“No Tenderness in da 'Hood”

If MGM ever tried to adapt my life into a movie, they'd have to call it "No Tenderness in da 'Hood."

Because I'm an American Poet, see.

And that says a lot right there.

Scant sales are what that means.

And that just made me laugh.

Oh, I have a body of work now that includes,

"My Fertility for Invention",

"I'm Supposed to Say All That?",

"Sometimes I Get Ideas",

"Hollywood Hack Sinks into an Alcoholic Breakdown,"

"A Bullet Don't Have Eyes",

"Conscious of Being A Genius",

"Architect of My Own Failure,"

"Boozing and Carousing Was My Undoing,"

"Jack Shack",

and "Oppression: Why me?".

But really. Really. How universal are those poems?

For instance, this one.

"The Hyper-Violent Vigilante".

"After several unsuccessful stints as a lover,

I moved to Los Angeles to pursue my dream of getting in the news and inking a book deal.

I lived in the Budget Inn on Sunset Boulevard.

The room smelled like a cigar lounge; the sheets had stains that looked like a combination of mold and blood, but I had no choice.

I was economically unequal.

Primarily because I was disempowered.

Of what, you name it.

I'm not gonna get into all the details here.

I'd only bore you.

You know what I'm talking about, though.

If you don't, then you're probably one of the lucky ones

who has an abundance of valuable resources

and can do whatever the fuck you want for yourself.

Congratulations!

You won the genetic lottery.

You're not like the rest of us; going into convenience stores in the middle of the day, noticeably bloated,

with sunglasses on and a backward baseball cap

buying a bag of Cheetos and a Rockstar Punched Guava.

Or that's just me.

Anyway.

While in LA, I pretty much sank into oblivion and faded away.

But that was only because of my slacker ways and a few situations that involved me being drunk. If you'd like the details, you can read all about it in my upcoming book,"What a Normal Human Being Should Look Like at My Age!"

Here is a short excerpt.

'I never think about what I'm going to feel like in the morning; I just uncork the damn bottle and drink and worry about that after I wake up. Just like Mark Twain. Just like Hemingway. Just like Scott Fitzgerald. Just like Eugene O'Neill. Just like Winston Churchill.

Now, you may think it's wrong of me, morally, ethically, hell, even religiously, to hold these men up as examples of or excuses for my own irresponsible drinking ways.

But the rock-bottom ground truth is, I don't care whether you think it's wrong.'

A little hostile, perhaps.

But I tell you the truth.

Just like Jesus allegedly told you the truth 78 times in the gospels, I hope to tell you the truth at least as many times in this gospel, hopefully more, depending on how much of a conscience I still have left. Which isn't much, I can tell you that, 'cause I never listen to it.

A punchline to you, perhaps.

A reality for me.

So endeth the lesson.

Look, I try to write what I know.

So I don't know a hell of a lot.

Sue me.