Better Things to Do

You’ll never understand me
But really that’s okay
I have better things to do
Than fight online all day

I have minds to change
Hearts to save
Actions to do
Love be a slave

Talking to you is
Wasting my time
I would rather be
Composing my rhyme

Just please–go away
Don’t you have other stuff to do?
I am far too busy today
To get tangled up with you

Your directive is lost
Because I control my own life
People like you
Should just, “Put down the knife!”

Walk away
Get a hobby
Oh, I know
You could join the gun lobby

I choose to live life
With no weapon or guns
I may lose my life
But I won’t take anyone’s

You can’t hold evil
You can’t trust yourself
I trust God
Not a gun on a shelf

You can say that’s foolish
But only a fool would say that
Says so in the Bible
I could show you where it’s at

I have better things to do
Than worry about dying
Or to worry about your words
Or to spend my day crying

I have love to give
People to hold
Security in this life
And my ability to get old

Nothing in this life
Has power over me
Not fear, not illness
Not death, not greed

What has power over me
Is what Jesus said
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
That part was in red.

I know you don’t get it
I know you live in fear
I know you need your gun
That part is very clear

I can be killed
I can come to harm
But I won’t pick up
And carry an arm

The only arm I need
Is the right hand of the throne
It’s more powerful
Than the gun you own

Gandhi said:
Peace at all cost.
Even in death,
Obedience is not lost.

I’d rather be
On Gandhi’s side
Or Jesus or Buddha
Or any peace-loving guide

Jesus asked his friend
To put down his sword
Then marched to his death
And he willingly went forward

I’m not afraid to die.
That is truly being free.
I would fight to live,
But if overcome, let it be.

I’ll never carry a gun
I’ll never live in fear
I have something better to do
Than debate my views on here


If you don’t like my opinion, there are millions of other blogs. Let me Google that for you! 😀


This is my rifle blog. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My rifle blog is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my rifle blog is useless. Without my rifle blog, I am useless. I must fire compose my rifle blog true. I must shoot straighter write clearer than my enemy who is trying to kill silence me. I must shoot delete him/her before he/she shoots responds to me. LOL

There are many blogs, but this one is mine! See what I did there? Step! OFF! Girl, bye.

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Blade Runner 2049

Saw BR today. Totally worth it. Went to see it in IMAX. Also totally worth it. The sound was amazing. I won’t spoil it. All I’ll say–the solar fields of Los Angeles are sad and breathtaking all at the same time. Well done. It might surpass the original in cinematography alone.

So good! If you appreciate science fiction and detective novels, go see it.

One more thing, all the actors are superb IMO.

Ok, last thing, the script is masterful.

Sympathy, But No Admiration

I skimmed an article the other day about a woman with 5 children. It started with her morning routine and I couldn’t make it past bed-making. It looked like an attempt for recognition for her task-filled day as a working mother.

She began with, “After making 5 beds…” She has 5 children and not one of them can make a bed?

I would teach the child to make their own bed. And if they can’t? Unmade beds are the least of your problems.

I would admire you more if you taught your children how to care for themselves rather than ask for attention in doing for your kids. Or you taught them a lesson and one to yourself about leaving and accepting the unmade beds.

“Want a made bed?” I would ask my child. “Let me show you how.”

Yes, sometimes I make my child’s bed. But she’s one child and I’m happy to do it. She works hard at school, makes straight As, and doesn’t always have time. And if it doesn’t get done? That’s ok.

She knows how to make one and can do it if I ask her. One can also just shut the door.

One day your kids will care about the way their room looks and until then, it doesn’t matter. As long as there’s no pizza or soda actively attracting ants under the bed, right??

Joy is found in the wrinkled, wrestled sheets of bedtime tickles and snuggly stories of the day. Don’t sweat the small stuff. You have 5 kids, you should know this.

At the end of your life, do you want to say, “All the beds were made, every day”?

Or do you want your kids to know, “Mom loved me.”


Zen-like enlightenment or peace does not originate from a made bed. If anything, it is the opposite. The acceptance of impermanence. It’s strange that some humans endeavor in a lifelong attempt at domesticating Earth and they made an entire website devoted to it (looking at you, Pinterest). Peace comes at the realization of bed-making futility. The temporal tool of Bed should be put into perspective. It’s for sleeping, not decorating. It can be enjoyed, not fussed over.

