when he wasn't drumming, and the drummer looked at the guy like he was crazy, and said, "This is it. This is what I do."

Now you can neither drum, or write 24 hours a day, but you can direct most of your time, and much of your energy into your passion. That, I think might be what separates an ordinary drummer, or an ordinary writer from a really good drummer, or a really good writer.

Women? I'm not even going to go there, this morning!

The words are coming slow this morning. I was up late last night, and feel a bit lethargic today. "Life is what happens to you, while you are busy making other plans." They say that John Lennon said that, and it makes a great deal of sense.

"What the human mind can conceive, and believe, it can achieve. XXXXXXXXXXXXXX said that, and I can believe it except for in certain cases, like in Afghanistan, right now, there are people just hanging on. Can they conceive greatness, and have it happen to them? Or even myself; just because I envision sales of my books to surpass those of Stephen King's sales, does it mean it's going to happen? I don't know. I am foggy on this issue this morning, and will have to come back to it, or just let it lie where it's at.

"In a country well governed poverty is something to be ashamed of. In a country badly governed wealth is something to be ashamed of." -Confucius

The people who most look out for other people, in my experience, are the people with the least. The people with the most shun people with less, like the plague. There are good rich folks, though, I am sure.

Dave Sloan teaches me to have compassion for ALL people.

"A nation's greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members."

This morning, I had a friend contact me, and ask me how much my vasectomy hurt, and how long I was out of commission. The actual procedure did not hurt all that much. I would describe it more as difficult, and awkward, and I wasn't so much out of commission as inconvenienced for a couple of days.

At the time that I had the procedure done, those around me kind of laughed at me for having it done, because I wasn't even dating anyone at the time. I was thinking that that probably wouldn't be a life time condition, although, really, mostly it has been!

My thinking at the time was that I wanted to devote all my time, and money, to the three children that I had. I had read an article that said that the typical American male pattern was to get married, have some kids, divorce the woman when she got a bit older, marry a younger woman, and have some more kids. Even though I had never married anyone, I figured that if I had some more kids, that the ones that I had would, somehow, get ignored in the shuffle, and I didn't want that to happen, so I let the doctor snip it.

I stand by my decision. I think that I made the right move.

I went to bed at 9:30 pm, tonight, and was wide awake at 2:30 a..m. I'm trying to do an hour's timed writing, but I'm thinking that I'm more interested in eating, than I am in writing, right now. Food is my nemesis. I love food, but food hates me. Food wants my weight to hover around 300 pounds, and have a huge belly hanging over my belt, but I want to weigh 220, and have a slim, Yoga body build. I will win. I will beat food.

I'm having a hot tea with milk, this morning, instead of a coffee, because I am sure that I am going back to bed, and I don't want to lay there with my eyes wide open staring towards into the dark.

Last night was the first night of the new session of Yoga. I was looking at the calendar, and when this session ends we will be in the month of December. Time is flying by. My life is flying by. Soon I will be an old man. What will I have accomplished? Will all this writing have taken me anywhere?

As the first Yoga class started, last night, I felt like an old pro. As I looked around the class, I only recognized one person, Anna the tall Russian girl. Anna is a very good Iyengar practitioner. Her poses are beautiful. Everybody else was new. I will show them how it's done, I said to myself, smug, self-righteous.

The thing about Iyengar Yoga is that you can never quite master it; there is always more out there for you to learn, and I certainly have a lot to learn.

"Move this, tighten that, stretch," Kathleen, my instructor was, soon, saying to me, and I no longer had time to feel like I was some sort of expert. I'm not. I have a lot to learn. I have come a long way in two years, but, beautifully, there is a long way to go.

Spell check is sometimes weird on this computer. There is a red line under the word Iyengar. I guess that the computer does not recognize this word. Do you?

There is some sort of a bug that keeps flying near my hands, as I type. This must be a suicidal bug of some sort, coming so close to my hands, where I can easily kill it. Maybe I will let it live.

One of my turtles is asleep. This is only the second time in the three years that I have had the turtles that I have seen one of my turtles sleeping. The other turtle is wide awake. He is up on his rock with his neck fully stretched out, as if he is looking for, or at something. Turtles are beautiful animals; majestic, really. I wonder if one stays awake, as sort of a guard turtles, while the other one sleeps?

I've got to piss. I'll be right back.

My tea is gone, and my minutes here are winding down. I still want to eat. The healthiest thing that I could eat would be a salad, but who wants to eat salad at 3:50 a.m. I'm thinking that I don't. I will probably go back to bed without eating,a and have some oatmeal the next time that I wake.

Where is love? Will I ever find love? Heck, what is love? Someone said, recently, that I didn't know what love is, and they are probably right. I am talking about the man woman type of love here. I think that I have mastered, and am a master at the father kids kind of love. Love will find you, if you let it. Maybe. Perhaps. Hell, I don't know.

Bundy is sleeping at my feet, and Morisson is licking the area of his body that used to house his balls, behind me. My dogs often gather around me. They like to be close to me. What is it that I offer them. Is it love?


My camera is doing something funny, which is, actually, not funny, it sucks; it is acting as if new batteries are dead. I am addicted to my camera, and can not afford to get a new one in the league of this one. Suck. Can you say suck?

CVS outwitted me, tonight. It looked like Duracell batteries were on sale, buy one get one free, for a sixteen pack, but when I got home, it turned out that the batteries were CVS batteries. CVS makes their batteries look just like Duracell batteries. What a crock of shit. Somebody should be locked up for pulling something like that on me. I want JUUUUUUUUSTICE!!

I finally got the dough for a light for my turtles' tank, and I forgot to bring the old bulb with me, so, of course, I picked out the wrong bulb; I chose a 60 watt bulb, instead of a 75 watt bulb like I was supposed to. I was going to go back to the store, and exchange it, tonight, but I was just too darn tired. The turtles can make it for a few more hours without their bulb.

I finally got my Metformin pills tonight. I had held off about ten days on getting these pills, which are given to me because I am diabetic, because I didn't have any money. The co-pay on them was $1.10. Fuck. I had that. I don't know what I was thinking. I think that when you are used to being broke, and not able to afford anything, that you start thinking that you can't afford anything. Something like that.

I bought this laundry detergent, tonight, that that, supposedly, doesn't harm the earth. It costs a little bit more, but I am willing to pay it if it doesn't hurry the earth. The earth has been hurt enough without me pouring more harmful clothes detergent into it. What if it's a scam? What if this laundry detergent is no better for the earth than any other? What if this is just a corporate marketing ploy to sell more detergent.

At a certain level, you can only do what you can to save the earth, you know? We can't all fly in big private jets, and drive in limousines as Al Gore does when he goes around trying to save the earth.

That's about all I have for today. It was another beautiful day. I went to the Yoga studio, and did an hour of self practice. Everything felt smooth, and clean today; I was in no hurry to finish. I just took my time, and let the poses take me where they wanted to take me. I wasn't in charge, today, on the mat. It is better that way. I like it better that way.

I hope that your day was beautiful. If not a good night's sleep will change everything, and you will wake to beautiful day.

6am. I am babysitting the great Danes Henry, and Anna, this weekend. Both of them spent the night here last night, crashing out early on the carpet next to my bed. Anna was up, and at 'em, right away, this morning, joining the pack of Henry, Morisson, and Bundy to head outside to do their thing.

Anna opted for heading home, after her outside visit, while Henry followed Mo, and Bundy back in here. Anna is nine and a half years old, which, in terms of a Great Dane, is old, so she is a bit slower than the boys at getting around. She does pretty darn good though, I'll tell you that.

I couldn't turn the turtles' light on, this morning, because, as I told you last night, I picked out the wrong bulb at the store. No biggie, Rue Paul, and Prynce, will have their light within hours. Both of them are perched on their rock right now, with their necks fully extended. I get the feeling that though they are confined to a little box, that they ar happy turtles. They are domestic map turtles, so all they have ever known is a little box.

Are you happy in your little box?

In a sense, we are all confined to little boxes, while at the same time, all possibilities are open to us. Are all possibilities open to all of us, or have some of us been blessed with different genes that allow us to achieve more? What is more?
Does a nice car make you happier? I guess it doesn't hurt. Would you rather be riding the bus, and the train, or tooling about the town in a new car?

Dave Ramsey says that you shouldn't buy a new car, that they depreciate way too fast, that you should buy a car that is a year, or two old. He also says that you should pay cash for your car, and not finance it.

I am letting my coffee get cold, this morning, which is not a good thing to do, but sometimes I get involved with this laptop, and I forget about all things external to it. There could be a fire raging in this apartment, and I might not notice it, once I sit down here to write. Doubt that, you are thinking.

Over twenty years ago, at a time that I was doing a fair amount of LSD, I was sitting at my Royal typewriter, kicking out some poems, and for some reason, I took my lighter out of my pocket, and lit the curtain in front of me on fire. I sat there and watched the flames grow in front of me, until my live-in-sin partner, Penny C, saw what was happening and put the flames out.

Penny tried to talk to me; I was incoherent. I was unable to put two sentences together. Penny didn't know what to do. She made some phone calls, and the consensus was to take me to the loony bin. At the loony bin, I was incoherent, also, so they put me on what I call the failed suicide ward. This ward, I learned later, was the worst level in the the level system that they have at loony bins.

Everyone in at this level was pretty much babbling incoherently. We wandered about the ward, bumping into each other, the depth of our conversation pretty much being, "Got a cigarette?"

In this ward there were people who had jumped off bridges, and lived; people who had shot themselves in the head, and lived; and people who had taken an overdose of pills, and lived. That is why I have always referred to this place as the failed suicide ward.

I was there for about five days, slowly gaining the ability to talk, and to answer the questions that the folks who worked there were asking, difficult questions, such as, "What day is it? and "Do you know who the President is?

This was not to be my only stay in a loony bin. I remember at least a three day stay for, again, babbling incoherently, this time around another live-in-sin girlfriend, and there was a three month stay at the infamous Grady 8th floor, where I was finally diagnosed as bi-polar. Do you think that the combination of copious amounts of alchohol, with LSD thrown in, might not have been the best things for a bi-polar person, and could have lead to these visits to the funny farm?

Do you think that I was ever self-medicating, as a bi-polar person, trying to get rid of the intense feelings of depression that so often haunted me, by taking LSD, and drinking so much, so often? Do you think that there is a Santa Claus, or that Halloween is a Satanic Holiday?

I am a miracle. I started out as an honors student, a supposedly smart kid, able to make good grades in school, anyway, and I wound up in the loony bin, and drunk tanks. As I sit here, this morning, nineteen years, later it seems like another person lived that awful life that I lived for too long. It seems like it was another person, covered in blood, and puke, waking from a blackout to find himself in yet another drunk tank. It seems like another person whose mind was racing wildly out of control trying to figure out how to get out of the crazy house.

I can't prove the existence of a higher anything, who can really, but I do know that something grabbed my ass, and pulled it out of the quagmire that I was not too slowly sinking into.

Henry is yawning. He just came over and stuck his head under my arm for the first time today. Henry, as does Morisson, likes to stick his head under my arm, and pull by hands away from the keyboard.

My friend's daughter ran away from home last night. Or she ran away from Little Five Points, where she was hanging out, last night. What a pathetic thing to put your mother through, little girl. How far are you going to get, before you realize that home is not all that bad. Right now, you are at the mercy of strangers. Maybe some kind old man is sticking his dick in your mouth, so you can pay him some rent. I can't even talk about this anymore because it so pisses me off.

I am glad to be alive this morning. I live a pretty simple life, and I like it that way. Stress is my enemy. Stress can lead me to anger, to anger outbursts. Stres is the enemy of this bi-polar person. Keep it simple stupid, the KISS principle, is an old one, and it certainly applies to my existence.


I often forget that Bundy mostly sits underneath my feet, underneath my desk, because he is so quiet. When I eat, though, I am reminded of it, because I always spill some food, and his mouth is often on my toes licking the food up. As well as a place of comfort, and security, for Bundy, his placement of himself there, is also a strategic thing; it puts Bundy first in line for falling food.

