The Existential Futility of the Zodiac

My old and my young, my low and my high
Have all come beneath the same stars, in the same sky.
Who change not, for all my frustrations,
Who aren't moved by my joy or my strife.
They hold, more than I do, to their patterns,
Though I ever am living the same life.
They shun both stagnation and hurry,
Forever holding the same pace–
A reminder that I'm always the same guy,
In a slightly different place,
While the contrast between the consistent old stars,
and the younger, and fickler moon
Reminds me that even when scenes change,
Life will feel all the same again soon.

Remember Me Well

I remember staying in, and I remember going out.

I remember nervousness before it was doubt.

I remember driving, remember riding, remember talking.

I remember holding hands, taking time, walking.

I remember feeling-out. I remember feeling new.

I remember feeling broken-in, and comfortable with you.

I remember Sunny mornings, awake in the same bed.

I remember feeling just slightly out of my head.

I remember when we laughed, and hardly had a reason.

I remember when we were together, and in season,

But forgotten that it ended in an autumn and a frost.

I've forgotten how to hate you, 'cause it wasn't worth the cost.

I've forgotten all our differences, and the end that they were spelling,

So I've hardly any doubt that you've improved in the retelling.

A Motorcyclist's Ode to the Car

Stop and go, stop and go. Break, merge, and yield.

It's the calm that I'd feel in an active minefield,

and the joy, and sheer beauty, of bureaucrats' halls.

I'm kept from my own time by walls within walls:

A cubicle made out of glass, aluminum, steel,

Too light on power, with too many wheels,

High-speed locomotion with all the romance of puree.

I'm both wroth with, and bored with, this part of my day,

Despite risking a death that I no longer fear

Because I would rather not be, than be here.

Circles

Life is

Circles:

Wake up,

Work up

a Sweat,

and Sleep.

Repeat.

Most aren't

Allowed

to Forget!

Wake up;

Work up

a Sweat

and Sleep.

Repeat.

Circles

on Circles,

Nested

and Tangent—

the Lucky

Can stand it!

Wake up.

Work up

a Sweat,

and Sleep.

Repeat.

Habit is

a Circle,

Bruised yellow

Or Purple,

Pressed hard

Into who

You are.

Wake up.

Work up

a Sweat

and Sleep.

Repeat.

One life is

a Circuit:

From helpless

To reckless

To hot mess

To eldest

To helpless.

Wake up;

Work up

a Sweat,

and Sleep;

Repeat.

When events

Interrupt

This circle

Of Pain,

Some sigh

In relief.

Others sigh

To Complain.

Wake up,

Work up

a Sweat,

and Sleep;

Repeat.

I wish

I could

Forget:

Wake up.

Work up

a Sweat

and Sleep.

Repeat.

Rut

Adrift, but not moving;

On the floor, but not grooving;

Every year of my life

I spend several months proving

That there's nowhere I fit

and there's nothing I offer;

That I'll shirk just as soon

As there's pay in my coffers;

That I know what I like;

That this doesn't suffice;

That I don't take precautions

and I don't take advice;

That my fairways are tightropes

and my hazards are lakes;

That I'll try all the new flavors

Of my old mistakes;

That wherever I end up,

Whatever I do,

That my flaws will be many

and always in view.

Why They Don't Let Poets Pick Your Battles

There is no strength in surrender, only the weakness of the coward

Who assumes the task is failed because it's hard,

Too week to hold up optimism until the fight is done,

Too weak of mind to tell winning sides from right ones.

There is strength in surrender: the strength of mind it takes to know

When and how to wrestle, pin your ego;
The courage to square things with your bosses,

Bite the bullet, cut your losses.

There is no strength in surrender—no will, no determination

In the face of threats or litigation,

To stand aside and watch as evil wins

Because good didn't want any more problems.

Why I Write, Part x+277: Learning to Write Again

I piled a drought on a skid on a slump.

What were neurons creative, are now just a lump.

In dropping a habit, I made one anew:

Writing's something I think about, then fail to do.

Writing feels like I'm dragging my brain up a hill,

and when I'm inspired, I'm lacking in will.

But I made a new habit half a decade ago.

I can still make one now, though the going be slow,

and since I can do it, that's what I will do.

(Though I've said this before, on occasion—or two.)

Only Read This On the Way Out

I never leave people. They always leave me.

If I meet one, and like 'um, that's how it will be.

Everyone with a chance and a reason has left.

If it wasn't for blood, I would end up bereft.

People don't get to know me; they get ready to leave.

If it bothered me much, I'd have no time to grieve.

For a while I blamed it all on my tattoo,

But the ink isn't cursed. It's just what people do.

Stop Pretending

We both know that this is ending.

I need you to stop pretending

That when I hurt, you're hurting too;

You really tried to see this through;

That you felt what you claimed to feel;

That what we had was ever real.

'Cause when you say I'm in your thoughts,

It's harder to pretend I'm not.

See You Later

“Happy ever after” is a fairy tale, and lie.

Words like “hello,” “I love you,” thank you,”

Those can never halt “goodbye.”

Staffing one's life perfectly will always be the goal,

But there is always someone leaving,

and it always leaves a hole.

Still, that hole's more like a pinprick,

and not much like a crater,

When the words that say “goodbye” to you

Mean more like “see you later.”