Why I Write, Part x+205: I Can Settle Down

Baseball was my first love,

and I will never again know passion

As I did playing football, while young,

But now that I write, I can settle down.

Writing is not one, but a hundred different games.

If you play the right ones, nearly all the rules change.

There are so many things to love about this art,

But here's a start:

I love that I can work on multiple projects

and nobody will claim that I am cheating.

I love that I can pay homage to my idols

and somebody will claim that I am stealing.

I love that I can cut the skin to the truths-meat,

Or spend two hundred pages lying honestly.

I love the word “whimsical,”

Which is itself whimsical,

But mostly I love that I've already written

Eighteen lines, without a goal or a reason,

and it's illegal for anybody to stop me.

My Forgiveness For Youthful Mistakes

I spent a few years with inadequate heating.

I spent most of my life taking all kinds of beatings,

Taking away my ability to run a good pace,

My ability to run with a smile on my face,

My ability to jump and land–taking my flight

–Taking away two inches of height.

I've spent the last fifteen years giving my body

What I think my mind deserves.

The Visceral Joy of Being a Teacher

I spend all day with the kids,

and I am never in the family.

They tell me more than they tell their parents,

An amount greater than almost nothing.

I am the teacher, the fairy stepfather.

I see them bury their enthusiasm

and then dig it up again.

Why I Write, Part x+204: Runners and Bridesmaids

Some runners are always runners-up.

Some bridesmaids are never brides,

But my knees and general anatomy

Have rendered me mercifully irrelevant

In all such matters.

I can stop writing one thing,

I can start writing another,

and all the time be a writer.

A Rest Home

The anger that defined my first twenty years

Still snores, snorts and stirs as it sleeps within me.

My breast is a rest home for the roiling red wrath,

But it's no longer strong enough to pick my path.

I May Not Be Qualified

I am no expert on dreams or desires.

I may not be qualified to pronounce “deserving,”

But I do know that when you were younger

You pictured yourself with a prince.

Why are you settling for a fat guy who's with you

Because you remind him of someone else?

The Overclass

There is an underclass of people in this world

Who take and take and take from others,

Who know how to do nothing else.

There is an overclass of people in this world

Who take and take and take from others,

Who know how to do nothing else.

Most people are stupid, and cannot recognize the overclass.

I might be stupid. I am not most people.

So you can stare at me with those dead eyes,

and expect me to give you things,

But stupid people rarely get what they expect.

Why I Write, Part x+203: Either You/Or You

The world tells you to cool it.

The world tells you to can it,

and either you don't,

Drive yourself stir-crazy,

Always churning things up,

Always breaking things down,

Always thrashing around

Until you cut yourself

On your own sharp tongue

and bleed all five quarts

Out the end of your pen,

Or you learn your place,

Know your role,

and slow your roll.

Maybe I'll try that one,

Someday,

When I'm bored and bleeding.

But I Look Elsewhere

My living keeps my eye on English,

But I look elsewhere in my spare time.

It's not as though I keep a list,

But certain people help me rest my eyes.

It's not like I have any expectations.

It's always a surprise when I return the favor,

But I'll be even more surprised If I ever

Catch fruit from the trees of my unlabor.

See, the girls never look back at me

Until the world and I are on the outs.

It's always nice when she notices me,

But why did she notice me now?

For a Second

Sometimes, driving familiar roads,

For a second I close my eyes.

It's not because of some death wish.

It's not so I'll feel more alive.

It's because I've read about Schrodinger’s Cat,

and I'm seeking a day in his (life?).

Heartflesh

I've never understood the relationship

Between my heartflesh and the rest of it.

I lack the heart to accept or change

The way the rest of my flesh behaves.

I rarely think with my heart, anyway.

It doesn't have the neurons

To get the job done.

Maybe when I'm talking blue and thinking blue

and seeing blue, too,

I'll know how to feel about what I do.

Overhear

Usually I try not to overhear conversations.

Sometimes I don't not overhear conversations.

Sometimes I don't not overhear conversations

That are about other conversations.

Sometimes I'm pushed into the deep end

Of a pool of textual, telephonic hearsay,

Non of which is relevant to my interests

Or admissible in court.

Really/Seem

Things do not really have opposites.

Things seem to have opposites.

Hate is not the opposite of love.

Both cannot live in a passionless waste.

Disappointment is not the opposite of hope.

Disappointment is a result of hope.

Negative is not the opposite of positive.

Both are nonzero.

It's not that these things are alike;

They are just somewhat limited in their differences.

