My Pen. My Train. My Name (Freestyle Poem)

I'll bet Conroy, Pat felt trapped in a taboo world when he fell in love with a Black girl.
Met her on a train.
Didn't know her name.
Disappeared quicker than she came, like an apparition.
Heat-induced visions.
Mirages.
Communists in colleges.
Psychologists.
Misogynists.
Retired Friars, fired, prior to Providence.
Some are shakers.
Some are movers.
Some are sayers.
Some are doers.
Some play when they maneuver.
Cuss words pointed at shapes of J. Edgar Hoover.
Some wear Armani, like they're Toomer.
Approached by Army recruiters.
There's an accuser.
Who's the shooter?
There's a girl in Aruba.
Had to school her, like I knew her.
While the red is getting redder and the blue is getting bluer.
Got gang signs on my mind and liquid in my veins.
I'm an Invisible Man, like Ellison.
Baldwin, James.
Nobody Knows My Name.
My pen is mightier than your sword.
Ignore the score and cherish the day---like July 28th.
They should have left me where they found me.
Hunted me for the bounty.
Break my knees.
Slit my wrists.
And I bleed Wyandotte County.
And they say high IQs and loose screws makes a cute dude crazy.
My review's incomplete.
Suspense has got me waiting.
Discriminating.
My rating's originating in the 80s.
Which makes me an 80s baby.
118 degrees outside.
Hasn't been in the 80s lately.
My pen hates me and it's told me as much.
When I hold it, I clutch with five fingers.
I write through wringers.
Legacies run like DMC and pantyhose.
A snot nose.
With my eyes closed, I wrote my first poem when I was eight, in my head, sitting in detention.
Learned to escape, like space.
A new dimension.
Born to be great and release this state of tension.
Dale and I used to sit on the fence and...
Just.
Dream.
Little did we know, they'd be more real than they seemed at the time.
We finish at the beginning and we start at the end.
Which leads us to the middle.
One boy. One voice. One man. One pen.

----EOB.

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus

A Love Letter to HER

My life changed that day.
And in an instant this seems so fresh and new.
"He's just not the same," they'd say.
Inside jokes about yellow and blue.
But my life changed.
Blame it on that day.
I claimed it.
Slow dancing in the rain.
Romancing the thought of HER whole name.
And my Whole has changed.
A guiding light in the darkness.
A voice of reason in the banter.
This is where it all starts.
If yesterday was the question, then that day is the answer.
My life changed that day.
And I can't stop smiling.
Piling minutes together until they become a full day.
And if seconds build a minute and minutes build a day, then this moment is my Genesis.
A blank page and fresh clay.
And moments like these seem to manipulate time.
Seconds slow until they show a new identity.
Could this get any better?
Could this last forever?
Shield my eyes.
I tell no lies.
For now I know the truth.
My life changed that day.
My life changed the day I met you.

---EOB.

One Question

When you've exhausted all your options and you've fallen off the path, tell me what would you look to do if the pen is all you have?

Would you completely fall to pieces like the shattering of the glass? Or would you create a new way of thinking, as if you've birthed it in the lab? Would you look toward your future and stop thinking of the past? Or would you understand the importance of preparation?

Your first chance may be your last.

Tell me. What would you do if the pen is all you have?

Beethoven wrote the greatest symphony. Edgar Allan Poe went mad. Mozart became a martyr, though his climax was so sad. Some paint pictures of pain, with wounds that never heal, as if they're picking at their scabs. You walk the road few have traveled, when the pen is all you have.

The pen summons all emotions with articulations on the pad. It puts money in your pocket, so it keeps you from living on the Ave. It shows you visions of things both clean and obscene. The pen navigates you to places within that few have ever seen. And it guides people you've never seen through your visions and dreams. Like LeBron and Harrison on your screen, you're a Witness. You're not afraid to let people into your business. You're different. Call it literary fitness. Your pen is like weights as you build mental muscles. Exercise every day and watch them swell. Only time can tell whether your pen becomes your heaven or hell.

Can you depend on your pen?

Don't pretend that your pen is all you're interested in. However, it is your longtime friend. It's something to believe in. Would you leave your pen if everything seemed to work? Would you never let it leave your side when your disappointment never subsides and your pride is hurt?

