Magnetic

She's soft and light; she's sickly-sweet
In voice and aspect, face to feet.
The way her hair curls, frames her face:
As verdant landscape, trimmed with lace.

She spares her speech, conserves her voice.
My head and heart must make a choice.
Is it concern, or is it sin
That leads my head to leaning in?

She looks my way, more than a glance.
Is this my day?  Is this my chance?
Those dark, magnetic, mesmer-eyes
Gaze at one...whom they despise!

Haiku

I don't do Haiku.
I'm too wordy.  What a flaw,
In a young poet!

The Spiritual Descendant of the Cowboy Explains Himself

You ask me what's on my mind,
And I search for the best answer I can find.

Half the time, I'm thinking about football,
A subject in which you've no interest at all.
There's scarcely a time I don't think about sex.
You might give me ten minutes, then ask me what's next.

Sometimes my thoughts mean nothing; I often think of jokes.
If they're any good, I'll tell you, and we'll laugh until I choke.
These jokes pass right through, as on wings,
Rarely landing.  Why waste words on such meaningless things?

The rest of the time, or as much as I can hold,
I spend thinking about what's wrong with the world.
As there's so little I've figured, and less that I can do...
I wouldn't want to muddle such a sunny soul as you.

I suppose the simple message of this confounded rhyme
Is it's wrong for you to just assume I'm feeling all the time.
Though a man may ponder facts, or plot out sly persuasions.
He only does his feeling on the rarest of occasions.

The best answer becomes the one that puts an end to questions;
If you want to talk, I'll listen, but go easy on projection.

The Excuse

I want to feel the caress of your gaze;
Stay awake for days upon days,
Walking around in a Venusian haze
As I love you to life in so many ways.

Or appraise my life and then risk it all,
To a fiery crash or a lingering fall,
Or even worse, what I fear most of all,
To becoming normal and having a ball.

I want a throwdown, a Homeric fight:
The neanderthal ending to contemptible slights.
Bone lands against bone, then slips off in the night,
Ignoring my lost skin and his plight.

I want to do things that inspire the scribes:
Take on newsworthy struggles or conceal and contrive,
Create beautiful artwork or ignite diatribe,
That sucks people away from forgettable lives.

I could put myself to many a use;
I dare you to give me an excuse.

Who Are You?

Who are you?

Yes, you.

The one who has seen all six
Star Wars movies
All three Lords of the Rings,
More times than I?

The one who chooses to argue
About the negative cultural effects
Of the Agricultural Revolution
Rather than go dancing.

The one who reads Carrie
and can only think,
"You go girl."
(I don't find that scary.)

The one who talks to me
Like an expert on humanity,
Or like a lovable, amusing,
Helpless sort of idiot.

The one who wears the
Scarlett letter of
Her philosophies
Like a badge of honor.

Who are you,
and
What have you
Done with my heart?

Put My Words Away

The peace on your face
Imprisons me
Beautifully.
Nothing has changed.

I have words to say,
But I couldn't disturb you,
For purposes doubtless
Disturbing to you.
I'll put my words away.

Sleep well, my
Unmoved fantasy;
Sweet dreams.
Nothing will change.

No One

Who is me?

Connoisseur of mystery
Mulder's my ticket
and Holmes my Jesus:
They're nothing like me.

Was once an athlete.
To be that big, can't
Run that far, that fast,
But you can't stop me.

And such a geek!
Damn near memorized
The Princess Bride.
I dream of Jedi.

An insufferable yinzer
From my six months in Pittsburgh.
Recovering Montanan:
Spent weeks in the woods
and Came back again.

When the mood strikes I write:
Profound, or trite.
To be honest, I go on
If the mood's right, or if it's wrong.

I'm a loser.  I told all those lies
To defend my own mind
From the truth I can't hide.

Who am I?
All those lies
Became the truth.
I am no one.
You wouldn't know better
If I asked you.