The Speed Limit

Behind someone who drives below the speed limit,

Waiting in line for tickets I don't want to use,

Making three trips to get three things,

Arriving anywhere seventeen minutes early

(I don't believe in being early if I could be writing),

Waiting ten minutes and three twists for the end

Of an interminable conversation about a conversation,

Playing Sisyphus with a sprinkler and a lawn mower,

Eight unconcious, unremembered hours of sleep

(Every. Single. Night.  For Years.  I'm like to weep.)

And the ten minutes it takes to regain my place

Every time someone interrupts my reading –

If you want to talk about years of my life wasted, start there.

Stumble Through Life

Thought I'd see well to not stumble through life

But I didn't.

I found every single one of those blocks

and I hit it.

They always hide them in the funnest places.

“They” are cruel.

“They're” the ones who make us claustrophobic,

Make the rules.

I'd stand up, brush my clothes off, loosen up

and then I'd fall.

From the ground, I'd see the cost and meaning

Of standing tall.

McMansion

Dear, drear, ever-constructed McMansion upon the hill,

With your five-car driveway and great stone retaining wall,

You seem to sprout expansions, like venal little cancers.

You seem to be an attempted upper-middle-class edifice.

You have no eyes for your surroundings. You do not know where you are.

Here, edifices are the sole province of nature, unmatched

By your substandard materials or your yearly coat of paint.

You are the sad little king of a past-its-prime hill.

Someday, one hill up, they'll build a bigger McMansion than you.

Until then, enjoy the view.

What It Says

Nothing means what it says.
Nothing in this world is literal.
It's all a symbol.
"It's not a decoration, it's a table,"
Is an aesthetic philosophical statement,
But I just need a place to set my things.
"I don't want to hold up the line"
Is often an excuse for leaving.

This is no place for an honest man.

Physical

The sight of your eyes, which quickens my heart,
and the sight of your smile, which stops it,
The feel of your skin, grass-smooth and kitten soft,
Which was mine memorably, but not oft.
The sound of your voice, of your breath, of your laugh...
Everything we had was physical
and I can't quit it.

Before My Eyes

I see life flash before my eyes
Daily, in the form of other people.
One gesture, two strides and they're gone,
But I react, or think about them.
I find it is more profitable to react than to think.
I see them with their coffee,
and the smell revolts me,
But whatever.  It gets them through their day.
I hear things discussed I've no mind for,
Movies, gossip, nameful nothings,
and realize I am eavesdropping.  I stop.
The man in front of me in line
Ruins his burger with a mountain
Of strong-smelling pickle and onion.
It's his disgusting lunch, not mine.
I see a woman run by outside,
Recommended daily exercise
The better to preserve life.

Not Very Smart

I hate that I stuttered the first time I saw you.  I hate that I took long to act.
I hate that I don't know the right thing to say, that I bored you with stories and facts.
My life is one long, storied history, doing things that aren't very smart,
But hating myself for losing a race to someone who had a head start?

Narratives of Progress

I wake knowing there's something wrong with the world, our culture and our ways,

Knowing there's room for change in the world. Time to be it. Time today,

Time for an old-fashioned fire sale. Our outdated lives must go,

Replaced by the new and improved world I want for my progeny to know.

I wake knowing I'm full content with the world, just like the day before.

I have everything that a man like me needs. I'd feel wrong to ask for more.

Time marches on, wind-aided always by unstopping, careless change,

And those content, satisfied with life now are tramped 'neath the parade.

Why I Write, Part x+118: At Least This Way...

My writing is free...at least, I make the rules.

It's a blessing to me, 'cause it keeps my mind cool.

I've never found something to slow down its turning

Or to cut down on friction, which heats me to burning,

But my writing makes product of the fire and steam.

It's a vent on my roof-peak, or to me it so seems,

But outsiders might say it's compulsive addiction,

and it's burning my mind with a new kind of friction.

Well, if that's the case, I'm still cooked, I'm still done,

But if I burn up this way, at least I'll have fun.

Two By Two, Have No Clue

My heart doesn't have what my mind knows this takes.

It's too soon to risk suffering foolish mistakes

With a woman who's stingy with words and with hints

Even though I look closely, examine and squint.

I can't help but look closely, can't help lingering long.

If I decide against action, I'm probably not wrong.

My diary's sore from my written-form praying

That he'll notice and listen to what I'm not saying.

If he'd only just ask me, I'd go right along

With his plans and my dreams and his influence strong.

We'd move so very quickly if only he'd start.

Why can't that man read what he wrote on my heart?

Bluntly

Sometimes cliches are too sharp for my ears;

I need reckoned bluntly my sins and my fears,

To know that it's right when I rage, sob, and shake,

To suffer, as others, my cruelest mistakes,

Because sometimes sharing pain is what I need to learn.

One doesn't know the truth of fire 'til he knows the truth of burn.

That Kind of Morning

I wake up to see that it's that kind of morning.

God smiles the brightest without any warning,

In the form of a sunset that throws windows wide

and wraps my lover's forms in my arms and light,

and I might be God-tempted to stay here in bed,

But such a morning it's best to get up, live instead.

Summer in Montana, Pt. 5: August

August is a month of misery and new beginnings.

In my corner of the world, it usher's academe's first inning

With the sun's fiery whip and sweat's silken chains.

It abuses, oppresses. It frustrates and strains,

Til one curiosity’s all that helps me soldier on:

The year's hottest hour's just before summer's gone.

Child-Me

Child-me had no patience for English class,

For the meeting of meter and rhyme.

Did you notice we oft thank the stars for things

We couldn't stand at the time?

You Were/I Was

You were my girl. I was your boy,

Neither would play the other's toy,

Would the back other's schemes and ploys.

At first some plotting just annoys,

But over time grows, eats, destroys.

For good or ill, we made such noise.

Your Cue

In haste begun,

We had such fun,

A stellar run.

We jumped the gun,

Said “you're the one,”

and if we're done,

Recall all you

and I've been through.

We got our due.

We've both dropped clues.

Now take your cue.

To whit: go screw.

The Hill and Grass

The hill and grass once seemed a trap,

Worse use of time than just a nap,

The time alone too high a cost,

With it and games both too be lost.

Ignoring seemed the better plan

To adolescent Pirates fans,

But now, nostalgia takes its cue.

In summer, what else is there to do?

Watch Steeltown's nine, or extra innings.

So much the better that they're winning.

Now that the Bucs have winning ways,

It betters all my summer days.