When all you have is your pen, at the end of the tunnel, you finally see the gleam. Like Malcolm and King, you dare to dream by any means, of inner-revolution, letting freedom ring---within you. Your pen will reveal truths and it will unveil lies. It will create a mirror in front of you. And the reflection leaves you surprised.

Is it a curse? Or is it a blessing? Either way, all you have is your pen.

Search for your purpose, as it hides. Count to 10. Open your eyes and let the journey begin.

Would you desert your pen only to drive a Mercedes? Or do you write solely so this life wouldn't be driving you crazy? Does your pen grow stronger when you're mad? When you're happy, your writing is silently lazy. I depend on my pen because it'll never betray me.

Would you make a mistake if the pen is all you've got?

Remember, the pen got Biggie shot because he was beefing with Pac. The questions never stop. A savior? A tormentor? What's your definition? Your pen makes it all your decision. It's speaking to you. All you have to do is listen. Like your soul, your pen is eternal. Long after you're gone, your words will forever live on. It's your devil like Taz or an inspiration like jazz. But the answer lies within you.

So once again I'll ask.

What would you look to do if the pen is all you have?

---EOB.

Three Names

I'm numb. It's the sum of all fears. Nothing's clear and the Grim Reaper's whispering in my ear. He said he's near.

My city's engulfed by the sea. People around the country watch helplessly as they wonder how many Katrina will seize before she destroys and leaves. It's my birthday. I'm turning 23. At 5:08, I'm awake just in time to escape from the back door of my home. Flashing waters. Floating bodies. Now I'm residing in the Super Dome.

They said we'll be sheltered but they're not obligated to feed us. The roof is falling. What's the difference? Inside or outside? Hunger or thunder? In some way, the storm's bound to defeat us. No money to get out so I guess they didn't need us.

I wish once more I could play my guitar. On my cell phone, I have one bar and I used it to call family back home. I heard through the grapevine that Celine Dion made an appearance on CNN. With sincere tears, she spoke for me when she said we need immediate help and prayers more than her ends. I feel like we're observed with blind eyes, sort of like Apartheid and the Rwandan Genocide. It's ironic. Not many nights ago, I dreamt I drowned in the most unlikely of places. Does that mean the washing away of phases? Or a revelation? My soon-to-be expiration.

I'm weak. And to look past this is like trying to sell cocaine. There's no gain. Like Spokane, slow rains wash hopes down drains. Rumors of murder. Blood stains grow like Rogaine. Intense pain goes untamed with no shame. Who's to blame? I can't give in. I'll continue to fight.

Who am I? My name is Mike.

I have to keep believing. Something has to give. I can't stop breathing. I want to live.

I'm packing my bags, ready to step into life all alone. I'm not worried about lonely nights. I just want to take flight and disappear into the night before he comes home. Heavy fists drop on my body cavity like gravity. If I tell them about Daddy, I'm scared they'll be mad at me. But I have a strategy. Because last night I woke up from my rest, holding my chest and trying to catch my breath. Because in my dream a man left a bloody mess on my doorstep. And it was me. Watch your step. You won't believe what you'll see in the corridors of my mind. I swear he'll kill me. I'm running out of time.

It's my birthday. I'm 16 years old. I've been raped since 10. I can't escape and people wonder why I don't feel comfortable around men. Sometimes I think it's my fault. Other times I just wonder why. This stings like cuts and salt. I pray but I don't know if God hears my cries.

He beats me in the chest so he can hide the evidence.

My name is Evelyn.

I have to keep believing. Something has to give. I can't stop breathing. I want to live.

So, I'm into big business. Of a company, I'm the owner. For a better life, I moved my family to California. Now it's stressing out my wife because our son is selling white on the corner. The mood's somber. My kid's a loner. I only thought this happened in the world of the poor. My son got a hold of the boy next door. He got him strung out. Now he's shooting up with the whores and stealing from his parents. It's that crack. He's wanting more. He had a bright future but it's wasted because his mind's gone. His parents just can't take it and they wish he'd simply come home. Now the only time they see him out is on the streets. Glossy eyes. Rotten teeth. Sporting coats in 103-degree heat.

And I'm blaming myself because quality time was not invested. Now my son is frustrated, feeling so rejected. Thinking he's neglected, he ran into that Vest kid who introduced him to the streets. And now his mind's infested. I didn't think this would happen. So how could I expect it? This game is a shame and I wish I could reset it.

