To An Ingenue

Whether he speaks or whether he drools,
The open mouth makes the mark of the fool.
I may spit bitter words that I shouldn't have said.
Sometimes beautiful words come off creepy instead.

So, fool that I may be, I'll stop guilding the truth.
Though many would envy the both of us our youth,
Your slim number of years makes my own look bloated.
I say envy is the judgement of fools, but I'm outvoted,

and the truth is that others than fools may judge.
A perfectly reasonable father might begrudge
You to me.  This courtship of you is indeed a fool's race.
I should spare you my words, and drop out to save face.

Regular People

I wonder what it's like for regular people,
The non-thinkers, the non-poets, sheeple.
I wonder about the regular sex that they have,
The regular lives.  Are they boring?  Then I'm glad

I don't know.  Just the same, I'd date one
A month or so, just to find out.
What maintenance arguments, settling, fun
And quiet desperation are about.

Once in a While, or Wednesday, Feb. 29

It's leap day.  Go Wild.
They only come once in a while.

Knock yourself out, but that excuse falls flat.
I've done plenty of things rarer than that.
I had my first kiss, rode my first bike and first lay.
There was the first time I didn't leave bed all day,

And even better, I've done things I won't do again.
Spent time far away, took trips with old friends,
Seen so many places, climbed mountains, rode waves,
Took a hike through the backwoods, alone, lost for days,

But if a fair excuse to party is the thing that works for you,
Who needs quadrennial traditions where I tell you what to do?

New Hatred

Somewhere, deep down in the depths
Of new hatred I was discovering,
I must have taken the first couple steps
Toward the start of something like recovering.

I cursed your parents, your family, your name,
Even your pets, 'til my voice was finished.
I even tried voodoo, but it's just not the same
Anymore. My heart isn't in it.

Somehow the heat of my hate burned through
My destructive desire to live for hating you.
Now I guess I'll have to find something else to do.
There are lots of other people who deserve my hatred, too.

Sonnot x+6: Why I Write, Part x+36: I'm a Poser, or The Poet's Studied Innocence

Each poem I write, my writing exposes
Me as a poser, my narration as poses,
Cliches I don't do enough to avoid.
The subject of romance makes me a schizoid,
As infatuation awakens a dancing spring satry,
Whose love triangles spark wars in summer's heat.  Later,

If unrequited, my poor swimmer dives in the sea.
If successful, I taste love's many nectars as a bee.
As we grow together, so my metaphor grows:
Our dual trunks spread branches, shade life's sun-baked road.
When love ends, I play the victim, or make jokes at my expense.
I decide to write of nature with a studied innocence.

This change of subject serves to clear my mind
Until I seek union again, some new pose to find.

Solstice

On the winter solstice, the sun's not all that's still.
On visits to distant family, we're oft afraid that we'll
Upset the tree, or some balance, someone.
We make hardly a move as we try to have fun,

and the time makes us lazy, stays still in our minds.
We grow used to days short and weather unkind,
Until one day, half-way to spring, the sun wakes us.
It's early, we're still half-asleep, but the light takes us

Back to cookouts and baseball, the summer state of mind,
Half-thought and breathless and twice out of time.

Already At?

I could almost say we drive each other crazy.
You make me feel fraudulent, flat, gauche, and lazy,
While you don't feel ready.  We both think we're fat,
and why would you drive somewhere you're already at?

Eyes and Needles

I could easier pass through the eye of a needle
Than through all of your unceasing tests.
I suppose you see poets like you're studying beetles:
We're just mildly interesting pests,

But this eye-of-the-needle opening you left
Is all that I needed to see.
I'll send kindness unshameful and poetry deft
'Til you're scaling needles for me.

Made to be Broken

I wish that the marriage had been what it seemed.
That first month or six were a shared, lovely dream.
Or at least they thought so. It helped them to sleep
Through the consummate promises they couldn't keep.

He told her to keep the ring as a token.
Perhaps hearts are made to be broken.

When a part of one's life of such magnitude ends
It's natural that he should fall back on his friends.
The best way not to think of her was just not to think,
So in twos, sometimes threes, his friends took him to drink,
To build up his courage. It worked, and as proof,
He climbed out of his bottle and up to the roof.

“Jesus Christ,” they said, “you must be jokin'.”
Perhaps legs are made to be broken.

