Monday, April 30, 2012

Why I Write, Part x+57: Friends, Complications and Things Left Unsaid

I write for avid readers, the few and far between,
For all those lovely women who will swell my veins with glee,
The ones who cut my inhibitions, press them hard, until they bleed,
To clear my head of clutter, for my own serenity,
To explain the interactions that make me want to flee,
Or life's ironic little touches I can never wait to see,
To try and put words to the secrets we keep,
If for no other reason, 'cause it's more fun than sleep,
Because the world's a deliciously weird and messed-up place to be.
I know that, in secret, she's like that just for me.

I write because it's the first consequence to believing.
I write because it's the first step to my own undeceiving.
I write for every audience, for every mood, for all the seasons.
There's no need to look. I'm surrounded by reasons.

The Safety Guy

I came in lukewarm, in second. I'm “the safety guy” to you.
I'm alright. Planning and ranking is what people do.
For my part, I think you're the best I met last year, by a mile.
I call 'em like I see them, and I was looking for a while.
We got on well enough, at least for you, if not for me,
But I'm the old fool poet. I just couldn't let it be.
I talk and say too much. I'm sure some of it was wrong.
By the fact that we don't talk, I know the safety thing is gone.
I could say more than I did, tell you what knowing you uncovered –
That you aren't who you seem – you praise one thing, reward another.
I could claim temporary strain due to personal frustrations,
Physical discomfort, dissolute procrastination,
But why not recall the two fun things we managed to do
and fossilize the moment I was first impressed by you?

Sunday, April 29, 2012

I'm Not, You're Not

I'm not like your last guy.  You're not like my mother.
Those and need are the reasons we lean on each other.
We met.  We were single.  If that's why we're together
When any distance is involved, it strain and tests the tether.

I'm not free this morning.  You can't cancel on friends.
Our streak of meeting daily meets its end.
I go to see the game that night.  You read while I'm away.
It's your friends who go out next time.  We miss another day.

It's gotten so each of us stand on two legs.
You aren't gonna cry, and I'm not gonna beg.
That's why as we grow stronger, we also grow apart.
That's why we'll someday break it off, and it won't break my heart.

They Tell You

They tell you what to say.  They tell you what to wear.
They tell you where and when and why and how to cut your hair.
If you look fine, they tell you your lawn is a mess.
They tell you a whole lot of things, I guess.
They tell you where to go, and not to run.  Then the signs say "don't walk."
They tell you communication is crucial, but "Shh!  Be quiet!  Don't talk!"
This food will make you sick, they say.  That food will make you sicker.
I'd give up the whole lot of them, but they say that kills you quicker.
If you do what they say, there's no time left to smile or even get anything done,
So I think I'm just gonna do what I do, and do that until I am done.

Country Songs

I grew up with a few chores and many more toys,
Playing in the streets, a Montana city boy,
The radio up when I was down, 'cause what else can you do?
Some time back, my radio sent country music to the rescue.
The beat slows me down if I'm moving too fast.
Distraught or angry, guitar helps me relax.
Now the words to that music recall days gone by.
I'm glad that it happened. I still don't know why.

I sit back and listen, wondering how
Music I didn't listen to then
Has become the soundtrack to my past now.

Stomping Grounds

I'll try to put words to my old stomping ground,
Just a foot-sized bare patch, not far from a pitcher's mound,
Worn by furious footfalls, which by dozens would land
As that little white ball left my little right hand.
Every third was a beauty, and every third hurt,
Leaving Keith, my old catcher, to rub shins and kick dirt.
And Dave's was the front of the left batter's box.
He'd stomp and he'd dig. That boy hit like an ox.
But I guess it was Perry who stomped most of all.
He'd argue on hits, and on strikes, and foul balls.
He was the reason, most of all, for the noise,
Even more than expected from twelve growing boys.
I remember when we could still laugh and have fun
When we told the old stories of thing Per had done.
The word “stomping ground” means more than it did
When I remember what happened to that angry kid.
Now the world just goes quiet for miles around
On my shuffling strolls past my old stomping ground.

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Time Flies

I almost recall when time felt molten and lonely.
I can almost remember when time seemed to move slowly,

But time flies when you aren't getting anything done.
Then, I hid in myself. Now, I live at a run,
Get from places I was, try to find someplace good,
Or at least someplace unknown and misunderstood.
I tear through, explore these metaphorical parts.
I tear needle-width swaths through a new set of hearts.
I tear through my body and tear through my soul,
Leaving bruises and sprains, dislocations and holes.
In the unthinking effort of moving so fast
Through our lives, we forget all the timescapes we've passed.

