The Pugilistic Writer

WORK. WORK. WORK. NO TIME FOR THE BULLSHIT!
NO
The word 'no' is a powerful word.
It haunts me.
I'm in the best shape in my life, but 'no' puts a
submission hold on me.
It's hard to escape from it.
It's easy to say 'no'.
It's lifes easy way out.
You say 'no' with a smile and walk away.
You leave me feeling old.
Hearing the word 'no' everyday ages me.
It does!
It drops a noch of confidence each time.
Until I'm filled with doubt.
Paranoia.
Who's that looking at me in the mirror?
(????)
Recognize myself in a crowd of strangers?
I cannot.
'No' erases my identity to the world.
And I walk among you, invisible.
You see right through me.
With blank expressions.
As if I'm a curse or a burdon to you.
Another word I hate is 'Bill'.
I see stacks of 'bills'.
Everywhere are 'bills'.
I have a phd for paying 'bills'.
Old 'bills' collecting dust, paid.
Mountains of them, stacked.
All over my apartment.
An enemy I can't beat.
A ghost that I can't
See.
Feel.
Touch.
Taste.
Smell.
Hear.
If I could fuck it, I would. Faithfully.
They arrive in my P.O.
Like a holiday card.
Not a welcoming, but a pale white envelope(s).
Waiting to be opened and sent off to charity.
A collector of currency.
A fee to live in a state.
Where I'm not welcomed.
Where am I welcomed, in a place where that name does
not exist?
Not in this fuckin' planet!
------------------------------------------------
12/2/07
Cold, clean breeze from the pacific.
The warm sun upon my face.
Now I gotta go to work.
Copyright ?2007 Mike Duffau
------------------------------------------------
As she held me,
I felt secure.
Her embrace made me feel,
Like a child, the memories came back.
I never want to leave.
I sanked deep in the abyss,
Of a Mother's womb.
Tension! She says.
I hold too much of.
She cried!
A tear touch my chest.
As she held me, I died.
I felt secure.
Pain of life, gone.
Finally, I can rest.
As she held me,
I felt her suffering.
I miss you, she says.
I'm right in front of her.
As she held me,
She felt secure.
As she held me,
Both of us, secure.
Copyright ?2007 Mike Duffau
------------------------------------------------
Christmas is here again.
Workin' all year for a one time,
Compensation of service.
Cookies.
Brownies.
Fruit baskets.
All very nice and sweet.
None of which pays my rent.
Buddy Schwartz, in unit 1104.
Gave ONE Christmas card,
For the entire staff.
You represent all jewish,
Cheap, bastards.
The years of opening doors.
Carrying groceries.
Delivering packages.
Bring cars.
Park cars.
Slavin', turning grey before,
My eyes.
All I have to show for the hard work,
Is...
Cookies,
Brownies,
Fruit baskets,
Flushed down your,
Solid gold toilets.
Copyright ?2007 Mike Duffau
------------------------------------------------
I driven them all...
Mercedez.
Bmw.
Jags.
Porsche.
Rolls.
Bentley.
Ferraris.
Aston martins.
Lexus.
Range rovers.
Caddys.
Lincolns.
Audi.
Saab.
The list is endless, as I drive,
Your blood money rides.
To the rightful space.
I park.
I pretend.
For a moment.
Drive me out of poverty.
Miles on the odometer
Never age.
Exterior, smooth.
Interior, detailed.
These rides live better than me.
Four-wheel babies.
If it had a piece of candy,
I'd steal from it.
I leave this craddle on wheels.
To baby-sit another...
And another...
Until my shift is over.
Copyright ?2007 Mike Duffau
------------------------------------------------