A poem about the moment inspiration goes quiet. In “Killing The Muse,” Greg Luti follows a writer through creative exhaustion, confusion, and a tense confrontation with the source of his ideas. I sat at my desk alone in my room, wishing to forge another story out of thin air. But this time, I was done with the emotional toll the words had taken on my mind. I was at my limits with the words…. I don’t know how many more I have in me. For a moment, one I don’t recognize, I can’t create an idea. I was not frustrated by it at all, but more confused. Idea creation is one of my specialties’ I never had this problem before. I tried to recall a few possible ideas I had in the past week that I never got to, but nothing came. Even the old ideas are gone from my mind. Did I clean out my brain at one point during the week? When did my mind get a reset? Is the lack of sleep really getting to me? What the hell is going on here? Then the muse, a being not of this world, but of the unseen, showed up in my room. The creature stood by the opposite wall, in front of my framed Beatles photo. The distance was far enough that I had to turn to see its grotesque appearance, something I was not doing immediately. The creature was not of this world, but of what world it was, I could not say. Whatever was standing there certainly knew of the basic dimensions of creatures like me. Whether this creature modeled itself after something of our world or naturally appeared this way is something I don’t know. “Hello… I can help you.” It said in a confident, almost disturbing voice. “Yeah… you are not the only person to say that.” I paid the creature no mind. “With your words, I can give you ideas to make them better, make them whole. Why create your own when I can simply give you one? All that sweat, all that work, and for what?” “Shut the hell up. I don’t have time for your games.” “Are they games when your mind is empty? Are they games when the thoughts run out? Are they games when the time you devote to this craft doesn’t give you the results you so desire? Even a man like yourself has only so many ideas…. Why not allow me to give a helping hand?” I put my hand down, not viewing the being, who was neither man nor woman. “Do you think I am stupid? Do I seem to be a fool to you? When you started this trip to meet me, did you put down that you wished to see a moron? Is that what you view me as? Nothing more than a pig with a brain. A jester in a show, or an imbecile with a microphone. I am not to be taken for a fool, even by you. Tired, I am, but stupid, I am not.” “Oh, I would never think of such a thing. The carrier of the idea is never a fool, for they are smart enough to accept it, which I am sure you are.” The most humane part of this creature was the way in which it formed words. I finally turned to look at the creature, a move I regretted instantly. “Got you, really are an ugly bastard.” “I whisper to those that wish to hear me.” “Uh-huh… That is what you call it.” “What I call it doesn’t matter as much as what it can do for you.” “Look, I know your game. I know the lies you are even saying now. Ideas don’t come from you. You are full of it. They come from the spirit of the mind. Whatever ideas or thoughts a person has go into the unseen world and then stay there. You are not a part of that world. You meddle in it, and then decide when you want something from a desperate son of bitch, you take a few ideas, combine them, and give them to the person. Don’t act like you are a part of that world. You are not. I can’t see it, but I sure as hell know you are not in it either.” “You sadden me with your response. You don’t consider all the good I can give you.” The creature got closer to me. “Let me help you. Let me help you in a way you cannot help yourself.” “Stay back! I am warning you!” The creature continued to get closer. “I am not kidding. I will do it!” “Do what? What I want you to do?” “I will do it!” The creature took one step closer, and then I reached for the gun on my desk. I unloaded the cartridges, and the creature disappeared into the air, as though it had not been a physical body all along. I heard a whisper. “I am glad you accepted my offer.” My roommate, who was in the other room, came running in as the Doritos he was eating fell all over the floor. “Jesus Christ! What the hell happened! I heard shots go off! Are you alright? What the hell happened!” I noticed the creature was gone, and all that remained were the bullet holes in the wall. “Yeah… yeah… I am fine. I thought someone was about to enter the house.” I went to sit back down by my desk, and put the gun in my drawer, wiping my forehead of the sweat that gathered. He rolled his eyes at me, the same way he notices I don’t do my laundry. “And you didn’t think about calling for help? You decided to shoot up the room like you are John Wick! You gotta think, man! You really could have hurt yourself.” He wiped the Doritos from his shirt and face and shook his head at me. “Yeah, yeah. I know…”

A contemplative poem about the language that shapes a life. In “The Words,” Greg Luti follows the things we are told, the things we say, and the words that remain when the rest of life is stripped away. There are many words you are told to remember in this life. As soon as you are born, the world cannot wait for you to talk, only for them to tell you to shut up, and force certain words down your throat. You will remember some of these words in your life. I am sure that some of them will mean very much to you, and to who you are. Perhaps some of them you say at your marriage, or at your graduation, or at other important life moments. These words stay with you, whether you wish for them to or not. For how else can we truly remember a moment if the words we uttered while there are lost? I played that game too. The game you play. The game we all play with these words. But then it hit me one day that the most important words you, or I, or anyone else, will ever have to know will never be discussed. You have not been asked what you are to say to the Creator when your time is done on this earth. When you are done living, the life you have is over, and you are to be taken away to the other world, the spiritual world. Do you know what you are to say to the Creator when you meet him? If you are like most, you have not thought much about this very situation, for we are a people so caught up with life, we forget about the very one who gave it to us. So I ask you, what would you say to God when the time comes? Do you ask for forgiveness for all the sins you have committed in life? Do you plead with him to give you another chance at redemption? What do you say to the Lord when you meet him when you die? I say that you would be wise to consider the option of the Lord being real, for the other option seems rather foolish. If there is a God, you would surely want to speak with him after you die. If there is no God, then believing in one doesn’t do you any harm. For what good does it do your spirit if you reject God all your life? Should God be merciful to you then? You reject him your entire life, so why should there be mercy to you in death? When you die, there are no more secrets to be hidden. No more lies that you can get away with. No more of anything. The light is brought forth, and that which was dark shall be shown too. When that moment comes, will you be ready for it? If you were to meet the Lord after you die, would you even know what you are to say to him? If you have an answer to this question, then I suggest examining it, as you do other things. Switch roles, and ask yourself if you would be okay if someone said the very words to you that you are to say to the Lord when you die. If you have no answer to this question, then I suggest getting one. You learn all that the world gives you while you live. So many words. So many lessons. And yet when the time comes for you to speak to the Creator, you are speechless, as though you never had any time to consider the question. I am here to tell you that you will die, and you better be prepared to speak to the Lord when that day comes. Choose your words wisely on that fateful day, too. For in this life, you are given many chances to recover and learn, but when you die, you don’t get another chance.

