The Truth

Meaningless, unrhymed
Dialog (Diatribe?)
So contrived,
Like that black coat
I wear all the time.

A role, and act. There's
Noplace so low, so dank
As where we hide what's
Good about us.  The truth:
The only reason for an
Attention-craving poet
To keep so quiet.

The Lie

This is why we climb up
Like we do, every morning.
Who we are, dreamlife,
Our unsuspected innocence
Is just a burden on our backs.
Our wings that will never fly.
A coat of ink over it to face
The world. The world.  Those people,
Those beautiful terrorists.
Show 'em your game face.
Become who you are.

Is the lie in the ink
Or what's under it?

I Don't Believe You

It's not because of that one time, with that one girl,
Or those other months, so far from home.
In spite of those, it's not that simple.
I can make myself that simple, but I couldn't do it to you.

I want to believe you.  I think I want to.
Though I'm not sure about that last part.
I'm sick of saying stupid things to smart, pretty
People.  Guys this ugly don't get that lucky.

I could be wrong.  I'm sorry about that.

I'm used to apologizing for the way I think.
My only other choice is believing in a romance
That may not exist outside my head.

I Hope Love Isn't Like The Movies

Ah, to be a young lover
Of film.  The newest movie
You see is the best,
Until you see another.

Until I was thirteen.
Ten years gone, Empire
and The Princess Bride
Are still the best I've seen.

It worries me.

Is ten years into dating
The best it ever gets?
Emotion is too fleeting to
Record onto cassettes.

The Antidote

Prose, verse, scenery,
Children's toys and bad movies.
In the car, we hear a song.
In your seat, you dance along.

Your simple joy is
Anything but simple.
You're an example
To the rest of the world.

Being with you is the
Antidote to Existentialism:
Creating our own
Meanings together.

Why I Write, Part x+4: Writer's Plea

Grant me, oh muse, my writer's plea:
A voice to describe the world I see.
Hear me this once, and I'll make of me

Any cliche you'd prefer I be–

The brooding artist, my moods so dark
Inundate me as I wait for my Ark.
Add to this darkness a neurotic twist:
Self-hating alcoholic existentialist.

If I'm not so neurotic, I'll live to be vain,
Get DTs when I go without critical praise.
Or would you prefer me insane and obsessed?
Until I can write, I won't eat, sleep or dress.

And feel free, dear muse, to make me a gimp,
Mama's lame wordsmith, with a pen and a limp.
I'll be all the above, dreaded "misery guy."
My aspect and leanings make me a pariah.

But I doubt that a muse would grant my appeal,
and agree to the terms of this one-sided deal:
The payment, the word of a faithless man
To strive to become what I already am.

In Front of You

I wrote some verse
In front of you:
A disrespectful
Thing to do.
I could have chose
To sing or speak,
But chose to write,
Perverse and meek.
I thrust a pen
Into my heart;
Did not invite you
to take part.
That sort of thing
Will make a mess:
Hid at the time,
But now confessed.
I had a reason
to conceal:
A mess may bother
if revealed.
So please forgive me,
Dames and Gents,
For insult given,
But not meant.

Remember

So you tell me this goes away?
That I'll just get over it?
You can't get over it;
You can never get over it.
Even when I want to forget,
I need to remember.

That's the point, I guess.
So I pinned this note onto my
Man-skin sleeve forever,
With an artist's needles.
I chose this.  Nature demands that
I keep it.  I earned it.

You want to blame the victim?
You want to call her a coward?
You say it's easier to talk
to Someone?  It isn't.  Talking
Can be the hardest thing to do.
I know better.  I knew better.

I knew I should say something,
and I said nothing.
I have to wonder what
That makes me, because
What does that make me
If I stop wondering?

Sense and Wordplay

There are no such thing as deep thoughts.
Only different kinds of shallow.
Only sense and wordplay.
I am not here to use words on you.

That which cannot be said, cannot be.

All I have to say is this:
I always want to spend time with you.
I think you feel the same way too.
See you at six?

Wasteland

How I long to walk
Those lonely lanes of memory.
Ashen snow falls from
Ashen skies.  Silent Streets,

Rusty cars, peeling houses,
No streetlights, low clouds.
The hidden moon hangs heavy.
I stride - as the snow falls - light.