Leading Me On

Hope leads to disappointment.

Hope leads to ecstasy and anticlimax.

Happiness, sadness, all lead to other things,

All fill our lives too full of things.

Things fill our lives full of worries.

Contentment is the absence of hope.

Contentment is the obsolescence of hope.

I have been there, more than once.

I am not hoping to be back.

Alone in a Meadow

I sprouted alone in a meadow, under glaring, unrequited hate

For a culture that deliberately disregards the difference

Between the diversions, distractions and detours,

and life.

Life is not found in the things that keep us breathing.

Life is the reasons we demand to keep on living.

Thus Spake...

Beamon said, “you're dying alive.”

Jagr said, “I'm dying inside.”

People are lousy at keeping their lives.

They're only good at trading their time.

Lunch In Bed

It feels like you tried to pull out my soul

By the new growth,

and found me emptier than you'd hoped,

So you hung me by my heels in disappointment,

But I'm just tired and hungry.

I just need lunch in bed to get over you.

Losing Four Whole Years

I remember when losing two months

Seemed like the end of the world.

The words I said silently

About being grounded

Would have left my parents' hair curled.

Two dollars seems like too much to lose

When you've only seen a few dozen.

Now I misplace four whole years–what did I do

With them? They only seemed like a moment.

Do I?/And How!

I remember starting high school,

Over ten years ago.

My parents said to study, even though it wasn't cool.

Did I do what they told me? Hell no.

Four years on top of four years of brain-gruel?

I had no desire to go.

Years get so much shorter when you're older by a few.

Youth just blows away with the clouds.

I just spent four years in college, and they flew.

Do I miss it? And how!

Who knows what I'll be willing to do

Ten years from now?

Life, Microwaved (Results May Vary)

I've seen grandmothers reading trashy romance

Reheating desires long cooled by time passed.

I've heard all about old pop stars writing songs,

They no longer play on stage; they just play the string along.

So when an old athlete pounds on his steering wheel,

You might be disgusted; I know how he feels.

Why I Write, Part x+202: Hundreds of Friends/Hundreds of Faces

My past is littered with hundreds of friends,
Human and animal, women and men.
My past is littered with hundreds of faces.
They tend to resurface in all sorts of places.
They get bent up or buried or blown all around.
Occasionally memories in writing are found.
Those people aren't in all of my poems,
But they're always in the one man who writes them.

Do Something Awesome

You can hang around with your friends.

Do not wait for your friends to lift you up.

They can guide you, but they'll never carry you.

No one rides life on a rickshaw.

Instead, find a mountain, and climb it on your own.

You may not have any more friends for it,

But at least then, you will put it down to jealousy

and actually mean it.

I Can't Get No

Out of ten commandments, I get off on breaking three.

There's the cussin' and the skippin' church, and of course adultery,

and if I ever managed finding a partner so inclined

I'd be open to breaking all three at the same time.

Always lusting or hungering, coveting, craving,

Things the commandments say I can't have unless I'm misbehaving.

The things that I want and the things that I need,

Or the unending urge just to blow off some steam,

This missing material mass leaves a tiny hole in my life.

God doesn't want me to be satisfied.

I put aside my pen or keyboard each time a poem ends,

I sigh and breathe lightly for forty-eight seconds

Before the Holy Spirit comes over me with new inspiration,

Some unlooked-for, half-formed, creative ambition,

Unchecked and unfilled and unyielding and breathless,

A errant linguistic quest–won't stop until I get this.

God doesn't want me to be satisfied,

and I think he's right.

Honesty Is The Loneliest Number

I wouldn't say that the words “be honest” are a minefield.

I can't say I've met a mine with a nuclear yield.

I will tell you more than most men, and you will call me brave,

But there's a matching unsaid conversation behind everything I say,

Living long unsaid, in shame-caverns, which were slowly carved by fear

That if I show you all my mind, you won't want to be here.

I don't think that you're a bad friend or a traitor or a whore.

It's just that no one I've been honest with is with me anymore.

Hobby

She likes to be the pot, call the kettle an elevator.

She keeps her face somewhere behind the refrigerator.

She keeps her personality in shorthand, as a long list of opinions.

She's fascinating in the same way that I'm an anthropologist,

Not as by nature or training, or as a career,

But as a passing, occasional hobby.

Go Big or Go Home

We can go for a movie, a meal or a walk.

I don't mind a whole awful lot but small talk.

I know it's a way to get to know without offending,

But “inoffensive” describes exactly none of my interests.