A poem that argues philosophy doesn’t only belong to books and classrooms. In “The Real Philosophers,” Greg Luti looks at ordinary people who keep asking the hard questions while going about their everyday lives. The real philosophers, at least the ones I have met, are those who question the world, wherever they go. They whisper of truths in the office. Silently speak of questions in the grocery store. They philosophize as a part of their life. They question because that is what they see at the moment. As we are throwing out the trash for the day, Moving the carts out of the aisle. Picking up the boxes from the truck. They ask questions; those who call themselves philosophers boast about it. You speak of great minds and think of the books they wrote. What wise words did they write, and how did they form their argument? What school are they from? The minds I know don’t know any of that. They care not about writing their thoughts in books, nor would they say their words are even wise. They are not forming an argument, but seeking the truth in the world as the world tries to hide from them. And don’t mention schools of philosophy to them. They don’t know what that means. The greatest questions can’t be answered in a book, or even a poem. They cannot be formulated, studied, and dissected as though they were an equation. The great minds of today put all their thoughts down as they sit in their ivory tower and reflect upon the great minds of the past. What did that person think of what I view of the world? How do I respond to them? But my philosophers don’t do that. As we are sitting in the break room, eating some pizza, they present questions about the world. Not for their next book, or lecture, or even to be right, But because they wanted to know the truth. They asked not for themselves, for they gain nothing for asking the question. They asked because they were compelled to. We would be working on some boxes, and my co-worker would present an idea he has of the world, which, of course, takes up most of our time. Then we learn of the world, and ourselves from it all. Are you ever going to be taught about that exchange in school? Will my working buddies ever be remembered for the questions they posed to the world? No. No, they will not. For we value the minds in the ivory towers. Those who can support their claims, rather than those who randomly ask questions of the world. But I ask, is there not a difference between a student of philosophy and an actual philosopher? Why must I study to be a philosopher? Am I not born with a brain to question and think? If I do that, wherever I go, how then can I not be a philosopher, no matter what my degree says? Why must I attend classes to prove I question? Is the modern philosopher fooling us all with their very knowledge of the history of the field? Are they questioning because they are well-versed in the field or because they are philosophers? If you spend all day defending your point and learning about the history of the field, how can you ever call yourself a true philosopher, or one who lets their heart guide their way? Question… Question the world. That is the trick to being a philosopher. All that other nonsense they tell you about in school and try to teach you is wrong. You can question the very world we live in wherever you go. Want to wonder about life’s purpose at the gym? Go ahead. Want to ponder the proper form of government while working at the bank? Right on. Want to speculate on the nature of humanity as you clean up the room? No one is stopping you. We are killing philosophy by making it all about books and words, and not about the heart and feeling of the mind. Live your life as you would and should. And when the time comes for you to wonder about life, don’t be afraid to ask. You may not like the answer, but you should not be afraid to ask the question. If an ivory tower philosopher is reading their books, defending their points, how can they truly know enough about life to question it? They live in books and in their own heads. Do they know the struggle of the average person? Do they live among us, as we all struggle with paying bills? Do they truly know how to live a life? If the answer is no to any of those questions, then how can we say they are the best thinkers for the field? I recognize the irony in my statement, and for that I apologize to the reader. What is my solution to this problem? To have the real philosophers replace those in the ivory tower? That solves nothing. To remove all the ivory tower philosophers? We both know that is practically impossible. To have a culture where questioning and philosophy are accepted by the public? As much as I want to say that can happen, I know it won’t. I complain about the ivory tower philosophers for being too involved in books and not enough in life, but I fail to accept that without those minds, philosophy would not even be written down. Where does that leave me? Where does that leave any of us? We need the ivory tower philosophers because we all know the real ones would never do it anyway. Yet, we all want more from the real philosophers who inspire the truth to be found in the world. The only solution to this philosophical question is right in front of me. We are to use what we know of philosophy to figure it out. Question it. If we do that, philosophy shall always be in good hands.