My world is beautiful in monochrome:
Resplendent, reassuring desolation.
Dormant senses clear my mind
As I walk alone.

As the world ends for a breathless
Moment, I wrap myself in hope.
The cool air of an unexpected winder
Apocalypse tastes like a new beginning.

Sometimes I remember; I miss that moment.
Its transcendent isolation
Always robs me of my power,
Only to renew it.

----

Last night, I set out for that wasteland memory,
but It was not the same.  Nor was I.  You see,
We cannot be surprised by that which we embrace.
I have become the wasteland, and moved away.
But now I turn a corner, see a ghost:
A shadow of the moment, which can open what was closed.

The Fool

Sit back to watch a one-man clown show: me.
Watch and listen for a while,
Until you think you really know me.

Tell me you can predict me:
Nothing I would ever do
Could really contradict me.

You know just how to brush me off,
Know just what I don't want.
I act like I'm above that kind of stuff.

You say you're smart enough to reduce me,
Know everything that might induce me,
Just the tickling breath beats to seduce me,

Well that's all cool,
'til I play the banker,
and make you the fool.

J'accuse! (I Feel Stared At)

I fell into some inspiration:

Big grey-green blue seas
Of thought and pain and poetry.
Revealing surfaces, unfathomably deep,
I love them, sometimes, it frightens me.

J'accuse!
Can't sue a muse
but



-I feel stared at-
Big brown-black soul pits
Like you: intense, but full of shit.
I'm not your friend; not yours; now quit!
Don't try to push me into it.

Health and Beauty

Though health and beauty
Are codes for youth,
And all the rage,
Half the wholesome beauty
Of a silken, starry sky
Is its measureless age.

Whine

Under the engine's whine,
She looks so beautiful when
She forgets the world's watching.
She'll never be mine.

Lost in the engine's whine,
I realize half the girls I know hate Florida,
And the other half want to live there.
That first part suits me just fine.

Feeling the engine's whine,
I contemplate, remember,
Our ride through December,
Rushing to take our time.

Rocking the engine's whine!
This ride through the night
Will die in the light.
It's a crime.

Over the engine's whine,
the Things I want to tell...hell,
I'll bitch to someone else,
Some other time.

Get Along, Go Along, Don't Belong

Lovers and strangers
New-ish places,
Same old new faces,
Getting along.

Turbulance
Tosses the baggage.
Keep rolling, disengage,
Go along.

An assault on my mind.
Bad actor faced bad asses,
Genius only, no free passes.
I don't belong.

Learn to lose, learn to smile.
I curse, I clown, I play my roll.
Who cares who's in control?
All I know: I sing my song.

It's mine.  I can't be wrong.

Why I Write, Part x+3: Because I'm As Crazy As They Say I Am

There's a little beast inside,
Who gnaws at me,
Whose breath is weak,
but Eats the strength from mine.

I searched for means to its end.
I searched low and wide,
Sports, film, suicide,
Before I found this revenge:

Now, I torture the words on this page.
I tear at their limbs,
Those sad-laughter hymns
Their blood will quench my rage.

Banish the vermin
From within?
I'm as crazy as they say I am.

Why I Write, Part x+2: Inspiration, Perspiration, Social Frustration

Here's a sample, just a part
Of my simple, honest, from-the-heart
Expression of what one can gain
From exposure to the arts:

The printed verse
That pleased me first
Was as a gentle breeze,
When for so long,
the Gift of song
Had rocked & rolled to me.

The novel takes us on its
Many-paged journey, back
To where we were, but not the same.
And let's not forget that
Hand-made toys bring joy
To lucky girls and boys.

Most importantly of all,
the Painting makes
a Layered statement
Just hanging in the hall.

But should you find no audience who reads or sings?
The mystery of creation's still better than
That awkward, existential dance
Called "fitting in."

Unrequiters

I don't walk down that hallway
Anymore.
He's always there, and I know
the Score.
Charity, to impress me, his concern
For the Poor,
Last week it was art, tomorrow music
Or politics, or

You know why they don't write poems
For the unrequiters?
To start, it's as boring as hell, and
We haven't done anything to deserve it.

Right There

I don't know what you were thinking,
I don't know what you were doing,
I know you had us going there, but,
I don't know why you're so proud of it.

Coming from the guy who
Was never good at anything,
Was never there for anyone,
Was never much of a man,

That was pretty fucked up, right there.