Now unable to walk meant unable to work.
He began to find other things he could shirk,
Like his support payments for kids he stopped seeing,
Or going out in the day, to avoid their chance meeting.
If it weren't for the strength that he drew from the beer,
It's doubtful he would have survived that first year.
As it was, he made that by the skin of his teeth;
Wrapped his car 'round a tree at a year and one week.

So many apologies, forever unspoken.
Perhaps lives are made to be broken.

When I First Saw You

Well, I knew when I first saw you that we were not meant to be,
and it didn't take a second look before I let that frustrate me,
and I kinda-sorta figured how the whole thing was to go:
Your potpourri of signals, followed by the answer “no,”
and even though I sort of figured, well I couldn't help but try.
Don't ask me for a reason, 'cause I couldn't tell you why.
So I wrote you down some poems. I hoped that you would see.
I hoped they might be strong enough to make you notice me.
I tried to just be there for you. I know that never works,
I just didn't think you'd really earned your sad parade of jerks,
But I think when I first saw you, I did know how this would end:
With me writing you this poem when you say we can't be friends.

And As For You...: A Different Song for the Same Old Breakup, pt. 2

Why did I ever let us hang on for so long,
To our cycle of try harder and do me wrong?
You hid everything from me, a spy's life.
To think...I thought about you as a wife.

It will take me years to learn from every mistake
I made. Thank God you ran out of things to take
From me. If I'd been rich, or more fun, I'd be dead.
There must be some faulty wiring up inside my head.

A Funny Way of Saying It, or Perspective: A Different Song for the Same Old Breakup

Looking back at the “special someones” I've known,
Some were more special than others.
The first step to being together may be talking,
But two I could talk to like brothers,

and though that's a funny way of saying it, it's true.
Now that I've come to think about it, you
Said and did so many little things to me and for me,
To draw me in, or just because. There's no glory

In those things, I guess, because they're wasted on a fool.
When things end, I'm inclined to play it cool,
To act as though because a moment has an end, it never mattered.
I hope someday that you read this, and you're flattered.

The first step we take in “getting over” seems to be
Looking past the good to find what's wrong,
But sometimes, I think, when things are over, we
Tend to dismiss too fast, or for too long,
What it was that once drew us together.

So what if we didn't stay there forever?

Why I Write, Part x+35: Class D

The untested poet plies his practice eternal
Til he gets a Class D Poetic Liscense, Non-Commericial,
and once he gets it, he just has to write his way all over town,
Verse about how he's in love with every girl around.

As a poet myself, I just have to ask,
Why are we always doing that?

Thinking Too Fast

There's nothing that I overdo
More than seeing someone new.
I can never wait to start “us”,
Impatient to get to the middle of things,
When it would take divine intervention
(Or at least an act of Moses) to part us.
Oh, the places we'll go and the things we'll see,
The respectable boyfriend you'll teach me to be...

I'm thinking too fast again, I think.
My early game's one part that really stinks,
(Though I guess that part really depends.
I also stink at the middle and end.)
So I might try too hard, or even fart.
Then we'll have to make like the Red Sea, and part.

Sonnot x+5: My Opening Move, or Wednesday, Feb. 22

I haven't decided what game I'm playing,
But this is my opening move:
I'll write a sexual, passion-displaying,
Honest poem to you,

and I'll tell you how my game ends,
what I intend to do:
My waves will crash 'til your walls relent,
and pour ecstasy into you,

But before you relent, you'll probably ask
For a measure of me as a man.
The best way to tell is the firmness of grasp
Of the words in my strong right hand,

But if I am ever to truly compete,
You will require more.
Observe the size of the footprints I leave
In the language I explore.

Whoever named today hump-day
Is a lucky SOB,
But I've been saving up good luck,
So why can't that be me?

Why I Write, Part x+34: An Old Muse

The life of a poet, in circles it swirls.
There's always a metaphor, always a girl,
and when you forget just who you write for,
There comes an old muse, back wanting more,
Leaving your hands all aflutter, mind near to shaking.
An Old Flame is like a gift that keeps on breaking,
One you must keep track of. It's hard to maintain,
But when she seemed like effort with nothing to gain,
From the Flame rose a Phoenix, who left me a feather.
A supply of quills like that will keep me writing forever.

Sayings

A rose bought online from FTL smells every bit as sweet.
A watched pot could probably boil if it's wearing Omni-Heat.
Money's easy come and easy go, unless you're using Quicken.
Too many chefs can spoil the soup, but they don't spoil Popeye's Chicken.
Time flies because Red Bull gives it wings.

It's a matter of time 'til corporations sponsor sayings.