It's a chore to keep track of the solstice, cross off dates,
Because calendars stay still, but their referent won't wait.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

A New Face

A new face rings alarms, strikes a chord in my mind.
I can't help but wonder what's lurking behind:
A genius? A songstress? One incomparably kind?
I'll enjoy the exploring, whatever I find.

Abrupt

You were rather abrupt on the last day we met.
Seems to ask and hear “no” is the closest I'll get.
I would have gone on, kept my head up, kept hoping.
It was kindness untold not to give me an opening.

The Idea of You

I'm drunk on your words. By your eyes I'm seduced.
Nothing gets me as high as the mere idea of you.
The thought's stronger than you are, I'm startled to find.
It seems that the sight of your eyes leaves me blind.
Short sight, wishful thinking assumed you to be
Someone attractive, attracted to me.
I'm truly perplexed by how strongly I feel
For the transparent shadow of someone who's real.

Of Angels and Aliens

Colliding, entangled, by circumstance hurled
Together, the two of us seem not of this world.
You're not one to suspect, and I haven't confessed,
But I was first drawn to the hole in your chest,
So full of kindness it burst open wide,
So the world sees your golden soul beating inside.
The mortals you meet always cruelly suspect
Your motives. All those skepics project
Their own bitter spirits' regrets onto you.
What I mean is that someone who knows what to do
With the a world full of mortals who misunderstand
Is exactly the someone I need in my life,
For I, too, face these simpletons, taste similar strife.
My thoughts aren't of this culture, as aren't my beliefs.
Their strangeness, my loneliness both cause me grief.
But the question of motives confound me and you:
Mortals misunderstand, but I misread you, too.

Appraise

Circumstance, like a wolf, has raised
Me to believe I can appraise
The value of time by my dread of its end,
But a miserable semester redeemed by a friend
Or a poem or a song or a dance
Or a blissful one that fades into failing romance
Seem to frustrate this one way of telling.
To price time is nearly as useful as yelling
At some mountain pass to get out of your way
(and as much of a waste of a good powder day).

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Wearing a Lie

A lie now lies upon my head,
Fitted there as sheet to bed,
and through this lie, which lives and grows
It may take months for truth to show.

Teacher

You happened to teach me that two of the ways
I look at the women who color my days:
Admiration of their earthly landscape and high weather
Are two great flavors and go great together.

Since I'm no saint, I was surprised
How much you had to teach of lies,
And, through your lying, teach of truth:
How much it's worth, the need for proof.
Deception's storms, in love's spring late
Can turn charm to a source of hate.

A new start, back to school,
Called for a new girl to teach me new rules.
You taught me that higher yearning
Can lead to lower burning.
There's a lesson in that somewhere,
and I'm all about the learning.
You could direct.  I played my part
'til we raised arguing to art.

Thanks to you, I know to learn and to teach
Are the greatest height that partners can reach.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Why I Write, Part x+56: _____________

It's pretty hard to write
In the middle of the night,
In the middle of a fight
Between my left brain and right,
and I know it's no excuse,
But I think I blew a muse.
My aesthetic, split in two
Can't give me something I can use,
Or keep from melting in the day.
The heat of the sun burns my thoughts away.
I'm sweating too hard before I start to play,
(But give me no sleep,
hunger and caffeine.
I'll be okay.)

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Why I Write, Part x+55: A Muse Ain't Gonna Last (A Poem-in-Dialog)

"A muse ain't gonna last you a couple of years
If you burn up the engine and grind up the gears,
Compare her to Earhart and Lady Godiva.
In short, sir, you write like a maniac driver."

"Why play it safe?  It's just money and words.
If I burn up the road, I'll make time headed towards
Metaphors.  I don't need to ask the muse's permission.
She won't care if I burn rubber or drop the transmission."

"I suppose it's your mind, and you don't have to ask,
But when you empty the tank, readers take you to task.
A fast write means repairs.  It's harder to edit.
Besides, it's the journey and not where you're headed."

"Well why do you think I write fast?  There's a reason
What some write in two years I will write in a season.
The more I write, the more I'll think, the more I'll know;
Moving fast, I can see more behind my eye-window.
A journey to learn and see means to do
Whatever I can, damn the muses I go through."