Now I'm crying on my birthday. I'm turning 42. I'm thinking of my son. What's a father going to do? I thought this was fantasy but now I know it's true. If it's happening to me, pay heed, I can see you standing in my shoes. I saw the evidence but I didn't have a clue. I'm wondering how I'll make it through.

So, with no immunity I'm reaching out in my community. I stand next to other soldiers in the battlefield. I never want another to feel what I feel. I'm just another parent of a teen who got killed.

My name's Neil.

I have to keep believing. Something has to give. I can't stop breathing. I want to live.

---EOB.

Her Name Should Have Been Poison

I was 18 when I first met her. I ran into her while visiting my sister's job and we hit it off on the spot. She told me her name was Crystal. We exchanged numbers, and soon enough, we began hanging out.

At that point in my young life, Crystal was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She stood about 5-foot-7 inches tall with gorgeous eyes to match a bright smile. She had long hair and spoke with an accent that drove me wild. To her, I was a novelty. I was quiet and shy. On occassion, during our conversations, I had that knack of saying something that would blow her away. We were two totally different people. She was outgoing. I was an introvert. She was from the country. I was from the city. She lived life fast. I liked to travel slow. However, those differences somehow brought us together.

"You're different than other guys," she'd say. "I kinda like that. I'm curious about you."

I'd make her laugh, but at the same time, I could make her think, too. She saw me as a challenge, an unknown territory she wanted to explore. We talked a lot and things moved swiftly. Eventually we got closer and began doing things that people usually do in a relationship.

But we weren't in a relationship. Her life was too wild for my tastes. So in that regard, I kept my distance. I was too young to deal with that kind of stress, I thought. So we had our cake and we ate it,too---with no strings attached.

We shared secrets and revealed things about our pasts. One day the conversation steered toward old relationships.

"So do you know Jamaica James?" she asked.

Sounded like some movie character to me.

"No," I replied. "Who is that?"

She seemed surprised.

"You don't know Jamaica James?"

"Who is it?"

"He's my ex-boyfriend. I had just broke up with him when I met you. He's a drug dealer. He still tries to come around, but I keep telling him I don't want anything to do with him. He's crazy."

I took her for her word. The news was kind of disturbing, but I shook it off. On Valentine's Day, I surprised her on her job with some flowers. She appreciated them. However, Jamaica didn't like the jester at all. I got a phone call from her the day after.

"Um, I saw Jamaica today," Crystal said."He came over."

"What's he talking about?"

"Same thing, trying to get me back," she answered. "I told him to go home, but he wouldn't. He saw the flowers you gave me. You should have seen him, he got mad. He was like 'Where you get them flowers?' I lied to him and told him my aunt gave them to me."

Once agan, I didn't sweat it. Jamaica believed her---or so I thought. A few days later, Crystal met me for lunch. She had some news for me.

"Jamaica called me today," she said.

"He won't go away."

"No."

"What'd he say?"

"He said that he was thinking and he knows my aunt didn't give me those flowers," Crystal said. "He told me that if he ever sees me with anybody, he'll kill him."

She took another bite of her food and smiled.

"But don't worry," she added. "He's not serious. He's just talking crazy."

She seemed so calm, but I was choking on my food.

Don't worry? Don't worry? This man just threatened my life and you're telling me not to worry? Don't worry?

When I got home that afternoon, I made up my mind I was going to leave Crystal alone.

But I didn't. We continued to hang out. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe he wasn't serious. In fact, eventually, I did believe her. The threats kept coming and Jamaica never went away. However, the two of us never crossed paths. So eventually I began to ignore them--until I visited my friend one night.

I had dropped by my friend Tyrone's apartment to catch up with him. Coop was already there. Shortly thereafter, Tyrone's cousin came by. I think he was between 28-30 years old. He liked to school us in the game of life. Over the course of the night, he began talking about his past experiences.

"I knew this dude, back in the day, this dude named Jamaica James," the cousin said. "That man was crazy--not funny crazy, but crazy, crazy."

For about 30 minutes straight, he told us stories about Jamaica James. Each one of them was just as terrifying as the last.

"There was this time Jamaica was at the house with his boys," he said. "And he got mad at his girl, they started arguing. She's pregnant with his kid. Jamaica gets up and he's hot."

The cousin began to demonstrate Jamaica's every move.

"Jamaica tensed up and smacked her, like this," he said. "She went flying on the couch. She tried to get up, but Jamaica went at her again and punched her. Boom! She went flying on the couch again."

