For a sister.

For even as the flower petals fall,
the sky darkens,
and the sun grows cold,
know that your heart will break,
but because of my love,
it will mend whole.

To the young ones, the old ones, the ones in between, beauty isn't just skin deep, with age, in time, beauty nor wisdom mature, for in life, with death, we bore and die of clay, ash, and star dust. For some in life, youth will always remain, it will fit them like their own person's skin, but many more of us, youth will fall to the way side, as we grow older and change.

Beauty, in reality, is as truthful as the body of this poem.

Hotel Room Requiems

Close your Soul,
breathe slower now,
close your eyes,
let time around you slow.

The pain of letting go,
roots torn up and ripped,
the realization of
"I should be used
to this"
only hurts evermore,
a puddle of despair,
full of an oceanic abyss.

The last undodged rain drops
against a drooped
dead
flower in the windowsill,
the over-reaching
story-arc of tearful
philosophicless window-gazings.

Unclench your gnarly knotted fists,
the veins of stone no longer
flesh,
exhalation of last wisps of soul-smoke,
a blankeless persistence of
existence.

First Impressions

The invading peaceful silence
rolls over the flat land as
quick as the fog -
a Belgian monastery, a military base
so similar in solitude and order
only a barbed wire seperates them.

Country lane
gives way to pines and oak
quiet lives whilst leafing through
the album of nature -

Lush flat grass lands
with a fog oh so dense,
saturation of history seeping
out of the ground to mix with
the early morning dew -
souls and bones of lost soldiers
gives way to fields of
corn and harvest.

Oh how quiet life has become
and will be -
no longer the McDonalds
or 24/7 German kwiki-mart -
so replaced by farms,
fields,
fog,
rich history of
chocolate
wars
a people.

This is not my home,
only where my house sits,
but when the cyan eyes close,
and who we are no longer matters,
then I will call it my home.

From Germany to Belgium - It's time to move again.

After a quiet lonely walk through the streets on the base, 

I said my own goodbyes to this place,

off to new and fantastic adventures,

to a tomorrow full of hope and wonder, 

new foods and new cultures,

through a homely door, I now enter.

Photo credit to:
John Batdorff Photography
http://johnbatdorff.com/blog/2014-belgium-photo-workshop/

The Chronological Destiny of one Sexy S.O.B.

Dear Newborn Me:
You've got your whole life cut out for you. You've been born to some pretty bitchin' parents, so just thank them for that when you can. You're going to get to go see far away lands, try different cuisines, do things that most people won't get to do - take every advantage of it. You'll make new friends, and you'll lose friends, just remember to smile. Also, eating crayons leads to Technicolor-poopie, cute at first but it isn't pretty after the first go around. Also, stay as close to the titties as you can, because it's going to be a LONG winter before you see those spring buds again.

Dear 5-year-old Me:
Well, yeah, that little pile of flesh and blood called your brother won't be able to play baseball - he's fresh-mint out of Mom. Also, it's ok to admit that you liked the color pink - sure you'll get teased, but you'll be thankful that you did in the future. Yes, you're a military brat, yes you love to hear the sound of your own voice, and no, don't listen to the others because Santa is real. I'm really sorry, but for the next fifteen years or so, life will get kinda rocky, and pimply, and your voice will crack - but you'll have an h-e-double-hocky-sticks of a time. Also, puberty, it's going to do wonders for you...just kidding, it's going to suck but the cloud will pass against the sun, and then everything will be better. Also, did you not take my warning about the titties? Oh well, brace yourself, the winter is coming.

Dear 10-year-old Me:
Let me make this perfectly clear; it is not ok to pick on that boy because he was wearing pink, even though you're scared that you'll be found out for wearing pink. Just be open. Yeah, you'll get made fun of, but that doesn't make it ok to pick on the boy. Also, when you get made fun of later, you'll realize how that boy felt.
Another thing, you know how you are starting to have these weird emotions and urges? Go to that computer, don't delete the small cute fairy-story you were writing, and just write what you're feeling. Trust me, you'll be so glad you did. When that girl kissed you while you were on the playground and you felt like you could fly, and you jumped from the jungle gym and you landed in the wood-chips and knocked yourself out for a few seconds - that's the best.
Also, you're going to meet one of your best friends in the whole world soon, and when you do, you two will be thick as thieves. You'll laugh and cry together, you'll write together, you'll love Jane Austen together - don't ask who Jane is, that's another question for a later date and time.
So much rests on your shoulders now you don't even understand. Write, continue to write, and have fun.

Dear 15-year-old Me:
AHH! You've made it this far, puberty is high in gear, and the world is spinning and fast. You're mind is processing possible girlfriends faster than you can control, and more than once you're going to be thinking with your other head. Yes, it's ok to say damn and hell, but only when it is appropriate. Music is great, but I hate to break it to you - you won't be as great as you wish you were. You are so much better at writing. Also, Carthage is soon going to be just a memory. Keep in touch with your best friends, but don't be surprised when you lose touch with them. It happens, it sucks, but it happens. Also, you're about to go out with an amazing girl, and then you're going to say and do something entirely stupid, and it's going to haunt you for the rest of your young life. But don't get too toasty, you're about to move soon, and when you do, you'll get to drink. As much as you want (but the reality is that it's not as much as Animal House makes it out to be). Two more things;
one, keep writing. You're at your most vulnerable when you do, and that only makes your heart stronger with constant exposure to air. And secondly, delete your browser history, you dirty little teenage kid. Never spank the monkey in public - you won't do it, but if you do, things will only get worse. Also, remember it's time to do the Time Warp again.

