Unrequiters

I don't walk down that hallway
Anymore.
He's always there, and I know
the Score.
Charity, to impress me, his concern
For the Poor,
Last week it was art, tomorrow music
Or politics, or

You know why they don't write poems
For the unrequiters?
To start, it's as boring as hell, and
We haven't done anything to deserve it.

Right There

I don't know what you were thinking,
I don't know what you were doing,
I know you had us going there, but,
I don't know why you're so proud of it.

Coming from the guy who
Was never good at anything,
Was never there for anyone,
Was never much of a man,

That was pretty fucked up, right there.

Manning the Line

The stale steam rises,
From twenty-two smokestacks.
Factory football,
Manninig the line.

Crouching colossus,
I face
A hormone-fueled,
Muscular ball of hate.
He springs from his stance,
I retreat, mirror his advance.

My arms, springs coiled;
His first ploy already foiled,
He cuts back, repositions,
for a new angle of attack.
Shuffling leviathan of nimble feet,
Tearing up turf as we violently meet.

He reaches out to
Tear me to the ground,
knock me down,
then run around.

Coiled springs fire
ONE
TWO
THREE
Blows jar me from neck to gut,
The last one sends my foe to his butt.

Averting the crisis:
The taste of triumph.
Factory football.
Back to the line.

Steam rises...

Margins

I took 3 from column A,
and a Few from column B,
Then scribbled in the margins.
And Look how that's gone...

I Don't

I do not know you...
I don't like you...
I don't hate you...
I do not miss you...
...but I want to.

Mistake

Half-Baked
Give and take:
I'm not a mistake
You want to make.

Throw you over
Or share the covers?
Will I hover
Or take lovers?

There's always time
For pleasures divine,
But soon comes the time
Life puts chips on the line.

Roses aren't blood.
They're cowardly-tough.
We'll have to give up.
We won't be enough.


Not the Same

Turn the Heat Up.
Deadlines, Lovers,
Running, Roiling,
Boiling Over.


Then pull me off -
I'm not the same.
All or nothing,
That's the game.

I Now Pronounce You Sisyphus and Martha Stewart

This should never have happened.
You and I had nothing in common.
Maybe something.  Nothing real.
You and I were together,
At cross-purposes,
With the world, and each other.

You pitied.  I imagined.  We saw a movie.
That was a good movie, I'll admit.
I healed.  You imagined something else to pity.
You healed, enough to imagine intimacy.
You fed me, because you loved me, you said.
I know that's why I said I bought you things.

I dismissed you.  You ignored me.
You suggested.  I deflected.
I suggested.  You protested.
I taught you that excuse, you know,
and You went and used it on me.
I suppose you make me weak.

That man at the Courthouse, he
Prounounced us Sisyphus and
Martha Stewart.  It never did
Make any sense.  I guess I imagined
It.  Did I get less pitiful with age?
A miracle.

You can keep the ring.
I want the liquor cabinet:
Goodbye in ten words or less.
I always said too much.

Why I Write, Part x+1

I once wrote a poem.
I put my heart into it, some.

It was passionate, and
Appreciative, Altruistic,
Broad, Brazen, Bombastic,
Bipolar: Balancing Baggage.
Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful
Friendly, Courteous, Kind,
Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty,
Brave, Clean and Reverent.

And all that Bullshit.

I believe I closed with the words:
All of You out there,
Who are reading this (or not):
Thank You.
You
Are Why I Write.

Well, guess what:
So am I.

Why I Write, Part x: A Message

A message for Mom and Dad:
thank you.
some of those times you didn't tell me
to shut up,
I learned that I don't always have to,
even if sometimes I should have.

A message for my Brother: thank you.
We spent so much time,
Over so many years,
just Talking.
Because you listened, I have a voice.

A message for Rusty
with the Red Hair and the Stories: thank you.
You taught me that I like to write.
I think that might have been important.
We'll see.

A message for all those who
Put up with my writerly
Eccentricities.
If I were as patient as you,
My writing might ring more true.

A message for those older (or younger)
and Wiser, who treated me like
I have something worthwhile to say: thank you.
You were probably wrong,
But that's beside
the Point.  It was sweet of you.

A message for a Particular Pair of Professors: thank you.
It's your fault I think poetry is relevant to me.
You got me into this medium,
and I'm enjoying trying to climb back out of it.