Mixed Signals Land, a Poem-In-Dialog

"Should I take her to eat or to dance
or to tennis mixed singles, man?
'Cause it turns out this lady
Is the queen of Mixed Signals Land."

"Did she touch you, or her hair?
Did she ask if you're free?
This whole thing would work better
If you had more than three ideas."

"She stares at me, then looks away,
But doesn't play with her hair.
She told me she thinks that I'm a smart guy,
Out of two left, she picks a near chair."

"Well, I'd say she hasn't quite figured it out,
But that isn't a thing that girls do.
I think it's quite clear that she knew right away
That she's second-choice partial to you."

"I thought so, and asked her to do
Something friendly.  It didn't go so great.
She said it sounded sort of alright,
But the time would conflict with a date."

"Why did you bother asking?
You know fine and well it's too late
Unless she's young and mobile,
and you're desperately willing to wait."

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Blue Eyes III

It's not just the knowing you won't take me to bed
That keeps all those country songs loud in my head.
The thing that I hate most isn't really the guys;
It's the nothing I see in the blue of your eyes.
I thought I saw something else. I guess I was wrong.
I can fool myself once. I give up before long.
Still, I know what kind of man I would be
(None at all) if ran from you, or lacked loyalty.
I want to be steady, true blue like your eyes, not the weather.
We could still have good, if platonic, times together.

Blue Eyes II

You had the body, the blonde hair, the smile,
But your eyes were the first thing to drive me wild.
Their color's temptation was prophecy,
The deepest blue that we both soon would be.
While it's true that you played with me, leading me on,
The true villain in Part II would be Jon.
Out of anger, I spread rumors, said things that weren't true.
Out of ignorance, I didn't know what that could do
To a person, a girl, at a vulnerable age.
What started inconsequent ended in rage.

Blue Eyes I

You act like you enjoy yourself, and seem to want to enjoy me,
But what really puts the sun in your blue eyes is to destroy me.
You know it's no real fall unless it's preceded with pride,
So you lay your whole trip on me, then you hang me to dry.
You live for catastrophe, and yes, there was drama,
But not like you hoped. I never ran home to mama.
I wrote something, broke something, then once you were gone,
I did unto another like you did, to move on.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Why I Write, Part x+54: My Own Personal World, Pt. 3 (or The Muse Breathes, Pt. 2)

The muse breathes in my ear and turns the poet on,
and I'm off.  You can see me or touch me, but I'm gone.
The workaday student was put on suspension,
So don't even try to get my attention.
Sometimes I'll come back with one metaphor.
Today I crave insight, distraction and more.
In my poet's world, everything's just the right way,
So I'm planning -- like you should -- on a rather long stay.
Fields of learning, inspiration, as far as the eye can see,
Unlike the real world, which was assembled by committee,
I see language and society like lovers entwined,
A theory I'd flesh out if I were inclined.
Pop culture sings as it consumes us.  It has a two-way throat.
It's a world we've assembled with fights over remotes,
Thoughts and worldviews all gathered in sky-scraping stacks,
and like that, with insights of value, I'm back.

High Kick

Decapitating
high kick is funny, but is
it appropriate?

I Don't Do Haiku, Pt. 3

I don't do haiku.
Who cares?  I'm a poet, and
There's no money there.

Don't Cry

Don't cry over spilled
milk, but broken eggs? That's gross,
and very messy.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Awakened

I'm awakened, alarmed, not by clocks but by fear
Of deadlines and tests and tasks that draw near.
So many things I knew ought to be done,
But I stayed up late and was out having fun.
I pray for the strength to begin all these tasks.
God's answer came before I'd even asked.

Why I Write, Part x+53: I Search High and Low

Sometimes the Muse points my pen to the sky,
and I become a Poet of the High:
Sincere in aesthetics, I write of the beauty
In people and nature, the High Poet's duty.

Behind mind and soul stir loins, ready to go.
Once they start, I turn to rhymes of the low,
Write of envy and violence, put words to my lust,
Try to make aesthetes turn back in disgust,

But to divide my work thus, to make a distinction
Is to render those verses and this one a fiction.
While it's true that I search for the Muse high and low,
I'm a Poet of Truth anywhere my pen goes.

To Hell

To hell with the risks, fathers overprotective.
To hell with my date with Betsy.
I want to take you to prom, to the altar,
Or just out to eat, if you'd let me.
I'm through with the waiting, the wanting,
The watching from friendship's safety.
I'm gonna get what I want, or be miserable.
That's the only way it can be.

