Unearthly

I might be burning, but I crave hellfire,
Extreme and unearthly. Lust and envy inspire
Those who drink deep and breathe hard,
But I want more life than a Valentine card.

I won't wait for Rapture to swallow me up.
Heaven with others isn't enough.
Instead, I want you to end my world,
So there's no one around but you and me, girl.

Our world's full of zombies who'd tear us apart
For a taste of what's in our minds and our hearts.
We two make an island in a seething crowd,
Caring just for “alive,” and not for “allowed.”

You and I can rise up, cut up the fates' weaving,
Or spin our own thread, so there's no need for leaving.
I just can't stand by and watch you be swallowed
By a whole sea of followers who seek to be followed.

The Steering Column

I don't mean to get heavy and solemn
But I'm a mess everywhere above the steering column.
I'm a slave to bad decisions.  My yoke
Is that I don't read the signals.  I'm blind to the smoke.

I never give up the chase myself,
So life brings her to me -- with somebody else.
I'm always rushing, red-faced, irate;
I don't ask the right questions; I'm five minutes late.
I waffle and waiver and worry and whine
Over things that I should know are lessons and signs,

and I know that it's wrong, but worst of all:
I forget to thank God when realization calls.

One Grand Distraction

Daily, I scrutinize sugar and spice.
I search on, despite my own inaction
(More than that, against my own advice)
For my One Grand Distraction.

My eyes are not alone applied
To searching as I do.
I'm always looking with my mind.
Who works with just one tool?

I doubt I'll find that One so Grand,
When I am such a slob,
and when there's so few tools at hand
Well suited for the job,

and yet I think I've found someone
Who fills a smaller role.
You make me smile.  We have fun.
You needn't make me whole.

Why I Write, Part x+29: It's Half of What Keeps Me

Set-backs and burn-outs and
Slander, oh ouch!
But these rhymed lines are better
Than some doctor's couch.

I'm always two beers away
From being okay,
But because I write in metaphor
Some think I'm a little out of order.

At the very least, I disagree.
In fact, I have I say
It's half of what keeps me
From getting that way.

Favors

I hadn't a clue, but she knew at a glance
Whether I'd even get a chance at a chance.

I've finally learned what I didn't know then:
I know how to tell where I stand.
The favors she asks are the seeds of her plans.
Now I know that she hardly thinks me half a man.

Why I Write, Part x+28: The Moment

I've been told the possibility of revision
Isn't so much of a decision
As it is a write-of-passage.
Tighten lines, broaden the message.
Picking nits off until the poem looks the way
It would if I'd written it today.

Revision is a process of forgetting.
First drafts hold a secret,
But I forget that I know it:
Half the poem is the moment.

Why I Write, Part x+27: For...

For fame, fortune, fulfillment --
For the birds?
None of the above.
I'm just playing with words.

Entangled

I know our minds are both in knots,
But, still the fool, I'm angling
To wrap myself 'round both our thoughts
and do some soul untangling.

-

I thought we could work out our kinks
Once a date I'd wrangled.
That wasn't how it went.  Methinks
We've both become entangled.

The Darkest Hour

They say the darkest hour is just before dawn.
They're almost right and they're mostly wrong.
No one knows when troubles, or their end, will come.
It might be that once you see them start, they're done.

Other troubles get worse every time you squirm;
There's nothing to be done there but suffer and learn.

I know the worst thing I can do then is think,
Scare myself imagining how low I can sink,
and things will get lighter once I'm out of my head.
Sometimes the darkest hour is just before bed.

Your New Poet

From the gospel of Woody Harrelson:
"Have you ever read that book
She's just not that into you?"
I come on too strong,
Then I wait too long,
Then try the same again
('Cause what else could I do).
This knocking in my head could use a look.

I know that I wield the poet's power,
But right now I can't feel or touch,
So I do nothing, or say too much,
and you call at the wrong hour,
Want time on the wrong night
Now, when all I want to do is write.
(Dear Muse, your new poet is some kinda dense.
When he's away from his paper, his words don't make sense.)

This has gone on too long.
I'll find the fix in the right song.
Remember to move your head when you sing;
Always enjoy the little things.

Next?

The only thing I wanted was to play inspired fool,
Riding every ripple blinking through your open, round, blue pools
As they crash in salty triumph upon my unshorn chest.
At that moment we both wondered “how will I screw you next?”


