Is there a stigma to being an enigma? I don't care if the doctrinaire demand that poetry must be written right. This is a paragraph, that's right. But, as you can see, it's also poetry. Why does one need to make the lines short? Why won't our poetry get bought if whatever we’ve thought wasn't written in rhythmic stanzas? The Germans were thugs who took drugs and drove Panzers in World War II, all at the behest of the Nazi Party, who were dead set against anything gay, liberal, Jewish, or black. They were sticklers for strictures that were meant to keep people in their prescribed rows. And then the whole world came to blows. Does my writing need to be freed from its paragraph form so it can fit into the poetic norm, to be called a poem? Don't you agree that ee cummings would have a field day with that type of pedantry? I’m not looking to get a laugh with every paragraph. But a lot of what I write could be considered suggestive of music which could be called humoresque. One could even suppose that much of my prose borders on the burlesque. There’s also often an over-abundance of alliteration, assonance, consonance, rhythm, and rhyme. But is that such a crime? There isn’t always all that fancy stuff. Sometimes, I just write fluff or tell a joke. My poems are dark, is what someone said to me. I stabbed him to death. Some of my writings are scatological, while others are ontological, so you may find my range a tiny bit strange. I’d like to believe my verse is no worse than other forms of poetry. I hope you agree. I know imagery won’t always be there, but I don’t really care. Coalescing creativity from my unique individuality may mean I can’t always create exceedingly great mental imagery in your mind as some folks can. And sometimes the things I think are absolutely absurd. But I must confess that I do love the written and spoken word. To increase my vocabulary, I delve into the dictionary to decipher the definitions of difficult terms, and I especially like the weird and wonderful ones. At one point in my life, I thought doing that would help me find a wife. It didn’t. I applaud the addition of erudition in anyone’s life. I believe in and advocate for the truth. It makes the world a better place. But some people try to make others believe demonstrably untrue things. It causes time and money to be spent defending the truth. The problem is in the crooked thinking that won’t allow truth to rule. I met a famous stand-up comic once and said, “I’d always dreamed of becoming a comedian.” He wrote in my autograph book, “It all starts with a dream.” I thought he must be encouraging me. Then I saw what he wrote for the next fan. “It all starts with a dream.” Comics love ambiguity. It’s sort of like an annuity that continually pays dividends. It never ends. An ordinary conversation to the comedic mind is full of untapped promise. An innocent remark from an innocent girl can be pregnant with possibilities that could, and probably would, inflame the sensibilities of any prudish people if any of the potential puns were pointed out. Double-entendres get laughs on stage. But in regular life, some folks could fly into a rage if it were made known that their words could be seen to contain a Freudian slip. What drives my passion? Back when I was young and wild and free, I was filled with fun-fuelled frivolity. My life was made of lust and losing, boasting, and boozing, brawling, and catcalling. There were times I got lost on purpose just to find some fun. I never answered to anyone. I felt I needed no advice; all decisions were made on a roll of the dice. I rarely gave a toss about what was thought about me by the boss or the father of a girl I dated. It had already been adequately demonstrated that no matter what, I was going to be remonstrated with. After losing out in love, big time, time after time, I began to believe it was time to do things differently. I’d had enough of doing dumb stuff. I’d turn my life around and place my feet firmly on the ground. I concluded that heaven was where my heart lives, and my heart was open to what the right woman gives. What drives the passion to live with a lady, in the fashion of a family? How does one decipher diplomacies between bedrails? Who understands all it entails? Then, there are the bad things I'd done that continue to live in my memory, the things from my life's laboratory. Or should that be life’s lavatory? I felt the shame, and I wanted to blame, but I had read that one should forget about shame, blame, and regret. But I'd also tarnished my own name. Should I judge and pass sentence upon myself if I honestly seek repentance? It’s been said that behind every great man is a great woman. Even in these modern times, the reason a man climbs the ladder to success is often for the caress of a woman who helps him find fortune and fame. But it must be real, or no deal. Don’t give me just enough help for us to scrape by. I’ll not languish beside a bride with no pride in the achievements of her man. If you want me to be the best I can, if you want to see how good I can get, if you want me to keep my sanity, then you might be the one for me. Because when a woman feels like home, there’s no reason to roam. I’d like a woman like that. We’d spend days having one long chat and evenings doing the dance of the beast with two backs. Each of us would have what the other lacks. We would complement each other and then compliment each other about the fact. We’d be like a funny double act. Laughter would come easily, and so would we, when we danced horizontally. I demand my partner demand the best of me. I don’t want tacit consent on wasting ability. There are things I want to achieve, and I believe any relationship that allows me to be lazy and not reach my potential is not essential to me. I want to be sure that if I gave a woman what’s at the core of my being, I won’t watch her walk out my door. It’s bound to be more fun to be with someone who won’t want to run at the first sign of trouble. Humans are hormone-fuelled animals with analytical minds, adjusting the environment to suit ourselves as much as we can. The more we allow ourselves to be dictated to by anything other than rational reasons for behaviour, based upon how much the behaviour would hinder or help humanity survive, the more we endanger ourselves and the lives of our loved ones. Hubris-filled, the human race hews its way, wondering who is right, which way is right, and whether it’s okay to fight. I’ve spent most of my life on the fringes of our social infrastructure, watching what happens within the walls that we created to try to keep chaos at bay. The ongoing battle for the survival of the infrastructure has times when it’s winning and times when it’s not. It ebbs and flows like the tides and seasons. I’ve seen players changing sides and people tanning the hides of folks found guilty of treason. It’s a mad miasma of misaligned meandering and meaningless maundering. People with purpose seem so few as to imbue almost all of us with ennui. If I played a proper part in the pretence instead of just watching what’s going on from the sidelines of life, would my involvement produce betterment and help the survival of our society? Would my work bring us benefit? Maybe the mob will call me counterfeit. Would I become the fool on the hill, the prole popping a pill, the swagman acting as a bagman for robber barons, making the masses act with gratitude for their servitude, by telling them it’s not just a platitude? Or would I play Joker’s Wild, reflecting the court jester acting as an investor, while never allowing the character of the criminal investigator to invade the portrayal? Or should I just continue with the role of commentator? “You are what you eat,” sounds pretty neat. But are we also the pee and poo that we flush down the loo?