Dear 20-year-old Me:
CONGRATULATIONS Numb-nuts! You made it through high school. You resisted all fetters of traditional life and went to a private catholic school - Lord how that didn't work out. You loved the friends and the teachers, but you just didn't fit in and that's ok. Also, you came home for summer and you stayed there - diabetes can do that to a person. But because of that door closing, the window of opportunity opened and guess what? That's right, you want to be a teacher, live overseas and work of DoDDs school. You will keep an eclectic sense of music - you'll also have something amazing happen to you.
You will get one of the world's best boyfriends. Mhm. Boyfriend. He makes you feel so warm and cuddly inside. Sure, he's on the other side of the Atlantic puddle, but you'll see him soon. Remember how you used to make fun of others in the past because they were different? Well guess what - you're on of the different ones! You're along in the club with the rejects and she-jects, the goths and emos and theater kids, the writers and anime-freaks, the Whovians and Potterheads. You aren't afraid to use some language when necessary, and you'll always toe the line of acceptability of social norms. You're a geek, a freak, a writer, pirate, cult-film connoisseur - but you're also who you were always meant to be.

So go on, let your freak flag fly, write that sonnet about underwear on flagpoles flapping in the mid-morning breeze, just remember one thing - no one makes it out of life alive - it does us in.

Moving...again!

A screech of the duct-tape gun
pulled across another seam,
another cardboard box,
labels written in Sharpie fumes,
kitchen, living room, bathroom.

Grunts of moving men
lifting weighty things,
dressers, china cabinets, kitchen-tables
flying
on the clouds of muscle-men.

Electronic cables tangled,
silver and black rat-kings with
multiple plugs and plug-ins,
frustration mounting till eventuality,
shoving and slamming cable pile into box,
sharpie-fumed label -
miscellaneous electronics.

Lunch break salvation,
pizza angels with chicken breasts and wings,
choirs of Coke fizz mixed
by hungry producers of strength.

Sighs as the lunch-break ends,
the sofa won't move itself
(we begged and it laughed),
boxes carried up and down flights,
stair-way landings become
international ports of call.

Final joy,
everything is good and gone,
congratulatory smoke break,
all's well that ends well,
until you forget a shelf
for the unit.

November 2nd: 2nd Day in the month of Thanks

I'm thankful for the spoken word, for the lyrics and the rhymes, for the poetry of the classics and the poetry of the contemporaries.

I'm thankful for every English teacher that pushed me harder and higher and farther - closer to the personal ephiphanous poetic Nirvana.

I'm thankful for the pen and the blue and black ink and the little notebooks and the editor's red pen.

I'm thankful for the personal trial, the personal journey through self-made heavens and self-made hells and self-made ERs.

I'm thankful for these because I know that with these I will make my mark on the world so then I can stand on the lonely single tree'd hill and look down and say,

"Yes. I was there."

I will sit against the tree and look down and smile and laugh as the ant-peoples pass by, with the young rejects and she-jects and the beautiful-mirror-girls and the bullied and the perfection-in-the-rough mixed in, bleeding their own blue and black ink-blood out of their creative personal veins, until they come to their own single tree'd hills, and smile down and say in their choir of personal 50 shades of humanity,

"Yes. I was there."

It's the...

It's the yellow-clouded night,
it's the to and the go
and the purr of the liveliness
in heart of the busy city.

It's key of the livelihood,
it's the love that laughs
at the locksmiths,
it's the passion that pulls the sun across the sky,
it's the pain and constrain
of the leaving of the nest,
but it's the key to the rest of your life.

It's the open silver box
in the wintry forest,
it's the moment when the first steps are taken by the babe,
it's the shock of the young schoolboy finding a naughty mag,
it's the heat of the time
when the young ones find love.

It's the nods and the smiles
and the grins on your face,
it's the solving of the riddles
and singing of the songs,
it's the invention of the semicolon,
it's the welcome pursuit in life of pleasure.

Dedicated to Felicia Quinn.

It Will Make No Difference!

Standing in front of the "holy" firing squad.
Last wish on a pink triangle pinned on my shirt.
Boss gives the countdown.
Eyes closed and no regrets for how I've been living.
Someone screams and I feel pelted by loose words and steaming hypocrisies.
Verse after verse after verse of past storytelling,
religiousized into acceptance by the  faithful.

I realize that within me, there is no wrong.
No evil, no disease, no incurable condition.
While I may suffer inquisitions on my skin,
my soul becomes free and the fetters release.
A blind-fold blows off, hard glaring blue truth stares at me.
I can't turn my back, how can I?, when I know that this is truly me!

Leviticus, Deuteronomy, quote against me,
while you throw the stone first and live in hypocrisy?
Quote the letters of "WWJD?", but you fail to see the light that if He is real,
He too must love me!
You use dead laws to fight your dead causes;
wars against gender, religion, sexual orientation,
and the pigment of your brother's skin!