–


“Whenever we do anything, I miss what X would do.”
“I just watched our first-date movie and didn't even think of you.”
That old question sure has managed to grow in us, like a cancer.
I'd say that it's too bad, but I'm just glad I know the answer.

Why I Write, Part x+26: Ask Me What Poetry Is

Some fools think to ask me what poetry is.
If I gave thought to answering, it might go like this:

A poem's a revealing connection you make
Between two things you love and a thing that you hate.
A poem that's proper is only as long
As the topic is novel and the humor is strong.

Poetry should not be some unlit void of feelings
A poem is a catalog of intellectual dealings.
Though a feeling might be the beginning of something you can use,
You should buy more than just emotion when you're shopping with the muse.

The muse does not supply the sweat, but just the motivation.
Poetry is just  P90X for your free association.
Poems are a right-brained process of inverse maturation.

(Poetry? It's what the learned do for high-stakes masturbation.)

Tired, Pt. 2

I'm tired of looking at nothing and seeing you, and of doing all the work.
I'm tired of being Romeo, and Richard Cypher, and the jerk.
I grow weary of the chase.  It's not much fun when you won't play.
I can't have a game of tag when you storm off and drive away.

My writing's got so thick and syrupy it's bad enough to choke...
I'd go on, but I'm too tired now to finish off my jokes.

The pity and doubt are wearing me out,
So why don't you tell me what this is about?

This process of attraction, rejection and dejection's for the birds.
I'm tired of writing the same poem to the same girl, only changing the words,
But it's the only thing I know how to do.
-
(P.S. Dear Muse, you're a total nutcase.  I love you.)

Twerp

There once was a pot-smoking twerp
Who called everything “garbage and derp.”
Once his joblessness ends,
Maybe he'll make some friends,
If they can stand his malodorous burps.

Artist from Butte

Oh, there once was an artist from Butte
Painting kittens with flowers – how cute!
Then she went on the 'net
and some guy lost a bet
When she sold more than E-bay'd compute.

Good Sense

There once was a poet from PIT.
Everything that he wrote turned to ____.
Sonnet-excrement grows
Limericks rank to the nose,
But this man lacks the good sense to quit.

Poets, Just Like Me

We all listen to those songs,
(Some of us tap along,)
and I wonder "where'd I go wrong?"

How can those lyrics be
Nothing like the life I see?
My life needs a pun or three
To even be worth half a read.
Could bands be poets, just like me?

(In the comments, you may disagree.)

Rejection

I always get anxious the first time I ask.
Will I take her to dinner? Will she take me to task?
But I don't mind the answer when she finally calls.
I'd rather hear "no" than hear nothing at all.

Plus, I've gotten perverse in my twenty-six years.
The answer I want is the answer I fear.
Rejection's my old friend, whom I know so very well,
But the girls who say "yes" make me nervous as hell.

The Imagination of the Conqueror

I grew up a little bullied and stunted inside,
My feelings and I always running to hide.
The only happy ending I imagined for me
Was as a new-name hero in the same old story.

Those same old stories finally went on the shelf
When I finally decided to stand up for myself.
Fighting fear, hate and history, and often succeeding,
I conquered others, too, left their ears and egos bleeding.

The process of conquest is seeing more of the world.
Now I want more than just to beat the bad guy or end up with the girl.
Though my drive to be better than others isn't always right or fair
It's part of what makes me a poet: The imagination of the conqueror.

I Await Your Pocket Hermes

I wouldn't say I'm lovesick, but I might be sick of this
Shoulder-based refrigeration. You just froze me to a crisp.
I get away so I can melt me; you tease with hope for better fate.
Are you truly indecisive? Have you a sadist's urge to sate?

Once thawed and froze, now cracked and weary, I resolve to make me plain:
I think that we should be together, that we both would stand to gain.
I await your pocket Hermes. I hope that he soon comes to call,
But if he doesn't come with haste, I will not answer him at all.

Difference That Destroys

I can't wait to see the way her eyes get big-deep-blue-sad
When all my other girlfriends tell her all the fun we had
(Though if they tell the truth, it's only half that bad.)
Poor little Martha Mark can't tell my truth from lying.
(I haven't played her dirty yet, though not for lack of trying.)

You have to understand that I'm a lovesick little boy
(Who cannot create enough to slake his urges to destroy,
Or see a holy icon as more than just a fancy toy.)
The difference that destroys us is, in essence,
That I am inexperience, and you are innocence.