I'm probably a bit of a slob, because I always eat alone, or I always eat with dogs, cats, and turtles around; you can dress me up, but you can't take me out in public.

It is noon, and I haven't really gotten much done, today. The brunt of my work day is going to come later in the day. I am planning on taking a 15 minute power walk, shortly after I eat. By power walk, I mean one where I get my heart rate up. That is supposed to be essential when you do aerobic exercise.

I fixed a nice salad for lunch, added onions, mushrooms, green pepper, corn, and green beans to it, and then topped it off with a veggie burger that I crumbled into little pieces. It is very tasty. I can see why Bundy is so anxious to get some bites of it for himself.

It's Friday; do you have any fun plans for the weekend?

It is hot out there, today. Without looking at the little blue Weather Channel box that sits at the bottom of my computer, I went out into the world, and did a timed, fast-paced 15 minute walk. Looking at the box, now, I see that it is 91 degrees out there. If I had looked at the temperature box first, I might not have taken my walk. I thought that it was 77 degrees out there, today.

I am going to orientation to be a Zombie, today. This cool cat artist/musician that I know by the name of Shane Morton has this cool Zombie thing happening, far south of Little Five Points.

"The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse is an immersive Halloween attraction like nothing seen or experienced before. This isn’t a leisurely stroll through a haunted house. This will feel like you are in a Hollywood movie, running in and out of buildings, up and down stairs and covering a lot of ground as you flee from the undead who all want to eat your brains."--From the Zombie Apocalypse Website, http://www.atlantazombieapocalypse.com/index.html

Anna took a crap on the floor, this morning. Damn dog. Thankfully it wasn't one her often runny poops. This one was scoop-up-able. Henry has left the couch alone. I just checked on the Great Danes, and they were hanging out in the front room, relaxing on the couches. Neither one of them got up, when I entered their abode. Usually Henry jumps up, and jumps at the chance to follow me out of his house and into mine. I wonder what Mr. Henry is up to? I will check back on him soon. He can't outwit me. I'm in charge around here.

There is a Trader Joe's in walking distance to where I live. This is by far my favorite place to shop. The people who work there are friendly.

How is it that you can go into another grocery store week after week, year after year, and the same people who check you out, week after week, year after year, don't ever acknowledge your existence? They don't say hello, most of the time, just grimly start ringing up your groceries, and glumly stare at you as they take your money. They get paid shit, and they are treated like shit, that's how.

Trader Joe's is different. The money doesn't all go to the top. Fuck companies where men, and women, who are already millionaires get million dollar bonuses, and everybody else is running around trying to make ends meet on 8 bucks an hour.(Borders Bookstores, are you listening?) Hurrah for Trader Joe's who shares the cake with its employees.


This woman who I have been communicating with on the internet blew me off, last night. She got mad about something I said, and instead of telling me that she was mad about it, she just quit talking in chat, and then, when I called her on the telephone, she didn't pick up. I'm really not sure how to react to this, so I am trying not reacting at all.

It would have been nice if she had explained to me what I had done wrong, but she didn't, and she is she, and there is nothing I can do about who she is. The relationship is in much too young a state for something like this to be happening. I think I that I am better off staying alone; perhaps, maybe. Or maybe I am getting too deep with all of this, and this is just a minor thing, that can easily be handled.

When you offer an apology, you should not use the time to point the finger at the other person and offer them reasons why they were wrong. That is not an apology.

One of the things that got me to fly right on this planet, was that I was sick of making apologies. It was mainly the same people who I was always apologizing to, and they were sick of me making apologies, also.

I have just offered this young woman an apology. I don't really know what I did wrong, but it never hurts to clear my side of the street.

Her reply was scintillating: "Apology accepted with open arms.... thank you....today is another day....hope it's a good one !! :)

I went to an orientation for a possible job, last night; as a zombie. The folks who ran the place decided that I was not zombie material, however, and they had me become a biker. The guy running the show said that I might find myself on the zombie set with a sign waving a sign that says, "This is the end," and screaming at people. I have screamed at people before, in my past, but I have never gotten paid for it.

Halloween is right around the corner. I have an orange box full of Halloween decorations, that I am storing on the porch. I love my Halloween decorations, and hope to acquire even more as time goes along. Have you notice how some people put as much effort into decorating their house for Halloween, these days, as others do for Christmas?

Henry attacked the old couch that sits in the front room of his house, again, this morning, and, again, I had to pick up a large amount of foam from the floor. I do not know what makes Henry pull foam from this old couch, and I do not know how one couch can hold so much foam. Is Henry mad that his mom, and dad, are gone, and that I am watching him? Does he pull foam from the couch because he finds it a fun thing to do?
Does he have some doggie mental disorder that cause him to act in such an unspectacular way? I don't know, but I certainly wish that this was a phase of his development that he would pass through. I love Henry, but I hate cleaning up after him in this manner!
I am not feeling strong, today, when it comes to this memoir writing. One reason is that I usually write what is on my mind, and what is on my mind today are not really things that I care to share with the outside world, or at least with one, or two, people in the outside world. Self-censorship I could call it, or I could blame the folks who are on my mind for shutting me down. Either way, it slows me down, making the writing frustrating, and not manically happy, as it so often is, and like I like it.

I got three boxes of food today from this church downtown who is the hookup for an organization called, "Angel Food Ministries."

I didn't feel like a poet, today; words were hard to come by, and the ones that came by seemed forced, and stilted. "Go real slow, you'll like it more and more,
Take it as it comes, specialize in having fun."--JM

I lost my wallet, today. I think that I left it on the counter at the bank, which is a good thing; it should be there when I call the bank on Monday. I am going to use my passport to get into a club, tonight; good thing that I have a passport. I better not lose it.

I just took my last timed 15 minute walk, of this week, and in fact, most likely my life. Next week, I add five minutes, to my timed walk and go at as fast a pace as I can for twenty minutes. I am heading towards a weekly high of 45 minutes. I think that it is nice to do the walks in increments, as I have been doing by following this plan that I found on the internet. There is no use jumping in at the deep end, now is there?

The Yoga mat is calling me. This is my last Yoga workout of this week. Tomorrow, Sunday, is a day that I take off from exercise.

Who gives a rat's ass; I know that is what you are thinking.

It is amazing when you, or at least when I, thnk of it to think that on January 11, I had hip replacement surgery, and now, with a new hip, I am able to do full walking, and full Yoga workouts. I used to bitch about Doctors, and about the A.M.A. all the time, but let me tell you, Dr.Doute, did me right. There are good doctors out there, those who care more about their patients, than they do their Mercedes, just like there are goo lawyers out there, ha, ha find me just one.

I'm going to kill Bundy. He knocked over my phone, again, charging out from under my desk to go bark at someone passing by our front door. He just doesn't think, this sweet dog of mine. Perhaps I should take him in for a lobotomy; that might help

My first cup of coffee tastes so good, but I don't think that it's going to wake me. My pillow is calling me back; it is saying, "I miss you. Come be with me, again, for another hour, or two." What can I do? I must obey my pillow.


The conversation would be mostly superficial, and, mostly, that is o.k., but I'm just not in the mood for it, today, so I don't dial his number; I continue to exist in this near slumber state that I have found myself in, today. In a bit, I will take a nap, but this is one of those days that naps don't chase Mr. Sleepyhead away.

This girl was so high dancing to the music of the reggae band, and then she started looking at me. I couldn't stand such scrutiny, if she had started to come to me, I would have run; my idea of fun is different than hers. What's the word, fellas, will you do anything for pussy.


I don't even try to keep the dogs out of each other's bowl anymore. Bundy is eating out of Morisson's bowl right now, when he has plenty of food in his bowl. I guess that the dogs figure it out; neither one of them is emaciated, so something must be working.

I need to go check on Henry, and Anna, today is not an "official" babysitting day, but I like to keep an eye on The Great Danes when their Daddy is away. Henry likes to visit with us, whether it is an "official" thing, or not!

The thought crossed my mind, as I was chatting with a friend online, this morning, that more bad has probably been done in the name of Jesus than has been done in the name of Satan. This is certainly not to say that I am a Satanist. In fact I fun from anyone, or anything, making overt, or any kind of gestures, towards Satan. I figure that life is hard enough, and bad enough, at times, that to intentionally invoke something that is directly associate with evil is stupid.

She is hungry for my touch. Lucinda Williams is a powerful singer. It is amazing how much better one person can be at something, than so many others. What sets a person apart? Is it God-given talent, or is it hours put in on the practice field? I would think that most "successful" people did not get where they were at overnight.

I have been at this writing thing, in this form, pretty much since 1982. That is 28 years of doing what I do, I have bookshelves covered in old tattered notebooks that I used to carry around back in the day, and have mostly filled with thoughts, poems, and journal entries. I have also filled several computer hard drives with thoughts, poems,and journal entries, and I feel like I am just getting started.

How will success define me? Am I already a success, because I have found my passion in life, and I pursue it ruthlessly, or must I have my face on the cover of somebody else's magazine to be defined as a success. Can I be successful as a writer, without ever have published a book?

The turtles love their new light. They have been spending a great deal of time underneath it, perched on their floating rock. I think Bundy wants to go outside. Bundy, I am in the middle of a timed writing period; bro, you will have to wait 45 minutes.

I got some batteries for my diabetes meter, the other day; my counts have been great, except for this morning, when it was 131, which is not outrageous, but is way higher than the readings that I normally, and this is because I had several glasses of lemonade yesterday, several pieces of cake, and a small hamburger roll when I was out watching the band i Tegrity play at a celebration for Whole Foods 30th Birthday. Whole foods was giving away all the sugar laden food that I just mentioned.

It is not someone else's fault, when I eat incorrectly. I know what I am doing with every bite that I put in my mouth. The food was a rare pleasure for me, and I enjoyed every bite. I also enjoy being healthy, so I do not eat like that any more hardly at all.

i Tegrity is a reggae band. Their singer's name is Enchantress. This lady gives it her all. Her stage makeup was incredible, and her singing, and performance of her songs were amazing. She is a nice person, too, which is refreshing. Sometimes, people in bands take themselves too seriously, and are not much open to saying hello. I can understand this, in a way, though because after I do a gig, I am scared to face the people who I just did the gig in front of. Maybe I feel that I have just revealed too much to them, and, now, I must hide.

Anyway, Enchantress certainly felt no need to hide from me, yesterday, as she took a few minutes between sets, in the shade, trying to recover from the hot set in the sun that she had just performed. Best wishes to her, and all of I Tegrity. What a great band.

I came up with a shin splint in my left leg about fifteen minutes into my fast paced twenty minute walk, this afternoon. I had forgotten about shin splints, how they can surface, and suck the life out of your speed walking, or running. I don't run because my left him is new, and I was told by a physical therapist that running will just wear the new hip out fast. I really don't want to be getting a replacement hip for the replacement hip any faster than I have to. In fact, I would rather never get another new hip. Getting a new hip was not the most fun thing that I have ever done, though it has certainly paid off in major benefits such as elimination of much pain, and returning my mobility to what it was, before the hip started to cause me trouble, and needed to be replace.

I did finish the walk out, slower than I had been walking, albeit. At the slower pace, the shin splint did not give me any pain. I may have to go back to my bicycle for my aerobic workouts, and put this walking plan that I have been following, where I increase my walks by five minutes a week, up to a maximum of a 45 minute walk, on hold.

It is a nice day out there; not really cool, but certainly not hot. The sun is bold, and brilliant, but not imposing, as it has been all summer. The sun is working with us, today, instead of working against us.

Weight slips up on you; but does not disappear from your existence rapidly. Money is hard to come by, but slips away easily, if you are not careful.

"All novels are really letters aimed at one person."--Author Unknown

"Most writers are needy."--Stephen King


I am not sure what the fudge to write about, this morning. I feel that you are tired of hearing about my life. Perhaps I will make up a life, and write about that life for you. That would be called "fiction," now wouldn't it, and I am not a novelist, I am a man living on food stamps, a disability check, and, right now, unemployment.

I do not define myself, for the most part, by all of that; I define myself as a writer, and anything that allows me to write is o.k. by me.

