MY little BROWN BOOK

Author in Decline

A book about women , maybe not my best idea.

It is however, the only way to wash my windows.

THEY live in these pristine portals in my memory banks.

And conjuring them is like Dr. Jekyll juice in my veins.

I do love most of them, Women I mean...not veins.

But I am at an impasse...

Future worlds and past tones are crushing my spirit

and I don't know how to erase my cherished caricatures. 

The current crop of self- indulgent prognosticators 

won't show me their true selves until I bite their Apples.

They are delicious and often times vicious,

marring my solid chin and exotic appetite. 

Yet, from them does spring my most lively rhymes.

My bionic heart needing nitroglycerin to operate modern love.

I can only imagine what THEY need to stomach me, the Author.

I do require more from them than Deities do on Their birthdays.

My imagination consumes more than what books and TV can offer.

My thirst for knowledge or the prompting of therapeutic thought

shouldn't be placed on people who carry their own vaulted desires.

Yet, I judge them not by what they give me

but by what they can't bring me.

And it's frustrating because my perfectly good brain 

is being operated by a maniac, me...the Author.

That's why I attract the loose ends. 

I find them suffocating under their own needs for closure.

I can't give it to all of them 

and what I require may just damage them even more.

I'm always giving and reassuring, rebuilding the crumpled.

But who feeds me!

Who needs me!

Who needs me enough to want to cherish my constitution.

I search my memory banks for those answers. 

But even the prisoners in my portals 

seem to be busy living out there existence within happier tales.

They remain independent of my cuddly shadow and intense appetite.

Losing love depletes necessary wisdom if left untreated.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore.

My meals shouldn't have to be devoured 

only after achieving an intimate rapport with the Chefs.

A meal should be a stand alone experience 

where the flavors are enjoyed and the textures savored.

But the Author is never satisfied 

and eats himself into a lonely rage.

If I were a woman I would've said "eats herself ".

Speaking of women...

A book about women? More like a book of recipes.

All of them comprised of regional herbs and spices

and form under variant degrees of temperature.

I've never been bound by race, religion, or political yoga pants.

I do discriminate however, 

against those women who can't read my mind...

Who can't feed my mind.

Who can't see past my crazy cravings 

and who can't love the way I work. 

I'm not qualified to define them.

I lose my bearings once 

I can adorn the soul as well as sculpture.

Once they are laid out before me

(meaning like a blueprint, not a bedroom reference)

I fall in love with their design.

Some women don't need to be loved right away, 

they need to be remembered first.

The Author often forgets that, even in the times he's not angry. 

Romantic diplomacy differs from platonic diplomacy

and yet, I muddy up the lines sometimes.

I fear I'm an Author in decline, 

my best worlds already used

and my best words already abused.

I lost a good friend today 

and she doesn't even know why she needs me.

I know exactly why I need her but what do I have left?

Words aren't working. Moods aren't changing and

all of the best colors are too hard to spell off the top my head.

She needs a hard lesson and she's getting it

but I don't think she'll get it.

The Author must learn to assign different voices to his characters

or it will all just sound the same. 

The same dull plots longing for cheap twists at the end.

I may be overstating it because that's exactly what I always do.