It would take a small miracle to leave me upset,

So don't mind if it happens. I dare you to try it,

But in terms of meeting people where they are

If you don't go big with me, you won't get far.

It Lasts Longer

I've seen eyes widen in puzzlement,
and in excitement and in argument.
I've seen eyebrows raised in victory
and the general direction of implausible stories.
I've even seen what's called a "sexy pout,"
Though what's attractive in that I cannot figure out,
But seeing every kind of picture that the Facebook world has took,
I could not be more certain that happy is your look.

The Inevitability Part

I've been told that the world is inevitably designed to break the heart,

and I'm with that as far as the inevitability part,

But when it comes to design, I have reason to disbelieve it.

I've found that the thoughtless and active seek third-party perspective,

and this is how the mental midgets absolve the moral midgets.

It never occurs to anyone that the request deserves to be denied.

I do think that the world is built to test the mind.

People I Don't Know

I see familiar faces on people I don't know,
But this face was one unseen since near nine years ago,
and it never did belong to someone I considered as a friend.
The only thing he did was teach me not to care what people said,
and even that was not something done on purpose,
Just the last inadvertent act of a younger person's past.

You Did Something Good

You did something good today.

I can't say no good deed goes unnoticed,

But I can tell you that someone noticed.

You did something good today.

I'm not saying it is all of what you are,

But I am sure that it's probably a part.

You did something good today.

I'm not forcing you out to celebrate,

But if you could just try to remember it

For at least thirty-seven seconds,

Then that would make a second.

The Major League Curveball

Baseball was my first love,

and as is typical in elementary love,

I only know two things about baseball.

I know about the major league curveball.

Nobody is good at hitting it,

Some are just better than others,

So they have altered their definition of success.

I also know that I have watched too much baseball,

Because I, too, have an altered definition of success.

The Funhouse

I can't put neurons to something that I need to find,

But I'm not gonna ask you to root through my mind.

I don't know the way in. I don't like the way out,

and besides, it's like chasing a fantasy through a funhouse,

A place that turns genuine experience into bad dinner theater.

I have a feeling that you wouldn't do well there.

Unreunion

A song I had forgotten was my favorite in a year

That is long dried by dusty unreunion,

Wet but unwashed by barstool stories

Is finally unobscured by a backwater soundtrack,

An under-scored backdrop behind an undersold movie,

and a time I had moved pass runs up into the present,

Bringing back the people and the places and the memories,

Everything but the name of the song.

Standing on Ceremony

The hoops you have me jumping through

Are long-shining, of gold,

But as much weight as you've forged them with,

There's little they can hold.

Were I to linger over them,

It's certain they would break.

My unmoved heart won't exercise.

Fat hearts won't celebrate.

White Confetti

I don't have a life as seen on TV,

Only a life of proven routine,

A blue-colar career and a blue-collar home

and a family that I thought was my own,

and then you showed me I was wrong.

The heart beating my blue-collar lifeblood was gone.

You tore me to pieces.

You made white confetti out of me.

What I See In You

You are far more honest than a portrait or a mirror,

Or if you're not, you force me to be.

You are not a reflection of who I want to think I am.

You were not an aesthetic statement,

But you're my only concession to aesthetic taste.

While I like to think of you as beautiful from the inside out,

Everyone else knows you are beautiful on the outside.

Location

I live out on the edge of your life.

It's not exactly ideal,

and it's not the place I wanted.

I think I could do more in the middle,

If I were nearer or dearer,

If I could find myself a better place,

But I've seen all the signs.

They say “no vacancy.”

Golden Years

My highlight film begins in high school,
When I was almost kind of cool.
Some people call high school their golden years.
For them I feel sorry, and for me, almost fear,
Because for now, I live in my creative prime
and my last long summer.  I will only fade with time,
As will my inspiration, my ideas fewer and few,
As whatever night comes after my college days will do.

Illusion, Delusion, to Believe

I've lived a lot, but this I've never seen:

It's not you, and it's not me,

It's that you want illusion, delusion, to believe

That I was actually unique.

I am unwilling to accept

The odds, far less than fifty percent,

That any of this is true,

But knowing the reasons won't change what you'll do.

The Love of Money

I don't know Cain from Abel

When it comes to good and evil,

But the love of money is the root of my contempt.

Even liking it can not be made exempt.

It's not that out of all the sins, I've fixated on greed.

It's not that I approve, but that's the training we receive.

It's not that it was issued by a government corrupt.

I choose my issues differently; politics don't interrupt.

It's that money is our culture in a convenient wallet-sized format.