An ironic, introspective poem about how quickly a life can tilt. In “Quite A Change,” Greg Luti follows a speaker through frustration, disillusionment, and the uneasy choice to stay in the fight. Sometimes I wake up and feel like Tupac, I ask myself if I should just end my life. One clip, one click, one ending. Click and then boom. My story would be over before it got started. Life sucks, so screw life. Screw all they say about it. All that guru bullshit the heathens teach. All that nonsense of goodwill they pass to keep you grounded. All of life sucks. But this gun, this gun may do the trick. I will screw life by taking my own. Of course, that would mean I have to get a gun. Go to a store and buy one. Which is going to take some time. I am in no rush to kill myself, but damn… Going to the store and then making a shopping trip all just to end this all seems to be doing the opposite. What type of nonsense is that? Shit, then I have to pass the test that proves I am not crazy… But I want to buy the gun to kill myself, which is the definition of crazy…. Damn… what would Pac say about this? Wasn’t he talking about changes in that song? Huey died, I remember that line. And so does Tupac in the song. That is what the rat-tat-tat-tat part is about. For those who don’t know. Hmm…. I am starting to think this whole suicide experiment is not going to be as easy as I thought. The whole point of me ending my life is that it would be quick and painless. Like ripping a bandage off… But now I need to be devoted to ending my freaking life… As if this is a job I need to accomplish. Shit, if I am going to work so hard at ending myself, I might as well work hard at improving myself. What is the freaking difference? Instead of going to the gun shop, maybe I will get some stuff we need. What do we need? I don’t know. Probably milk and eggs. You can never have too much milk and eggs. One of the tutors I know brought in eggs to give to people. I am not even making that up either. She brought in a pack of eggs she got from the farm, and asked if anyone wanted them. As though she was giving out a piece of candy or something. The place has rewards they give students for doing well academically, maybe the kids will like to have the eggs instead of what we give them now, which is like Rubex cubes and other stupid stuff kids like. Not to bash the kids, but boy, do kids like stupid things. When the kids achieve success, we allow them the option to pick from an array of moron toys, like squishy things, or slime, or other things that if you are an adult and playing with them, you are deemed a weirdo. You need to buy a gun in order to kill yourself. Students who do well get stupid awards. I see no changes. The world didn’t make sense then. It doesn’t make sense now. It probably won’t make sense in the future. Now, you will be told by various bullshit artists that they have the solution to all of life’s problems. Because they know. They are the few who have the secrets to this. Like they are using a secret recipe for a dish we all eat. They tell everyone how to live, how to eat, and how to improve themselves. And what happens? That person then ends up committing suicide because of problems they were hiding from people all along. You explain that to me. Don’t actually… I was just being nice. I don’t really want you to explain it to me. That is kind of like when I ask someone how they are doing. I don’t really want to know. I only do it as a formality. Because saying what’s up, or hey, can be repetitive pretty quickly. I don’t know…. Maybe, just maybe, suicide is not the answer. That is just a theory, though. I have nothing to really prove that, but I feel like there are enough out there who would support it. I give a person two options – They have to buy a gun and then shoot themselves. Which is really a pain in the ass as much as tragic. Guns are expensive, and honestly, I have things to do; I can’t just go to the gun shop and buy a gun. I am too busy for that. Oh, and the taking of the life is sad too. You know the ending of the pre-mature life, that was never much of one. Then there is option two – I don’t give the person the gun, and they don’t shoot themselves. I am not a math guy, but it seems the second option has a higher rate of survival than the first. It is the best of the two options. If you commit suicide, then that is that. Game over. You lose. You are going to cash your chips in. If you don’t…. Then you get to continue to play in this miserable, strange experience we call life. And hell, playing in the game is much better than not being in the game at all. Plus, there are some of those fake gurus who would tell you about success and wealth, and I don’t know if you know this, but you can’t really succeed or get wealthy if you are dead. You are welcome for that piece of advice. Now overpay me for a speaking engagement and then let me talk nonsense for an hour. That would be a funny thing to put on a tombstone “He tried to live…. He failed.” I heard somewhere that we are only here to die. Which I guess is true, in a weird, screwed up way. But that is true, the same way that saying that killing yourself solves your problems. I mean, sure, you don’t have to get out of debt anymore or worry about all of life’s issues, but that is more because you are dead, no longer dealing with them, than any real solution on your end. It is similar to throwing out food you were supposed to eat. Did you get rid of the food? Sure. But is that the way you were trying to get rid of the food? No. It was not. And you are a fool if you allow the cook to see you make that move. At that point, suck it up and eat the damn meal. If you are stupid enough to get caught like that, then you should have the balls to eat the food in front of the cook. So yeah, you solved your life’s problems, but you also didn’t address the major issue now. You don’t have a life. I don’t mean that in the way some try to insult losers who don’t do anything all day. No, I mean you are no longer in possession of life. If living with life is the number one, then you are living without life, which is number zero. You are zero; you have no life. Now that would be a funny thing to hear at a funeral. “This man was a zero. He no longer has life.” If you commit suicide, do you think you are allowed to attend your own funeral? It feels like the afterlife would have a rule against that sort of thing. Like you killed yourself, so you are no longer allowed to see the world. I bet there is a sign in hell or wherever you end up when you blast yourself, about that sort of thing. You thought you were clever. You thought you were slick. Trying to one off yourself, getting out of this life and removing yourself from the game. Well, you were wrong. Because the place where you go to after the shot goes off doesn’t even like people who commit suicide. They look down upon those people. We are talking about supernatural beings and freaky things that are not human either. Those things look at you committing suicide and shake their heads. Or you know, whatever they have that they can shake, showing a disapproval of your death. Is there a lesson here? Something that you can take with you? Maybe you should not blast yourself when you get down. And no, don’t get all witty with me here either. No gun blasting. No rope hanging. No bomb exploding. No train jumping. None of that. Don’t do any of that. Do not kill yourself. You will die without lending the world a hand. I won’t say what you think I will say…. That you are worthy of life, and have something to give to this world. That each and every one of you is important. I am not a fake guru. I won’t say what you want to hear. The truth is that you may be a loser. You may be a zero. And heck, you may not even have much to live for. Logic may even tell you that suicide seems right then. The game is over for you, so why not end it? Seems reasonable, right? Wrong…. Because you don’t know everything. You have no idea where you will be in a year or five or ten. Your life may be better then. It may be worse. But you ending it all, is you thinking you know more about your life than you really do. You don’t know the future. None of us do. I may get run over tomorrow. I may get hit by a train in a week. I may get killed by someone I roughed up way back. Who knows? I don’t know. And neither do you. So stop bitching and complaining that your life sucks. And get in on the little secret that you oughta know. Life doesn’t suck for everyone. It is just a matter of how you deal with the hand you are dealt.