"What happened to his boys?" Tyrone asked."They didn't break it up?"

His cousin looked at him as if he were stupid.

"No!" he said. "They were afraid of what he'd do to them!"

He continued his story

"Next thing you know, Jamaica is going to the kitchen and he grabs a butcher knife. He jumps on top of her, raises his knife in the air and yells 'If you don't do what I say, I'll cut my baby out!'"

The three of us sat still with horrified looks on our faces. We knew crazy men, but not Jamaica crazy.

"There was another time Jamaica got into it with this group of dudes," the cousin continued. "All of a sudden the dudes pull out guns and they start shooting at him. Jamaica pulls two pistols out of his belt and starts busting too. All of a sudden, they're in a gun fight. They hit Jamaica in the leg but that man didn't stop shooting. He fell on the ground, bleeding, but he kept shooting and yelling. His boys tried to drag him away, but he kept wanting to shoot, eventually they got him out of there."

In the early 90s, there was a shooting at Schlagle High School. That incident became the school's reputation for a few years, all the way until I got there.

"One day Jamaica was at Schlagle and he saw some dudes he had beef with," the cousin recalled. "Next thing you know, Jamaica pulls out a rifle and opens fire into the crowd. He didn't care who died. He was just wanted to shoot dude."

"That was Jamaica?" I asked with a stunned look on my face.

"Yeah, man. That was Jamaica," the cousin replied. "That man is crazy."

To my two friends, Tyrone and Coop, they were just entertaining stories from an older guy's past. But to me, it made me realize this man wasn't playing. I could die at any moment. My heart started beating fast. He really is crazy.

"Man, I'm kind of talking to this girl that says she used to date Jamaica James," I told the cousin.

He looked at me shocked.

"What's her name?"

"Crystal."

The cousin shook his head and looked at me as if he was seriously concerned for my welfare. He parted his lips slowly.

"If I were you," he said. "I'd leave her alone."

His face became serious before he spoke again.

"That dude's crazy."

When I left Tyrone's apartment I knew what I had to do. That was almost nine years ago. I never found out what happened to Jamaica James. Some say he got attacked by a group of guys and they cut his legs off, now he's bound to a wheelchair. Others say he killed a man and now he's in prison for the rest of his life. Another story said he was killed in a violent shootout. I really don't know what happened to him.

The only thing I know is I never called Crystal again.

---EOB.

Desire

"Hello? You play to win the game! You don't play to just play it"---Herman Edwards

I was five years old when I almost died trying to achieve something that meant a lot to me. It was the summer of 1985. I was in summer school, on a trip to the local pool for some fun in the sun. The atmosphere felt right. The temperature was warm, everyone was having fun and there I was---out on the side, watching it all unfold. It was eatting me up inside. I wanted to swim, too

The problem?

I wasn't that good. So I watched. I noticed all the kids swimming and playing, enjoying the day. And there I was, still sitting on the side. I couldn't take it anymore. I decided to leave logic at the door and act. I stood up, all four feet of me, and took a few short steps to the edge of the pool. I looked out at the crowd and then down at the water. I did it once more, bent my knees, leaped high in the air and dove in. I took a dip into the area of the pool that was five-feet deep. And though I wasn't skilled, I was holding my own. But it wasn't enough. I needed more of a challenge. So I moved to my left and drifted off into the 10-foot area of the pool. Instantly I knew I had a battle on my hands. The water was too deep for me, too strong. I fought. But it seemed as though the more I fought, the harder it became. I was fighting a losing battle. The water was moving from my chest to my shoulders, as I was sinking. I was screaming, calling for help but no one seemed to hear me as the water now was moving up to my neck. But I didn't stop fighting. For those few seconds, which seemed like an eternity, I fought until my body was tired. I fought for my life. Soon enough I couldn't fight anymore. I had given all I had. As I was engulfed by the water, all outside sounds ceased to exist. All that was left was silence and my thoughts. The end was near.

This is how I live my life. For good or bad, I've been taking chances for years. I've played to win. Sometimes, in some areas of our lives, it's necessary to recapture the child within us. Children are fearless. I knew the risk I was taking when I entered the pool. But there was a goal I wanted to achieve. And nothing else mattered at the time. In this life, it's all about risk taking, moving on a dream, moving on a feeling placed in our hearts. Historically, the winners have been the ones who have moved on their aspirations, followed their hearts and were willing to take a step forward when logic tells them to take two steps back. The time has come for us to allow our hearts to become the shepard of our sheep.