Why would I be okay with that?

In Praise of the Softest Sociopaths

Five minutes–in either direction–from sleep,

Your pillowed head makes a bed of me.

In moments like this, the only sound's

Metaphor for perfection the whole world around.

You tap on me lightly, a pad-footed caress.

I savor the moments we both are at rest.

In Praise of “Come On Eileen” and V8 Engines

On the road once again, another spring break,

Windows down to cool what the waking sun bakes,

Our Suburbanite's quest–seven days, seven sites–

Kept us driving well into the equinox nights.

Though I traveled what smaller me thought was far,

What I remember the clearest was heard, in the car.

Terms of Surrender

I can only respect your right to reject.

I have to reject your right to expect

That each time you need, I will be there to help.

Instead, I'll start looking out for myself.

It's isn't the case that you suddenly repel me,

But you're not gonna buy, so I won't try to sell me.

You don't want my best, so you're not gonna get it.

What I feel for you will go to seed, and I'll let it.

Infatuation's cheap. I'll find a replacement,

In casual friendship with you grow complacent.

We'll both make mistakes until I have learned

How I can see you on both of our terms.

Kindness-Lies

Radiant, regular, rarest eyes

Burdened a bit by kindness-lies

Greet our temporary parting.

You always treat me like I'm farting.

I would follow wherever you go,

and you're in no hurry to be alone,

Only away from me.

Only you think I can't see.

A Tireless Soundtrack

Life writes a tireless soundtrack–a cosmic medic–

For the fateful and the forgotten accident.

Music resuscitates memories without regard for meaning,

Blows all of last fall's fadings into a zombie spring.

Music guides tours of the long-abandoned joys,

Long-lost remote locations–the years I was a boy.

Music paves the road for the soul-sounding return

Of regrets locked up in furnaces, where for years they safely burned.

Music Is The Password

Music is the password to memory,

Whether or not we plan it.

One song returns the shadow

Of a friend taken by this larcenous planet,

Another the scent of romance

Long since scrubbed by fate,

But this song takes me back

To a July wasted on video games.

Communication (Why We Never Talk, Pt. 3)

I've long had questions

About the feasibility

Of human communication.

I never talk to you

Because I value our time,

Because I fear that each time

Will be the last time.

I've long had questions

About the desirability

Of human communication.

I never talk to you

Because I value my time,

Because I fear that this time

Will be like last time.

How's that for communication?

Why We Never Talk, Pt. 2

You talk to me like I'm necessary,

As though I am made of greatness,

When you are just overly grateful.

You talk to me like a son,

Though you hardly need another one,

Though you're likely far too young.

You talk to me like a person

For absolutely no reason,

At any and every time.

You ask me why we never talk,

and I don't answer.

Why We Never Talk

You talk to me like I'm the enemy

Because of the things I believe:

That people should be free to make mistakes.

You talk to me like I'm the devil

Because I believe an ancient Hebrew man

Was purely and precisely a man.

You talk to me like I'm a child

Because I won't sacrifice a lifetime

At the altar of your priorities.

You ask me why we never talk.

Scoreboard!

You weigh thirty-seven pounds less than I do,

But I wasn't keeping score.

You have one-hundred thirty-seven more things than I do,

But I wasn't keeping score.

You have ten-thousand, one-hundred thirty-seven more things than I do,

But I wasn't keeping score.

You've made ten-thousand, three-hundred twelve arguments

Utterly unsuited to your audience.

This time, I was keeping score like it's my job.

That time, I was keeping score because it is my job.

The Son of Ali Goodheart vs. Little Belle the Impaler

I know the two of them,

Not exactly personally,

But in my memory.

I was him, sitting in the corner,

Recoiling in slow-motion psychosomatic horror,

and now I'm trying to figure out

If she's the new Ali Goodheart,

Or Lil' Little Belle the Impaler,

Dangling that ageless old bait,

Playing the same unwinnable games

In the YouTube era.

My Heartbeat

You didn't make my heart beat.

You only made it faster.

You and I still have stories,

But my family's shared disasters.

I still quote that first movie

That I ever saw with you,

But I have some friends who saw it,

and they like to quote it, too.

Everything you know about me,

I'll still be without you.

Why I Write, Part x+201: The Price of Admission

I have known hunger without suffering.

I have known indulgence without satisfaction.

I have known ease without leisure.

I have known price without purchase;

That's just the price of admission.

Nothing worth having can be bought.

Nobody worth having can be bought.

No body worth having can be bought.

I am convinced that life's VIP is for poets,

Because the dress code drives people away.