Two Different Natures

Every time teachers return me a test,
I find myself inwardly craning my neck.
It isn't the scores that I'm trying to see,
But a path between two different natures in me.

I learn like a pit bull. I attack. I compete,
Strive for reading and writing and knowledge elite,
All while surrounded by, wishing best for my friends
So I make my attempt, then I see where it ends.

Sonnot x+4: Swinging Through Trees

My youthful fire's tamed a bit,
Been packed in ice for transit.
I no longer move straight to conquer;
My will, for tempering, is the stronger,

But now I've straightened; I proceed with thought.
This is in some ways better, but not
Well suited to proceed with you.
Your mind's no mapped hallway to walk through,

But a maze of thoughts swinging through trees.
I have to look closely, down on my knees
To track them. My youthful instincts for the chase
are gone, so I can't match your wild haste.

If your heart's wilds are the prize,
I wish I weren't so civilized.

A Solid Base

Things aren't going swimmingly.
It's more like dog-paddlingly.
With you, it's always one step forward,
Then back to the couch to sleep.

I'm not sure what we're doing wrong,
'Cause usually, we get along,
But you make me want to drink sometimes.
You say you'll leave for warmer climes,

and I'm not sure if I believe you.
I may want, but I could never leave you.
If most of romance is the chase,
Then we two have a solid base.

Being Told

"Hang on there, cutie."
"Here's my number.  Call me."
"Let's hang out tonight,
See a movie, something light."

"We ought to get a bite to eat."
"Meet me at eight.  Tonight's my treat."
"The roads are awful.  You could stay."
"I need a ride to work today."

"I want to drive the open road."
"We should start saving for a home."
"My head is hurting.  Leave me be."
"Please, my true love, marry me."

All of life's being told what to do;
Relationships start when you want someone to.

Why I Write, Part x+33: There Was a Poem I Wanted to Write

There was a poem I wanted to write,
But I forgot the directions through my mind.
I lost my meter, lost my place,
So I wrote this to save some face,
As a reminder to make hay
When I know what I want to say.

Natural

Nothing is more natural
Than loving someone in pain.
Whether for their comfort, or my gain,
I'm never prepared to honestly explain.

What isn't so natural is the course
Affairs take. The only thing worse
Than coming in too hot is too cold.
My touch or my distance always grow old.

Though we thank one another for time shared,
It's apparent that neither of us were prepared
To take the step off the edge of the pool.
Now you're hurt, I'm all wet, and we both look like fools.

For No Reason

You inspire me for no reason,
Not just now, but when it's out of season.
The lines of your face are a secret code,
and you're the only one who doesn't know.

I know I speak such a reassuring phrase
Every couple of days,
So you begin to doubt that it's true,
But I only write it about you.

I see the uncertainty, the lack of faith in you.
You don't know the kindness that you do
When you continue to breathe
and continue to be
Near me.

Hand

It's too late not to string you along.
I asked too early and waited too long.
I tried to wash away your pain.
You're circling the sink.
How persistent should I remain?
I've tried everything I think
I could know how to do.
I am not equal to your demands.
If you still need someone to talk to,
I volunteer my hand.

Ear

I shouldn't keep letting her talk to me.
She won't buy a cow whose ear she gets free,
But I listened, I learned, and now I know
I'd be less of a man if I told her to go.

Do the right thing? Be the nice guy? Then my chances are over.
But she needs a friend even worse than I want her.
I know the right strategy. I know all the facts.
Is the person she is worth illogical acts?

Half-Lit Night

In the half-lit depths of night
Three people try with all their might
To forget the where, forget the who,
and none are close to breaking through.

After those nights of senseless sintake
Who remembers to communicate?
One falls for a gray lie's honest mistake,
Three's alone, hopes Two won't break,

But One is over; One is gone.
It's Two's steep trail to carry on,
and all that's left to Three is choice,
How to attack with touch and voice.

It tests the depths of his good sense,
This last fight of pain-besieged defense
Of the ties between the broken ones
Who just went out to have some fun.

Why I Write, Part x+32: Writer's Block

Flushed couplets
That rhyme like sock puppets
Won't get me where I want.

I'm tempted to punt.

Patience is for the meek.
Defeat is for the weak.
I chug Dew 'til I peak,

and Caf-find what I seek.

A Young Poet

A young poet once opened a blog.
He was half man, and half shaggy dog.
Metaphors make him flail
As he's wagging his tale.
Don't wade his verse; it's quite the long slog.

