Meet the New Habits, Same as the Old Habits

I repeat myself often, but only slant-rhyme.
I don't change, only fade, with the passage of time.
What were once firm positions are now merely leanings.
My playlist is old songs, but heard with new meanings.
I debate the old concepts with new groups of faces.
What I did and I wished for, over time, traded places.
As my years rose in number, I consistently found
Myself living in new places, treading old ground.
Still don't know where I'm going; never learned why I'm here,
But a life unexpected is nothing to fear.

I Am, Therefore I Am

A metronomic program,
Endowed by my creator
To maintain respiration
No matter whether I am
Acclaimed, well known, beloved,
The B-Side of my own single,
Abhorred, spat on, and hated,
Or like the points on Whose Line,
I am because I have been.

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.”

To an Ingenue, Who Still Has a Full Hand of Cards

I see myself in you:

Your slow smile, your aesthetic eye, your humor,

Your preference for substance, your hatred of rumor.

I see myself in you:

The quality of energy bursting out

Is like me after conquering some of my doubt

(But before my close encounter with burnout).

I see myself in you,

and I hope that you find better things to do

With the time and the talents given to you.

Cut It, Razor-Wit!

There is no humor without potential to offend.

There is no humor that's not means to an end.

Jesters use humor to amuse the whole court

and to render their princes a skeptic's report.

But I am no prince. I'm not even a jester,

and in me, an ego is well-known to fester,

So my humor oft aims to more frivolous ends:

Entertaining myself, or impressing new friends,

and some jokes that I spoke, without thought, to seem cool

Were both badly misaimed and quite needlessly cruel.

I wish that I reserved sharp words for those whose actions earned it.

I wish I wrote, and not told, that joke, 'cause then I'd simply burn it.

The Tumor's Tale

Enormous,

Amorphous,

Intruder,

Imposter,

Human virus in a human computer

Imposter,

Intruder,

Amorphous,

Enormous

Mass,

Malignance

Of occluded purpose

Managed to hijack

The body politic,

Make it flail forth and back,

Make it hesitate, agitate, vacillate, attack.

Intruder,

Imposter,

Enormous,

Amorphous

Tumor humorless

Has barely changed the body corpus,

But altered the thoughts it voices

So our oldest friends, loyal and closest,

These days scarce recognize us.

Friction!

Fission!

Delusion!

Derision!

As we hurtle headlong into Hindsight's decision,

The deranged danger deflects our direction, our attention,

Away from a years-delayed, much-needed excision.

Physician,

Heal our nation!

Unoriginal Sin, or The Fashion Victim

She never stood a chance

Against advertisements,

Not because of sexism

or Avenue Madison,

Her mom's shopping addiction

or Disnified fiction
(although they ain't helpin'!)

When Eve chafed against the collar,

Bit deep into the vice that called her,

and really made the serpent holler,

She started wishing Adam

Was, oh, three inches taller.

But Adam wished that Eve

Had lighter, softer, clearer skin

...and then the fix was in.

Beating the Odds (With a Cricket Bat)

The life plan my counselor once made with me

Was to eat and excrete, and then die.

If Mick Jagger can't get any girl reaction,

Then how in the hell can I

Expect to find meaning, do something worthwhile,

Or even know pleasure and joy?

Stand me next to my idols; take a gander, a glance.

I'm a puppet who looks up to boys.

Yet I saw more in five years than some see in whole lives.

I've done things that some folks never do.

Perhaps this impression I've carved of myself

Is too based on a setback or two,

But I'm still on my feet and I'm back on two wheels,

Back with vengeance and vigor and vim,

Writing poems and notes for a novel or two,

Bending volumes and words to my whim.

Yes, I'm beating my odds with a cricket bat's flat,

and I'm hitting all sixes and fours.

If an unpublished poet hits some of his marks,

What's to stop you from hitting all yours?