You can't get in wearing your sanity.

Mine was always tight across the shoulders.

I Have a History

I have a history of youthful behavior.

I have done all the wrong things, just right.

I have a history of chasing the funny story

At the risk of the time to tell it,

At the risk of the friends to tell it to.

I have a long ledger of regrets,

and a list of night-names I never really knew,

and never the twain shall meet.

May the Force Be With You, Part Two

A force is a force,
Of course, of course.
It propels my cohorts
Through physics or sports.
A horse is a horse,
Of course.  Of course,
A horse makes the poor
Of the betting sorts.
Un ours est un ours,
Of course, of course.
Un ours ate un ours.
That's one big course.
It's all in code,
But none of it's Morse.

I Don't Hate the Players...

You were hot at the start.

I run cold in the heart.

You smiled, and I stepped forward.

I couldn't see your mind in your face

Once you turned your head.

I reached out,

and you waved it off as courtesy.

You reached out,

and I laughed your caress off as a tickle.

I don't know why I play these games.

I don't know why we play these games.

I don't know why you play these games,

When I would have let you win.

I Never Tried Lightning, Pt. 2

I never tried skydiving.

I imagine it tastes like bile and breathlessness,

With an aftertaste of heaven.

I never tried smoking.

I imagine it tastes like boredom.

If it were really any fun,

I imagine they'd have outlawed it.

I never tried a celebrity crush.

I imagine it tastes like the air in the back of my mouth.

If I really liked playing the long shots,

The local scene would be the closest game, in town.

I never tried lightning.

I imagine it tastes like heaven

With an aftertaste of white heat and lukewarm steel.

I don't imagine it would be a good idea.

My imagination hardly needs that much stimulation.

I Never Tried Lightning

I tried kindness,

Which got some people some nice things,

Which got me nothing at all.

I tried cruelty,

Which got me as far as getting interesting.

Turns out I left my soft spot on interesting.

I tried persistence,

and got a whole lot of duplicates

Of the same answers, over and over.

I tried not caring.

The heart may be rather pliable,

But the loins want what the loins want.

I tried nothing and got nowhere.

I tried something, and got nowhere.

I never tried lightening,

But I'd already tried giving up my bottle collection.

Make Me

You can't make me agree.

You can't make me better.

You can't make me normal,

and you can't make me care,

But you can make me angry,

and you can make me smile.

I think that's just enough.

Why I Write, Part x+200: I've Never Tried Lefting

I write 'cause I know how;

I've never tried lefting,

'Cause my memory's crap,

But I don't like forgetting.

I write 'cause I don't know

Where to start or to stop

(Twenty years in the past?

Or keep on 'til I drop?),

'Cause old habits die hard,

and I'm not even armed,

'Cause I don't have the heart

To stop old habits living large,

Because when people speak of “afterlives,”

I always picture marriages,

'Cause Death forgot to stop for me

and bring the baby carriage.

I write 'cause twenty years ago,

It kept me entertained.

It's the perfect ending to a month

Of mangled, messed-up days.

Your Fighting Words

I have heard you say your piece,

and I have heard your fighting words,

and I have heard it all before.

Seriously, I am a poet.

I have extensive vocabulary experience.

You have tried your best with me,

and you have tried your worst with me,

and I think I can live with all of it,

But if your next words regard my friends or family,

I might have to do something I can't live with.

Justice Misapplied?

If justice delayed is justice denied,

Then what is justice misapplied?

If many take justice against many more,

When does the justice give way to the score?

When does classic social justice

Become callous social vengeance?

An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind,

and equal.

Even Money Can't Buy

Loyalty's valued because it provides

Services even money can't buy.

There is no contract, no limitation

Except the things we won't accept in any situation,

Acts for which we feel vicarious remorse

That convince us we're no longer staying the course.

The chain of events that an act like that starts

Is the worse, breaking not one, but two sets of hearts.

I Stumble

I put one foot in front of the other,

and I stumble on the path.

I put my nose to the grindstone,

and I stub my toe on it.

I keep on keeping on,

and the world posts a “Keep Off” sign.

I keep showing up,

and the roof falls in on top of me.

It's the choices that we don't make,

That we couldn't have made,

That make life less like living.

In Reverse

She makes time in her life

For its gradual undoing.

It is not that she hates living.

She just hates some of its more...

Inflexible requirements,

So she takes her sustenance,

Her life force, in reverse,

and as she kneels, dying,

She looks absolutely beautiful.

Enlightenment

There's a certain cage

Defined by the rules.