In Retreat

To want and chase what cannot be attained
Must inevitably attract,
But to chase when I'm wrong in the brain
Lacks wisdom, wit and tact.

The dryness of my mouth and pounding of my heart
Must surrender to the shifting of my feet.
Touch and taste are burdens, the marble-sculptor's art
When I am in retreat.

My asking if we're right or wrong
Is making hay at night.
The two of us can't be two strong,
Until this one is right.

Things

Things come and go,
and people follow.

Profound, or useless,
Or covered in sin,
We covet mere objects,
and why? 'Cause they're “in”.

Things are money.
Money is things.
Like bees making honey,
Race to make more and win,

But bees are not winners,
They're slave-cells on meth.
They miss too many dinners.
Their work is their death,

and Things are not money.
That's time (undervalued,
To the point where it's funny
To me, maybe deadly to you).

Why I Write, Part x+31: Soul-Silence

I suppose
I'm a poet.

It's a label I wear,
Like “white,” or “short,”
Or “nerdy geek-dork,”
“That weird little cracker with nappy hair”
Or “fast-driving, road-raging
“ill-tempered bear,”

But I sleep on my hair,
and it gets kinda straight,
Or I'll go to a game
and then party 'til late.
On occasion, I might
Take my foot off the gas.
Sometimes the urge to write
Won't come, or it will pass.

Sometimes, I fail to write. It hurts, although
The effort proves I'm still a poet.

Why do I write when my writing-brain hurts?
I suppose the alternative, soul-silence, is worse.

Fingerprints

My knuckles leave fingerprints
On the wall,
and down the hall,
On that arrogant jackass
I chased through the mall.
It's not my fault. After all,
I couldn't convince
You not to pass.
(Okay, that's bullshit,
But that guy was asking for it.)

You confirmed the truth of my fears:
You lied to me, but it's not about you.
I have four-and-twelve years,
But I still hate to lose.

Other People's Pain

I call it Spangler's Patient Confidentiality,
Or the sensitive things strong people run by me:
A network of intrigue that grows to a maze
Or an unsurprise breakup that could last for days.

Unborn relationships based on lies end.
I learn the truth about someone I thought was my friend.
Another is lonely, and troubled by years.
We're too young to hang all these weights on my ears.

I try to listen, don't advise what to do,
Because, what a surprise, I've my own problems too,
But how much I could solve, oh, how'd everyone gain,
If I could only be stronger than all my friends' pain.

The Only Question

The only question I have now
To which you have the answer
Is “what's inside my heart now,
and eating me like cancer?”

All your eyes have taught me
and what I have learned
Make one book in the volumes
Of self-knowledge I've spurned.

This knowledge, I crave now.
Why am I always fleeing
To the discomforting arms
Of my blindness-by-seeking?

People

I need my people
Like dirt needs the rain:
To water the thought-seeds
In a poet's write-brain.

I have to laugh hard
and I sing kind of loud
'cause the people I'm with
Are like wind behind clouds.

I am drawn to my people.
I'm sure you see why.
Their nature as people
Helps clear up my sky,

So keep time with your people,
and whatever they do.
Those people you're needing,
They just might need you.

The Valentine Game

The Valentine Game is like hold'em poker.
Others keep playing when your game's over.
If she likes 'em smarter, or tall and burly,
The best way to win is to fold your hand early,
Take a sip of your drink, mutter something, and then
Wait for God's dealer to shuffle again.

Thinking Things Through

I used to have a conscience
'Til I let her
Get away.
I think it's better
This way.
At least now I hate myself
Less than everyone else.
I've got a lot of nerve
Rounding that curve
When I have more than I deserve.
A lazy old perve
Without goals or ambition,
I'm a kamikaze without a mission,
Beating my brains out
Or into submission.
I go where I shouldn't.
If I should go, then I wouldn't.
I disregard God's and Man's gifts.
No intellectual giant, I'm a midget in lifts.
What I can't make, I steal.
Then I write what I feel.
"I'm a poet," I say, "it's just my deal."
Well get real.
You open up a real can when you break that seal.
It all started when I read this dude,
Wrote to write what's true
Without thinking it through.

I think it works great.  Don't you?

Why I Write, Part x+30: Maybe It's Just a Brain Injury

Perhaps we ended too perfectly,
Or with the saddest fizzle.
Maybe it's just a brain injury
That makes me hear us sizzle.

In any case, I know you're locked,
But you still look inviting.
The fact that you don't stop to read
Will never stop me writing.