Wake up and realize that your help just hurts,
even when your best intentions are just false-starts in the race of life!
Come on man, don't you see that you cause me to turn away and fly into Othello,
your golden gods cause nothing but but Tempests and isolation?

When will you realize that there is nothing wrong with me or my lover?
You'll keep throwing these lines at me,
hoping that I'll lose the will to fight and submit to the game over.
You severely overestimate the minority's rise to the vocal majority,
no god or man can stop the rain when it's falling,
welcome to how life should have been,
because now your "holy" false will make no difference.

No longer a captain of a steady vessel...

The place where young children used to play,
no longer a land full of babes,
in the dark they walked off,
grown up and old and cold and gone.

Oh, the veins trick you into thinking -
that all is fine in your world,
welcome to a place filled with pain and suffering,
welcome to your new hell.

Insulin pumps instead of fist pumps,
depression instead of joy,
it's killing you inside,
it's killing you in so many ways.

Oh, the veins trick you into thinking -
that all is safe in your world,
welcome to the place of tears and pain,
welcome to a new plane of friendly hell.

Cynicism and nihilism and agnosticism,
nothing anymore tastes the same,
it seems that life has changed direction,
no longer a captain of a steady vessel.

Oh, your veins tricked you into thinking -
that everything is perfect in your world,
welcome to a place of fear and nervousness,
welcome to a life with diabetes.

Why?

Why are we ok with the world where
the minority is looked down upon;
where the vocals are hushed;
where those two men aren't allowed to love -
simply because a book says it's not ok with you?

Why are we ok with a world where
those who are able to change don't,
those who do are shunned;
where truth is only allowed in a tiny box,
instead of allowed to be free-flowing;
where personal beauty is mentioned -
but the despicable beauty is in the light.

Why are we ok with a world where
people who aren't you are being tortured
in the first world countries,
where people like me are afraid to live,
where people like us are always
in wars about something completely trivial?

Why are you ok with a world where
innocent people are killed everyday
due to your thoughts and ideals having to be "right",
to have the last laugh?
Why are is it ok to "cast" people into
a pit and tell them to burn -
all they have been is different?

Why are you ok?
Why?

Darkness...by Lord Byron (An example of what a poem should be).

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:

And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,

The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes

To look once more into each other's face;

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;

Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour

They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks

Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.

The brows of men by the despairing light

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

The flashes fell upon them; some lay down

And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;

And others hurried to and fro, and fed

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up

With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

The pall of a past world; and then again

With curses cast them down upon the dust,

And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,

And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes

Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd

And twin'd themselves among the multitude,

Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.

And War, which for a moment was no more,

Did glut himself again: a meal was bought

With blood, and each sate sullenly apart

Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;

All earth was but one thought—and that was death

Immediate and inglorious; and the pang

Of famine fed upon all entrails—men

Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;

The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,

Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,

And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,

Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead

Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,

But with a piteous and perpetual moan,

And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand

Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.

The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two

Of an enormous city did survive,

And they were enemies: they met beside

The dying embers of an altar-place

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things

   For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,

And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

Blew for a little life, and made a flame

Which was a mockery; then they lifted up

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld

Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—

Even of their mutual hideousness they died,

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow

Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,

The populous and the powerful was a lump,

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—

A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.

The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,

And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd

They slept on the abyss without a surge—

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,

The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,

And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need

Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

Can't always run away from these clouds, it's just gonna come down.

Babe, don't mind the tears,

it's just the rain built up over the years.

Inside me are some dark storm clouds,

a past that howls something loud.

Don't fret, the shutters are closed tight,

life's hurricane won't destroy me tonight.

We'll hold each other close,

keep the warmth between us.

Baby, when my door blows down,

and the windows blow in,

yours are the arms I'm cradled within.

Few find it right that a boy like me,

has found a love like you,

the rain drowns out their thoughts,

it will always drown out our blues.

Oh, babe, please don't mind my tears,

it's just the hate built up over the moons,

Outside are some pitchforks and torches,

they're going to do what they'll do.

Love, when you pick me up off the floor,

I'm no longer just a broken toy,

you make me the strongest one can do,

you want me, not some barbie girl.

When the sunny days blow away,

and our good days go with it,

I'll be safe knowing you're not done with me.

I can't run away from all of these clouds,

when in the distance we can see it coming down.

Baby, oh, please don't mind my few tears,

it's only the rain coming down,

from the silver wool clouds in my mind.

In your arms is the right one you've wanted,

it's love in its perfect way.

"When the sunny days blow away...I'll be safe knowing you're not done with me...."

Heaven-sent

I was never gonna find love,
with the way I lied to myself,
for the food of love
must be made to perfection.

The light on the phone blinking,
they're textin' to say
they're into you,
can't help but know it's true.

It was never going to work,
she left you in the dark,
I'm still lying around,
come on Mr. Big-Shot!

Listen to your heart beat,
feel that deep drum and rhythm,
the touch of skin on skin,
skin crawling, welcome to heaven.

Gates are open, eyes locked on,
see them standing, walking,
in your arms.

Thank you God for this man.

Love doesn't work that way....

So before you read the poem, here's the intro. A friend of mine just went through some hard times with a boy she thought was going to be the "one," but unfortunately, he hurt her. She blamed it all on herself, but this poem goes to show that you can't control the way the game is played, you can only play on. So, here it goes!