There's only so much

One can learn in a school.

There are certain powers

One cannot learn from a Jedi.

Entrenched deep in battle

With the Whiskey Devil,

I learned perhaps more

Than I knew I was enrolling for.

I never knew that enlightenment

Could be so cloaked, so shrouded,

In a raggedy old coat

That sunders my head

With all the gifts of the sun,

and as the cracks in my head

Admit more of the light I'm spoiled by,

I writhe and reel and rankle,

and, at last, I rise,

Though I have not recovered.

I will never be the same,

But perhaps the price has come

With some small improvement.

Why I Write, Part x+199: The Pencils and Pens

I write unabashedly,

Unapologetically, unstoppably,

Incessantly, incorrigibly

With passion and conviction and divine commission,

and now I dedicate my writing

To all of the pencils and pens that gave their lives

That I might press words to page

(Or press all the keys to this Information Age):

You are remembered, at least in passing.

My Dearest Oxymoron

I wondered how we survived long enough to meet;

I wonder now how you tolerate me.

You have the trust of a baby,

and the giggle of a baby,

and the strength of a remarkable person,

The strength of a crazy Minnesotan

Who sleeps every night with the windows open,

The strength of someone who has seen up and seen down,

Who doesn't fear flying or landing.

I promise I will never introduce you to my old crowd.

I promise I will never introduce you to my old me,

Who fit in with them.

Taste, This:

Taste is a guessing game,

A getting-to-know-you game.

It teaches you just enough

To have something to talk about.

It tells you almost nothing.

Taste is a maze of a thousand corners.

Taste is a maze of a thousand arguments.

Taste is no country for accountants.

Ultimately, taste is just a puzzle,

A print of a pastel, pastoral scene,

Punctuated by one neon-pink piece.

Woke-Up Wednesday

When I woke up Wednesday,

I wanted to skip the shower,

To brew myself a quarter of an hour.

Instead, two more hours passed,

and all I wanted was my last

Few words back, away from the ears,

Back in the shop for last-minute repairs.

Unfortunately, life isn't on repeat.

Soon enough, I just wanted off my feet.

That wish didn't have a leg to stand on.

Seeing the last hours of my workday recede,

What I wanted next was a lot something to eat,

Something nasty, six servings of several deadly sins,

So I scrounged something up; I sat down to dig in,

and that's when I learned what I wanted to know:

That all I wanted was a moment alone,

To stop wanting–to breathe.

Post-Existential Spiderweb

I stand at the hind end

Of some post-existential spiderweb,

Staring at connection beyond connection beyond connection.

Only within reach of the nearest,

I reach out in many directions, never leaving.

I consume all information that excites me,

Wishing wildly to weigh more,

Perhaps pulling perception toward my position.

I want to be the last thing they read, repeatedly.

It's senseless, and selfish, and perfectly logical,

A sole spiderweb within the soulful spiderweb.

Opposites Distract

Every moment drags

As over a road of red,

Roiling, roasting coals,

Burning my mind up,

Scraping, scratching, scoring,

Pressing passels of unwelcome partitions

Into every parcel of time.

Boredom is a universal distraction,

Hence the clock's erratic driving.

Every moment drags

As over a road of red,

Roiling, roasting coals,

Burning my mind up,

Scraping, scratching, scoring,

Pressing perception's perilous paths

Into every inch of existence.

Pleasure is a universal distraction,

Hence my mind's erratic driving.

Position

They preach. They proposition.

They jockey for position.

They appeal to all sorts of things;

Some even resort to reason.

They virtually climb over each other.

They leave no path uncovered.

For my part, I am mired

In a host of their desires

For my money and my time,

For their values and their price,

But I suppose it's nice to be liked.

An Incomplete List of Things That I Need

Passion

Compassion

Consideration

Thought

Thoughtfulness

Loyalty

Independence

Balance

Flexibility

Realistic Expectations.

A Complete List of Things That I Need:

You, to help me save myself from myself.

It scares me that you're just enough.

The Old Hand

I reach with sore hands.

I grasp with cold hands,

Hands schooled by life,

Hands scarred by living.

My hands reach one more time.

My hands grasp one more time,

Because he who hesitates is lost;

He who hesitates has lost it;

Because it's what they do;

It's what they know to do.

Clear Conscience

We've told each other uncountable things.

We've guaranteed that we both would be wrong.

Unavoidable matters are ripe to grow blame,

A morass that prevents moving on.

When you tell me not to worry about the past,

You don't use your talking-to-friends voice.

