I see it in your eyes
You try to disguise
The smile on your face
But there’s fear inside

Fear of not being good enough
Not giving 100%
Fear of losing
Not being the best

Just be happy
In all you do
Living life is more of a challenge
Even if you don’t show
The fear on the outside

We are all hurting somehow
In many different ways
It’s how you take actions
To climb to the top of the mountain

Saying goodbye
To someone you love
Is like reading the final page
Of an amazing book.

As the last chapter ends
You begin to notice
Just how beautiful
And perfect
The plot always was.  

You appreciate the joy
And even the pain
As you read and thumb
Through every page.

Finally understanding
The moral of the story,
You realize you've reached
The end of this journey.

Although the last sentence  
Is the most difficult to read
Another great book awaits
Once you turn the final page.

Eventually you may stumble
Upon yet another great find.
Or maybe you'll return
To the book you left behind.

You may just discover
Once all is said and done
That this particular book  
Was your favorite story
All along.

If you were a book,
I'd read you again.

If you were a ride,
I'd wait in line.

If you were my dream,
I'd never awaken.

If you were a star,
I'd never look down.

If you were a flower,
I'd never look up.

If you were mine,
I don't know what I'd do;
But I'd do it.

I gave up my intellectual mind at least 40 years ago as I recognised that it would  not guarantee or contribute to my happiness, success or fulfilment-- this mode of thinking would tend to impede my spontaneity, joie de vivre, sense of adventure, wonder and curiosity which I deem to be my raison d'être for living.

I've found from my experience that, in many cases, intellectuals have fixed and rigid mindsets and, as such, become inflexible and even intolerant and arrogant.  Being insular and inward-looking,  they find it hard to accept the views of others, even their colleagues' or peers'.
Their thinking tends to be along this line:  I'm an authority on this subject....'.

Such people don't make good company and might not attract others to become their friends.

They can also be awfully boring.  I attended a social dinner many years ago and happened to be sitting next to an academic whose field was chemistry.  He went on non-stop for a hour telling me and those around that he had written over 50 research papers and had received various awards.  His  wife seemed ravished by his outpouring.

The hallmark of a mature person ( Confucius in 600 BCE used the terms ' superior person' and 'the gentlemen' ) lies in their humility, grace, broadmindedness, tolerance, kindness, generosity, respect for others , sense of humour, willingness to share and co-operate, and, last but not least,  their altruism as manifested in their charity and contribution to society and the nation. Confucianism regarded people as part of society and that they were measured by the good they contributed.

Tolstoy in his later years suffered from a deep spiritual crisis. In his Confessions, he wrote that intellectualism stifled his life. He looked at the common people and was amazed that they were able to bear sorrow with such courage and equanimity which he would be unable to.  He said that as soon as he cast away his intellectual life, he was cured of his existential angst.  What a revelation!

I conclude:  happiness and fulfilment is found in understanding ourselves and our place and station in life, in living in simplicity and in harmony with our fellow-men, in kindness, humility and humaneness.  All this has nothing to do with being 'intellectual'.

it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.

it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,

I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing

I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and *******
but found nothing

I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing

there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity

what I’m I suppose to do?

as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire

I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction

the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me

I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen

the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…

whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****,
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.

I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.

I see it beaming through the windows
I see it slanting through the doors
It’s jiving on the ceiling
It's waltzing on the floor
It's smiling on the potted plants
On red flower beds and vines
It's quilting skies with gold
And lighting up wind chimes
A silken web is glistening -
The gossamer that's spun
I'll keep my share of sun shine
A pocket full of sun.

She comes from the street
She’s orange and white
A ginger girl
She has a beautiful face
It’s hypnotic
She’s a mixed bag
Sometimes she’s sweet
Other times a bit crazy
Trust is hard for her
Her cries are soft and coaxing
She loves to play
She hangs around more now
But she also hits the street
Though she’s mellowed
She is still a bit wild
While she’s a bit different
There’s something about her
In her face is an innocence
That has captured me
The cat