Anything I Wouldn't Do

I advise “don't do anything I wouldn't do,”

But does that rule out anything? I think one or two –

I don't date my students.

I don't hate my students.

I don't chase anything but inspiration.

If those are standards, then I have them.

If not, I guess I'm an unsafe sort of person.

Unstable Psyche. Handle With Care.

It's just for me they care,

They say–in fact, believe.

But when friends visit, and I'm there,

I see that they're ashamed of me.

My way of seeing isn't shared.

It's insight–and insanity,

Inspiration extraordinaire;

Authorities want ordinary.

To be normal, average, fair?

For that they say I ought to dream.

They don't even have to cut your hair

To perform lobotomies.

Of what you're wishing, best beware.

In this ironic world, it seems

That the very stuff of nightmares

Is oft the rotten fruit of dreams.

My Personal World, Part 21: Turn It Off, I Can't Stop Listening

The song invites inspiration and half-lost memory

Into a gray and dreary-lightless no-person's territory.

The memory, the music and the inspiration

Tease me–I hear and feel, but can't quite see them.

If they were any closer, I'd say so close I can taste,

But I'm only playing music, not horseshoes or hand-grenades.

Willing/Weak

Did I descend into this dusk, or did it descend into me,

This three-quarter slumber of mindless unproductivity?

Yet my stay under a bushel, my dull, unholy indolence

Can't stop the sun from rising once it's set upon my sins.

In my very fullest flower, under light of brightest Son,

It appears I have achieved; some even praise what I have done.

To me, it's clearly Spirit's capital, on which I've raised no dividends.

And then comes nightfall–sin rings the bell, and study under Spirit ends.

My life's inconsistency just goes to show that nothing's changing.

The Zen Christian lives a life of extremes in moderation,

Where shadows will always hide sin's well-baited snares,

Where the ground will be scorched by my expectation's glare.

Discontented Lazy Sunday, Pt. 2

Discontented Lazy Sunday, Pt. 1

This groundling's groan grows more like a growl.

Suspect's too stupid to search and too prone to prowl.

Lazily leaning away from the world, listing listlessly,

Putting my ear to the ground to listen, failing miserably

To hear hide or hair of the fun, functional or familiar,

I can do little but ask quotidian questions, like “what am I doing here?”

Picking At Freudian Projection/Picking Out Every Number in a Lineup

This one's family, down to his livestock, are most delightful creatures all,

But he wants to monopolize me, and he drives me up a wall.

This one's as interesting a person as I've in my whole life met;

He is inviting and engaging, understated, kind, and yet

I dread possibilities of moments in which I might see his face.

Am I projecting onto people unconscious thoughts about the place?

'Cause this one? Him I ought to like, or feel guilty if I don't.

This one I really want to like, and befriend, too, but I won't.

This one I really do like–even as he's bugging me.

It seems I'm programmed with some bug up top, above where I can see.

Steamed or Simmering?

The beach has never been something I crave,

and only sometimes a thing that I tolerate.

I guess it's from having five too many days

In some weeks, where my thoughts just boil away.

I'm a computer made out of water.

I'm attached to a machine made out of water.

I'm shocked anyone wants to go someplace that's hotter.

An Offer I May Not Refuse(?)

Given a choice by one who would take me, half-warned,

Into his comfort zone–to me, dull and awkward–

But he only tells me what he would prefer,

and while he is convinced, I am ever unsure.

He wants me to want what he wants, but I don't.

I couldn't care less for his opinions or hopes,

and he won't do me the courtesy of sharing his morals.

I don't enjoy this, but I'm me; I can't be any less horrible.

Mad Cash/Fat Stacks/Copycats/Kiss My..., or He Jelly Bro

I don't hold store by fit or more slovenly stacks,

I don't hold it against you that you've no copycats,

and we're all influenced by things that were already written,

But if you read like your own bad fanfiction,

and sell yourself to the world like you're the hotcakes' knees,

Then may you find Lego bricks under your feet

and spider webs above the eyes, right to the top of your head

Wherever you roam in your blessèd, damnèd, damnable existence.

Reboot

Designed by hubris and built by Boeing,

My new life had me trapped, both coming and going,

Stuck in one of those I-hate-this-entire-country moments.

If it ever takes more than taking a break

To make those moments go away,

I'll know that I'm too filled with hate.

The Beauty of Gray

To expect's a human habit, which we're stuck with, bad or good,

But when expectations turn to stone, stop being “could” and turn to “should,”

They're not the only things that harden. So do our hearts and arteries.

Raised certainty raises blood pressure. Expectation's a disease.

Expecting too much turns the light out on what we've really got.

A pessimist sees could-be and then better-than-I-thought.

Tie Our Stars Together (a Poem-in-Monologue)

“I'm not committed to tradition, and I believe there's no 'forever,'

But I see appeal in closeness that could tie our stars together.

Still, what we are is just our pasts. Our potential lies in dreams.

Your dreams aren't mine, and I can't bear to see them sacrificed for me.”

At least, that's what I say. The truth is that I'm alone

Because I could not bear to see me sacrifice my own.

Failure to Communicate in the Art of Saying "No"

It's been said late to bed and early to rise
Is how the strong make the most of their lives.
I hold to that course, for the sake of the time,
Though I suspect work is the point of such rhymes.
How does that make life better?  You say the only way how
Is to be dissatisfied with my ample life now.
That doesn't make sense.  Life is good satisfied.
If I don't care for things, why fuss over their size?
Laws declare we're free to forge forward, enterprise.
I declare myself free to settle down, stand aside.

Cap and Gown

I have too much more than what it takes to be a nihilist.

I haven't missed enough to see my life as meaningless,

Because if life is not the end, then it is still a test,

and better placements go to those who have performed the best.

Is that why high-school style drama follows us around?

I think that life's the minor leagues. We'll get sent up or down.

When the phone rings, we climb in, we ship out, underground.

We ought to bury folks in some sort of cap, and a gown.

Who Says I Can't Eat Just One?

It is best for the economy, and thus encouraged

To put your wallet before your passions and your hopes.

Yet realism is at other times discouraged.

Those who don't believe in “forever” are thought dopes

For admitting that the universe is change, is strife,

That inevitable begins when happily ever is over.

It's shame this is the one part of life

Where culture tells us not to settle for the moment.

Why be bitter when I could be savory or green?

Why bother with drama when I could make absurdist jokes?

Today's Vocabulary Lesson

What does a braggart stoner be? I'd say a Mari-Wanna.

Someone who won't abide talk radio, I call a Rush-Hush-Ana.

The unconscionable act I've named Miscogynation

Is to knowingly and willfully enter carnal relations

With a dumb, sexist bigot who's stuck in the fifties.

Stalkers who slow down when you do are Downshifty.

Those who get what you want eat Sour Grapes,

But when you manage to chase down what others chased,

Your labors reap no fruits, but rather Tasty Steaks.