All Of It

Writing is the best way for me to tell the truth.

The truth about me.

I’d say music but I spend most of my piano time playing the songs of other people.

The songs of other people pay the bills.

But, no matter how sincere and personal the interpretation, it’s still a degree seperated from the inside me.

Before I played an instrument, I wrote songs, poems and stories.

As grade schoolers, my brother and I would improvise operas.

We didn’t know what we were doing.

We didn’t care.

We just did it.

Then, in high school, other kids told us we weren’t any good.

They said, “If you were, you’d be famous. Besides, we’re better than you at everything.”

I don’t know if my brother believed them, but I did…on both counts.

But fame didn’t matter to me. Not really.

And other people being better than me? Okay. So what?

Negative criticism and allowing myself to be eliminated from any and all episodes of “Clash of the Teenage Egos” didn’t stop me.

I kept on playing music and writing songs coz that stuff was in me.

And it’s still in me. *After a hundred years or more, it’s still in me.

The more I express, the more there is to express.

The more there is to express.

What a comforting thought.

During the pandemic, I found out about live stream and YouTube.

I started a YouTube Channel called “The Real Joe Fingas.” I made a few videos and liked the direction the muse was taking me.

Then I ran out of stimulus money, someone stole my cellphone resulting in my losing access to my e-mail and YouTube accounts.

Bummer.

But, like so many times before, I’m not going to let a back step stop me.

That stuff is still in me.

I’ve got to let it out.

……………………………………..

*It hasn’t been 100 years. Just 70.

We Both Laughed

My friend is going under

the knife today.

Prostate.

I asked him if there was

anything I could do and

he said, “Go fuck

yourself.” We

both laughed.

It’s an inside joke.

Personal.

Between us.

His family is going

to be there, at the

hospital. The wife and

kids he thought he lost

8 years ago. “Karma,”

he said back then.

“The heavy price

I pay for being

King of the

Scumbags.”

He still calls

himself a

“criminal, a

piece of

shit.”

But he’s not. Not

anymore. I can’t tell

you how much he

has done for his

beloved children,

for others and for

me.

I can’t tell you because

he doesn’t want me

to tell you he’s

a good man.

He said, “It’s

bad for

my image.”

And I said, “Okay.

Go fuck yourself.”

Change I Must

I did my best to

get along but it’s

just not working.

It’s no big deal to

quit this gathering.

No one is going to

be hurt if I leave.

If I stay, that’s

a different

story.

Aces

Everything’s good.

Really good.

I’m one lucky mother…

Hush my mouth…

I used to call the

name, “Shaft,” when

I looked at myself in

the mirror. But, even

then, I knew it was a

joke. Even then, I

knew I wasn’t

bad enough.

But I’m lucky enough.

Just the right

amount of

lucky.

Trudge

This has been

a long

slog.

The work is

never

done.

Happy’s not

always

fun.

And the best

ryhmes

are

accidental.

Putting It Out There

The gripe.

The grouch.

It’s working.

I know I’m not supposed

to admit that, sometimes,

my life improves after

complaining.

My intent is not to

profit from

despair. I’m

just putting

it out there when

someone asks.

It’s

back

with it’s

back

backed up

against

my

back.

dimming

warning

lights.

This Problem

I have

is one of

my own

making.

it’s gone

then it’s

back.

it’s gone

then it’s

back.

remove

from me this

defect.

it’s gone

when it’s

gone.

Frog On Mars

Frog On Mars

A Few Thought About Yesterday’s Brunch

You don’t have to like

the way I’m singing.

You don’t have to

appreciate my

playing.

But you can still

look me in the eye

and say

hello.

You don’t have to

tip me. But you

don’t have to

rip me with

your smug

disgust

before you

go.

Really, man,

I might

suck

but

what the fuck? It’s

not like I raped

your wife or

invaded

Ukraine.

If you had

half a brain, you

would’ve ordered

your food to

go instead of

sitting here

eating it

slow getting

a masocist’s

pleasure

putting up

with the

musical

stylings of

me.

And, from

now on, I

promise to

be as shitty a

musician and

preformer as

I can

be.