You thought for a single second,
that your luck was finally replaced,
just as quickly as he was there,
he ran away.

Your happiness was found and lost,
jeered and lept out of your hands,
like a deer to the hunter,
a seagull to the hungry sailor.

You wished your luck with love
was as strong as your luck with life.
No hug or stiff drink to replace,
what pain the thought of him makes.

Your happiness was found and gone,
a new mixture of sadness and pain,
a tequila sunrise of tears,
a gin and tonic of pain.

Fate rules over the game,
all's fair in love and war,
but how could you roll the dice,
when you lose and complain?

You thought and wished,
maybe your luck would have changed,
sorry to disappoint love,
but life doesn't work that way...
life doesn't work that way...

Take-Me-Back Letter to Rain...

Rain rain
Please come back
I'm sorry that we give you crap.

It's hotter than Hell
With no end in sight,
So please dear rain,
Come back and fast...

Rain rain
We love you so
You keep us cool
And you help things grow.

We won't whine
Nor will we complain
When you wash the Earth
And make rainbows shine.

Rain rain
Please, oh, please come back,
We won't again ever give you crap.

Our Stars and Wishes

No matter what the cost,
no matter how our future looks,
bleak or bright,
you keep on wishing on your star tonight.

I'll be back soon,
to hold you in my arms,
every day I'll get closer,
so keep wishing on your stars.

Millions of stars high in the sky,
our love, yours and mine,
will keep us afloat, will keep us alive,
looks like our wishes came true this night.

70,130

It was on the I-70,
homesickness,
nervousness,
tidal wave after tidal wave.

Bluer-than-blue skies,
soft white clouds,
smells of spring and summer,
Germany beckons against the wild.

Closing of eyes,
temples and earthquakes,
long life zen flights,
Pittsburgh to Newark
Frankfurt to Home.

The Greg Bentz

So here's a "drinking song/poem" that I have written for a good friend named Greg Bentz. He came up with the idea of the drink and after tasting it, fell in love with it. The poem I have written is to honor this genius of a man and the drink he has come up with.



It's the drink of men, past, and legend,
oh, it's the drink of holy heaven.
It's the drink that's wedded ol' men and babes,
oh, its the drink for a good motivation.

Lean in close, drink up this elixir,
learn of a drink, named for a famous Mister...

Greg Bentz is its name,
created through journey for the perfect drink,
a drink so perfect in acclaim,
made of 2 parts Irish Water of Life,
1 part Italian spice, and a
dash of the American dream.

It's the drink of men, pasts, and legends,
oh, it's the drink of high holy heavens.
It's the drink that's helped wed ol' men and babes,
oh, its the drink for good intentions.

Found by the man, who of good and clean expressions,
was of want for the perfect drink,
to go with the perfect life,
he took what was already sweet and already neat,
he sat at the table, mixed up the elixir of fame,
he realized one thing was missing, so he put in the
cola-soda, and thus, the drink of his name was made.

It's the drink of men, pasts and legends,
oh, it's the drink of high holy heavens.
It's the drink that has made fresh babes,
oh, it's the drink of perfect collections.


Greg Bentz Recipe
- 2 parts whiskey
- 1 part amaretto
- Dash of Coke

(The Greg Bentz)

Hollywoodland: Chapter 4

The taxi cab came flying through the intersection to stop in front of the MGM studios. James didn't want to be late for his first day on the job. He was already five minutes late, but a friend back home in New York told him that the movie-star types didn't show up for work until thirty minutes after shooting started. He hoped that his friend was right. As James got up out of the taxi, he looked up at the large sign that would welcome him to work everyday for the next thirty years. In large golden letters, MGM shined with the morning sun.

Diane jumped up as Mr. Capra exited Mr. Goldwyn's office. Mr. Capra was shaking his head in frustration as he left the office. Diane quickly walked over to Mr. Goldwyn's office door, peeking her head in.

"Mr. Goldwyn, sir, is there anything I can get you? Coffee or maybe a croissant or a bagel?" Diane asked, moving closer into Charles' office.

Charles was sitting in one of the leather chairs next to his desk. A half empty glass of Mr. Capra's mamosa sat on the coffee table in front of Charles. Charles' own cup of coffee sat completely untouched, having turned cold thirty minutes into the conversation between himself and Mr. Capra. He had been arguing to Mr. Capra about a new movie idea that would help throw his new star, James Stewart, far into cinema stardom.

"Oh, uh, nothing for me thanks. I'll finish this coffee. Why don't you go get yourself some food from the cafeteria, I'll be fine by myself for a while." Charles took a long drink from his cup, grimacing at the horrible taste of the cold coffee. He was shooing Ms. Diane out the door, knowing full well that she wouldn't actually go to the cafeteria  and would instead have something brought up to her. She was always countable to be near the office, even when it was in the middle of the night. James took another swig from his cup, grimacing as the rest of the coffee was finished, with the little specks of coffee grounds giving the taste an enhanced flavor of drinking dirt and leftover vanilla beans. He was definitely going to have to talk to the manager of the cafeteria about possibly not making the coffee so inedible.

Diane poked her head back in the doorway, "A Mr. Stewart to see you sir."