To hell with the travel.  To hell with the fighting.
To hell with the back and forth threats.
I can't do this long distance, can't do this next door,
If this is as good as it gets.
So to hell with me getting restless or lonely.
I'll find trouble or take in a pet.
You're so sure I need you? I'll come crawling back?
I wouldn't go making those bets.

To hell with last time.  To hell with both our folks.
To hell with this iron-clad lease.
To hell with what my life would be like if I stopped
For petty distractions like these.
I can quit smoking.  I can live without takeout.
I know that you can't stand the grease.
Six months isn't that long. We're not really back together
Until we're all the way together.  Please?

I need to get way out of here, on the open water.
To hell with the waves, to hell with the weather.
To hell with what-if-I-don't-come-back!
Out of five years, we had almost three good ones together.

To hell with the land breeze, the difficult tack;
I might make it to shore, but I ain't comin' back.

Wrong

Your words and your eyes lay bare obvious wrongs.
You seem to have trusted the mask I put on
Around all my friends, pretty strangers I see,
and anyone else who is better than me:
My network of good deeds, which are causes with uses,
A legitimate web of convenient excuses;
The time that I take to help classmates and friends
Are just sexless courtship, a means to an end;
The smile I wear, the kind things that I say,
and my humor each cover me up in some way,
Because no one can learn, and no one can know
Of my eyes superficial, low brain ready to go,
and high brain not in control.  It's surely not built
For love.  It's hardly up to the guilt
That hits when I meet your gaze.  I have all the nerve
It takes not to want a girl who's more than I deserve.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Soaped & Rinsed

Doubt and sadness, psychic pain
Are soaped by rhyme and washed by rain,
So drying sun burns off my tension.
I watch clouds drift in four dimensions.

Why I Write, Part x+52: The Muse Gets Her Whip Out

When the Muse gets her whip out, it's true that I might
Write four or five poems in one frenzied night
And wake up the next morning, feel light as a breeze,
Then go days and not write one.  Am I out of ideas?
I worry, sound the bottom of moments of doubt,
But aren't doubts, fears, and worry worth writing about?
One though leads to another; often, rhyme follows rhyme.
Then the Muse gets her whip out; I start making time.

Why I Write, Part x+51: My Personal World, Pt. 2 (or The Muse Breathes)

The Muse breathes on my neck and awakes the travel bug
Who burrows there, so I pack, prepare to lug
My baggage and my heart, weighed down with pride, remorse,
An unenlightened worldview, and by a girl (of course).
Sometimes, infatuation-fattened, I leave to loose my belt,
But today I enter my personal world just to go somewhere else.
Am I sliding through life with a soul that lacks traction?
Is my love life like a slider with good sinking action?
Maybe it is.  All of those metaphors are true for a fraction
Of times, but usually I just crave a distraction,
A place where references are like meat: tough or juicy;
Like pants, they fall down if they fit too loosely;
Like equations, they get smaller (that is, reduced; that is, reductive)
Even the distractions here are productive.
Not just absence makes grass greener; the rainclouds do the same.
Singing, kissing, and humor: the dance of tongues has many names.
Inspiration casts light upon a forest of things, in the colors of fall;
Washes difficult problems clean, like water; penetrates all
Of use, and pulls us up, for it's the Holy Spirit.
It's strong, electric; you feel different when you're near it.
Excuse my digression.  This place is chock-full of tangents.
I said what I wanted, and not what I meant,
But I still came here and did what I came here to do:
Re-start my process, and show it to you.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Why I Write, Part x+50: Footwork and Legwork

I wish to know poets' thoughts and their habits.
If it's some sort of code, then I haven't cracked it.
I suspect there's a fraternal order of some sort,
Whose meetings I missed. I'm behind on the paperwork.
Better footwoork, which I'm still learning,
Or better legwork, for which I lack the yearning
Can solve this problem, just like any other,
But for now, since I'm not the order's formal brother,
I've rifled through unwritten verse, finding a surprise:
My poetry expands by squares when wrote through others' eyes.

It seems unending lines on doubt and scorn
Have rubbed my new love poems thin and worn.
A newer poem, aping long-lost youth and hope
Has expanded my desires and my scope.

Perhaps, late in the inhibition-weary haze of night
I'll see what (or who) else I can write.