I know you want me to hate myself,

But that goes against all my self-training.

I know all you hear is your own hatred's echoes;

It drowns out my voice, and its straining.

I know it bothers you that I'm unbothered by the past,

But does this really look like my clear conscience face?

Just Because He's Right

A know-it-all with few convictions

Once made an candid prediction,

One un-masked by contradiction.

The know-it-all went unbelieved,

'Til events his vindication freed,

But just because he's right,

Doesn't mean he's not crazy.

Always Comes Back

There are some things we regret before we give up.

We stop wanting any, and can't get enough.

My everything else dropped the ball on my head.

I could have not started. I won't stop, instead.

She went from ecstatic to unhappy, quick,

With the one filthy habit that she couldn't kick.

She never asks, 'cause there's not much to know.

He doesn't ask when she's ready to go.

She still acts like she likes what she sees.

She always comes back, but not to me.

Love Is a Thing

Love is a thing,

Or so I'm told.

I have known good conversation,

Have known that many times.

I have known good sex,

Which I have been told is like pizza,

Or maybe I've been told it's like skiing–

Even when it's not good, it's still pretty good.

I have known gifts given,

and I have known gifts taken

By those armed with obligation,

With the threat of known anticipation.

I have known the dread of seeing someone,

Because I don't want this to be the last time,

But those are things,

With definitions,

That can be defined,

That can be explained,

That can be graded.

The Class Zombie, Pt. 2

They come for you from all sides,

At every particular time.

They want to hold you down.

They want to suck out your brains.

They want to make you just like them.

They did get ahold of me.

The time since, those twenty long years,

I never once fit into their box.

I never once fit into this jacket,

But at least I'm not just like them,

At least, I hope....

At least I hope.

Graduation

I have that stupid "Graduation" song stuck in my head,
Which is strange, since I haven't listened to it since 2007,
When my friend asked me to find it for her.
It could mean that I'm ready.
It could mean that it hasn't sunk in yet,
That it doesn't feel like I'm even done,
That I'm waiting for something to happen.
It could mean I'm nervous, and can't stop thinking about it,
That I'm on the very edge of feeling fear...

Thirdman

I am not who I pretend to be,

Obviously.

All of Hollywood pretends,

and only grows in emptiness.

I am not what I pretend not to be,

Whether I add by subtraction

Or replace old habits,

I can't be my opposite.

It's a matter of practice.

I am Thirdman,

Whatever lies in between.

Happy Star Wars Day, or Saturday, the 4th of May

May the force be with you.
May the horse be with you.
May the fourth be with you.
May the farce be with you.
May the farts be with you.
May The Fort be with you.
May the forks be with you.
May the floors be with you.
May the force be with you.

May the force be with you
(and also with you).

The Life You Want

The life you want for me

Is pretty,

A life thinking of how I'm saving my money,

Instead of spending my time intuitively,

But I don't want to settle for pretty.

I want a life of beauty.

I was once your baby.

I am not your dolly.

Stop trying to make me

Into the woman you think you should be.

Those People, Pt. 2

I am without the company

Of some who meant a lot to me.

I was lost when the Lord

Pulled out all the starters,

Left my life less populous.

Whatever was between us,

I hope you always knew

I was better to have known you.

I'll be lost without the company

Of those who mean a lot to me.

Whatever lies behind us

Is plenty not enough.

To those who pulled me through:

I am better that I know you.

I, nervous, seek the company

Of those who lie ahead of me,

Who I hopefully don't scandalize

Before I start to realize

That they'll mean something to me soon.

I will be better, once I know you.

Meet Your Master

I have known the few right moments,

and I have known hundreds of the wrong ones.

I know my way around the in-between.

I am the master of the moment,

and in all those moments, I have known myself.

I have known the me that mollified,

and I have known the one who horrified.

I am the master of myself.

So I think that I will know my moment

Before it is present.

I think, one day, I will call down to death,

That harmless little traitor,

and tell her to come and meet her master.

I Stayed Darkened

You were always sure I could see for myself.

I though only I saw how much you helped.

My eyes were oft blurry before I first wept,

But one eye stayed darkened from the night that you left.

You wouldn't believe what it took to open:

It wasn't until I heard our mutual friend,

Our mutual creation,

Fifty pounds of bounce and Rawlins leather,

Too young to know any better,

Say “I wish you, instead of she, had died,”

and I said, “so do I,”

“Son, so do I.”

