A Letter to Hollywood

I almost didn’t post this poem because of the fears that follow. They creep in. Perhaps I am not beautiful, young nor deserving enough to think such thoughts, for any sexual attention, even from an unwanted over 50 year old source, I am grateful for. For to not be widely perceived as hilariously ugly is still a fairly new experience to me that I thank my lucky stars for.

But, sometimes in this whirlwindy city I am approached by older gentlemen. Sometimes they curse the heavens that I have crossed their path to be so young and unavailable, as if our potential for friendship is not enough, and my skills ignored. My worth is reduced to the physical nature of my age and sex. My existence in appearence has become a wretched twist of fate to them.

In rebuttal to this strange now gathering more commonplace occurence, this is a letter I wrote to Hollywood earlier today.


It roughly reads as follows, dyslexia still intact:

I am not your tragedy.

I was not born on this planet to arose you, my body was not formed to fill your cock with lustful anguish in the irony that God placed before you.

I am not your cruel joke.

I am not an angel.

I am not a devil.

I am my own imperfect human creature. I am love.

I have my own story.

Seasonal Baggage

Taxed in tidings towards this time of cheer
Instead of frequently we give a damn just once a year
And here it comes again, that caught contagious sense of fear
Will I be adequate in my attempts at gifting

For I know nothing of the hottest trends, or odds and ends
And with my wrapping skills, they equal to an armless squirrel who’s dead
And in no offense to limbless sciuromorpha

And yes, I learned that word by searching Wikipedia

But still despite these clumsy words, there grows a fire deep within

The urge to shop is lit

For I do wish to buy you every dress
And suit you’ve kept your eye on

Every instrument
The finest pics where you can leap to fly on

And every novel, toppled stacks, a vast library forged unmatched

And every star, plucked from the cosmos
Stored in stones to dreams unhatched

And to the deepest clearest rivers
To the brightest shores at sea
In all the things that make you quiver
Bound in careless ecstasy

But I am broke
I am so-o-o-o-o-oooooo broke

The rend is due, the pay’s aloof, electricity is through the roof

Though I will go each extra mile
With every dime to see you smile
I ammm

Though, it is difficult to place in words
For through all my escapades
I’ll bump into what brings me brinked to think
She’ll love this, I want to buy that thing

Then I remember there’s a lock I need to keep upon my pockets
And save a fortune, for the ocean of our future

Even though I wish to give you everything

But I will work to find a way to draw your beauty, for through your grace it is unmatchable, unmeasurable, uncapturable, 

And nothing in creation can come anywhere near close

But I will draw and draw so you can see how luminous you are

And I will learn to play a tune that you can fly upon
For how you captivate me, holds me beating breathless without words

And I will write you endless stories, poems, and slant rhymes
And every star, plucked from the cosmos
To remind you how you shine

And through the deepest clearest rivers
To the brightest shores at sea
In all the things that make you quiver
Free in boundless ecstasy

Cuz I am broke

I ammm so-o-o-oo-oo broke

And even though I try my hardest, I am still a starving artist

I am so poor

All my funds have gone to food and rent, and a really kickass piano that I totally shouldn’t have bought, but I still did

I am soooo broke

I have to avoid the music store

I am so-o-o-o-ooo


Though I will go each extra mile
With every cent to see you smile

I ammm


But deep and down just possibly you might not mind
And all for You, this strange and silly heart of mine.

 © 2018 A Man Called Jack All Rights Reserved 

Last Thoughts of Bob Dylan

(Also "on")

When you've buried your body neck deep in the ground
But your mind conjures time, building ripples in sound
In the belly of science, where ends seldom stay
In the bowels of religion, swallowed swiftly to pray

Where you're brought to a boil, then tenderly fried
And they ask you "Now son, are you on the right side?"
From the government's fishermen, they've wrung you out dry
For they've bought and sold your medicine, just in time to see you die

But your mind keeps on turning, and the music smells sweet
Though they bask in the bruise of your dearest defeat

Sayin' that's when you'll be free, boy
That's when you'll be free
Once the world stops mistaking you for their precious little toy

When you've knotted your neck over too many times
That you no longer care to stare towards their ill crimes
Vial idols cut vitals from under your skin
To make sure you're still breathing in the state that you're in

But there's only one road to be liven, they say
With the rate of your dirty down underdog pay
One for giving
One for craving
One for ranting and raving
One for pride and depraving
One for mental misbehaving
One for clean cut and shaven
One for diggin' and slavin'
One for lying and cheatin'
One for bloodied and beaten
One for the million-dollar question
One for the suits you invest in

Where the road needs a pavin'
But it never gets done

Slain to work off the jack offs of coffee salutations and the new exaggerations from the early dew day
Waiting for your processors.. to carry you away

Can you hold up the finest in hitchhiking thumbs?
Just to travel the distance to carry the sun? 
Though you're sharp as a knife, and you're slick as a gun
They'll abuse what you choose though you've only got none
And they'll strangle you straight, till' the remains have gone
Set alone on the tracks till' your journey is done
On a train bound for opportune cities of one

Saying that's when you'll be free boy
That's when you'll be free
Once the world stops mistaking you for their precious little toy

They say there's no voice that can bear all those troubles
That can channel your truth, and relinquish the doubles
But beneath blistered wisdom, when the words reach the fire
Calls a voice that releases your silent desire       

From proverbial minds to shape mountains from sea
To your ears to spin legions, and visions of the'
Kicking fakes from their logic, singing hymns of lost Queens
Till the beauty of nature can sew up the seams
Till the king understands what the poor man has seen
Till the age of Bob Dylan can soak in your dreams

 © 2008-2018 A Man Called Jack All Rights Reserved