"Well, let him in! He's going to be a star, and he shall be treated as one from now on. Let him in!" Charles quipped from behind his large desk.

James Stewart walked into the room. He remembered the room from the other day. He almost wished that it was just a dream, but that would have been cruel, almost cynical.

"Um, good morning sir. I hope I wasn't interrupting anything important. I, I, I was just coming in to let you know that I am here on the lot - though I'm not entirely sure where I'm supposed to be going. The security guard at the front entracne didn't known either, but it seemed like he truly didn't care." James stood in front of the desk.

Charles was pouring himself a fresh hot cup of coffee. He turned to James and offered some. James refused.

"Yea, George doesn't really know much down there at the front gate. That doesn't stop him from interviewing every chance he gets. He's a good guy, he's just a little slow." Charles sat back down behind his desk. James took a seat in front of the desk.

"Now, you're going to be working on Lot 3 with Mr. Frank Capra. He's got a movie that's going to be starting in a few weeks and I want you there, shadowing him, getting to know him. Trust me, it's not the greatest task in the world, but it'll get his attention and he'll have to put you in one of his movies. He won't admit it yet, but he's working on a new piece. He has decided, with my help, that the movie would best be st in Washington D.C. A political feel-good movie. Oh, sure, we're going to catch some hell for it, but they can't do anything about it. We are the bread-makers of American entertainment  You can't take down Hollywood, we're already top of the world. Besides they wouldn't want to - we'd sue their asses back to the Stone Age." Charles finished his cigar. He knew that James didn't understand, which was alright by him, Charles knew that James would eventually see it the way he did. Everyone did, it was a fact of life.

"First though, before you go over there, let's order some lunch." Charles shifted forward in his chair.

"But sir, it's only 11 o'clock." James seemed surprised that anyone was eating at this hour. It wasn't even noon.

"Ha! You'll have to get used to how we do things here. We order lunch at 11 because the cafeteria will take what will seem like hours to get ready. Just last week it took over three hours to get my BLT sandwich up here. I'm less than 100 yards away from the damned building that holds the cafeteria, what do you thing they were doing? Having the bacon flown in from Italy?" Mr. Charles Goldwyn laughed heartily.

James looked down at his shoes - he knew that this lunch was most likely going to take a few hours.

"Diane, please get two roast-beef sandwiches on rye with extra mustard, up from the cafeteria. Also, see if they have nay of that leftover whiskey that they brought up yesterday, that was some good stuff. Oh - what d'ya want boy? Diane, bring the boy up what I'm having. Also, cancel my appointments and meetings, I'm going to spend some time getting to know our new star here." Charles Goldwyn got up and after relaying his order to Diane, closed the door and sat back down in front of James.

"Ya see Jimmy, you're going to have to get used to the fact that while the rest of the world is going to be slumming the bill for a bit, we've got the whole world at our disposal. You want fresh caviar? We can get that for ya. You want beautiful women? Cigars? Brandy? Fortune and fame? That's all possible now! You're a Hollywood star!" Charles sat back down after pouring himself a tumbler of brandy.

"Um, Mr. Goldwyn, sir, that's something I've wanted to ask you. What is Hollywoodland?" James asked, sitting forward in his chair, taking a tumbler of brandy from Charles.

"Huh? What? Oh, that. Not really sure to be honest. I know there are some houses on the other side of that blasted hill. I think that area is called Hollywoodland, but it doesn't really matter now - you're in Hollywood! You should be worrying about where on Sunset Boulevard you're going to be living. I myself live at 1636 Sunset Boulevard, but there's no houses up that way for sale. You'll get to live in one of the number-500 houses. Those houses aren't bad, but for a new star just coming about, they're perfect. I remember wild parties, multiple women all over me, and what seemed like gallons of cheap booze - oh that was the past. Not something that an old man like me should be doing, but that doesn't stop me from the occasional gathering here-and-there. Especially now since I'm not a married man." Charles finished his first glass and started on his second.

James sat, in part daze and part awe at the power of Mr. Goldwyn's persona. Every time he was around Mr. Goldwyn, James felt a sense of empowerment - everything that Mr. Goldwyn said about having entitlement now that he, James, was a star sounded good. Life was finally looking up to him, and he wouldn't let it pass.

"Mr. Goldwyn, tell me more about the beautiful houses on Sunset Boulevard, I've never seen them before." James sat back in his leather chair finally feeling creature-comforts.

Hollywoodland: Chapter 3

The dust in the room danced circlets and spirals in the light, softly drifting in the ray of hot California sun after being chucked through the air as only a fan on its lowest setting could.

James crashed on the sunken couch in the motel room. A small cloud of dust puffed off the couch. James gave an involuntary cough. Life was moving fast. Just a measly two weeks earlier he was getting off of a stage on Broadway. He had gotten a tip-off from an old friend that Hollywoodland was hiring. So, he was off to the sun of Cali and away from the Great White Way & the Big Apple. He had never been to the West Coast, but he had heard that the surf, sand and sun were mesmerizing.. The idea of a new place nauseated him, and the reality of potential failure in the job searches only worsened his nausea. He had no connections in the film industry. No friends to help him out with his big break, to put him up while he searches for his future.