Why I Write, Part x+198: Those Frantic Moments

I love those frantic moments,
Searching for anything to do,
Except for that one thing I don't want
and do need to.
It's a skill I've learned.
It's an all-purpose excuse.
They say procrastination burns;
I say it's the ultimate muse.
I can write about the process.
I can write about the product,

Or I can write about whatever the farce I want.

A Little Too Full/Complain of Emptiness

I'm a little too full to complain of emptiness,

But my sides will fold in at the slightest distress.

How many restless nights will I reduce

To another new story, a proximal excuse?

How many wakings in sickening dread

Will I blame on fatigue, or the flu, or my head?

How many angst-ridden rhymes will I write

Before I find answers, the end of the line?

The problem is, I don't know where to start.

Am I missing someone, or my own Grinch-sized heart?

Am I craving a challenge, some new summit to climb,

Or should I search for serendipity–people, places and times?

I think we all have a monster to feed.

We don't know what we're looking for,

We just know that we need.

Had/Didn't

I know what you had that I didn't:

A soul, a heart, a brain, a mission,

Talent and toughness, reason and rhythm,

A history of making less-than-stupid decisions,

Support at home, and more from close friends,

A path, a plan, a future, and a bad end.

What I've never been able to figure out:

What in our lives was the other way around.

What did I have, that you didn't?

What did we both need, that only I had?

Why did it have to go so bad?

It Isn't Just

If you asked for the reason,

I couldn't give one answer.

It isn't just the posture,

The arms folded like a mother

Or an impatient stranger

Or a substitute teacher,

Nor just your expression,

Which leaves the face of a friend

On the verge of unfamiliar,

Nor just your own clipped answers,

But I'm worried.

And I don't worry.

Getting Over, Pt. 2

I have a future,

Much to my chagrin.

(When you don't want an ending,

It seems toxic to begin.)

I have a future,

Much to my dismay,

Though I overlook it, finding

Silver linings in today.

I come to terms with moving forward

By narrowing my sight,

By moving closer to the long term

In one short term at a time.

Is this called getting over,

Or just not growing up?

Getting Over, Pt. 1

I put in the work,

Though not in those terms–

Unsolicited kindness

For the sake of spending time–

But she wants nothing to do with me.

I want to throw my phone,

Turn it into choking hazards,

Like the last one,

But only for a second.

Then I don't, because it's not worth the effort.

Is that called getting over,

Or just getting older?

Secret Shame

All my friends have secret shame.

Folks do, without exception.

Thinking I will see them differently

Is cause for their deception.

They're right to think I'll change my mind,

But wrong to dread or fear.

Their destinations I admire already;

Why not their journeys to here?

Built to Last

No moment, no mighty mountain peak of time
Was built to last.
They are eroded, brought lower
By the falling rains of time,
That cascade of presents past.

Then, as the moment grows less dizzying,
As it becomes less sharp,
It begins to serve as a refuge,
A place of comfort.
One moment produces double the joy
Once one can appreciate what it has become,
As well as what it was.

Pursuit of the Good Life

Americans dream of three fundamental rights:

Liberty, Property, and Pursuit of the Good Life,

But politics get in the way of that dream,

When nobody can figure out what good life means.

For every family to making home drawn,

A clique of carousers shouts,“let's get it on!”

Neither of those examples shall this poet heed–

Four more years without puking is all that I need.

Why I Write, Part x+197: Skip

I skip over words like a kid over kerbs.

Poetry and sidewalks both have lines,

Which I will step right over,

If that's where I'm going.

Sometimes, I actually write what I meant.

It rarely if ever looks how I expect.

If my writing ever went the way I planned,

That would be an interesting day.

Probably a boring poem, though.

Strange Angels

A cold keeps me out of school on picture day.

Searing back pain keeps me awake

Long enough that I check my alarm.

A flat tire keeps me out of a pile-up and greater harm.

They're out of beer at concessions, where a foul ball is hit.

There's no doubt about it–

God has sent me all kinds of strange angels.

Just a Man/Group Work

I'm not just a man.
I'm the grizzled veteran
Of sixteen hundred poems
and a ravenous scavenger of television,
So I can't help thinking
I could have written a better ending,
But I wasn't the only one
Holding a pen.

That's why I hate group work.

I'm Sure You Remember/You've Probably Forgotten

I was nervous that first time, out in the park.

I might not have dared if it hadn't been dark.

I'm sure you and I both remember the theater.

You've probably forgotten the parking meter.

I walked through a blizzard to get to the bridge,

As sweet as any of the places we've repeated.

I can never decide on which is our best kiss,

Until I concede that it's whichever is last.