I write mostly, and to my way of thinking, much better in the early morning hours. I am well rested, and, for the most part, calm, and alert. This is not to say that I don't write during other hours of the day. I always have a laptop, or a pen, and a notebook handy, to catch those poems when they drop, to get those memoir entries down when they arrive on my brain.

I am a poet, and a memoirist.

In the poems, I write about everything; in the memoirs I write about me. What else can I write about? I mean I don't know what it is like to be you. I will leave it up to you to write about you.

I enjoy reading memoirs; in fact, right now they are pretty much all that I seek out to read. I would like, though, to check out Susan Henderson's new book, "Up From The Blue," a novel that I am betting is spectacular.

I've got to piss, now; can you hang on?

There. I feel much better now. That is what that first cup of coffee of the day tends to do to me, but I will spare you the details.

People often say that I look like a biker, and now, starting Wednesday, I will get to play one. The promotional card that I am looking at, right now, says, "Run For Your Life; Zombies Want To Eat Your Brains.

I went down to the orietation for The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse, thinking that I would sign up to be a Zombie for the event, but when I got the clipboard back with my filled out information sheet, it had a "B" on it, which meant that I was going to be a biker.

I'm not really sure what a biker does, on a primarily Zombie filled set; but I will start to find out on Wednesday, as rehearsals begin then.




I'm listening to Dylan sing, "Just like a woman." What a beautiful song.

I am avoiding doing some laundry, and some cleaning that I feel that I should be doing because a woman is visiting me tonight. You have to clean your dump up somewhat for a gal, don't you, or do you let her in on the secret right from the start that you are a slob who lives in a dump that smells more like dogs, and cats, than it does flowers.

I'm going to burn incense at the end of the hallway that leads to the bathroom trying to kill the smell of dog poop, and pee, that haunts the hallway. Fuckers sneak behind my back, and make the hallway carpet their own.

I need a maid. I need a Mercedes. I need money for my utility bill. I need a lot of things, and so do you, but isn't it nice to be happy with what we have, to realize that we have it made wherever we are, me in my dump, and you in your space, in your place in this universe?

I am not sure what the fudge to write about, this morning. I feel that you are tired of hearing about my life. Perhaps I will make up a life, and write about that life for you. That would be called "fiction," now wouldn't it, and I am not a novelist, I am a man living on food stamps, a disability check, and, right now, unemployment.

I do not define myself, for the most part, by all of that; I define myself as a writer, and anything that allows me to write is o.k. by me.

I write mostly, and to my way of thinking, much better in the early morning hours. I am well rested, and, for the most part, calm, and alert. This is not to say that I don't write during other hours of the day. I always have a laptop, or a pen, and a notebook handy, to catch those poems when they drop, to get those memoir entries down when they arrive on my brain.

I am a poet, and a memoirist.

In the poems, I write about everything; in the memoirs I write about me. What else can I write about? I mean I don't know what it is like to be you. I will leave it up to you to write about you.

I enjoy reading memoirs; in fact, right now they are pretty much all that I seek out to read. I would like, though, to check out Susan Henderson's new book, "Up From The Blue," a novel that I am betting is spectacular.

I've got to piss, now; can you hang on?

There. I feel much better now. That is what that first cup of coffee of the day tends to do to me, but I will spare you the details.

People often say that I look like a biker, and now, starting Wednesday, I will get to play one. The promotional card that I am looking at, right now, says, "Run For Your Life; Zombies Want To Eat Your Brains.

I went down to the orietation for The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse, thinking that I would sign up to be a Zombie for the event, but when I got the clipboard back with my filled out information sheet, it had a "B" on it, which meant that I was going to be a biker.

I'm not really sure what a biker does, on a primarily Zombie filled set; but I will start to find out on Wednesday, as rehearsals begin then.

Nathan Nelson, Dave Roth, & Andy Tomka killed it tonight at The Northside Tavern. My hot date, Scarlett, was a blast to be with: great smile, nice breasts. (: I can't wait to wake up in the morning, & write about having oatmeal, and drinking coffee. That is when I get really deep. Thanks Lord for another great day. Thanks for keeping me off the booze, drugs, and cigarettes for another day. Sleep well, Scarlett; see you soon.

I Googled camera repair, this morning, after I had coffee, and oatmeal, coffee and oatmeal. I can not live without my camera. I am jonesing without it. My phone takes pictures, but only in day light. I like to be able to take pictures at all times of the day.

I hung out with Scarlet, last night. We went to see Nathan Nelson and The White Crackers play at The Northside Tavern. Scarlet is fun to talk to, and was looking fine. We made out quite a bit. She is a great kisser. I was rock hard from the lip connection.

My dogs, and cats, finally got their shots, last night. I was greatly relieved that Morisson, and Bundy passed their heart worm test, as I was a bit behind on giving them these pills. Kobain is acting very sluggish this morning. He seems to be suffering some after shot effects. I hate to see him like this. It worries me.

Scarlett says that I write too much about having coffee, and oatmeal, in the morning.
You know what I think?

Coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.
coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.
coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.
coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.
coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.
coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.
coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.
coffee and oatmeal for breakfast.

Have I written too much about cleaning my turtles' tank? It is that time again. I got all the water out of the tank yesterday, and then ran out of time, so the turtles' have been running around on pebbles with no water to swim in over night. They don't much seem to miss the water, although it is more fun for me when they have it. I like to see them swimming about.

I hope that your day is grand.

I am worried about Kobain. He is curled into the fetal position on my bed. I keep looking over at him to see if he is moving. I keep checking him to see if he is breathing. We went to a pet store, last night, both cats, and both dogs, and I, to get discount shots. I don't remember Kobain being this lethargic, last year, when I went somewhere else to get my shots.

I hope that the shots that they gave him don't kill my cat. I am pretty attached to Kobain. He is the one that climbs into the bed with me, when I lay down at night, and demands that I pet, and scratch him. He is the one that, then, curls up next to me, and falls asleep. I don't know what I would do without him, and I don't want to find out now. People are saying that it is normal for a cat to be lethargic after he gets his shots. They are also saying to call a vet. I feel very weird about calling my regular vet since I did not go to her for shots, this year. Her prices are good, but the prices offered by the clinic that is run at the pet store are even better. I think that maybe it is a sin to be poor, and have pets. As it is, I was several months behind on getting them their shots. I'm a sinner and I should be shot.

Kobain is moving around a lot better, tonight. I just blew kisses and he came running to his bowl to see what treat I had in store for him, and he lapped up the wet cat food like a healthy animal. I am glad that that scare is over.

I went to Zombie School, tonight. Zombie teacher Shane Morton showed us how a Zombie was created, and I got my picture taken with The Zombie. We start full rehearsals next Monday night. Mr. Morton, who knows about these things, is saying that I will not need any makeup to play my role of a biker. I come ready to go for the zombie set, he says!!

I joked that people would be saying, "Hey, there's that guy who bums change in Little Five Points," which is certainly a joke, because I have never been a panhandler on the streets, just in cyberspace!

I hung out with Scarlet, last night. We went to see Nathan Nelson and The White Crackers play at The Northside Tavern. Scarlet is fun to talk to, and was looking fine. There seems to be two schools of thought on my "date," last night. Enquiring minds want to know how it went, and there is a school of thought that says, "Don't kiss and tell!"

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I'm sipping on my first morning cup of coffee, but I haven't had any oatmeal, yet, Scarlett...

I went to Zombie School, last night, as part of the Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse experience. I really wasn't supposed to be there, since I am to be a biker on the set when things get going, but I got a lot out being there, and had fun at the same time.

Head Zombie Shane Morton showed us how to stretch a half mask over the top part of our face, add latex as a sort of glue, mix in some cotton, and then air brush paint it with some non-toxic paint, and woolah, you have a zombie!

We return to the zombie set, next Monday, for the start of rehearsals. Fun, fun. Zombies run...Mikel K Poet Biker is on your tail/trail!

www.atlantazombieapocalypse.com

Kobain was waiting by his bowl this morning, meowing for his breakfast, which tells me that he is back to normal. I am glad that yesterday's scare passed without there being any serious repercussions to the well being of my cat. I knew that I was close to Kobain, but I did not realize fully how much his well being means to my well being.

I love these cats, and dogs, of mine, and can not stand to see any one of them ailing. I am glad that I was, finally, able to get their shots for them. I went to a discount shot clinic, held at a pet store. Now, I have to figure out how to tell my vet that I didn't bring my cats, and dogs to her, that I had to opt out for a cheaper option.

People have said that she will understand. I figure that she has to eat, too, but there is nothing I could do about where I took my animals this year for their vaccinations. I had to go where the price was most affordable.

Bless me father for I have sinned.

I met this girl, last night, on the zombie set who said that she would not mind picking me up, and bringing me home from all things zombie, in exchange for gas money. She was an interesting character; said that she was 29, and holding, with a laugh. She has four kids by two men, two boys by one man, and two girls by another man, which I thought was very unique.

She has had her tubes tied, but is going to have them untied to have more children with her current boyfriend, once they get married.

I am happy happy when my body is engaged in the Yoga position Downward Facing Dog. I love it when my body is stretched into Triangle Pose. Yoga turns me on, baby!

When you eat both cooked, and raw, carrots off the plate, the experience is rather zany, because, you, or at least I, forget that there are raw carrots on the plate, and biting into them provides a weird dining experience.

I rode my bike, tonight, instead of power walking, because of the shin splint that I came up with, yesterday, while doing a fast 20 minute walk. I got in 30 minutes on the bike,tonight, mostly riding the big circle that runs around the swimming pool in Piedmont Park.

The park is about two blocks from where I live. It was not packed like you will find it on the weekends, but there was a smattering of joggers, bike riders, and hand in hand lovers. There was also one spot that was very dark on the circle; I had to proceed very cautiously when going through there.

I am going to miss my walks. I like bike riding, but was really hoping that my aerobic workouts would be a combination of walking and bike riding. Hopefully, my shin will heal itself, and I will be able to do my fast timed walks again.

I am honored to have been selected along side a Nobel Prize Winner in Poetry.

http://clatl.com/atlanta/best-local-poet/BestOf?oid=1996532
My doctor recently notified me that she would no longer be practicing in the same spot where I have been going to see her for the past twenty years. The hospital that sponsored her is shutting her practice down.

I was given several phone numbers to call to see if her new office would take my insurance. I could only reach voice mails, left messages, and nobody has called me back, which is rather frustrating, as I need to have a doctor, and I would like to stay with Dr. Margaret Wadsworth as she heads on to a new place of practice.

Something really funny just happened. As I was typing this, a gentleman called from the doctor's office, and set me up with an appointment to transfer my insurance. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and, I guess, so does this new doctor's office, because today is a Saturday, and it is weird to get a call on the weekend from a doctor's office, but I am glad that it happened.

I get to pet my black cat, Jaggar, these days, which is a minor miracle. Historically, Jaggar would not even let me touch him, but, now, he lets me pick him up, and pet him for several minutes. I would have to say that if you shower love on a living thing that doesn't want to be loved, they may very well come around, one day, to loving you. Jaggar I love you!

I made a Facebook post, yesterday, that said, "I'm thinking that it can be lonely at the top." It got a fair bit of reaction. I feel a need to explain it a bit, if not to you, then to myself.

I had a moment yesterday, where I felt all alone. I do not have these moments often, because, generally, I love where I am at, and, except for these animals that I have surrounding me, I am mostly alone. Alone is good for a writer.

So I had this moment where I felt alone, in a day where I had just found out that I had been voted one of the best poets in the city by the weekly newspaper, and I was thinking how awards, and recognition can not change the way that you feel inside.

I am happy to report that, this morning, I do not feel alone. I feel blessed to be alive, and happy to be typing away here on the laptop.

The applause is not for me. It is for Jerry, and his band. They are playing live in my office.
"Just one thing I ask of you," Jerry sings, as I spill coffee on my shirtless body.

I went to an art party, tonight, at a restaurant that used to be a fire station. The art was so so, and it was hot inside the restaurant. I hung out with this woman who I have been kind of hanging out with. She gave me a weird vibe, tonight, somehow. When we sat down, she sat so far away from me that I could barely hear what she was saying. I mean what is that all about?