Older Than Time

It's only the beauty has me writing this rhyme,
For the story itself's at least older than time.
It's not “boy meets girl” so much as “child of neglect
meets child of abuse with swearing for effect.”

He, grown wise and reckless under absence of eyes,
Did not so much crave her, but attachment he prized,
And her approval, or anyone's, was his manna, his gold.
He's so terribly young for one so soon old.

She was shocked by those desires. Who would care
What she wanted, what she thought, even notice she was there?
In spirit, if not body, she'd been beaten to dust, to nothing at all.
She had all the lack of pride that often leadeth to a fall.

He's kind of thin and reedy, really needy for a knight,
But the reward for all that distance is never learning how to fight,
And how could she not reward him, attentive as he'd been?
With each, the other didn't fear becoming what they'd seen.

They passed notes, and other things, returned to paper, making plans.
He stepped halfway up, took the lead, imitating a man.
He could make most of the money if he started work today;
She had a helpful little hidden, squirreled away.

They left so early the young morning still pretended to be night.
It seemed better. They never stopped to ask if it was right.
They never told anyone where or when they planned to go.
If it seems better than just staying, the unknown is worth a know.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Spring in Montana, Pt. 2

If you don't like the spring weather, wait five minutes.
It might change, or you might start to see something in it.
When the sun is still low and the colors are deep,
I see mirrored in the sky my love's lips as she sleeps.
As the young day matures and the sunrise grows old,
The sky rises from lips to her hair, brilliant gold.
I like nothing more than to spend lazy days
Staring up into the sun-whitened haze
That recalls the sublimely pale, muted, fresh
Beauty of my lover's young, un-sun-marred flesh.
If the wind and sun come to drive out the mist,
and the last clouds disappear in a curtain of wisps,
I see in slow motion my love's shaken hair
As it's parted and played by the winds that are there.
Then, as evening's sun half-lights the air,
The deep, stormy blue of my lover's eye's there.
If the day's light fades in dark, stormy skies,
I'll imagine the shadow between those white thighs.
The night brings possibilities, sight unseen.
There's not a place or time in this world I'd rather be.

Sinking Sensation

“They” always say that “love” is worth the wait,
But I have a sinking sensation that if you let swing the gate
To your heart, or whatever else you keep closed
That one of us two will want to leave or feel disposed
Toward boredom, contempt, or disappointment with the other.
What if I'm like your first time? What if you're like my mother?
We both have a history of trying nothing or falling flat.
We don't like being single. Just imagine missing that.

Another Try

Kinky-haired and short and slight,
A boy who was never
Much good in a fight
Except he was clever
At using his words
To antagonize others
When they acted like turds.
“Why not be a writer?”
He said to himself,
“I can use a new name
And be somebody else.”
Seems that off the playground
His verbal attack
Made him less of a Zorro
and more of a hack.
His fourteenth-rate prose
and rhymes uninspired
Left him in loans
And rejections all mired.

She was thin, she was blonde,
and had a voice of jade,
The pretty “girl next door”
Who really thought she'd escape.
She sang even more
Than the birds in the park.
She wrote songs in the shower
and she danced in the dark.
She watched the MTV,
She practiced all her moves,
Her parents noticed her.
The boys just saw her boobs,
They got her into bars,
Said they were record producers.
Could she have gone far?
I don't know. She went home.
If she had to be pregnant,
It's best she's not alone.

Fastest boy on the field,
He still played with fire,
Took no plays off, wouldn't yield.
To the big leagues he aspired,
Or at least get out on scholarship,
Stiff-arm twenty years of trouble
And you might just make it.
He never touched drugs
But downfalls can be found
Near as unlucky footfalls
And holes in the ground.
He held onto the ball
In obvious distress
Tried to keep playing
Though his knee was a mess,
And his ankle all wrong.
He didn't think that never
Would be his Not For Long.

So many young people
Take their long shot.
They hope they're the one,
But they're probably not.
Does fate mean to be cruel?
It's a pretty good bet.
You don't get your desserts
You'll just get what you get.
Their reasons to exert
May have passed them by,
But once they have kids
It's like they get another try
To leap reaching for the moon,
And maybe land in the sky,
Among satellites and shooting stars
(With only fifteen minutes,
They drive the fastest cars)
If they're successful in it,
Then it was worth the time,
The butting heads with fate,
And lonely, doubtful times.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

The Breakup Song, Pt. 2

I was sanguine, not shocked, on the day that you left.
For a week I had wondered how soon you'd forget.
My shame doesn't cut.  Your guilt will be worse
Even though we both know that I checked out first.

