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Mar 7, 2005

Not WOW enough!

I’m going to take a note from Tom Peter’s success tip #7. I’ve been flustered and wondering what’s going on. Asking myself, “why am I having difficulty?” So I took about 2 hours and stared at my mock, and finally came to the realization that, sure it’s good, I like it, it’s nifty. But not once did I say “Wow!”. When I finally got my business cards in the mail, I said “Wow!” When I quite my job to test my entrepreneurial spirit, is said “Wow!” Every-time I make a blog posting is say “Wow!”

100 WAYS TO SUCCEED #7:
IF NO “WOW,” NO GO!
Does “it” Pop?
Does “it” Sparkle?
Does “it” make you Grin?
Is “it” … WOW?
If “it” (grand or mundane) isnʼt WOW … re-do it! Or donʼt do it!
This is … Your Day.
Not “their” day.
This Day belongs … ULTIMATELY … to You.
Not “them.”
Cubicle slaves Unite!
Technicolor Titans rejoice!
Throw off the shackles of Conformity!
Just say/shout a throaty “No!” to Non-WOW!
So …
WOW!
Now!
(No bull. This is do-able.)

So, I’m going to listen and re-do it. I want it do be wow! I deserve it to be wow! It’s crazy, and after 6 months of work, I should be working with what I’ve got. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, but screw it! I’ve done dumber things. Besides I’ve got the rest of my life left, I can afford to be stupid once in a while.

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Poetry

If you want to follow my poetry, follow me on pownce.

  • People like city poets
    their references to places they’ve been
    I can do that:

    Crack dance at Pigeon Park
    Walk down toitie Robson
    Up to trip Commercial

    Pleasing that a street named after
    money makers and ad men
    should revolt against

    Walk to Uncle Fatih’s for a slice
    of Pizza. Then on the Skytrain
    Home.

    Not that hard.
    To bad my eggs are scrambled.
    This is not my home.
    Thursday, 21 August 2008, 6:54 am #
  • No words to write
    and yet the tip of my pen still scratches
    fibered remains of great groves of trees
    The fiery brother stains with liquid charcoal
    embered remains of lost ideas
    hollow, empty, directionless
    encompassing the pen, the hand
    the arm, and mind
    the creator of papered burning death.
    Sunday, 17 August 2008, 8:30 pm #
  • This is my temper tantrum
    my hissy fit
    my don’t wanna
    not gonna do it
    jump up and down
    bouncing in an invisible jolly jumper
    red face
    fire siren
    moment.

    Wait

    Numb to the noise
    the ritual of it
    constant
    no escaping
    walled in brick by brick
    frost bit
    from finger tip
    and toes
    midnight sweats from day lit burns
    twitch from fix
    blind from sun spit.

    Embrace

    This is not the assigned
    and damn it,
    sublime
    an escape
    a break from rule
    the duel
    of you against you
    you shouldn’t yet you do
    this ain’t flight
    my melancholy plight
    with fist inside
    you shake
    yet make
    these words on this page!

    It’s quiet

    My temper tantrum
    hissy fit
    don’t wanna
    not gonna do it
    jump up and down
    inside

    while I
    wait
    to embrace
    my quiet
    Friday, 15 August 2008, 6:48 am #
  • an old desk
    thrown against the wall
    and shattered like the child
    that once sat in it with glory

    in an old house
    stained with fear and hate
    that singes the senses
    with secrets stored
    in stairways and carpets

    down in it’s belly
    a den of education
    with others now piled up
    and forgotten in a corner
    like the children in their glory
    shattered against the wall
    Wednesday, 13 August 2008, 7:17 am #
  • Wake up caged amongst the lost
    Walking through their world.
    Look at the posters pointing
    The way not traveled has
    been traveled too much

    This world rich with illusion
    You think you’re found?
    You think it’s wise?
    To walk amongst the found
    is not traveling at all

    On a pedestal looking up
    In your caged Freedom
    I’m alive and drenched in
    the lonely
    The Lonely we are
    Sunday, 10 August 2008, 10:46 pm #
  • What was I when I was here last?
    A storyteller & dreamer?
    A rainmaker & healer?
    Did my mouth mold around meter & rhyme?
    or Did my eyes skip through tales of lows and highs?
    I don’t recall,
    but that’s the wonderment of it all.
    Friday, 8 August 2008, 6:49 am #
  • Tongue on tongue on
    Cheek to cheek
    Dripping with metaphors and
    thoughts; ideas
    With Intensity
    of sweat flying from
    Boxers Face
    Hit with the glove of
    Inspiration
    Thursday, 7 August 2008, 7:02 am #
  • What would it be like to see the sun?
    I don’t mean to look up at the sky
    and see a ball of light
    staring at us from heaven.
    I mean to see the sun.
    A raging ball of fire
    that’s so powerful to send
    heat across the milky way.
    It decides who lives or dies.
    And if we aren’t worthy of walking
    on this one planet it can rage against us
    and with one small wave, we die.
    Monday, 4 August 2008, 1:19 pm #
  • No vision to guide a weary hand that strokes aimlessly to the sky.
    With fists of white they curse above.
    A blinding light responds.

    Dissembled, tattered, encased by polared rock, not pointing to a compass
    but, round it pivots and spirals so
    to add confusion to this travel woe.

    Adrift and alone. Only flights of fancy that catch an eye and paralyze
    till burning tips of painted wings
    cause a tumble towards a bluest embered coal.

    What must it be, to have dotted line between left and right, continued onwards
    through and over mountain crest.
    A beacon to souls desire.

    A calling home from far off lands through places yet unknown.
    The journey is important,
    while destination still is always known.

    Instead, in chaos core adrift, a regal ship of war, with sail forgotten by
    silent iron children.
    Still a boat.

    It's more like thought without a word.
    Aimless throughout our conscious
    with no doorway through becoming solid known.

    Instead, it hides between words and lines
    only glimpsed;
    to some completely unheard.

    To feel this curse is heavy.
    But, unlike Atlas, temporary.
    A limbo between dark and light.

    My gray today will rain and wash away
    my cloak of quills
    and I shall shine no matter.

    A star in heaven from far away
    shall see me cry and
    know my name.

    On that day with fists of white,
    what once was aimless strokes
    connect to form a mastful sight

    My painted life
    of depth and hue
    Concluded.
    Saturday, 2 August 2008, 10:28 pm #
  • I made a cigarette from glue and paper
    crammed with shredded soul and shrine,
    which once was used by spirits around
    but now is cased in box and time.

    Puffed away at past and ceremony
    filled my lungs with olden prayer
    but when exhaled fed not the beast
    instead it tasted old and stale.
    Friday, 1 August 2008, 10:08 pm #

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