Last week running on the Tom McCall Waterfront Park in Portland, Oregon, I meditated on how I’d publish my first book. And while listening to a Sinatratoe taper, it hit me.
Before then I’ve been emerging as a cocky poet and now you all know it. I have no pop, no style, so why do I show it? The underdogs of society need a peculiar poet… Actually, that’s why I’m writing books, you see…
If you’re familiar with where time oughta’ be, you understand there’s no beginnings or endings. Just a story told someone’s way. Or in my book, my imaginary friend’s way.
Doesn’t matter anyway, everything’s based on perspective from those with voices, and dummies’ who obey others with choices.
….as I commence this writing journey, it’s almost as if I picked up the phone and called Kanye,
To tell him my journey alone, who else better than the gut feelings of my bros.
Like my Father who encouraged me, “it’s bestgoing at it alone….,” was it a coincidence Frank reminded me, he too went at it alone?
Self-publishing can be scary, which is a perspective of the weary. So I’m choosing the way I show my story. And how ugly pasts create the most beautiful happily ever after’s of glory.
If I didn’t, Tom McCall would have shit to do with my story.