A contemplative poem that looks back at a strange historical moment. In “Napoleon at the Pyramids,” Greg Luti wonders what the French general truly saw — and felt — when he was left alone inside the ancient Egyptian pyramids. What do you think Napoleon saw when he was left alone in the Pyramids? Did he see anything at all? Or was it merely a myth? Perhaps the would-be emperor saw nothing and this very idea is nothing more than speculation, a fancy imagination, similar to that of Alexander the Great being a member of Camelot. Fascinating for the figures involved, but nothing nearly true involved. There are some who think that Napoleon had something happen to him when he was left alone in the pyramids. Before he went back to France. Before the Revolution took over the country. Before he went through the ranks of the military. Before he conquered Europe. Before Europe conquered him. And before he was then written into the imagination of every person on Earth. The man who dreamed of saving his nation, rose during the revolution to be become king, and in military genius helped that nation become the most powerful nation in the world. But alas, his ambition was too strong, and the enemies rose up against him, to take his throne. After taking his throne, they exiled him, and vanquished him to another land. Only for his people to still want him to be their king. The former general with nothing more than wits and new recruits defended his nation one last time, proving to all that his greatness was never to be questioned. The story of Napoleon is one that many writers take a lifetime trying to conjure up. I’d like to think while in the pyramids, he saw something un-nerving, something unusual, something that gave his total life more meaning. Perhaps the French Emperor sold his soul to a spirit in the pyramid, some ancient deity that told lies to the then-general. “Napoleon, Napoleon.” The voice whispered. “I know who you are. Who you dream to be. Listen to me, and you can be all of that and more.” “What is it you want?” The frightened General asked. “I want you Napoleon to be who you were meant to be. Napoleon the general. Napoleon the hero. Napoleon the emperor. Napoleon the god.” The French emperor said nothing. “France needs a savior. You know that. Your country is in ruins. Your people are lost. What are you to do about it? You are here in Egypt, but yet France is bleeding. Save her. Save your country. Save the world.” “How do I do such a thing?” “War….” Then the French general saw images of battles. “Have the best weapons, The best soldiers, Lead by you, the best general. Trample all who wish to destroy France. Grab the throat of her enemies, and don’t let go until they are all uttering one word. Viva la Francia!” “I don’t understand. Why do I need you then?” The French general asked. “What are you to all of this?” The mysterious voice whispered back, “Silly Frenchman. I will make it all happen. I will be there with you as you drive the swords in the chest of your enemies. When the cannons go off, I will lead them for the heads of your adversaries. I will guarantee that none on this Earth shall ever beat you in a battle. I can make you the greatest general who ever lived.” The French general contemplated for a moment, for he did not know what to make of what he has been told. “All you must do is give me your soul. Give me who you are, and then I give you who I am. I will then be with you.” “I can do this without you, surely.” Then appeared in front of the general a large black creature that can only be described as a monster. It appeared to be with that of a face that had human elements, with two eyes, a mouth, and a nose, but that is all. You did not notice the eyes or the mouth, or the nose, as the corpse-like nature of the creature took attention. It was not a zombie though, nor even dead or alive. This gray figure, had marks on its face, as though it was a rock more than any person, but the hollowness of its face suggest a spirit was there, not a physical being. “You dare question a god!” The French general’s face turned to white, as he had seen more than a ghost. He had seen a being from the very depths of Hell. The figure continued, “I am the god of war! I conquer all who defy me! Men are nothing to me. I have poured more blood of men than there is ocean water. Long before you were even born, I killed. When you are gone, I will kill again. And yet you dare question me! You either leave this pyramid agreeing to our deal, or you don’t leave at all.” Now crying, the French emperor wiped the tears from his eyes. They were not tears of hurt, but fear. “I will do it…” He agreed. “For France, for my country, and my people.” “They need a leader as selfless as you.” And so Napoleon gave his soul to this war god that preyed upon him in the Pyramids. That is why Napoleon never uttered a word to anyone about such an event. For how do you tell people that you were forced to sell your soul? You didn’t do it for fame or fortune, but because if you didn’t do it the creature threatening you would take your life. Are you better with a life with no soul, and a chance to regain back your soul? Or a soul with no life, and no chance to regain back your life? I want to think that a part of Napoleon thought he could get his soul back when he was done with the conversation. As he walked out of the pyramids, for a brief second, he believed enough in himself that somehow everything would be alright, regardless of how foolish such an idea can be seen now. He thought that he truly could conquer the world, and then use that power to get his soul back. He was not after Russia. He didn’t want to save France. He was creating an army strong enough so that he could march back into Egypt and declare that his soul for himself. That is what I think of when I hear about Napoleon going to the pyramids.

