Trust But Verify?

It's not that I know folks' intentions

and choose to distrust them instead.

The tip of the tongue cannot tell you

What manner of state rules the head.

We're all writing poetry by flashlight,

But they won't have the lights when it's read—

and that goes for the upright and honest,

Merely misunderstood or misled.

What of those who would greet you like family,

and under their breath wish you dead?

They slither like snakes through the office,

But sleep unperturbed in their beds.

The Act of Love

To get some one-act play,

To come but once, and not to stay,

This is called “the act of love,”

Or so most folks would say.

Hear now, one of my theories:

Love is no act, but a series.

It's not rash, not impulsive,

Not like Venus and Ares.

A single act is only just

The province not of love, but lust.

In emotional beast-havior,

In instincts they trust.

Try, Try Again

You must make a second effort
If only one should fail.
If three efforts end without success,
Then blaze another trail.

Macklemore Might or Might Not Dig It

What's wrong with wearing something gauche or passé?

Why spend down to the lint to keep a wardrobe up to date?

The answers don't suffice, because nobody really knows

What's wrong with wearing your father's old clothes.

Think about it a second, that's all it takes to realize

That the same genes might make the man the same size.

If the shoe hurts, don't you dare just grin and bear it.

If the shoe feels good, why, then it's a good idea to wear it.

The "Pop" in Popularity

They say you catch more flies with honey,
and of some flies, that is true,
But to attract the most flies, well,
We all know what to use.

Leading...

She was here, and now she's gone,
and you say that she led you on.
Explain now.  Be specific, please.
Did she lead you on a leash,
Or lead you on a guided tour?
One's insulting.  Two is not a bore.
Lead you on a merry chase?
Did you reach an aerobic pace?
You say she likes to lead snipe hunts?
I guess next, you'll say she's...

Why I Write, Part x+254: A Strange Kind of Strangeness

It has been said that I write poems because I am smart,

But I think this cannot be the reason, by far.

A youth's awkward, precocious intelligence

Plus the scorn of others and possible concussions

Equals an actor playing a genius on television.

It has been said that a poet must be a romantic,

and I won't say that such words have made me sick,

But I have two personal rules for my own verse:

“Write as much as I can,” and “romantic topics are worst.”

Even in my love poems, I come off as a jerk.

It has been said that I write because I cannot cope with life,

and of the reasons given, this is as close to being right

As any others given. The us'ual famous singer in the us'ual famous band

Is idiosyncratic. He is not a normal man,

But his misbehavior is a strangeness that the normal understand,

While I am alone in an unculture, most complete,

and yet also a wanna-be synesthete

Wishing I could see the sound of my own thoughts;

The pen and the poem come close as I've got.

Why I Write, Part x+252: Mirror Mirror, in the Dark

It's fashionable to wonder who people see

Every morning, every night, when they look in the mirror,

and to wonder who those people are in the dark,

But I've found philosophy the lightest of larks,

'Cause I won't look in the mirror, away from what I write,

and unlike using the mirror, it's not contingent upon light.

In fact, I'll happily stay at it long into the night,

Writing in pitch air tinted only by the screen's glow

and by the nuclear fire deep down in my bones,

and though to say so out loud seems dishonest, seems lame,

The man in the mirror and the dark–in all times–are the same.

Doors and Windows

I don't need to be told. I already know

That when God closes a door, I should check the window

and glance for a chance, an opportunity.

I never do know when it's looking for me.

Sometimes, I'd like to reach out and grab it,

But sometimes I'd rather retain my old habit,

and sometimes I'd like to read, or write poems,

and want solitude in a room that is closed.

I Did Manage to Poke My Finger Once

I have heard it said before,

That the pen is mightier than the sword,

But if I commanded as many swords as pens

Then I would be a feudal lord,

and not this futile lord of words,

Who, in almost three decades' time

In a land with no willpower in sight

Attempted to use sheer force of will and mind,

and accomplished nothing.

The Next Step

Human life is out of order

In every sense of the phrase.

It has sequence, in the loosest sense;

Theme doesn't rule over our days.

We aren't separate pieces assembled.

We do not come in a kit,

Nor with an instruction booklet.

We are not, can not be, completed.

We are not as simple as that,

But if you are willing to admit

That you're no more than an Erector set

Mistakenly manufactured of fluid and flesh,

Then feel free to say you're “taking the next step,”

But I never want to hear it again.

Those Things They Told Me

They told me school would make me a well-rounded person,

and they were right.

When I came back to college four years ago,

I was shaped something like a letter V or a letter Y,

and now I'm kind of a round guy.

They told me that my writing was a waste of time,

and they were right,

Because no matter how many times a few people liked it,

No matter how much of my own joy made an audience irrelevant,

No matter how many times I haven't broken down publicly,

Criminally

(and believe me, I would have liked...),

They won't be convinced otherwise.

They told me that substitute teaching

Would be a valuable experience.

It has been an experience –

Where I learned to teach unplanned,

Unsuspecting and underprepared,

Without rapport or relationships,

Without anything the professors told me

Was the essential, was the base–

and I learned that I'll still be okay.

So I have a few things to say, or at least to vent–

Neither truth nor its speakers are prophets heaven-sent.

I suspect some lie, blind, into truth, on accident,

Or that they told me some things they didn't believe themselves.

(There's a taste of the things I've been wanting to tell.)

Island

You tell me “no man is an island.”

That's an interesting idea,

and one that brings you some comfort,

Which you'll no doubt continue to preach.

You insist that that I'll have to come crawling back,

To seek contact and company,

But the man who doesn't need to be believed

Doesn't need to be seen,

Which must no doubt be frightening.

How would you get leverage on him?

Things People Say

You know what annoys me just about every day?

When people say I can't have my cake and eat it.

If I tell the kid at the counter I'll have a cheeseburger,

He'd expect me to chow down once completed.

I know someone whose favorite team is the Dolphins.

He shouts “fins up!” as a rallying cry,

Which makes no sense. A real Dolphin who assumed that position

Would do so because it had died.

Of the things people say, and the no sense they make,

My most hated is “chewing the fat,”

Which sounds gross enough on its own, but remember,

It means “talking,” on top of that.

Time is Money

They say that time is money,

But I only value one,

and the more that they repeat it,

The more I'd like to run.

They say that time is money.

I hope they're almost done.

They say “time is money.”

I say:

Time should be insulted.

Penny

They say a penny saved's a penny earned,

But what if a penny spent

Is a memory made, a lesson learned

Or a new way to see old friends?

Diamonds

If diamonds are a girl's best friend,

I think that's kind of sad.

I'm a crazy, ugly, poet-man

With better friends than that.

Gentlemen

They say that gentlemen prefer blondes.
I suppose that's fair.
I'm more of an asshole, with six things I
Look at before hair.

'Tis Better Not to Crash at the End

They say the birds are lucky,
and the lovers too.
They soar while us earthbound and the
Wild skies are blue.

But I am quite at home here
On the cold ground, and
Those others seem ungainly when they
Inevitably land.