While we were sitting down, this girl came up to our table and asked us if we knew where so and so was. We didn't. Then the girl look at me and said, "You're a poet, aren't you?" She smiled, and strolled off before I could ask here how she knew that.

If you expect people to conform to some preconceived notion that you have about them, you are going to be greatly disappointed. You have to take people as they come, and then decide whether you can deal with them, or not. It took me almost fifty years of living on this planet to learn this, but I have learned it pretty well, and learning it has saved me a great deal of annoyance.

I have been weighing in at 265 for weeks, and, this morning, I weighed in at 263, which is down from 286 12 weeks, and two days ago. My goal is to get down to 220 in 51 weeks. I find this losing weight thing to be a fun adventure. I love to see the pounds drop off, and the changes that I see in the mirror.
\I'm drinking a 8:54 pm cup of coffee, and starting to read a new book, "The Big Sleep," by Raymond Chandler. Bundy is scratching my toes with his fingernails. Both he, and Morisson, need to have their toenails cut. It was a beautiful day, complete with multiple naps, and an art walk.

Mudcat is jamming tonight at The Northside Tavern, and Spanky and The Love Handles are finishing up, right now, at some new festival, in Grant Park.

I didn't ride my bike, today. I rode it two days in a row, and my knees felt funny, today, so I gave it a rest. My friend Vivan is looking for a job that he can work while he is confined to crutches. He's good at just about everything. Check him out under Vivan Greco, here on Facebook. Hire the guy, will you; he has kids who I love to help support.

It's late, and I am tired, but I don't really want to put down this book that I am reading.

Raymond Chandler describes things too much, what a room looks like, what the exterior of a building looks like; I mean I don't really care about the detail he has for such, but I am driven to read on because of his greatness in building characters, major and minor, and making me want to see what happens to them.

I should be big sleeping, but I'm not going to. I am going to make a hot tea, and carry on with my reading of, "The Big Sleep."

I'm not sure how to proceed, this morning. I just finished reading the book, "The Big Sleep," and it makes me want to write fiction; but I am not a fiction writer. It is kind of like craving chocolate when there isn't any chocolate around.

I need to eat, but I don't feel like eating. It is cool outside, but it is still hot in here, a plot, I am sure, by the utility company to keep extracting as much money as they can from me. When I am deceased, ashes scattered to the wind, by my children, the accounting department at the utility company will still send out bills to follow me into Heaven, or Hell.

You have to live with certain things, and not let them wreck your day, or they will wreck day after day after day, and then what will you have? A wrecked life.

I am trying hard to not write about my dogs, cats, turtles, coffee, or oatmeal, this morning. It may be tough. They do say, "write what you know."

I don't know that I will ever attempt to write a novel. I think that writing fiction is something that is just beyond my reach. Besides, there is a lot of it out there already. Who needs me?

I hear the garbage truck making noise out front. That means that the garbage men have arrived, and are taking our trash away. Can you imagine a city without trash collection? Can you imagine a child without love?

I'm not timing my writing, this morning. I am just going to write until there is nothing left in me, and then move on to the next part of the day. Everything can't always be on a time clock. Some things have to be left to go to their normal progression. I am not sure that poems are supposed to be written while the sand is dropping through an hour glass, while the seconds are ticking away on a digital clock. Stop. Two minutes have passed. The poem is over.

I think not. I think that the heart and the soul of the poet determine when the poem starts, where it goes, and when it is over.

Mis-information, man. Mis-information, Mam; thanks for keeping me in the know. What's going on? Smell the flowers. Is the coffee ready? Are you going to the arcade/parade? Love is all that matters in the unemployment line. Their kids are hungry, but you feel fine.

My estimated wait time is ten minutes. Have you ever noticed that some computer generated voices are brimming with confidence, while others are neurotic, or tense? I would think that all computer voices are created equal, but experience tells me differently. Could you ever fall in love with the voice of a computer; have phone sex with one. My estimated wait time is now nine minutes.

I eat worms covered in sugar that my children give me while in the dirt below me worms fornicate freely creating more worms that some might cover in sugar and eat but not me. I am a virgin when it comes to eating worms from the gound covered in sugar and I bet that you are, too.

I like living here, man. It would be nice to live somewhere else, also. I would like to live everywhere, all the time, all at once. I don't know if I will ever leave here. I don't know if I will leave here as other than ashes in an urn

I think that I might go to the library, today, after I do my aerobic workout bike ride. I have just finished an incredible book, one that I read in several nights, and I want to keep the good book ball rolling. Thank you David Herrle, and Anne-Marie Perry for your book suggestions. I am going to see out the books that you suggested. Isn't reading fun? Do I not look forward to the day when people can hold my books in their hands, and say, "Gosh, this guy is good." (I'm a coward. I'm a loser. It / good things will never happen to me.)

Pus-breathed Republicans. Pus is a thick fluid produced by the body as it fights infection. A large amount of pus can mean a serious infection.

She's not as good looking in person as she is in her pictures. I know; I have met her, and it was her pictures that lead me to want to meet her. Oh well.

Does this make me shallow? Are you supposed to be attracted to someone out of a need to be politically correct. Don't most of us wind up rubbing noses with people who we think are cute?

I'm no beauty queen myself; never have been, but just because I'm fat, old, and ugly doesn't mean that I want to wind up with someone in the same condition. I'm broke, too. Does my "love" have to be broke, also. There is no love out there for me. I need to resign myself to staying where I am.

I can't tell you that I woke up at 4 a.m. and had a bowl of oatmeal, and a cup of coffee. I have a stalker who says that I shouldn't write about coffee, and oatmeal. Sometimes, that is all that is going on, though. I am sorry that my life is not more exciting.

My last class to get my English Degree was with a guy named Dobranski; the class was Miltion, and it was at 8 am. I didn't know it, at the time, but I had sleep apnea, and I would, mostly, sleep through class. I got an F. Ouch!

Monkey, the sort of stray cat who I have been feeding, along with others who live around here, allowed me to pick her up, and pet her, this morning. Monkey had never felt comfortable with this before, always indicating that she was going to scratch, and, or bite me if I tried to lift her up. This is some sort of a breakthrough, for certain.


Morisson, and I, just split an apple. Mo will eat the core. He doesn't have to write down what he eats; neither do I, but I mostly do. I'm trying to become Charles Atlas.

David Herrle's new book of poetry, "Abyssinia, Jill Rush," arrived at my home, via the U.S. Mail, yesterday evening. For some reason, as I lay in bed with the book, last night, I started to read it from the back. I found David's work both challenging, and humorous. "Beat The Devil," and "A Laugh Is The Ultimon," to be two of my favorite Herrle poems so far. You should buy a copy, today. You will be fascinated with the writing of David Herrle.

I can't tell you that I woke up at 4 a.m. and had a bowl of oatmeal, and a cup of coffee. I have a stalker who says that I shouldn't write about coffee, and oatmeal. Sometimes, that is all that is going on, though. I am sorry that my life is not more exciting.

I'm fiddling about traveling in cyberspace with no real destination hoping to make some sort of connection it hasn't occurred so far.

If I knew who to call, I would call them. If it would do any good, I would write them a letter. Hell, I'd go down to their house, and knock on their window, if I had to, but I don't have to.


He gets off the bed so quietly that I am never sure if he is gone, or if he is still there lying beside me. He will do that, curl up into the fetal position, pushing himself into my ribs, and fall asleep after I have satisfied him with enough head scratching, and body petting.

The shooter's in the hand that fits it's going to hurt quite a bit not the dead man his path is destined but the man who pulled the trigger is now on a very uncertain path.

If you quit working it, it might quit working for you. Of course, it might not. One can never be sure. Things have a way of doing themselves the way that they want to do themselves, without regards to your feelings, opinions, or beliefs.

I need to dust my desk, and mop my kitchen floor. There is quite a bit of animal hair that has gathered on my desk, and there is oil, on the floor, in front of the oven, in the kitchen, which spreads itself out over all of the kitchen floor via the bottom of my sandals.

I mostly wear sandals in the house, the kind that you can easily slip your feet into. I'm not some kind of a hippy, I just like things to be easy around the house.

I went to the first Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse rehearsal, last night. For the most part, it was fun, and interesting. The director kept fine tuning my performance. I am, now, a bible wielding biker, screaming, "THIS IS THE END," at the people who walk through our zombie set. We open on Friday. It will be fun to see the reactions of the people to us, we zombies, and bikers, and military types, and mad scientists. I can't believe that Halloween is so close. My life is just breezing by. This will be my 53rd Halloween on the planet. I can't go door to door with a pillow case, asking for cany, any more. Waaaaaaaah.

I did a Google search, and a search on Facebook, today, for one of my favorite writers. His name is Thom Jones, and he is best know for three works of short stories that he wrote a number of years ago: Cold Snap, Sonny Liston Was A Friend Of Mine, and The Pugilist At Rest.

I think that I have read all three books. I do know that I have, "The Pugilist At Rest," on my shelf, and I will have to pull it down, and re-read it, soon. I'd like to see some new work out of Mr. Jones, a novel perhaps. He had left writing fiction the last time that I spoke to him to concentrate on making big money writing scripts for Bruce Willis, and Sean Penn.

Big money. Big money. Isn't that what we're all after: big money?


I've had an ear ache for about a week in my left ear. I have been treating it with 800mg ibuprofens, which makes it go away for awhile, but it keeps coming back. I thought that I could outlast it, make it go away by showering it with patience. I have been wrong before, and I have been wrong this time.

I just called an ENT Doctor, and got an appointment for the morning. The lady on the phone said, "Would a Physician's Assistant be o.k.?"

I said, "Can she do what the Doctor can do?"

She said, "She can do everything, but operate."

I said, "Well, I certainly hope that you all don't have to operate."

I have never called a Doctor's office before, and been offered the services of anything but a Doctor. I learn something new every day that I am on this planet, and I hope that this visit means the end to this aching ear of mine.

It's funny how one person on the phone being nice to you can create a favorable impression about the organization that he, or she, works for, and start your day off on pleasant footing. I find that, many times, the people who you talk to, when you finally get to talk to a person, at most companies are, often, stressed out, at the least, and are down right rude at the worst.

Marta has changed many of its bus routes, removing the number 45 that I used to catch at the end of my street, so I had to call in and find out what the deal is as far as a replacement bus. Someone had told me that the 36 would now be running into, and out of, our neighborhood, and that proved to be right according to the Marta rep who talked to me on the phone. The woman was soft spoken, pleasant, and helpful, which was certainly a nice way to start my day.

I'm glad that I didn't complain about the loss of my old familiar 45, because it looks like the replacement 36 runs even more efficiently for my needs, and it is, after all, all about my needs.

We had our second Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse rehearsal, last night. Things are really falling into place. I think that we are going to scare the shit out of you. The set looks really good, and we have a million zombies waiting to eat you. I have shifted from being a biker to being a street preacher. I wave a bible at the folks who will start paying twenty dollars to get in on Friday night, and holler at them. I won't tell you what I holler; you will have to come out and find out for yourself.

I have a new friend. Her name is Zowie Morris, she is ten years old, and she, of all things, plays a little girl on the set, who gets eaten by her mommy, who just happens to be her real life mommy, Lisa Morris. The Morris's are a class act. It is Zowie's goal, one day, to be an actress. She has already had parts in several films. The kids at school give her a hard time for having lofty goals. I told her to ignore them, and be careful who you share your dreams with. Not everybody is capable of dreaming, or of supporting someone who has dreams.

My old friend Michelle Kelley, the person who turned me onto this incredible zombie scene, is playing a zombie stripper. The dirty old street preacher is hoping to get down close to those evvil zombie strippers, and shake his bible at them!

My new friend, Kenneth Lee McDaniel, plays a mad scientist, and I have heard that the man is very, very believable.

The set is full of zombies, men with machine guns, and a wild, crazy, and deadly cast of characters that will scare the s*** out of you. We open this Friday at 8pm. Check the website for our full schedule and more details.

www.atlantazombieapocalypse.com

I am loving the weather that has arrived: cool, crisp, and not hot, hot. It is so pleasant to stroll outside with the dogs, these days. I love me some fall.