A message for Emily Dickinson: thank you.
You taught me to write,
A little bit.
I'm not done learning.
You're certainly not done teaching, but
It's been real.  See you on the other side.

A message for my Friends,
my enemies, my Family,
For random fucking people I see in random fucking places: thank you.
You give me something to write about,
And someone to practice on,
Even if the last thing you were thinking about
Was giving me something.
A special thank you to the particular random people
In particular, random places
Whom I loved from a distance.
I wrote you a poem.  Now go read it.

A message for my past lovers: thank you.
I have no idea what I am writing about.
Somehow, each of you,
Have helped me a little bit closer,
To knowing that.  To knowing Life.
After all, you have to write what you know.

A message for Modern Culture: thank you.
For the most part, I live in a state of
Constant, passionate inability to stand you,
But you did give me something to be passionate about.

A message for Ford, Henry and Alexakis, Art: thank you.
There's just something about being able to tear down the road at 90MPH, windows down,
SCREAMING
"THEY CANNOT HURT YOU UNLESS YOU LET THEM!"
at the top of my lungs.
It's really very empowering, trust me.

A message for beyond the grave:
I'm sorry
I wasn't there.  I should have been.
I've stopped blaming myself,
a little, but
That part is my fault.

A message for the Grave Itself:
You can take me,
and my Family,
and possibly even some of my Friends before I go.
But you can't take this.
Writing doesn't die.  It only goes into hiding.

A message for the intrepid,
Trepidatious Writers:
your Writing can always go into hiding,
if You want it to.
Maybe sometimes, though,
You should put It into the world,
and let It decide on Its own.
Maybe hiding is not where It belongs.

A message for everyone,
All of You out there,
Who are reading this (or not):
Thank You.
You
Are Why I Write.

Fiery

as She dances like that, in front of me,
she doesn't know what she's doing, so perfectly,
Fiery.  She sears my eyes.
She stirs the hot, delicious hell-stew in my mind.
She's dangerous, and taken, in fact,
so that's the end of that...

I Saw You

It's been so many years since I saw you, my friend.
Yet I need just one moment to see you again.
I need only to close my eyes, to pretend,
to get back to those wonderful places we've been.

Take me back to that place where nothing is wrong,
to that place where you sang me that Everclear song.
Let's go now dear, because I know before too long,
I'll return to my conscious mind, where I belong.

I know you so well by your eyes, smiling free.
I know you and love you, impersonally.
For we met as two drivers, passing at speed,
and our love was so beautiful, never to be.

Typecast

As I drift through the day,
there are roles that I play.
Do I play them by nature,
or directed, on stage?

Always reticent, shy,
except when in class,
today, wake to find
I've been typecast.

I ask myself, all shift,
would it help--
to know who wrote the script,
the world?  Or myself?

People and Things

People and things live apart in my mind.
Each have their place and appropriate time.
Those places and times, they always arrive,
but rarely accompanied as I desire.

When I'm reading or writing, the phone always rings.
Work pulls me from friends and pretextual games.
It seems, in the act of tracing a day,
I and the world move the opposite way.

Alone, I get lost learning little-known facts.
Oh! To know the euphoria-guilt of this act!
Our world has little use for a man
Who feels the canyon between "talk" and "chat".

Yet as I gaze up at the well-marbled sky,
I re-learn that God likes me...I don't know why.
So I wait for the quiet.  Then, I can find
the lyric release for this ill-fitting mind.

Branches

Arms spread like branches,
Under shadow of branches.
Cool grass on my back
While the sun heats the rest
of the world up.
The only part of summer
That doesn't suck.

Holding

I've put so many little things in life on hold
until I figure out how to do the rest like I'm told.
But doesn't everyone?
And does anyone?

Life is Where

Is life a great journey; is each day a stride?
Is life a great mystery, to be solved by keen eyes?
Is life some deep spectacle, experience uncontrolled?
Is life a beach, or someplace cold?
Life is just something that passes through water.

It moves.

Where is life lived? Is it all in our minds?
Or is life lived in our bodies' feelings and doings?
Is life in the spaces between us,
an ocean of people ebbing and flowing?

Life is where everything happens.
It's the place to be.
Everyone ends up here sooner or later.

Make yourself at home.