A poem that takes a harder look at a familiar idea. In “Hard Work,” Greg Luti questions the myth that effort alone explains success and considers what real grinding actually costs. Hard work is a lie. It is a lie told to you by above average individuals when they are asked why they are successful. The geniuses don’t claim that they needed to work hard to be great. No. They have natural talent. They don’t need to work hard. There is a difference between working hard to improve and working hard to maintain. Geniuses work hard so that they can still be in the field, and knowledge of their craft To make their muscle memory awake and ready to go. Everyone else works hard so that they can improve their skill, the skill that the genius has without any work. A Lamborghini doesn’t need to be told to go fast. It only needs maintenance. An 18 wheel truck will never go fast. No matter how much it wants to. The world is full of 18 wheel trucks that believe with enough refinements they can become a Lamborghini. But that is not how the world works. Of course, the genius doesn’t tell you this lie of hard work. Why should they? What do they get out it? They appear to be disenchanted with society, detached from the audience with this opinion. So they go along with this lie. They pretend that it is hard work for why they are successful. This allows them to be humble to the audience and respected by their peers, who are actually working hard, and yet, for some reason, can’t keep up with the genius. On the other hand, the one who can never be the genius, the one who has enough skill to be professional, but not enough to be remembered for their contributions, has to say they are there because of hard work. Why else are they there? For the natural talent everyone sees in them? That belongs to the genius, not them. When someone tells you they work hard, what they are really saying is they lack the ability to make it easy. Hard work is a lie. And it’s a pretty good lie too. Because what 18 wheel truck doesn’t want to be told it can be a Lamborghini one day?

Greg Luti’s flash fiction “William Meets Alexander” follows two men from very different worlds who cross paths in an ordinary moment — a brief, charged encounter that quietly challenges everything they believe about status and success. “Are you the king who is known to walk across oceans and beat armies of all sizes? Even other kings envy you, I hear.” “I come for the book I had asked for some time ago.” “Oh, that was you? I thought it was the other Alex…” “Excuse me?” “I’m kidding. I’ll go get it.” William goes to get a copy of The Iliad. “Here you go. Must be fun walking all those miles in sandals. Loneliness on top only ever knows itself, I imagine.” “The road that none have gone before is empty… yes.” “And yet the only friend you had on that road says nothing to you.” William gestures to the book. “The Iliad, a myth just for you….” It makes you wonder what a king is if a myth does not make him a god. Nothing more than a king in a castle no one ever sees.” “Myths are written about those who leave the castle and lead their people from the front.” “Myths are fabrications of the world, falsehoods of broken promises. For how can a great man ever show empathy when he is never like others?” “You measure greatness only in the physical, but it is much more than that.” “Yes it is. All greatness needs tragedy, for who is Achilles if he doesn’t fight?” Alexander pays William and takes the book. “Thank you for this.” “You know what part of the Iliad I like the most?” “No. What?” “When Homer asks, ‘Do kings listen to the peasants for counsel or to reinforce their own kingship….’ Makes you wonder…. Enjoy the book.”

Greg Luti’s poem “Wrong Answer for the Teacher” explores his decision to chase writing instead of following his family into teaching — weighing the pursuit of happiness against stability, risk, and all the what-ifs that come with choosing a creative life. Teaching is a touchy subject for me. I come from a family of teachers. My friends are teachers. Everyone I know is a teacher. Expect me. I do not teach. I have never stood in the front of a room as degenerate children stared at me wondering what was tonight’s homework. I never taught a kid extra help on a topic I was not that interested in. I don’t know what it is like to send a kid to the nurses office or to the principal. I write. That is the stupid decision I made with my life. Did I get a girl in college pregnant? Did I commit a crime? Did I cheat on a friend? No, I choose to pick a career that had very little chance for success, basically no chance for financial stability, and may very well be my reason for depressed thoughts. All in the name of my own happiness, because I enjoy this. This… mockery of madness. This sham of sentences, this forgery of fonts. This message of meandering meaningless muses. There was a time I was a teacher. Me…. A teacher…. Let that sink in for a second. I taught kids. Which, makes two bad decisions I made in my life. (Possibly three, because there was a girl back in college who I am not sure about) As I learned of these strange looking creatures we called children, I felt for them. I saw that they are not sure of what is really going on. They are going wherever they are being told to go. They go soccer (finish this) I am going to feel so bad for these kids, when they learn that the questions that really matter to them are never answered by school. They will become an adult, already regretful of their lost youth, and then they will not know of life’s purpose or meaning. Only an artificial meaning they gained through years of misdirection, test taking, and false equivalencies. You go to school for your whole childhood. Your schooling defines your youth as much as anything else. You spend more hours in a classroom with strangers who you only share an age with, and by the time you leave school, you are no longer a child. But an adult with adult problems. You are in debt, expected to start a family, and no wiser of the world around you. So you must find a job. Get a girl. And know of the world. Know of the world…. That’s a funny thing to say. How can anyone know of the world, when we barely know ourselves? What does this… Any of this mean? Does anyone know? Does anyone care? Is anyone even interested in finding out? Or are we all supposed to learn the grammar rules of the English language, as if that means anything. I before e expect after c. Oxford commas are not needed. Explicit is clearly state, Implicit is not. Or of the lessons in books, or history or the other subjects. Learn of the math. Learn of the sciences. Learn of the history. Learn it all. Get the grades. Go to the good school. Maybe that will distract you from the emptiness you feel of your place in this world. Distract yourself from the questions never asked. Ignore the meaning you seek. Don’t even think about life itself. Run from the truth. That is the lesson that the schools teach kids. The truth is… optional to know. Until that fateful Tuesday morning that you start to question every life decision you ever had while eating a bowl of cereal. Where did you go wrong? Are you the problem? Can you blame the school for messing you up? Maybe it was your parents? How about that one moment with that one older kid that you would rather not talk about? That is why as you sit in your underwear pouring some milk into the bowl, you are empty. You were told of the truth that is in this world. You lied your way through life. And now, as you sit down to have some breakfast, the truth caught up to you. It wants to know why you never asked of it. You never sought it out. Nor did you call upon it. You acted as though the lies you knew were the truth. That is not how truth works though. Which is why it hit you harder than anything you ever knew. Harder than when you heard that the girl is pregnant, or when you didn’t get accepted into your dream job, or when that older kid did those things to you. You can’t live your whole life running from the truth and expect it never to come back to you. But hey, at least we all learned what an apostrophe is, right?