I am going to the ENT doctor this morning. My ear feels better, finally, this morning which makes sense. It will probably cure itself by the time that I get to the doctor's office. Isn't that how things go; some variation of Murphy's Law often operating in our lives.

Like I said, it is a BEAUTIFUL day out there; I hope that you fully enjoy it. I know that I intend to!!
The doctor said that she would have to cut off my left ear.

Just kidding, but she did pull 53 years worth of ear wax out of each of my ears, nearly a baseball in size; black, grayish, nasty, and yucky, "Look what I got," she said with a huge smile on her face presenting each mass of wax to me, as she got them out.

"Use mineral oil, once a week, to keep this from happening again," she said. "Keep it in there overnight with cotton balls."

Yes, mam.

We are, now, waiting to see if the huge wax buildup had anything to do with my ear ache. What do you think?

The Egg Angel just stopped by with a huge box of eggs that her eleven chickens, who run around her yard near downtown Decatur laid. The Angel told me that a coyote had invaded her property, earlier this morning, obviously eying the chickens with bad intent. None were eaten, or maimed, though and are now free to keep laying eggs in the city.

The opening of the Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse went great. The people who came through the event looked both scared, and bemused. The Street Preacher was a hit. He made people feel like they were going to hell, if they didn't repent, which seems to be the job of any man who works with the bible as part of his job.

I decided to do my 30 minute bike ride, even though I am playing The Street Preacher, tonight. If you find excuses to not do your workouts, they will slip away from you.

I was tired, today, from being The Preacher, last night, at the Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse, so, at first, I thought about blowing off the bike ride, and, then, as I was doing the bike ride, I thought about knocking off one lap of the four that I needed to make 30 minutes, but I didn't do that. I finished my laps, and got the 30 minutes in, so I can feel good about myself, and life.

Now, I have two hours before becoming The Preacher Man to do my home Yoga workout. No excuses, Mikel; no excuses!!

I played The Street Preacher, again, last night, at The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse. The whole crew, and management, did an incredible job. People left the experience with their heart beating fast, a bemused look on their face.

One young man stood close in front of me, and folded his arms across his chest, and stared defiantly at me. I was screaming at him that, "THE BIBLE IS THE WORD OF GOD, AND YOU HAVE VIOLATED THE WORD, SO YOU ARE GOING TO HELL..."

I hollered at cute women, "Cumere, Little Girl, come drink the kool aid with me." That got a big grin out of one father.

There is both fear, and humor, on the AZA set. We have military men, among them, Barry Bob, keeping the path safe for customers, as zombies walk out of the dark, and try to eat them. We have little girls being bitten by their zombie mothers. We have zombie strippers, waiting to take it off for...

Our zombies are the most real zombies that have ever been created, among them, Angry John, and Joe Faillo. We have car crashes, near collisions with motorcycles; if it will scare you, we have it.

Come on down, and let us shock you; you will love it.

Day 2 of the Atlanta Zombie Experience was even more effin rocking than day one which rocked as intensely as David Lee Roth did, back in the day. Last night the groups were more astute, more in tune to what was happening with us.

They were more intelligent. They got scared more, and were better looking than the groups on day 1. So there.

Repeat News: My old friend, James Lewis, is getting married. James is a looooooong time bachelor, and it makes me happy to know that he has found a good woman, and that a good woman(Colette Walsh)has found him. May the two of them live long, happy lives together.

You can't sell cd's and get your supper, anymore...

Recently, I tried to sell my favorite cd's to a record store that did me right on such a deal several years ago, and, now, they are offering so little that it wasn't worth selling my cd's.

Too bad I can't sell this old ass; I'm down to pasta, and rice until Thursday. Put some money in the K Tip Jar, will you, so I can buy some protein?!

There is a fly circling the light on my desk. I want him dead. Henry has started to barck about something. (I want him to shut up). I have to piss. (See ya).

What day is today?

I often forget. Thank God for cellphones. My cellphone can always tell me what the date is, and, then, I can usually figure out what day it is.

But what if I have lost my cell phone. I can't even call my kids to find out what day it is, because their numbers are locked inside my cellphone; I don't have them memorized.

I forget people's names also. I really hate it when someone comes up to me, all happy to see me, and says, "Hey Mikel, how are you doing?" and I am left to stammer, "Hey Dude, what's happening?"

I might be getting early Alzheimer's.

I hope not. I saw a guy die of that several years ago, and it was sad, awful, and pathetic. He couldn't remember anything, including who his wife, and daughter were. Of course they weren't really the greatest people; maybe he was faking it to get away from them, but I doubt it.

If I get Alzheimer's I want someone to shoot me in the head, and kill me. Will you do that for me, whatever your name is?!

My cat, Kobain, has started to sleep between my feet. This moves him from my side, where it is comfortable to have him spend the night, to a place that is uncomfortable. I'm mostly dealing with it, but, several times, I have lightly kicked him, and he has jumped off of the bed.

I think that his new sleeping place has been determined by the fact that I have started sleeping with huge, warm comforter with the onset of the cooler fall weather. That is the only change that has occurred in our bedtime habits that I can think of. I am sure that Kobain, and I, will work out this situation, as we have worked out so very many situations in our time together. There is nothing like man and cat love.

My next door neighbor Great Danes, Henry, and Anna, spent most of the weekend in our abode. Anna, who usually spends most of her time resting, or sleeping, has been very active, this morning, moving about the apartment like a young dog. Anna is 9 1/2 years old. She is the queen of our scene.

My dishwasher makes a friendly sound when it works. You know that it is alive, but it is not overbearing like some airplanes at the airport. My clothes drier is much the same; it almost purrs. My clothes washer is a bit different. It rumbles, like a crowd at a football game.

I bought some store brand batteries by accident, one because they were on sale two for one, and two because they looked like Duracell batteries, but they weren't Duracell batteries, and they sucked, so I returned them yesterday, and the $12.32 that I got back is all the money that I have in this world, besides the $11.00 that two kind souls put in The Mikel K Tip Jar, yesterday evening.

Are you this broke, also? I sometimes wonder how I fit into the financial scheme of things. Mostly, I don't care, and, mostly, I do not worry about being a broke bastard(A Broke Poet), but this morning I am giving it some thought.

I am mostly a happy person, these days; would millions of dollars make me happier?

I am really getting into my bike riding. At this point in time, I am putting in a half hour on the bike five times a week. I head to Piedmont Park, and ride the inner circle four times. I am going to increase my riding time by five minutes, every two weeks, with a goal of being up to an hour in several months.

I was bummed out when I came up with a shin splint, and had to quit my fast pace walking, but I am finding the bike riding to be even more rewarding.

I ate pasta last night, two bowls full, a huge departure from my normal new meal habits. This was done mostly out of a financial need to eat what was in the pantry, rather than as a conscious meal choice. I weighed 266, this morning, which is right in the area where I have been weighing for weeks, so it looks as if one meal did not do any serious damage in that arena. It is the life style thing that I have to be conscious of; keeping an awareness of what I should eat, and following through on that awareness.

Poor people eat fast food because it is cheap.

It is a pleasant evening. I am feeling cold coming in from slots in my windows, already. I will have to plug these holes. I am thinking ahead to Halloween. I love Halloween.

It looks as if I will be able to fully celebrate the holiday this year: I'm dating a witch. Just kidding. Witches, please don't cast a spell on me, unless it is a good one. Are you a good Witch, or a bad Witch?

I'm looking forward to The Little Five Points Halloween Parade, which starts at 4 pm on Saturday, Oct. 16. I love how people in the parade throw candy at you. I love me some candy. When my kids were younger, I used to steal candy out of their bags. My youngest boy still talks about it, about how he would come home from school, and all his candy would be gone. I'm a candy addict.

My name is Mikel, and I am powerless over Candy.

I have been loading my oatmeal with butter, and salt, since I have been out of frozen bananas to thaw in the microwave, and then drop into the oatmeal all melted, and tasty. I am eating oatmeal, now at almost 10 p.m. because I am a sucker for oatmeal. I would rather have oatmeal than bad love.

I need some more wake-me-up. I need some more sleep. I need some more tea. I need some more coffee. I need to drink some caffeine, and then crawl under my sheets for another hour, or so. I need. I need. I want. I want.

My brain is on fire, this morning; tonight I am going to see poet Billy Collins read, and when I step up to the table that he will be sitting at, after his reading,selling books, and signing autographs, I am going to hand him ten poems of mine, and a letter asking him to write a letter of recommendation for me to the MFA in Poetry Programs that I am interested in attending.

Billy Collins is a great poet. He is intelligent, and accessible, just like I think a poet should be. He is a former Poet Laureate of The United States. He has done things that I so far, have only dreamed of, and a letter of recommendation from him might well be a strong start on those dreams of mine. Wish me luck!

I ran in the company of poetic greatness, last night, and I found that poetic greatness eats chips from the bowl at a party just like everybody else. Surprise. Surprise.

One of America's greatest poets, Billy Collins, gave a Poetry Reading at Georgia Tech University, last night, as part of the wonderful Poetry at Tech series hosted by Poet Thomas Lux, also one of America's greatest poets, and organized by Poet Travis Denton, on his way to becoming one of America's greatest poets.

Collins reading was entertaining, and humorous. The charismatic poet had the audience eating out of his hand for over an hour, hanging on his every word, smiling for the whole Collins poetry trip.

Scarlett, and I, were invited to an after reading party at Poet Lux house in midtown. I ran into my old friend Kodac Harrison at the party. It was good to see Kodac. It was good to talk to Travis Denton, again. He and I had become friends during the time period when I was practically living at The Starbucks Coffee Shop in Little Five Points rewriting my book, "The Delivery Guy."

Billy Coliins was at the party. I smiled at him, but didn't break into his entourage to tell him what a great poet that I also was. It just wouldn't be prudent. I had talked briefly with Collins at the book signing after his reading. He smiled when I handed him ten poems of mine, and said, "I know it's a long shot, Mr. Collins, but if you like these, would you write me a letter of recommendation for grad school?" Sometimes, you have to reach for your dreams.

At the party, at Thomas Lux's house, I left the same ten poems on Mr. Lux's desk. As I was leaving the party, I told Thomas of the poems, and asked that if he found any merit in them that he, also, write me a letter of recommendation. I have taken two of Mr. Lux's great Poetry at Tech workshops. Mr. Lux said that he would write me the letter, virtually assuring me of entrance into the MFA in Poetry Program that I would like to attend. Thomas Lux is a heavy hitter in the Poetry World, and a nice as hell guy in person.

A bit of my future opened up for me last night, and I had a great time, as it was happening. Having Scarlett on my arm was a pleasant experience also. Her smile lit up the night, and made me not just another lonely poet out there under the moon looking for words.

God bless us all.

I'm feeling better after sleeping much of the day away. No yoga, tonight, after all; I don't have the strength for it. The turtles' heat lamp went out, today, way ahead of schedule. My good friend, Danielle, is taking me down to exchange it, and to look into coffee remedies. Even though I am sick, I am enjoying the da...


I dreamed about the sandwich that I just had to eat, last night; only the sandwich that I just had didn't have lettuce, and tomato, on it, like the one that I dreamed about last night.



A cough is my constant companion, today.


So, I went to order my transcript, today, so that my alma mater, Georgia State University, could send it to Vermont, and I found that there was a hold on my transcripts due to there being a problem with a Perkins Loan. Suck.

It is so easy when you are trying to get the degree to sign any piece of paper that they put in front of you, to say yes to any type of loan without fully thinking it out, without fully thinking out what borrowing this money is going to do to your future.

I have a degree, but I can't get an advanced degree because I owe money that I didn't even know that I had borrowed for the first degree. Eff me.

I've got holders for dimes, nickels, and quarters, but no silver to put in them. Oh well, it's time to roll the copper, again

I've had my nose in my neti pot all afternoon. Thanks to Jeff Waller Dollar for bringing the pot to me at the end of last winter. Jeff had long bragged about how great the use of a Neti pot is for the treatment of a stuffy cold. Lisa Cohen reminded me, this morning, not only that I had a neti pot, but, also, that I should use it for what has been ailing me for the last day, or so. Where would I be without these wonderful people in my life?