Our biggest adversary is ourselves. Our biggest battles are fought with our fears, our fears of stepping outside of our comfort zone, a fear of being great, a fear of trusting ourselves. We play not to lose. We should play to win. You'll lose from time to time. Sometimes failure can be the beginning of your biggest victory, if you learn from your mistakes. Failure makes you fearless. And to be fearless is to be free. Playing to win is giving it all you have. Playing to win is planning, execution and belief---even when some don't understand what you're trying to do and where you're trying to go. Playing to win is knowing you'll win even when you lose. Playing to win is understanding the law of averages, knowing your time will come soon. Playing to win is having patience. Playing to win is having desire and focus.

Every day you're on stage. The lights are on--they're shining bright upon you-- and the whole world is watching. All you can do is perform. All you can do is give it your all. All you can do is give your heart to the world. And after you've done everything possible, all you can do is hope your audience received it. It's all that's required. I've been sharing my heart for a long time. And knowing that gives me peace. When don't I have peace? When I know I didn't do my best, when I know I held something back. I don't have peace when I revert back to that child in '85, who's standing on the side, when I know I should be diving in the pool.

I've failed a lot in my lifetime. I've won my share, too. And since that summer day, I feel like I've been living on borrowed time. But, that's OK. I'm here. I'm breathing. We're breathing. We're not here just to live. We're here to do something special.

We're here to win.

For a moment my future seemed bleak. My final hour was near, as I sank deeper into the water. I was too tired to fight anymore. And as I was just about to give up, two hands grabbed me and lifted me above the surface. I gasped for breath as a stranger carried me back to safety.

"Are you OK?"

I smiled.

"Yeah. I'm fine," I said. "Thank you."

As I sat on the side of the pool again, I watched as the stranger left and met some friends in the middle of the pool. I replayed the moment in my mind a few times. I caught my breath. I stood up and looked out at the pool. I smiled.

And you know what I did after that?

I jumped right back in.

---EOB.

She Said...

She said she wants more time. I contemplate whether I should make it.

One second. One minute. One hour.

She said every moment she spends with me is laced with a slow breeze and rose petals that lead to a place which serenades her to windows with reflections, exposing an unclothed soul.

She sees so clearly when it's naked.

Emotions she once played with have been molded into faces of love and regret.

Like sunsets, memories fade of relationships built like masons.

She said she wants more time.

She has visions of us sharing moments so sacred.

I say I want more time because my mind's not made up.

Why? Because there is so much I must take into consideration.

Yet she holds firm to her request. She asks for more time.

A highlight of my past. She asks if I will give her enough time to become my future.

How long will this last? Her words once served as the judge, my thoughts the jury and our actions the executioner.

And she said she wants more time.

I don't know if I have much of it. It's me she covets.

Someone as special as she, has always noticed the value in me. In my passion she's always trusted.

It's what she fell in love with.

This is why she wants more time.

She urges us to turn back the clock. She yearns for more time, enough to transform our yesterdays into our todays, cherishing every second until time eventually stops.

---EOB.

When Rage Called

They wanted to murder him. He and his friends took a vote. He wasn't concerned with them. My cousin thought it was a joke. He said he needed a smoke, so he reached deep in his coat. He pulled out a blade and he slit my cousin's throat. On his own blood, he choked. That's what I was told. They dragged him out into the snow and left him to die alone in the cold. And he just had a kid. Now, he'll never know Joe. This is what Stan did. Robbing his son, like Cano. And now it's obvious. I knew Stan had to go.

Rapidly I'm coasting in a whirlwind of emotions. Anger. Sorrow. Confusion. Venom. They say these are all symptoms.

Symptoms of rage.

Now, I'm speeding down the street to meet my man Tyrese. I knew he'd hand me the piece because he and Stan's got beef.

He said: "I know where Stan sleeps, wife looks like Gabrielle Reece. Hide the piece under the seat incase you get stopped by the police."

I drove off with a screech. He texted the address to my phone. Several minutes later I'm outside Stan's home. And I'm sitting with eyes low. My surroundings I scoped. I hope Stan dies slow for slitting my guy's throat. He's a sheep in wolves' clothing. All of time has stopped. I watch Stan leave his house. I follow him down the block. Such a thin line. The darkside is my side. I see life through the eyes of those high guys doing drive-bys, or them wise guys with those mob ties. Who would have thought it'd be I, in the ride, thinking of homicide.