Greg Luti’s poem “Blood on the Page” explores the intense pressure a poet feels to bleed all his darkest secrets and hidden truths onto the page — the raw, unflinching confession a “good poet” is supposed to make. I was going to bleed all over the page here for you as a good poet should. Good poets are adept at confessing things to their audience that no one really wants to hear. When a soul confesses their life, though, it is okay and acceptable all of a sudden. I was going to spill my soul in between the lines. Allow every vowel to have a piece of it. The odd lines can have my good deeds, and the even lines can have my bad deeds. Or maybe I can randomly spill my soul all over the place. The beginning of this will have the most. I was going tell you all of me with these wicked words. These disgusting, sick thoughts and ideas that I had. To allow you to see inside my mind and that there are things that go on in there that I don’t want you to know. Wicked, disgusting, sick things. I was going to expose each lost secret I kept, each guarded dream I had. Through the years, I have kept things to myself and never told anyone about them. I had hopes in my life of what I was going to be. I was going to tell you all of that. But when I sliced my skin, nothing came out. No blood spilled from my veins, for no blood was in me. Only dust left my jaded temple. I had to double-check to see if I had no blood inside of me. Upon further inspection, there was not an ounce of blood in my body; nothing ran through me but myself. I was about to give you my soul and all that it was, is, and can be. The secrets, the wicked words, the secrets But I need to have a soul first. Over the years, as I grew older, I grew colder, and all that is in me now is the coldness I feel inside. My body temperature is normal. I have no cold. I don’t have a fever. Yet all that is in me is colder than Mr. Freeze. I tried to harden my outside temple so as to shield myself from the dangers of this world, Of the things that push me down and feed on my failures. Little did I know, I was killing myself by hardening the very soul I tried to protect. I wish I remembered what it was to be a human with emotions. To cry real tears of sadness. To love with real passion. But each time I thought I was being tough, I was destroying myself. I destroyed the sadness in me. I no longer know how to cry. I destroyed the love in me. I no longer know how to love. I destroyed the human in me. I no longer know how to feel. Now, I am left with an outer broken shell and the lost memory of a soul I once had. One that knew of sadness and tears. That could love myself and my lover. One that knew of the full experience of being human. My body once had blood I could spill for you. My spirit had a soul I could share with you. But I destroyed them. Now I wonder what it ever felt like to have them.

A writing and editing advice post that focuses on one of the most overlooked parts of a story. In “Don’t Underestimate the Beginning,” Greg Luti explains why the opening of a piece is often what decides whether a reader stays or leaves. The Beginning Can Make or Break a Story The beginning of a story can really make or break the entire thing. Is that hyperbolic? Eh… not really. The first part is, in my opinion, the most important part of any piece you write. It is the part that gets the reader in. It tells them that whatever the heck you are talking about is worth their time. “Hey, you. Yeah, you! Random stranger, who just so happened to stumble upon these words. They are worth your time. I mean, did you read that first paragraph? Am I right?” Without a captivating beginning, the other parts of the piece don’t really matter, since the reader never really gets that far. Why First Impressions Matter Think about the first part of a story, and then compare it to every other part. We talk about the first part as much as we do the other parts combined. When you query an agent, they want the first part of the book, not the last. When a reader starts a new story, they are obviously starting at the beginning. The header for a piece like this can even determine if you read it at all. And this isn’t just for books, too. How many of us have turned off a song because we didn’t like the first 10 seconds of it? Or how about not finishing a movie because the first scene is dreadful? People judge their interest in an entire piece based upon the quality of the first impression they receive. My Own Beginnings I know that whenever I sit to write something, I make a point to have the beginning be pretty good. At least I try to have it be something a reader may like. I do this for my stories too, where I have the first part be something a reader can get pulled into. My first book, Day in the Life, had no actual action in the first part of the book, but the character’s voice shines through, and the reader is intrigued by what the narrator is talking about. I knew the voice was the grab. In a recent story I am working on, I have two scenes playing simultaneously, so that the readers can get an idea of the two men involved. The two scenes lay out the entire story, and set the tone for what is about to unfold. (I have not announced the title to this story yet) I must admit that the beginning of my current novel, Hit of Henry, is okay, not even that great. Perhaps that is why I am stuck on it right now, since I know that without a good opening, the rest of the piece is playing catch-up. There are a few questions I think people ask when they hear a story: how does it start? How does it end? And what happens? If you don’t know that first part, then you have to ask yourself what it is you are writing. Two Things to Think About There are two things about the beginning to think about for improving it. The first is that the actual writing can be great and get the reader hooked. At that point, the reader may not really bring up the beginning when discussing the book to someone, only that it was very well written. The second thing is what the reader says the start of the story is about. That is the elevator talk. That is the comments at the table that friends have about the book. “Well, what is it about?” That… that question is something you should be able to answer when you are writing your own book. I say this advice about beginning parts, for stories and online pieces like this one. The same idea applies. Yes, there is no story here, but without something to draw the reader in, there are no readers at all. I compare this to fishing…. You can talk all you want about the size of the boat, the quality of the engine, the lines you are using, but if you don’t know where you are going to find those fish, and get them to come to that area, then you are in trouble. You need to get the fish by the boat before you worry about cooking them. Famous Openings I can think of one start to a story that is so well known that we use the line as a separate statement. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….” The beginning of the Dickens classic, A Tale of Two Cities, where the opening has become so iconic you will see people in videos and in other forms of media say it as though the line has no story connected to it, as though it is a separate entity entirely. Now, the line is so poetic that it can stand by itself, but it also draws you in and makes you want to read more of the tale. I also remember reading the book Catcher in the Rye as an adolescent and thinking that the first 15-20 pages of the book read smoothly. The writer really knocked that part out of the park, so much so that someone read it and thought, “You gotta make this an entire book.” There is a flow to the first part of that book that is timeless, more than anything that happens in it. And yes, that is the part of the book where the narrator introduces the term phony (or fake person) to the audience. How to Improve Your Beginning So what are some things you can do when you are writing next time, to improve your beginning? Get something you can point to that you know the readers will like. It can be the setup. It can be the style. It can be the mystery. Whatever it is, make sure that there is something that a reader can grab on to. If you can, save some good lines for the opening. You know what I am talking about here. Poetic lines that can be by themselves on a post, or a poster. These lines have a life of their own. They give truths about life to the reader that are not necessarily related to the story. That is good. Keep a few of them for the opening. You want as many good lines as possible in the first part of the tale. Dickens had the lines for his book. Salinger had the term for his. Good execution of a good beginning in a good story can go a long way. Once you know the grab, see if you can insert the beginning into the elevator pitch of the story, the thing you tell people the story is about in a short amount of time. How does the beginning sound then? Does it sound like something someone would want to read? Would you want to read that book? If the answer is yes, then the opening is doing its job. Keep something from the opening for later. Don’t just write a cool beginning, and have a clever elevator pitch and then leave it alone. Remember a part of the beginning that you are going to refer to later in the story. That is a smart way of making the beginning not only readable but functional in the story you are telling. Don’t Treat It Like Just Another Part I can’t stress to you how important the beginning is to whatever you write. Don’t treat it as just another part of the story. Just another thing to put together. Know that those words matter more than the other words, and take the proper steps to help yourself improve them where you can.

A reflective poem that examines the price of the choices we make. In “The Toll,” Greg Luti considers how the sacrifices we accept in pursuit of something we love eventually come due. Three, two, one, it’s over! They won! Oh my god! I can’t believe what just happened! What he just did! That was one of the most amazing sequences I have ever seen. He is definitely going down as one of the best who ever played. Going forward, the defendant will no longer be able to see his children. Not on the weekdays. Not on the weekends. Not even on the short ride home from a friend’s house. For the damage he has caused the prosecution, he will pay half a million dollars a month so they can live a comfortable life. If the accused attempts to see his children, or fails to make the monthly payment, he will be held in contempt of court, with possible wage garnishment or prison time. And with this ruling, the court session has adjourned. Time to pay. Time today. They say you can’t outrun your past. The very things you try to run from in your youth will eventually get back at you. It may not be in the immediacy. It may take some time. But they will be back. And when they do, they will ask for payment. You played the game. You gave up something to get where you are. Now you must pay the toll. All life has tolls you pass by. You get to a toll and are posed the question as to whether you wish to advance, with the promise of payment at a later time, or you turn back and try another route and find another toll to pay. Some wish to never go by any of the tolls, for they fear they will never be able to pay it back. You can’t be in debt if you never take out a loan. You also can’t say anything important if you keep your mouth shut. Others…. Others are fine with waiting on the payment for a later time. They accept the costs and see the potential payoff as far greater. You can’t go anywhere without risk or sacrifice, so they accept those terms and advance. Some of these even imagine that they may not have to pay the toll back one day. But that is not how it works. Of course, there are those who are then put into a system where they have to pay the tolls later. They have no choice. Before they even know they are in debt, they are pushed into a system where the tolls are paid later. They were not aware of the trade they were making. They weren’t even aware of anything happening. They got to the toll, missed it, and kept going forward. Those at the toll saw them, though, and they never forget. For everything in life has a price, even success. No matter what you do, you cannot run from this. Time to pay. Time today. “I guess the biggest regret of my life is that I am not as great of a father to my kids as my dad was to me. I sometimes wake up in the morning, and I remember how my dad would be there at the kitchen table, and we would talk about life and sports and stuff. And then I remember I can’t have that with my kids. I just see an empty table. I wonder if my dad won life in a different way than me. Sure, I won the games, but I mean, he won something else. Mom loves him. I loved him. He had a decent-paying job. And had a good enough home. That is really all a man wants, I feel like… I don’t know… I think I made a deal somehow, one I didn’t know at first.” “Do you mean a deal with the devil?” “No, it was not that kind of deal. I mean, I committed my life to the game I love. Every day I woke up to be the best player I can be. Always improve, I said. Always strive for perfection. Always strive for greatness. And I did. I got into the game early, and I was not aware that no one comes out of it normal. You can’t do what I do and expect to live a life like everyone else. I didn’t know what. My dad, who encouraged my success in the sport, didn’t know that either. I mean, why would we? We only knew I was pretty good at this game, had a passion for it, and that there was a real way for me to be a pro. If I knew…. I don’t know. I think my dad had it right in a lot of ways. He really did.” The new season is upon us all, and let us remember what a great player is like this year. What is greatness? It is winning the game in the final minutes and making championship plays. And there is only one player who showed he can do that time and time again. Every player, I mean, every player is to be compared to him. He set the standard. He is the standard. And if you win, you are only competing against the bar he already set. If we don’t talk about that when bringing him up, then what are we talking about? “Do you miss him?” “Every day. He was my best friend. My coach. My mentor. He was so much more to me than a dad.” “Would you trade a championship to see him again?” “Oh, Jesus…. I…. I don’t know…. I have to think about that one.” “How about a championship to get custody of your kids?” “I… Let’s go to a break.” Time to pay. Time to pay. Did you know it is time to pay? Time today. You have to pay either way.

