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The Accidental Prophet

the-prophet-chuck

“A wish is not a goal, and hope is not a plan.”

I have a friend, a very close friend, who says that whenever I speak of the future, I already know what’s going to happen.  One year.  Five years.  Ten.  Every step and every stage, all mapped out, in my head and then, into words.  Thoughtful.  Methodical.  Concise.

Except I swear that, every time it happens, I have no conscious idea that what I’ve just said is, in fact, a plan.

So unbelieving am I that, after my friend who hears recites my future future back to me, I am left scrunch-faced, my head shaking, saying, “What are you talking about?  That wasn’t a plan, that was just wishful thinking.”  And yet, in the two years of our friendship, apparently, I’ve never been wrong. 

And it pisses me off every time.

It would seem that I hate being right.

If I were to put it in terms that I could understand, I would call myself, “The Accidental Prophet”. 

Over the last year alone, I called my shot about creating a job out of two other jobs so that I would have all the time in the world to sit undisturbed and, on company time, with the boss’ blessing, write another book.  That happened.  Before that, I called my shot about taking ten years of chicken-scratched poems, and publishing a first book.  That happened, too.  Somewhere in between the first book and the job, I said something about creating a publishing company and, yeah… yeah… whatever.

Now, says my friend, I’ve been saying things again.  Future kind of things.  The kind that, if you were to ask me, I wouldn’t call anything more than a few nice ideas.  A wish here, a hope there.  Just spitballing into the wind.  And if I didn’t have the big-eared friend with the over-developed sense interpreting irony in all its forms, I might dismiss these, too. 

Except now, I can’t.  Because I know better than to argue with a plan, even when I don’t know it’s a plan until comes true.

And all I can say right now is, if it’s true, 2017 is going to be a hell of a year.  And if none of it comes true, well like I said, I hate being right, so I’ll be the first to tell you I was wrong. But if by accident I was right, I’ll be writing another one of these next year. 

Complete with the “I told you so” from my friend who hears.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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“Two for Moonday”

Two poems, read at the Moonday poetry reading, held at The Little Theater in Los Angeles on Sunday, April 20th, 2014.

They are…

 

“Clean” (formerly titled “Come Flooding Back”), and “Feet for the Callouses”

 

 

“Clean”

 

My hands smell

like dispensered soap

from the bathroom

inside Starbucks

 

Clean

like the hospital room

where my son died

all those years ago.

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

 

Followed by…

 

“Feet for the Callouses”

 

To trade this now

for another

because parts of now

make me sad

to severe an arm

for the birthmark or

feet for the callouses

 

And deny my senses

for a life of fewer lessons

curse my eyes

for the glasses

or my mouth

for the soap

that washed it out

 

To not have held

the entirety of love

against my chest then

carried it on feet

that have withstood

the weight of imperfection

but continued forward

 

And trade the scars

that gave me beauty

in the infinite tomorrow

for an empty past

of losses unremembered

is a cowardice

for fools.

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

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