All the morals I've ever learned, in a moment I'll forget them. For tonight, I dance to the rhythm.

The rhythm of rage.

Tears fall down my face as I'm brandishing the gun.

I scream at the top of my lungs: "Stan, tonight you'll meet The Son!"

Stan decided to run. I squeeze off three quick shots. With a swift dodge, Stan dips off into an alley next to the thrift shop. I release my fourth and fifth shot. Lead and flesh connected. His body falls to the pavement. Stan can die at any second. Fixated on my weapon. For mercy, his eyes seemed to beckon.

Only God is watching and the street lamps are buzzing.

Stan blurted out: "It wasn't...."

Before he finished the sentence, I shot him for killing my cousin. It's how I got here. The interrogation room. And if karma exists, death will call my name, soon. For my mistake, it's only right for me to meet my fate.

"So it was rage? How does that control you? Those emotions don't exist. I hope the judge doesn't resist to give you 60 from the bench!"

Of sorrow, I smell the stench. I've lost all control. I hear the heartbeat of my victim, like Edgar Allan Poe. And they're banging on the table.

"Young man, why would you do this?"

"It was foolish, but I had hate in my heart and Lucifer knew it!"

The spotlight was hot. With shock, they continued to listen. I mentioned in any other instance murder would never be my intention. Suspense is in the air. A man enters with a paper that he's clinching.

"This is information that was just given to me. We know who really killed Joe."

"It was Stan!"

"No, Tyrese."

I sat back with disbelief.

"Tyrese killed Joe. He slit your cousin's throat. He committed the murder and he blamed it on Stan. He knew you would kill him---Two birds. One stone. No blood on his hands."

Now I understand. A moment of insanity. If only I would have missed him. And now we're all victims.

Victims of rage.

---EOB.

My Mistress

"The column came into my life in 1961. And it took it over. A column is more than a demanding mistress. It's a raging master. It consumes you. It's insatiable. It becomes more than you. You are not a person"--- Jim Murray

I dislike what my pen has made me. Yet, I love what it's given me. It gives me freedom, yet I am a slave. It's shown me things about myself. I am what I am. It's helped me unlock secrets. It's my freedom. It's my enemy. It's both a blessing and a curse. It consumes me. It's shown me I have so much more to offer. Versatility. A silent quality. I am a chameleon, blending into my surroundings. I am only able to observe, afraid the unveiling of my presence will lead to my destruction.

For 12 years I walked away. Yet I always heard its call. Like every true love, I return. I believe in my pen more than I believe in you. I pray some days, asking God to remind me that I need Him more than I need It. My pen restricts my tongue. Instead of speaking, I'd rather write. It's challenging. It has strained relationships. Yet through it, It has helped me communicate with special people I never knew existed. It connects me. It has distanced me. My pen has created an entity constructed of complex simplicity. I am just like you. I've witnessed both sides. It's helped me see the darkness in the light, and the light through the darkness. I appreciate and respect both. I channel my emotions through it.

It has given me a dream--one I'm living. It's awarded me with passion. It's my gift. It's why I'm here. It's a necessary evil. It urges me to find balance. It's helped me experience things I only dreamed of. Because of it, I look beyond the surface. I want to see things for what they are. I've found the simple answers within such a puzzling life. It's my art. My creativity. An avenue. I pay attention to detail. Sometimes I write so angry. It gives me a place to vent, sharing the secrets I harbor. It absorbs my pain and uplifts my happiness. It opens a window into my soul, my aspirations and fears. My dreams sneak through my pen and shows people the true me. I am courageous. I am the person my guarded heart won't let you see. It's an heirloom. It's an attraction. It has isolated me. When I have no one, it has me. However, it's the reason why they were not there. I'm excited. I'm afraid. It's the reason why I can't sleep. It's why I have peace of mind. It torments me. It comforts me. I've come so far. I have so far to go.

I dislike like what my pen has made me. Yet, I love what it's given me

Jim Murray died, surrounded by love. His mistress never left him. I can only hope for such a fate.

---EOB.

A Celebration Of Life

1963-Present

"Hard work is a prison sentence only if it does not have meaning. Once it does, it becomes the kind of thing that makes you grab your wife around the waist and dance a jig."---Malcolm Gladwell