It’s also home to several million bed mites. I’m sure they like it neat. The bed mites appreciate your hard work, Mom. LOL


When we wake up, we should greet the day with awe at the rising sun. Not worry about the messy sheets. It’s a process. I get it. I’m talking to myself as much as anyone.

Who makes their kid’s bed? Just curious.

Never Needed

WARNING: adult language. Sorry. Truly. God in heaven forgive me, but I’m tired of calling for change and nothing happens. Elementary school students were slaughtered and not a damn thing happened. NRA members who do nothing about their organization will burn in hell for letting innocents die to protect their rights.

I don’t want to live with the hypocritical bullshit of gun ownership in a country that tells me what to do with my vagina, my tax dollars and wants to deny me healthcare. A country that is actively trying to kill me slowly. Seems that there are more laws governing my reproductive system than there are restricting guns. I have zero tolerance for any maniac that says we don’t need gun control and can’t talk about it. And quite frankly, fuck you.

And now, a poem I wrote 7 months ago. Seems appropriate.


Never raped; never robbed.
Never threatened, molested, accosted or mobbed.

Never needed a gun.

The only man to ever abuse me
Was my dad who always accused me
Of being:
Lazy.
Fat.
Less than.
Ungrateful.
Worthless.

He owned 2 guns.

So if you ask me, “Do you want a gun?”
I would say, “No. Why would I need one?”

I’m beginning to wonder though.

If everyone who needs a gun
Buys a pistol. Rifle. AR-15. Grenade-lobbing launcher…
How will I protect my body? My daughter’s body?! My rights?
My right to exist.
How will I defend myself against those who have an entire arsenal at their disposal?

Do I want to live in a country
where I am required to arm myself
against those who would hunt me?
(Because they are paranoid
that the world is coming for:
their rights,
their guns,
their women
and most importantly,
their stuff!)

No.

No more alabaster cities that gleam,
We’d be no better than 3rd-world regime.
The kind that grabs power by force.
The kind that keeps boots on the necks of the poor.
The kind that muzzles our boisterous press.
The kind that punishes peaceful protest.
The kind that installs corrupt institution.
The kind that criminalizes sacrosanct Constitution.

No.

I don’t want to live with that.
I don’t want to die with that either.
But, no.
I will never need a gun.
Never needed a passport either…

Radio(active) Disney

First, I’m sorry. I’m about to attack Disney and I understand–for some? That’s like burning the flag.

But what’s the deal with Disney cranking out prostitutes at their whore factory?

Britney Spears. Christina Aguilera. Selena Gomez. Bella Thorne. Miley Cyrus. Lindsay Lohan. Ryan Gosling! (JK)

I shouldn’t say prostitutes. That sounds judgmental. But why, in Walt’s name, do all (or alot) of ex-Disney princesses go from Snow White to Toxic Tinkerbell?

This has bothered me for some time. What happens to these preteen pop stars? Too much pressure? Backlash from some secret Disney purity pact? An attempt to tarnish their goody-two-shoes act? What in the wide world of Disney is happening???

Disney,
Whatever you’re doing, stop! Please. For the sake of Disney and all that is holy, stop.

If you doubt me, all you have to do is Google any of the above names and you’ll see the very un-Disney images that pop up.

Am I too old to understand?

I don’t mean to blaspheme the Mouse, but I just wish Disney was what I thought Walt wanted it to be. We’re both Kansas Citians and we both went bankrupt. I live in Florida now. I grew up on Disney. I thought he was a kind, decent man, always telling a story of hope, purity, nobility and modesty. And I just wonder what he would think about his pop princesses these days.

This is just my opinion!

I Heart You

Science book illustrations taught me that the heart doesn’t look like the symbol we all
know and draw. It looks like a wadded up dish rag. A fist-shaped muscle, an engine valve on a sports car. But it actually does look like that candy box of chocolate, sometimes.
It looks like a heart when it contracts. It squishes down and forms that cutesy, homemade Valentine’s Day card.
That’s when the heart is empty. No blood. Well, very little.
It squeezes in and squirts out all the juice. So basically, the heart has to work to look like a heart.
If it just lays there and doesn’t do anything, it just looks like a big pile of silly putty.
My heart wasn’t working. It was tired. I abused it. I was dying. August 2012, I was diagnosed with congestive heart failure at the age of 39.

I could blame everyone else. I could. But I’m the one who starved it. Beat it up. Ignored the fading pulse of life.