James took a slow drag from a cigarette. He relaxed some as the nicotine flowed through his veins. He was getting his usual fix. It was the only vice that he afforded himself. He had seen what happened to others when they got hooked on the harder stuff. Blow, cocaine, angel's dust - it had many names that his other actor friends would call it. He tried it, once - it had given him a wicked headache and weird feelings of everything around him - the jitters, paranoia, and also hallucinogenic images. After he had come off of his terror of a high, he vowed never to touch the stuff ever again. He wasn't willing to sacrifice health just to get a cheap fix. He took another drag from his cigarette.

James Stewart shifted on the couch and looked up at the clock on the wall - 8:35 a.m. it read. He got up off the couch, ashed his smoke, then headed for the shower. He felt like hell, but he wasn't ready to look like it in front of his boss and the other actors.

"A shower and then a shave," he muttered to himself, rubbing the early shadow on his face. The sound of his tired body and feet shuffling along on the plastic tile floor of the bathroom only further showed his state of exhaustion from the road to Hollywoodland. The bathroom door creaked as he closed it.

*******************************************************************************************************************

Charles Goldwyn smiled as he looked up at the face of Diane Slinger. She had taken to bringing him a fresh croissant and hot coffee to him every morning. Also, a small stack of the daily newspapers and magazines - among them the Hollywood Reporter, Los Angeles Times, New York Times and even the monthly issue of Variety would end up on his desk each morning when he would come in at promptly 7:30 a.m.

Charles found himself watching and staring as Diane went about her business in the other room. She had been working for him for what seem like his whole professional career. It was only now that he started to notice her for more than just as an assistant.

"Mr. Goldwyn? Good morning Mr. Goldwyn. In a half-hour you have an appointment with Mr. Capra. After that, you said you wanted me to remind you at noon that you want Mr. Stewart to come up and half lunch with you." Diane sat in a leather chair to the left of Charles. She was reading the schedule from her notepad. She felt a tingling - like she was being watched. She looked up.

"Mr. Goldwyn, what is ever the matter? You're staring at me, is there something on my blouse? Did I spill my coffee...or no. Is there something on my face? Oh Mr. Goldwyn, tell me, is there something on my face?" Diane fretted, checking her outfit and her face in her compact.

Charles laughed heartily. He surprised himself with his laugh, he hadn't laughed that hard in such a long time. "No, no my dear. There's nothing wrong. I'm just reveling in your beauty." Charles smiled warmly.

Diane blushed. She wasn't getting used to all of Mr. Goldwyn's compliments. Just months ago, he would just grunt at her in response to her questions. Now, she has his full attention. The divorce from Ms. Lipinski was doing some weird things to him - he went out of his way to find a new star, he would come in to work earlier than even the set builders come in, and he was always paying more and more attention to Diane Slinger.

Charles took a puff from his cigar. Diane was looking more and more beautiful each day. "Maybe I should take her out to dinner tonight...yea, that's what I'll do. We'll go downtown and get a nice steak dinner. Women like steaks - men like them so why shouldn't women?" Charles sat pondering, staring off into the distance, which happened to be in the direction of Diane.

"Well, Mr. Goldwyn, I've got papers and files to...umm..file. I'll be in the other room. Mr. Capra will be here in fifteen minutes." Diane got up and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. She sat at her desk, thinking about what had just happened in the other room. Mr. Goldwyn was acting nice to her - a feeling she wasn't used to at all, but she was enjoying it.

The door to Diane's office opened. A Mr. Capra walked in and nodded to Diane. Mr. Capra walked over and went through Charles Goldwyn's door.

Before the door closed behind him, the voice of Mr. Capra carried out to where Diane sat, "Yes Mr. Goldwyn? You wanted to talk to me about a Christmas movie? I don't quite underst-" The door clicked closed.

Diane turned and picked up that day's copy of the Hollywood Reporter. Gossip will help take her mind off of Mr. Goldwyn, or so she thought.

Hollywoodland: Chapter 2

Diane sat at her desk, reading the copy of that month's Variety. Mr. Goldwyn had just been divorced, but Diane kept wondering when he would go back to the office. It had been two weeks since Mrs. Goldwyn, now Ms. Lipinski, had left him. Charles should have gotten back up on his feet. He was legend for his playboy fun in his youth. Back then, in three months, he managed to sleep through an entire dance troupe before taking a week off and relaxing in Tucson.

A knock on the door woke Diane out of her nostalgia fix. A young man, barely over twenty, stood in front of her. He was tall and had brown hair - she liked that. As soon as she heard his voice though, she heard bells in the distance.

"I, I, I, I have an appointment with a Mr. Goldwyn," the young man said, with a slight but not intrusive stammer.

Diane rose. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Goldwyn is out at the moment. He doesn't have any appointments lined up at all today. Wh-May I ask what your name is?"

"Oh, that's right, how rude of me." The young man took Diane's hand and shook it. "My name is James Stewart. I'm an, an, an, an actor. Mr. Goldwyn called me earlier, he said to come right in his office." James walked to the door with a sign reading Charles Goldwyn, not hearing Diane's protests.

"Mr. Stewart, he's out I tell you. He's not in there, see- Oh! Hello Mr. Goldwyn. I didn't hear you come in at all. When did you-" Diane looked around Mr. Goldwyn's office. Newspapers spread everywhere. A mountain of dishes and half-eaten food spread on the coffee table.