I don't wanna cry.  I don't wanna blame.
I wanna listen to Everclear and watch the clouds change
'Cause overcast texture's the one dark that belongs
In the unspoken words of my new breakup song.

Why I Write, Part x+49: My Personal World

I walk around wide-eyed most of the time
In my personal world of symbols and rhymes.
My headphones are a hall pass to another world.
There's nobody there but me and a girl,
A drugged-out singer and his retro old song.
They ought to be thankful I invite them along,
But he wants me to appreciate his presence on stage,
And she wants me to create, to give her a page
Of my own finest work, to bronze her virtues.
I just want to look around. It comes time to choose,
And yes, girl, I see how beautiful you are. You look great.
I do carry my eyes around all day, despite the weight
(They're full of soul, I'm told, or something, anyway).
As for the singer, if this was '99 I could watch him all day,
But he's off the drugs now. He lost his passion.
He acts, playing his old self, a replica passin'
For the man who once sang what I hear when I listen
To the song that calls back worlds and times that are missin',
So I just sit back, hear the sounds, see the sights,
Uncaring of who, here or outside, I slight,
And that page might get written once my trip is done,
'Cause a traveling journal is part of the fun.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Assumed

"She was beautiful -- and knew it,"
Can be assumed.
"She was beautiful -- and used it,"
Is more true
In finding where the complaint is --
And where it ain't.
Since when did it become your business
To complain
About how she chooses what she uses?
Why so alarmed?
You have wealth and power --
She has charm.

Why I Write, Part x+48: Broken Metaphors

Our language records centuries of broken metaphors.
The heart cannot be a singer.  It's a summer storm.
When it grows too hot, it causes things to darken
Before a brilliant flash, then a crash when thunder harkens,
and then everything is wet.  Winds cease.  The air is cool.
While I'm up to fixing that one, than let me take the rule
That all relationships will be discussed in baseball terms.
Baseball is perfect.  It makes sense.  The players don't trade germs.
There are right techniques and paths on which the players roam.
Besides, it's when I'm single that I feel I'm most at home.

It Would Be Summer

It would be summer, just for effect.
The season suits you.
Each summer morning is born pure and perfect,
As were you.
It really brings out the fact that you're too clever
For me.
I can't keep up with you in this weather.
It's the heat.
Your darting words leave me in stitches,
Fly on by.
I miss them all, like breaking pitches,
Though I try.

Experience

You asked me to the floor at the seventh-grade dance.
I hate pity above all else.
I said no 'cause I was alone, and too young and too selfish
To think you'd want to dance for yourself.
A light touch on the arm, when there's no room for more
Means everything, I know.
But because I was young and unlearned at the time
I flinched, and I let you go.
When you offered a meal, and said that you owed me,
I told you it wasn't true.
The thing that I missed was a debt's an excuse
To get me out with you.
You seek me out to talk.
I'm at home in the soft, tranquil cool of your gaze.
You seek me out to talk.
But I look away, turn away, walk away,
Afraid you'll think I stalk.
If I had an experience for all of the times
Our signal lines got crossed
I wouldn't write this in pursuit of the past
and its moments now long-lost.
Experience drums, sets the beat of our lives
From birth until we quit.
The only part of that a man can control
Is whether he learns from it.
You asked and you told me what I want to hear
In words misunderstood.
You offered a second of soul-sustaining comfort.
I let go without a word.

Renewal

Renewal has come and wiped clean the slate.
Everyone's equal, at least for one day.
Hope, if not eternal, springs one day a year.
Opening day is here!

Monday, April 2, 2012

Perfect Days

People meet. They make friends. They make love. They part ways.
So much done in the name of a myth: perfect days.
Most days, we mark time, make small talk, spread rumors.
I always respond, with poet's wordplay or cheap humor.
I smile my way through, and laugh when it's done.
I might sometimes complain, when it seems like more fun,
But there's one thing I don't do, or think anyone does:
Really live days like they're sent from above.
There are times and things we do that make us younger for a minute,
But the moment's never quite pure. We worry while we're in it.
You might forget something, or look fat in your pants.
What if all the wrong people come ask me to dance?
When we worry over things we should be thankful for.
Then the comedown from the moment leaves us older than before.