A writing update that offers an honest look at how one writer approaches publishing. In “Not An Event Writer,” Greg Luti explains why he prefers a low-key way of sharing new work over building hype, and shares his current focus on finishing *Little Fires* and returning to *Hit of Henry*. Not an Event Writer I learned an important lesson about my writing this past week, and that is I am not what you would call an event writer. There will not be a time when I write a book and then spend the next few months getting you all excited for it. I will probably just give you a link to the book, a summary of it and then just move on. That’s how I prefer it. If you want something that’s already out, here it is I know there are some writers who like to make a big deal when they write up a new book. And for good reason, they are popular writers with large fanbases. I am thinking about John Green and George R.R. Martin and how every time they write on a napkin people stop and ask if that will be the beginning of their next book. And when they write something it feels like they take a world tour promoting the thing. As though they are a band like U2. If they are going to go around the world to promote their next release, can they at least go to Antarctica and clear up that nonsense about the ice wall and maybe give us some insight on dragons. (The Ice Wall Dragon does sound like a name of a George R.R. Martin) Anyway, I digress…. If you are one of those writers who makes a killing with this approach, then good for you, because that is one way of going about it. But as for me, I don’t like sitting on one book, and then promoting it everywhere. Can you imagine me going on a tour for the book? I would probably make a joke about Van Halen doing this too, but with more guitar and tighter pants. The Other Kind of Writer Luckily for me, there are writers that have a different method to their success. Those are the writers who glue their hands to the office desk, and don’t stop until the words are done. That or they take some Adderall to stay up for crazy amounts of hours…. Either way, there are writers who value the productivity of their stories rather than business aspect. I look up to them for their persistence with their stories and how even after they write a hit, they go back to the typewriter, or laptop, or whatever it is they use. They just keep writing, and son of a gun, some of those words are not half bad either. I tam talking about Stephen King, and James Patterson here. Sure, that one book they wrote was loved by a lot of people and new readers are being introduced to the writer through that book now, but the writer wrote a book in the meantime, and it is now available too. I like that approach. I actually know more about how they write, more than what they write, if that makes sense. Learning from King and Patterson Stephen King writes, count it, 2K words a day for his daily writing. That is about 8 pages, if you consider the modern novel contains about 250 words per page. Patterson is all about formula. He finds a story, probably one with a crime, and then develops the story more than the words themselves. His outline may be longer than the book he is writing (which I have some disagreement with, but that is for another day) Both have a clear plan for how they write so much, and I try to learn from both. The major lesson is not everything will be a masterpiece. Heck, not everything will be even good. But that doesn’t mean the enthusiasm towards the craft should change. King didn’t stop once he wrote a bestseller. Patterson is still outlining stories with guest writers as we speak. The dedication to the craft is worth more than any sale amount, and I respect that about them. What I’m Working On Now Now let’s get to what I am actually writing, once I am done with my flash fiction collection, which only needs a proofread, I am stuck between finishing a book I have been on for awhile, or working on other more recent works, that are more in my head. I will probably go with current novel, and get it over with already. I already discussed here my theory on story development and creation. I don’t think the story stays in a person’s head the same way over time. The creation is sudden, and that moment the writer feels as though they really have something. Then a week goes by, maybe two, and the writer is still feeling pretty good about the book. By the end of the first month, the book is just there, a project to complete. The emotion behind it is all but gone. It is best to grab the inspiration when you have it, and when it leaves, use your expertise as a storyteller to trim the fat and refine the tale. I heard some writers talk about inspiration for their pieces be very sudden, and almost as though they were given it by some un-seen force, but no one ever focuses on the moment the feeling is gone. I think that happens to writers all the time. I know it does to me. I will be honest, I am at that point with my novel Hit of Henry. I have been with it for so long, that I just want to get the damn thing done with already. Where Are the Stories? I gotta admit a weird trend happening on this site, and I just noticed it. There are no freaking flash fiction pieces or poetry here recently. What is this nonsense, with only writing updates and advice? Where are the stories? I…. I don’t know. I guess I had one, didn’t decide to write it, then had another, chose sleep instead, and then had another and for some reason didn’t write it up either. I don’t particularly like that I have not been writing any of those on the site. I will try to get back into doing it. I want to blame the publication of my flash fiction book coming out, but that is a lousy excuse. Good news this week; I did not miss any writing contests. I didn’t apply to any of them, but hey I can’t say I missed any deadlines. It is kind of like the off-season for a sports team. I didn’t lose any games, but that is mostly because I didn’t play any of them. Upcoming Books I would expect Little Fires, which is the name of my flash fiction book, to be coming out in the next few weeks. After that, it is Hit of Henry. Overall, I have been using this past half week to get some rest. I have been kind of run down lately and I just needed a few days to not write or do much. Did you know that you cannot write a story while you are asleep? Yeah… that is a fact. It turns out that you can get the story idea, but there is no way for you to write the words down. Also, the sleepier you are, the more minor mistakes you make. The words you would never put into the sentence are there, and nonsense is added for no apparent reason. Get Some Rest You probably know what I am going to tell you to do this week, as something to take with you. Get some rest brother. My god. I can see the black under your eyes. You are falling over at the table. Don’t tell me about Redbull or coffee, or some ingenious way you are fighting the exhaustion. You need sleep. I need sleep. We all need some sleep. So do yourself a favor, and go get some. Come back to me when you are fully rested and ready to give your all. Don’t worry, the stories will still be there when you get back.