I am feeling much better this morning. My cough seems to be, mostly, gone. I think that I am going to incorporate the neti pot as a regular part of my everyday living; it really clears the sinuses.

What are you going to do when your dreams come true is a thought that just came to my mind, as I get closer, and closer to living mine. There are some obstacles to be overcome, but I will not quit knocking on that door wherein lives what I want.

I don't know what the weather is supposed to be like, this morning; and I don't know that you expect a weather report out of me. I'm not sure what you expect out of me, but I am glad that you are here with me right now.

I have a physical to take, today. Fun, fun.

My dream has always been the same, since the second grade when I first realized what it was that I wanted to be: a writer. My father dissuaded me from this goal as I headed off for college for the first time by saying to me, "One in a million make it at that game, and I don't think that you have it in you." I listened to him, and pursued a business degree instead of one in writing. My drinking became more important to me than my studying, and I found myself staggering away from F.S.U. one class short of that business degree.

It wasn't until I was 27 years old, back in 1982, sitting in a bar that had recently been converted to a punk rock bar by a man named Chris Woods.

They are talking about hockey on the radio, and I don't care about hockey, so I turn off the radio. It seems simple enough, but then I think that, somewhere, someone is talking about something that I would be interested in but I can't tune into it, I can't get close enough to hear what is being said. Am I missing out?

For the first time in my life, today, I went to a doctor's office, and it was closed. I called a number that I had for the office, and the lady said that I should have gotten a letter saying that my appointment had been moved to next week, on the same day.

I got no so such letter. I think that the lady was a little surprised that I didn't get pissed off into her ear on the telephone. I was looking forward to the nice bike ride home that I knew that I was about to undertake. Getting to the doctor's offfice took me just over 15 minutes because I had to walk up a hill. Getting home took me 6 minutes because it was all down hill, and an all fun ride.

My cough is not quite gone so I have taken another shot of cough syrup, and am sipping on hot water with lemon squeezed lovingly into it. (I'm doing the loving!)

I'm still feeling lethargic, too weak, and sweaty to go down to the store to get some milk for my coffee in the morning. I will just have to use the evil chemical white powder milk substitute; one morning won't kill me, will it?

I am feeling much better this morning. My cough seems to be, mostly, gone. I think that I am going to incorporate the neti pot as a regular part of my everyday living; it really clears the sinuses.

What are you going to do when your dreams come true is a thought that just came to my mind, as I get closer, and closer to living mine. There are some obstacles to be overcome, but I will not quit knocking on that door wherein lives what I want.

I don't know what the weather is supposed to be like, this morning; and I don't know that you expect a weather report out of me. I'm not sure what you expect out of me, but I am glad that you are here with me right now.

I have a physical to take, today. Fun, fun.

My dream has always been the same, since the second grade when I first realized what it was that I wanted to be: a writer. My father dissuaded me from this goal as I headed off for college for the first time by saying to me, "One in a million make it at that game, and I don't think that you have it in you." I listened to him, and pursued a business degree instead of one in writing. My drinking became more important to me than my studying, and I found myself staggering away from F.S.U. one class short of that business degree.

It wasn't until I was 27 years old, back in 1982, sitting in a bar that had recently been converted to a punk rock bar by a man named Chris Woods.

They are talking about hockey on the radio, and I don't care about hockey, so I turn off the radio. It seems simple enough, but then I think that, somewhere, someone is talking about something that I would be interested in but I can't tune into it, I can't get close enough to hear what is being said. Am I missing out?

For the first time in my life, today, I went to a doctor's office, and it was closed. I called a number that I had for the office, and the lady said that I should have gotten a letter saying that my appointment had been moved to next week, on the same day.

I got no so such letter. I think that the lady was a little surprised that I didn't get pissed off into her ear on the telephone. I was looking forward to the nice bike ride home that I knew that I was about to undertake. Getting to the doctor's offfice took me just over 15 minutes because I had to walk up a hill. Getting home took me 6 minutes because it was all down hill, and an all fun ride.

My cough is not quite gone so I have taken another shot of cough syrup, and am sipping on hot water with lemon squeezed lovingly into it. (I'm doing the loving!)

I'm still feeling lethargic, too weak, and sweaty to go down to the store to get some milk for my coffee in the morning. I will just have to use the evil chemical white powder milk substitute; one morning won't kill me, will it?



8am Out of the bed with a smile on my face, the words on my lips being, "Thank you, Lord, for letting me see the new day, breath the air of a new day. Please guide me in thought, word, and action. Please keep me off of alcohol, drugs, and cigarettes. Good morning Morisson, and Bundy. Move, so I can get out of bed."

Ten of the thirty three trapped Chilean miners have been brought to the surface from the hole deep, deep in the ground where they have been trapped for over two months. It is so brilliant, and beautiful to see a story such as this have a happy ending. Often, or mostly, stories about trapped miners end up with the miners dieing inside the mine.

I think that this story represents both a miracle, and what can happen when great human minds come together for the common good. Reading about the miner's progress has lightened, and tickled, my heart. I'm a sucker for a happy ending, especially when that happy ending is in the real world.

The Chilean president is sure working the event for some personal and Chilean p.r. I can even overlook this in light of the beauty of the event. Sell yourself, and your country, Mr. President, but what we really care about is the miners, and their safe removal from the mine.

Go miners!!

My prayers were extended this morning. People close to me are suffering, and I wish that I could lessen their suffering. My friend Billy Fields is in the hospital, still, having had a bullet pass through his jaw, as some young punks took a shot at him while trying to hold him up. Skinny Joe is in heaven, or wherever punk rock intellectual snake handlers go when they die. Spore, my pal who lives in San Francisco, recently lost his foot in a motorcycle accident. I hear that he is trying to figure out a way to ride, again. More power to him. My friend who is a girl, Scarlett, informed me, yesterday, that her dad, who is, already, fighting cancer, fell and had to be taken to the hospital.

They tell me that God does not give us more than we can handle. As I age more and more friends pass, more and more friends are handed things that it seems grossly unfair that they have been handed. I often want to shout out at God, "Are you really there? How could you do this to me/us?"

Shouting will do no good; I know this. Patience, prayer, and the emission of positive thoughts towards those suffering, towards those who have passed is the best that I/we can do.

And love. We must shower those still living with love. Don't wait until it's too late.

I've been running around this apartment with chopsticks, screaming, "Die Grasshopper die," as I try to catch flies. The trick is not working, as you might well guess.

"I get you. I get you," I say to the dogs. They start panting, and beating their tails on the ground. "I get you," I say. "I get you," grabbing each dog in one hand, and bringing them close to me. "I get you. I get you, you stinky ass dogs." Oh well!

Sometimes, I fall in love with the female customer service reps who help me on the phone. Some of them have sweet voices.

I am so blessed. When you have nothing, and a little bit trickles in, it feels magnanimous to have that little bit.

I have not had money to buy my glucosamine over the past week, or so, and my right knee, and a few other places in both legs have started to act up, have started to send out little sharp shots of pain that let me know that the glucosamine works, and that I need to take it.

Melanie, the curator at Gallery 1526, shared what little money she made off the great, great night of art, and music, that was had by all at Gallery 1526, last night, and I am very thankful to her for this, and so is my aching arthritic knee.

Tony Gordon, and I, reunited after a 15 year separation, took right up where we left off, so long ago, and presented a very dynamic one two bass guitar poetry punch to the audience. The people assembled dug it, and it felt great, wonderful, incredible to be working with Mr. Gordon, again.

During my rehearsals, for whatever reason, I was thinking that Tony would be sending out the typical thump a wumpa bass sounds for me to speak, and shout, poetry to. I had forgotten that Tony is not your typical bass player, that he is an improv genius. The sounds that Tony sent out into the artistic evening were more like small gun fire, mini and major explosions emitting from his speakers, that were both challenging and fun to spew poetry to.

Scarlett was there, and she said that reciting my poetry with Tony made the whole poetry thing much more dynamic. I am looking for the next gig for Tony Gordon, and I. Any ideas?

If you would like to receive an E copy of one of my three memoirs, "The Delivery Guy," "Who Wrote The Book Of Love," or "Baking Banana bread From Scratch," please put ten dollars in The K Tip Jar, and I will email you the copy that you select.

The "Delivery Guy," takes a brutal look into my brain, as I was getting off of alcohol, and drugs, after 20 years. It portrays my transition from a drunk music writer rock star poet wanna be to a sober father sitting in the little league bleachers watching my youngest son grow up.

"I found the book, "The Delivery Guy," by Mikel K to be a refreshing and sometimes uncomfortably honest look into the life of a modern writer struggling to come to terms with a pre-fabricated and often superficial, turn of the century, American society. The battle is dynamic and comes to an uplifting spiritually evolved conclusion. I found it a fascinating read!!!"--James Lewis

"Did You Write The Look Of Love," takes a look at what my life is like sober, and currently, how I have found contentment as a writer, and a father to two dogs, two cats, and two turtles.

"Baking Banana Bread From Scratch," is a series of Face Book posts, that I have copy and pasted together into a brilliant book.

If you are having trouble making your mind up as to which book to pick, I will be happy to send you a chapter from each to aid in your selection process.

I guarantee you that no matter which book you pick, I will put a smile on your face, while at the same time make you scratch your head in wonder.

I weighed 281.5 when I stepped on the scale, this morning, which is a new record. I can't wait to get into the 250's!!

769 people came to see The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse, last night. The zombies, the mad scientist, the soldiers, and myself were there until 2 a.m., instead of until our normal midnight time. The groups that came through were great. There were many squeals of delight, and as many scared sighs.
I can't imagine how many people will come through the weekend of Halloween. I might just have to play The Reverend all night!

I am babysitting a dog named, "Dude." Dud is a half roteweiller, half I don't know dog who belongs to Scout's biological father, Kevin. Kevin went to Chattanooga for the weekend, and Duke is, once again, visiting with us.

Duke has an inordinate interest in my cats, Jaggar, and Kobain. My fear, yesterday, was that Dude was going to attack, and eat, one or both of my cats, My fear, today, is that one of my cats is going to scratch Dude to death because he can not seem to stop following them around, and trying to sniff them!

I am not looking at my calendar to see what is going on for the rest of the week because to me, today, today is all that matters.

I had the weirdest dream, last night. Blood kept spurting out of sores on my legs. It was black blood, and it poured endlessly from my body. Maybe this dream is a result of hanging around all the bloody zombies at The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse.

My coffee is weak, this morning, and I can't figure out what I did wrong. I probably didn't put enough beans in the grinder. The quality of my problems is wonderful, these days.

My body, especially my legs, is sore, this morning. I have played The Reverend the last two days in a row, Two days ago, The Reverend, also, waved his bible at folks gathered to watch The Little Five Points Parade.

"You're Going To Hell. You're Going To Hell," The Reverend screamed at the nearly 35,000 peoople assembled to watch all the floats, and folks, dressed in bizarre costumes who paraded down the street in front of them.

"You'll be there first," and "We're already there," seemed to be the most popular replies that The Reverend received. Something tells me that people would react differently in Alpharetta, or Buckhead to a guy screaming, "You're Going To Hell," and waving a bible at them, than folks who are assembled for a parade in Little Five Points do.

It is Monday morning. Are you back in work? Are you happy to be back in work? Was your weekend a good one? Did anyone wave a bible at you, and tell you that you were going to hell?

I'm kicking the week off with The Rolling Stones, "Exile On Main Street," and The Jerry Garcia Band, "After Midnight."

Have a brilliant day. Is it oxymoronic to "relax" to The Sex Pistols?



Sometimes, resentments take awhile to go away. I can not pick and choose which resentment that I will let go of fairly quickly, or which one that I will hold onto for way too long. Resentments are a waste of time, and positive energy. They make me feel miserable. I can no longer afford them, and I no longer want them in my life. Resentments: shooo; be gone!Both of my cats are laying on my bed, cat-napping, I guess you would call it. There are no flies in this apartment, today; a miracle has occurred, and the evil bastards have been sent to Hell, where they belong, I hope. Bundy has spent the greater part of the last fifteen minutes growling at the cable man. Somebody close by is either getting cable installed, or is getting their cable adjusted, or fixed.