"Oh sir, I thought you were still home. Let me clean this up for you." Diane pulled her dirty blonde hair out of her face and started to clean up. "Ms. Lipinski must have gotten the house - poor man," Diane thought, "he's been in this office this whole time. Why didn't he tell me?"

A much older looking, yet still fifty Charles Goldwyn stepped out of Diane's way. He briefly glanced at James, eyeing him over before sitting behind his desk.

"Mr. James Stewart, is it alright if I call you Jimmy?"
"Well, sir, actually-"
"Now don't go interrupting me - its rude. You see Jimmy, this studio has seen you and your talents on Broadway, and we loved it. Didn't we love it Diane?"

"Yes Mr. Goldwyn." Diane responded, taking on the mountain of food and dishes.

Charles continued on. "We loved it so much that we want you to star in a new film we're going to shoot. The film is going to be a musical. A real boy-falls-in-love-with-girl, girl-falls-in-love-with-boy type of musical. What d'ya think? Eh, Jimmy?"

James sat on the couch, trying to take stock of where he was and what all just happened.
"Well, I, I, I'd have to think about this. I mean, where am I going to live? What about Broadway? I,I,I'm slated to do another play out there. I'm just a stage actor, not a movie star." James knew he wasn't cut out for film. He knew his stammer was going to get him places, maybe even in trouble. He never would have figured it would have gotten him out to Hollywoodland. He didn't want to leave his friends in Broadway, but he also knew this was the chance he always wanted and needed.

Charles sat behind his desk, watching everything unfold, watching as the thoughts and emotions play out on Jame's eyes and face. He knew the man would take the job. It was too good of an offer to decline - a role in a new film, a musical, being shot in Hollywoodland.

"Sir, not to sound too hasty, but I,I,I accept." James said, standing up tall.

"Good. I knew you would see the light. Be back on the lot tomorrow at ten o'clock. Oh, and Jimmy?"

"Yes Mr. Goldwyn?" James was already half-way out the door.

"We're gonna make you a star." Charles took a puff from a freshly lit cigar. He watched James "Jimmy" Stewart leave. Charles had a good feeling about the boy. Charles sat back and propped his feet on the edge of the desk. He hadn't felt this good since he had divorced his second, bless her soul that cheating -.

"Oh, Ms. Slinger? You look absolutely beautiful today."

Diane Slinger blushed, compliments from the Boss were rare at best.
"Thank you Mr. Goldwyn." Diane said, pulling the door behind her to give Charles some privacy.

Charles had found his star in the form of James "Jimmy" Stewart.

The door clicked shut with a feeling of finality.

Hollywoodland: Chapter 1

The gentle swaying of the music from the soundtrack to the last silent film faded to give way to the rhythmic whirring from the film projector. Nine Tuxes sat puffing on their cheap cigars, waiting for the lead Suit to speak. Mr. Goldwyn sat staring at the blank silver screen. He gave himself a few seconds of time to think over what he just saw. He already knew what he thought; the film was a bust. It was never going to compete with any of the new "talkies" that were being shot at Paramount and Warner Brothers. He was only taking a few puffs more of the expensive cigar, give the boys behind him more time to squirm about what the Suit's verdict would be. Those boys worked, but did they truly work hard enough, Mr. Goldwyn thought. He knew that the newly installed "Hay's Code" would shoot this movie down, so why was he still giving these "rent-a-tuxes" any time of day?

"God, I need to get out of this business," Charles Goldwyn muttered to himself.

He stood up, his fifty-year old body reacting to gravity the way he didn't want it to. He missed his youthful thirty-year old body. He missed all the chorus girls he had been with. All the pretty young things that were there and gone as quick as he was done with them. He missed them, but what he missed most of all was the thrill, the excitement, the climbing up of the ladder of Loew's Incorporated insides. He remembered long nights of arguing with bony script writers, glitzy directors, and seclusive editors in dark smokey editing rooms. Long nights of appeasing actors and actresses on sets, in trailers, pampering their twisted child-like egos. He remembered when he wormed and worked his way past other competing producers and directors to take over the company. He remembered when he changed the name of Loew's Incorporated to MGM.

Film and Hollywoodland was different then - silent films with lavish sets, beautiful women, and the big names on the marquees. It was spectacular, so gilded and beautiful. It all came down though with the scandal around Fatty Arbuckle. Fatty Arbuckle and that actress....what was her name again? Amanda or Louise something-or-other. It was all over the papers and news-reels. Fatty was accused of raping and killing the young starlet, snuffing out her shining flame before either old age, a wild lifestyle, or suicide snuffed it out for her. Fatty was never found guilty, but his career was over. Damn Arbuckle, his career was tarnished, and it managed to further splash tar on the gilded image of Hollywoodland, a sick punchline to his comedic career.

"Umm...Mr. Goldwyn...hello? What did you think of the film? Isn't Ms. Desmond just great?", one of the Tuxes was talking, trying to get Charles Goldwyn's attention. Two of the other Tuxes quietly ashed their cigars and started to get up to go.

"Oh, what?" Charles Goldwyn turned around. "Sorry, I was thinking about my wife. Damn near forgot our anniversary today. Would've been the third year in a row that this has happened."