So we put the heart in place of love, right? Mary loves John. ❤

We put a heart there. So you wanna know my theory regarding love?
You can only know what love looks like when you actually use your heart. Take a risk. Go out on a limb. Love someone first. Flex that muscle.
We can’t know love until we lay our heart on the line. Our heart isn’t alive until we use it.
A heartbeat. EKG. Charted heartbeats on graph paper. Highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Up and down and everywhere in between. Sharp waves of life beeping out over a loud machined monitor.
And what does it look like when there’s no more breath or blood? A flat line.
Nothing’s happening. You’re dead.
I would rather have the high peaks and low valleys. Rather than dead. Rather than flat, silent space.
A heart at rest can’t do anything. You can’t love passively. A heart in action gives life. A big, pumping, flesh-and-blood organ races at the sight of food, flesh, fear. Love. Beauty.

A heart on fire makes things happen.


My heart is getting stronger. Every day.

Wife

The clothes are washed.
The dishes are done.
Everything’s finished.
The course has been run.

To its bedtime,
I race the sun.
Hoping to remember,
“Leave nothing undone.”

But I fail.

I failed to love you
More than you deserve.
I failed to catch you
When you leapt off with nerve.

I failed to respond
With kindness and restraint.
I succeeded in failing
At withholding complaint.

I’m sorry.

It’s not a matter of racing to the end.
It’s not a matter of winning at life.
It is a matter of walking with purpose.
It is a matter of being a good wife.

I’m not a good wife to you
If I focus on all wrong you have wrought.
It would be better of me
To remember all good you have brought.

Thank you.

I struggle with fairness
And relinquishing grace.
I like to hold grudges,
Call attention to mistakes.

I’m trying so hard to be Perfect.
And I’ve missed the boat.
I should try harder to be Forgiving.
And erase the past someone else wrote.

I love you.

The Best

If you’re a llama?
Be the best llama you know.
Sorry, Non-llamas.


If you can’t be a llama, be the best version of yourself today. Or at least be a little better than yesterday–in understanding, patience or kindness. That’s what all these tomorrows are for.

Drawing credit: Jimmy King (dad)

Dear Lillian (and any other frustrated artists),

Oh, my precious daughter.

I have passed down my intensity. Frustration. Perfectionism. And insatiable need for applause and pats on the back. I’m so sorry.

When I look into those deep, brown, watery eyes of yours and see your struggle and pain? It breaks my heart. But at the same time, it pricks my own frustration.

I have somehow failed you along the way. Not that I passed down some negative trait, but that I haven’t taught you how to cope with it. Mainly because at 44, I haven’t learned my damn self.


Lilli is 13. Barely out of middle school and a budding artist. Her skills aren’t where she wants them, but writing as an artist, are they ever?

Taste and talent never seem to match. Do they? Ugh.


The most valuable skill as an artist, I maintain, is the ability to adapt. (Art finds its own way. You can’t force it. Its going to be whatever it wants. It has a life of its own. You’re merely along for the ride.) This is learned, not innate. So I have, at least, failed to teach you how to adapt. The most important skill I could teach  you. Beyond Photoshop, or how to use watercolor pencils (haven’t a clue), or how to shade properly (if it doesn’t get done with a drop shadow in PS, I can’t help you with shading, sorry!).

But I can teach you (sorry, I keep forgetting to) how to adapt. How to approach art. How to find solutions, how to experiment, find your style.

Do anything that feels real or awesome. And if you’re not there yet? Modify your expectations. I do. Every day. And if you want to get better and I don’t know how, Google that shit. 🙂 I’m sure there’s a Youtube out there concerning exactly what you want to know.

Be true to yourself. Don’t seek attention. Don’t wait for applause. It may never come. Make art for yourself and screw the rest. It’s that simple.

Oh! And have fun. :*


And Me? Don’t get frustrated with yourself or your daughter. Have fun. Take a deep breath. You haven’t failed. You have an amazing 13 yo who is awesome at art and life. She has a big heart and is full of potential and knows Photoshop, sort of. You. Have not. Failed. You have chances to learn. Just like her.

Thanks, Me. You’re awesome.

Castles and Pie (mmmm)

Throwing castles and pie
Way up in the sky
And hoping

Throw that hat (Mary)
Everything but the cat (Berry)
And wait

Keep on hustlin’
Don’t stop jugglin’
And watch

Something’s gotta stick
Whip out your Bic
Keep writing!