Maybe Bundy is jealous that we do not have cable tv. DSL is no good to him, he is probably thinking; it steals me away from him for many hours of many days, which he doesn’t like.

My other dog, Morisson, doesn’t like the DSL, either. Maybe the two of them are responsible for the fact that the DSL is down right now. Or maybe the cable man has done something out there, working on my neighbor’s cable, to interrupt our, errrr, my service.

On my I Tunes player, the music goes in alphabetical order. I just moved from The Sex Pistols to Smokey Robinson and The Miracles,; "Pretty Vacant," to "Tears of a Clown," and somehow it makes sense, somehow there is a balance in the transition that would not appear to be there upon initial inspection. I know that hearing this is important to you; I really do.

I lost 2.5 pounds while sleeping, last night. Maybe I ought to sleep more.

I have turned my old comforter into a comfortable bed for the dogs. They love it. In fact, instead of hovering on my elbows, as they often do, when I first wake up in the morning, they are still asleep on their new bed. They are stinky dogs; I need to bath them.

I feel much better this morning than I did all day yesterday, when I was recovering from a couple of days of walking, and loudly vocalizing, as The Preacher in the Little Five Points Parade, and on our set for the two weekend nights. I wish that I had taken better care of my body, and myself, when I was younger. What you do when you are young affects how you feel when you are older.

During our play acting on the Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse, this kid, screamed out at me, playing The Preacher, something to the effect of, "Go to hell, old man." The, "Go to hell," part didn't bother me, but I took offense to the "old man" part! This kid is 20, and I am 53, so, I guess, to him, I am an old man, but I don't feel old, and don't really want to be called an, "old man." Pet peeve I guess, and I am sure that since I have written this down that I will be called an old man even more, so fuck you in advance!

Although I am not as angry a man as I used to be, I am rereading the book, "Anger," by Thich Nhat Hanh. There is so much valuable information in the book, that I have forgotten about, and I have not forgotten about how to get pissed off at someone, and how to keep that anger, that resentment simmering in me.

Since I was drinking hot water with lemon, honey, and cinnamon, I drank two less cups of coffee, yesterday, than I normally do, which is a good thing, I think. The lemon, honey, cinnamon drink is tasty, and zesty. I think that it is going to be a regular part of my days.

I remember getting thrown down the stairs at a local club, years ago. I was brutally beaten by three club doormen before I was thrown down the stairs. The lead doorman had a grudge against me, and liked to beat people up; men and women. If I had not been drunk, I would not have put myself in the position to have gotten beat up, and thrown down the stairs. I remember stumbling home, wherever home was at that time. Home changed so frequently because of my drinking. I bet that I went out the next night and got drunk. I bet it wasn't long until I was beaten up again. Or, maybe, I did the beating myself that time. I certainly was no angel. What a way to live. I lived like that from the time I was 18 until I was 34. How I survived, I really don't know.

I am glad to be alive. I am glad to have survived.

It is 6:20 am, and the turtles are sleeping. I have only seen them sleep twice, in the two years that I we have been together. I almost said, "in the two years that I have owned them," but that seems, somehow, like a callous way to look at our relationship. I am linked to these turtles by more than ownership. I am linked to them by love. They are my responsibility, a responsibility that I entered into freely; a responsibility that I enjoy having. The dogs, and cats, are asleep, too; the dogs on their comforter, one cat on a chair, one cat on a bed. The dogs, and cats, are a responsibility also, a greater responsibility, really, than the turtles. I can leave the turtles alone for about a week, and they will be o.k. I can do the same with the cats, as long as I leave them plenty of food, and water, but I can not leave the dogs much longer than 6 to 8 hours, before they start pooping, and peeing, in the house, before they start to get hungry. Responsibility is a funny thing. It sounds like such a bad word, but it really isn't.

I find that if I am tired at night and I drink some coffee or tea near bedtime that I can sleep on the caffeine, but it gets me up early in the morning, which is really a good thing, because I like to get up early, and write.

It is funny how you discover some things: I think that half to three quarters of our lives might be an accident, a series of random things that somehow got connected to make us who we are, to put us where we are in life, right now.

Some people claim to be guiding us, claim to know where we are, and where we should be going. They are frauds.

The government is made up of people with interests. The government is made up of people who represent special interests. The laws that are made are not always made in the best interest of we the people.

I am thankful that my pay for being The Reverend is going to go for heart worm pills for my dogs, tonight. I was thankful that Bundy, and Morisson, passed the heart worm test, after being off of the pills for a few months, and I am thankful to be getting them back on the heart worm pill track.

It's a bit of a bike ride to the pet store, but I am gladly riding it. With all The Reverending that I have been doing recently, I have not had much chance to do the thirty minute ride thing on my bike.

I was supposed to MC Vivan Greco's benefit, tonight, but there was some sort of scheduling conflict. Vivan is out of work with a badly hurt leg. If you would care to donate to his cause, or have work that a mostly crippled fellow, a father of two, can do, please contact him on Facebook under Vivan Greco.

My physical, today, was a bit weird; I'll tell you about it later.

Attitude. My attitude, even in the face of great hardships, is great these days. I'm not sure how I got over the hill, coming from a very lousy attitude, to an attitude of gratitude, but I am pretty sure that I know the answer.

First, giving up alcohol, and drugs was a great help. Second, the help that I got getting over alcohol, and drugs, was a great help. There was some therapy, and there have been, and still is, some pills that I take every morning, and at night, that have helped.

My bad attitude was partly chemical, and partly garbage in. I thank The Lord for letting me wake in a happy go lucky mood, these days, and not wake wishing that I would die as soon as possible.
Depression, and anger, no longer consume me, and I am very grateful for that. My new attitude is the result of a miracle, one that I am totally thankful for for occurring.

I have to guard my good attitude. Negative activity, and negative attitudes abound around me, and, if I am not careful, I can be susceptible to them. Shoo bad attitudes, go away!!

My turtles love Krill Enriched Food Sticks. I mean they really love these orange-brown food sticks that float on the water, waiting for them to snap at them. My turtles are almost driven to the point of a frenzy when I introduce this food item to their water. This is not their mains source of food. Their main source of food is called, "Floating Fish Sticks." I feed them these little green pieces twice a day, once in the upon rising, and once at night right before bed. My turtles do not go crazy over the little green pieces like they do the orange brown colored Krill Enriched Food Sticks. This has been a turtle food update.

I have an audition for a horror movie on Friday. I am planning on reciting poems that I have memorized for the audition, unless the movie folks give me something to read from. I think that I could have a career in horror flicks. I have that kind of look, and that kind of personality. Thank you, my dear friend Virginia for pointing this out!

I was trying to turn her into my lover, but she wouldn't let me. She resisted me long enough for me to know that we would not have been right. I change my emphasis towards her. I would be polite, but I would quit fawning.

As I was practicing yoga, this afternoon, I looked around at the apartment where I lived, and wondered how many people, in the future, would remember this as a place that I have lived in. I don't invite that many people over; I am a bit of a private guy.

I am living in this apartment for several reasons, the main one of them being that it is within easy walking distance of my daughter's high school. I don't have a car, and would not be able to pick her up after school like I have done for so many years, so I got this place close to her school so that she could walk home easily. Also, this apartment is close to my Yoga studio. Again, without a car, getting to Yoga could be difficult, and I just can't have that. Third, this apartment is near a grocery store. Without a car, it was imperative for me to live in walking distance to a grocery store, and I am lucky to be very near my very favorite grocery store: Trader Joe's.

I am awake for the second time, this morning, though a bit groggy. I am fixing to fix myself the second cup of coffee that I have fixed for myself, this morning. A look on my calendar tells me that I have nothing that I have to do until it is time for Yoga class at 6pm, nd I don't have to do that. I love days where there is nothing on the calendar, nothing that i have to do; it is the essence of freedom to me.

I took care of myself for the last three days, and now I am feeling better. I did not lose my voice, as I was close to doing, because, after I finished my job as The Reverend, Sunday night, I shut myself in, and shut myself up. I am feeling strong, now, ready to reprise The Reverend role tomorrow night, and to do it for four days, this week. I need to take a shower. I haven't bathed since Saturday. When you are a hermit, or at least when I am a hermit, I find my way to the soap, shampoo, and shower less. The dogs don't mind if my hair is dirty. The cats don't care that I haven't used deodorant. The turtles say nothing if I forget to brush my teeth.

A friend of mine just posted how she was grilling chicken for dinner, and I responded, "Poor chicken. I was just reading how we get the anger that the chickens feel from the way that they are raised, and killed, in our bodies, once we eat them; and how their beaks are broken so they won't peck each other out of this anger. I had read this before, and it helped me to not eat meat for two years. I am not preaching, just talking aloud to myself here, because I am eating meat, again, angry about it, of course."


I just took the dogs for the 15 minute around the block walk that we often walk. Nothing of note happened; just the usual dog pissin', sniffin', and poopin' that occurs on such a walk.

I went to the grocery store after that. Nothing special occurred there, either. I bought some high priced mayo(Trader Joe's doesn't have the cheap bad for you kind that I like), some kiwis, a tomato, some chips, hummus, eggs, which were on sale for 99 cents, the cage free kind of eggs that don't piss off the chickens, resulting in angry eggs. Did you know that eggs can be angry if they are laid by angry chickens?

It was fun to get out of the house for a bit. My right knee was acting up a little bit, shooting bits of arthritic pain at me. I have been taking it easy the last few days, trying to keep from getting laryngitis, and resting sore from work muscles. I need to be doing my Yoga five or six times a week, and riding my bike five times a week. Arthritis seems to respond best to activity.

I'm going to play The Reverend four times this week. Everybody is going to Hell.

The animal was happy when the farmer killed it, because it had been raised organically. All its life it had known that its purpose was to be consumed as protein for some human being, and it was happy to be raised to be killed to do so. What a dumb ass animal thought the non-organically, force-fed, had its beak cut off chicken; death is death.

It is. Most "dream" jobs are; that is why it is better if you are passionate about you do, instead of living someone else's dream. That is how it seems to me. I'm just a poor boy; nobody loves me.

My weight, this morning, was 266 which is 20 pounds off of the 286 that I started at 16 weeks ago. Progress, not perfection, I must tell myself. I want to weigh 220, right now, but that is not how it works. Time takes time. I feel better, and people have been telling me that I look better. "You're face is not so flushed," one person recently said. Gosh, I didn't know that I had a flushed face. Can you imagine. No wonder the women haven't been beating my door down at night; or in the morning, or afternoon.

The highlight of this day, and I am sure that it will be a bright, and brilliant day, will probably be when I strap on my, "The End Is Here," sign, at The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse set. All of us who participate in the event are getting more, and more, excited about it as each day of it progresses. The Zombie Strippers especially enjoy their jobs, and that crazy Zombie named Roxanne. I will miss The Morris's this weekend, mother Lisa, and daughter Zoey. They are out of town this weekend, and will not be playing out their little zombie death act in The Reverend's corner of The Dead Light District.

I have to give AZA creator a lot of credit. The man had a vision for a scary reality based zombie land, that would attract the masses, and he pulled it off. Our zombie land is as real as God, and you can dance to it, and it is pulling in hordes of The Mass of Man and Woman. It is always great to me to see one of our local musicians succeed, and Shane Morton is doing just that. Come see what he has created, and what I, The Reverend, and all The Zombie Ladies are part of.

www.atlantazombie.com

It is supposed to be cold in The Red Light City at The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse, tonight, For The Reverend, that just means bringing his Bomber jacket, but for the scantily clad Zombie Strippers staying warm could be a problem. The Reverend would like to extend an offer of his warmth to The Strippers, and to all the women on the AZA set. I can get you close enough to Hell to keep you warm, but still get you into heaven if you do as I tell you, Little Girl.

We eat. We prosper. We eat. They suffer. The river runs into the sea. The cow runs into the corporate farmer. It's not fun, but everybody loves fast food. Death comes to us all.