Diane, Charles' secretary shook her head. He forgot the anniversary, again, this time by about two weeks. Mrs. Goldwyn was going to raise hell. She threatened divorce before, she might actually go ahead with it this time.

Charles Goldwyn kept going, "Did I like the picture? I thought it was good but its missing something...is there any way that it could be reshot to be a musical? A musical with some big dance numbers. Oh and beautiful girls. Those kinds of pictures have been selling like hotcakes.

Charles began to pace, smoking his Italian cigar. He could see that the one who had spoken to him was now feverishly writing down everything that he was saying. All of the Tuxes were writing now. Goldwyn knew that where the Tuxes lacked in total personal imagination, they more than made up for it in their "yes-man" attitude.

Mr. Goldwyn turned to the closest of the Tuxes, giving the young lad of around twenty his full attention. He quickly looked him over. Charles thought, "not too bad looking, but hell, he'll never be as good looking as I am."

"Can Ms. Desmond...can she sing?" Mr. Goldwyn asked the Tux in front of him, quickly looking about the room to the other Tuxes. "Well, out with it, haven't got all day. It's Friday, and I'm supposed to take my gal, Mrs. Goldwyn out for dinner."

The secretary cringed again, thinking of new forms of hell that Mrs. Goldwyn could imagine and create for Mr. Goldwyn.

"Come on boy, out with it. Speak!" Goldwyn barked at the young Tux.

The young Tux looked to the others for help. Here was THE Mr. Goldwyn, and he, the young Tux, suddenly wanted to be swallowed up by a hole, as well as to kiss Charles Goldwyn's feet at the same time.

Charles turned to another Tux, barking the same question. This time the Tux had an answer, but Charles didn't like it. Just as Charles feared; Ms. Desmond, a girl that the studio turned from a country bumpkin to a beautiful belle that lit up every marquee and screen credit, couldn't sing. Her voice, as the Tux so bluntly put it, needed years of work which meant many more years of money going to another aging actor who probably won't be remembered ten years down the road. Or, the same money and time could go to a new star.

Mr. Goldwyn realized that he needed a new star, this time the star had to have a voice to match their beauty. Charles just couldn't make up his mind if the new star was going to be a guy or a gal.

Go Check it Out!

Ok!

So it was getting a bit crowded here, so I've decided to do something drastic!

I've created the page Ten to Nowhere Photography for all of the photos!

That's right! Also, on that page, check every Friday for new photos!

Tootles!

The Maritime Death

Bring yourself to the edge of the cliff,

waves thrashing your ship higher and higher towards the sky,

Oh, Mariner, let the little voice in the background take over,

let the little voice start shouting on the waves and the winds;

“Do it! Crash into the rocks of your past sins!

There is no more God for you! There is no hope,

no salvation for a wretched soul, no peace for a

tainted life, no rest for a wicked man. Do it!

Cast your lot with those already sunk,

for their fate will match yours.

Let yourself become one with the unholy maritime death.”

Lament your loss of self,

lament your loss of your tomorrow,

you loss of your future.

Lament, dear unfortunate soul, lament,

your curtains are going down,

the cliff is breaking off,

the depths of Poseidon's hell will

swallow you up.

You argue with yourself,

modern-Hamlet, quoting

your own Fifth soliloquy

upon the watery stage

set against the storms

and the dark of night

and the pale final cliffs.

Only two members of the universal audience,

Life and Death,
clap to your water bound play.
No one else bothered to show up,

to see your fruits labored,

your life's final work displayed.

Learn, oh Mariner,

that your ship is no longer yours,

after you took your maiden voyage

on holy waters, His Holiness took over your sails.

Learn, oh Mariner,

that the beach, so small

and pure and white along

the tossing blue horizon,

will be your safe haven

in more of life's storms.

Oh, Mariner, your life is worth so more,

let your soul find its rest on the beach,

let your sails unfurl until you come Home.

Oh Mariner, follow the beacon of light,

the tolling of the midday bells,

follow fast before you crash and sink,

down into murky hells.

Signal your last breath,
only to lay amongst the others,

broken ships, knotted ropes and tattered sails,

to sink to final wicked rest,

sinking into the great

unholy maritime death.

Photo courtesy of: www.uncharted.com.ne.kr/

No Longer There

Grip the sheets,

in heart break and in pain,

unfair, scream, unfair...

No longer there,

besides you,

no longer there.

Moving on,

changing skies,

changing tides,

growing up,

from boy to man...

Rain down the sobs,

puddles, lakes, oceans,

gather between us, pooled

in my pillow....

no longer there,

in your arms,

no longer there.

Gone away,

nowhere near home,

in a place of higher learning,

lofty ivory towers of theirs,

I want to return,

but not now, not with

anyplace for a man like me.

Clutching the scars,

ripped fabric, torn to the wind,

my heart, how long has it been,

without the touch of you...

no longer here,

to laugh in your arms,

no longer there...

Faded away,

no longer a white noise,

no longer who I was,

now a broken shell of who I am.

I'm not right anymore,

no longer him,

now I am who I am.

Twisted vines of cheap iron,

your body convulses,

or mine - mind,

no longer here,

for you, 

no longer there.

Photo by Miguel Lasa