I had a dream. I had it while I was standing up. I had it while I was looking at you. I had a dream that I would never turn out like you.

Think about the place that you work; the conditions are awful, they treat you like shit, they pay you dirt. Now, think of another place, the people on the payroll are all smiling, they are happy to see you, they have money for their bills. A corporation is people, and some people are greedy, and will treat you like shit, once you enter their clutches, and some people are fair, and will hand you serenity, peace of mind, and security.

I woke this morning to find a message in my box from a good friend of mine saying that she was flying up north because her father was going in the hospital, and was, very likely, not going to make it. This woman has often spoke of her father, and what a wonderful man he is, both in general, and to her specifically. Through her tales, I have come to feel as if I know this man, so I am greatly saddened to hear this news. It is times like these where I feel completely powerless, even if I pray like Hell. My best wishes go out to my friend, and to her family. May God be with all of us.

I sometimes keep books that I want to read, or books that I feel that I ought to read on my desk, figuring that their proximity to me in a place that I constantly habit will result in my picking them up and perusing them. This is not always the case. Some books sit right in front of me for months without ever getting picked up, while others come into my presence, and are devoured right away. I am not quite sure what it is that causes me to be interested in one book, and ignore another. Some books catch my fancy, and others don't. Some are boring, and hard to read; some are fun, and exhilarating, and I strongly gravitate towards the fun, and exhilarating books. It is my hope that the books that I write, and the poems that I present to you are fun, and exhilarating. It is a personal goal of mine.

I arose and shone at 10:47 a.m., this morning, much later than I usually awake to give thanks to my higher power for this wonderful existence that I have been blessed with. I was up late because we worked late at The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse, last night, because the place was packed.

The weirdest thing happened, last night, on one of the run throughs. I was shaking The Reverend's bible at a young girl,as I so often do, during the performances of the evening, and the girl cowered from The Bible, and started screaming, "Keep that Jesus shit away from me." While she was screaming at my bible, a tall, long-haired guy wearing jeans, and a green flannel shirt came up behind me, snatched the bible from my hands, threw it to the ground, and ran off.

I guess that I should take this as a compliment that my portrayal of The Reverend is very real, but still it is a bit weird to have such a thing happen. Like Hunter Thompson said, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro!"

Besides that incident, it was a wonderful, and busy, evening on The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse set. We scared a bunch of folks. We put smiles on the faces of a bunch of folks. When I said, "Cumere Little Girl, last night, "The Reverend can save you," two girls actually came with me, and I wasn't sure what to do with them, because nobody had ever cumere before when I had asked them to. The Reverend will have to pray to The Lord for guidance about this!!

Something just flew over me, as I sit here at my desk, and type. I figure that it is a fly, because I have been inundated with flies over the last few weeks. Another great thing about colder weather is that flies, and fleas die. Flies bother the hell out of me. I can not stand any creature that is sitting in dog poop one minute, and then trying to land on my grilled cheese sandwich the next. Fleas are expensive to keep off my dogs. I haven't got the money, or the time, for them. I am glad to see both of these severe irritants disappear. Shoo. Be gone.

I have not gotten a report, this morning, on my good friend's father. As I told you, yesterday, he had been fighting cancer for awhile, and was hospitalized recently with not the greatest prognosis. I am amazed at the huge number of friends, and acquaintances of mine who have passed recently. It seems the older that I get, the closer that the end looms for me and others. The end is a fact of life. I have to accept it.

Yesterday was a long day. I took the bus to a small office building far north of home, in the early afternoon, to audition for a horror movie. I feel that the audition went well. I got there about an hour early, and the director gave me a script to get familiar with before the actual audition. I played a wise old sage from the 16th century who was coaching someone else from the sixteenth century about the behavior of vampires. The director was very professional. Her camerma man, the guy who taped me while I read my part was way cool. It was a super experience, and I came away from it feeling that I would be part of the film when shooting begins.

"We will have some really great fight scenes," said the director, seeming to already be including me in the project!

I woke around 11 am, which is an unheard of time, these days, for me to sleep until, but I was up till 3:15 a.m. relaxing, and coming down from, playing The Reverend, last night, at The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse.

The animals are glad to have me home. They like the extra money that I am bringing in, but, also, miss having me here full time.

No customers grabbed my bible, last night, and threw it to the ground, but Shane Morton, in character, as a street thug, got to it several times. It is like a challenge, now, to keep Shane, the creator of the the whole AZA event, away from my bible, as we do our thing in the Dead Light District. Nothing must stop The Reverend from spreading The Word.

I'm tired. But happy.

Tonight everything went very well out at The Atlanta Zombie Apocalypse. We are getting better, and better, at what we do. We scare people, and we make them smile. What a dream job, huh?!

T-Pain came through the apocalypse, tonight, with a large group of people. He is the most famous person that I am aware of coming through our scary interactive adventure, and I didn't even know who he was until I Googled him, moments ago.

You are nobody, really, until you have a Wikipedia entry. I am all over Google, but I am no one on Wikipedia. Weep weep. Tsk tsk.

I have two days off. The Reverend doesn't have to start saving souls, again, until Wed. night. My dogs are happy. They have missed me. My other dogs i.e. my feet are happy, too.

I am going to sleep late tomorrow, and then do nothing but write all day. A writer should write. Sometimes, he gets sidetracked by the need to pursue a dollar; sometimes, he gets sidetracked by something fun like playing The Reverend amongst a bunch of zombies.

Sometimes, you feel like a nut; sometimes, you don't.

Up around 7:20; my digital weight scale is broken; what a drag. I bought the cheap one, and look what I got. It is raining, and Morisson is scared poopless. Poor dog. He does so well in every aspect of life but for thunder, and lightening. I've got two days off from playing The Reverend; my gosh what will I do with myself not saving souls for 48 hours?

"Your life may be the only Bible some people read."--Author Unknown

Some people react very negatively to The Bible. I think that a large part of the reason for this is that other people have tried to shove the bible down their throat, and up their ass. Certain people don't react well to being force-fed. Some people claim to be closer to God than other people. No one knows how close they are to God, or if there even really is a God.

I have faith. I have faith in something that I choose to call my Higher Power. I have tried to read The Bible, but I always find it boring, and transparant. It is, usually, easy to see the intent of the writer of whatever passage that I am reading. Most of The Bible is designed to motivate people's behavior. The Bible was supposedly written by God, or was divinely inspired. I thought that God gave man, and woman, free will. If he gave them free will, why would he then write a book telling them what to do? It's all speculation on my part. I don't have the answers.

Usually, getting up several times, works for me. I get up between 5 and 7 a.m., write for a couple of hours, go back to sleep for a couple of hours, and then I am up for the day, refreshed, and ready to go. This morning, however, after waking for the second time, I am still sluggish. I may have to lay down, again, for a couple of hours.

The turtles' water has gotten cloudy in a little over a week. This sucks. It normally takes about three weeks before the water starts to get murky, and I have to start thinking about cleaning it up. Probably, I didn't do a very good job the last time that I cleaned the turtles' tank. I mean, I can't really blame the turtles, now can I? They have probably been doing things like they always do them in their tank. I am a sinner, and, if I am not careful, I will find myself going to hell.


He was sitting opposite me, and I was thinking what a sharp dresser that he was. His clothes were clean, and the whole outfit screamed I care about how I dress. Then I heard him talk to the guy sitting next to him,"Hey, can you give me money to get something to eat?" The guy shook his head, and his hands no. The well dressed guy started mumbling about having nowhere to sleep. It was a weird scene. He looked on top of the world, but was telling all of us near him on the bus that he wasn't. Looks can be deceptive, and so, too, can be people.

The bus that I was waiting for came, but it drove right past me. It turns out that I was not waiting at a stop. Bummer. Where I was waiting was right outside a train station, so I went inside, and waited on the platform for a train. The train came pretty quickly. I got on, and sat down. A girl came on the train, after me, who was saying hello to everyone.

"How is everyone," she was asking. "I hope that everyone is have a beautiful day," she was saying.

It was weird to experience this. The norm on the train, and the bus for that matter, is to sit in your chair, and not speak. No one says hello to anyone else. No one much talks to anyone, and certainly not to strangers.

What this girl was doing was actually quite refreshing. I stared at her to see if I could find out what was wrong with her. She did not appear to be mentally ill. She was actually a quite good looking young woman.

When the train stopped, the young lady got up, and, again, started wishing everyone a great day. A man seated near her, said to her, "You have the light..." and she said, "Yes, I do."

Why do we sit mundanely on the train each day ignoring each other? Why can't we be more like this young lady who has "the light" in her.

I just had a craving for a hot tea with milk. I got the water poured into the cup, and I was about to bust out the tea bags(I always use two in my tea). Suddenly, I realized that I have no milk. Bummer. No tea, dude. I think that I will have a hot water spiked with lemon, honey, and cinnamon, instead. That should satisfy my craving.

I am out of regular milk, so I thought that I would, once again, try putting some vanilla almond milk in my coffee. I almost gagged when I took the first swallow.

I am getting a haircut today. Puchi is going to cut it all off. I will be a bald headed eagle soon. I am so lying here. I am getting a haircut, today, but Puchi is under stern instruction to cut only a minimum amount off.

I'm standing on the moon eating oatmeal laced with banana peanut butter and salt.

I had something that I thought that I was going to say, but I have forgotten what it was. My father, if he was still alive, would say, "Well, it probably wasn't that important." What an ass.

Scout just called wanting me to bring her a lunch. I spoiled her.

She texted me, about a half hour after I dropped the lunch on her saying, "Thanks. This is the best lunch ever!" It pleases me to please her. In less than a year, and a half, she will graduate from high school, and I don't know, then, how our lives will mesh.

I just had dinner. I ate alone. I was born alone. I will die alone.

What if cows gave us kerosene?

Often when I embark with a woman down her path to Christ, she completely loses me. I completely respect her right to believe as she does, but if what she believes is what has been handed down from the pulpit to her, and the rest of the flock, I have to remove myself from any serious interest in her.

Central Casting just called: They said that they need A Star. I told them that I was available.

I just got that haircut. When I got home, I found the second huge pile of dog shit of the day awaiting me, at the tip of the hall that leads to the bathroom. I was furious.

I put dog leashes on both dogs, and walked them to the poop, screamed at them, and put their noses, one dog at a time, as close to the poop as I could without getting it on their noses.

This behavior, this shitting, and pissing in the hallway, HAS TO stop.

Both dogs are trained to do their thing outside, and, somehow, one, or both of them, has untrained himself. I am really pissed off about this. This will NOT go on. Morisson, and Bundy, do you HEAR ME? This WILL NOT go on.

I am planning on a quiet evening at home, reading this book, "As The Worm Turns," listening to music, the gamut from The Grateful Dead to Black Flag. My dogs still love me. They act like I did not just yell at them. They better get used to getting yelled at if they are going to continue to crap in the hallway. I am sick of it, I tell you; sick of it. Nobody cares that I got my hair cut; whimper whimper.

He told her that he loved her. He loved to push, and shove, her into a very small category that she didn't fit into at all; and because she had signed a piece of paper she let it happen: line from a novel that I will never write.

What if love came in a box, and you could buy it? What if you couldn't. What if you fell in love with the guy, or girl, bagging your groceries. Could you two have a future together? "It was love on the bus for the two of us."--The Jackie Gleason Show

I bought two chocolate bars, the other day, because they were on sale for cheap, and because I love chocolate, but I gave them both away, which I am happy about, because I am trying to eat healthy, these days, and with Halloween, and all its candy soon to be about, this might be hard to do.

Like I said, already, I got my hair cut, today. Puchi, my stylist, and dear, dear friend did the perfect job on my long locks. She chopped off a bit, but only the most minor bit, which is what I had implored her to do at the start of our session. Puchi had kind of flinched when I told her what I wanted, because she is an artist, and she would have like to have more free reign with my hair. Puchi also trimmed my beard, and I am now a very good looking older man. (Get in line gallies!!)

I may take the dogs for a walk, tonight. I have not had much energy the last two days. I have found a new book that I like, and I am thankful for that. They say that writers should read, and I am a writer.

















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