Wrestle

I wrestle my mind and its ultimate fate.
It's the poet's self-help book, to master debate.
Self-debate is self-teaching in moderate lots.
It's not there to be beaten; it's there to be fought.

The Beer-Holder

Those who wield pens, they have passion,

While addiction is in the eye of the beer-holder,

But some take to writing and beer with aplomb.

Lost in my papers, I'm praised, I'm ambitious;

Lost in my cups, they say I'm too far gone.

Why I Write, Part x+120: Addiction

I write and write.  I won't stop writin.

I take to it with single-minded passion.

I finish a project, think I'm done.

I find another and I dive right in.

How deep does this go?  Is it addiction?

Do I need it, or am I merely wantin

For more self-control, more discipline

To stomach days without my pen?

Dog People

Dog people are so much like dogs, I find,

and cat people like cats.  Do we seek our own kind?

Perhaps, without prejudice, might opposites attract?

Would dog people find themselves happier with cats?

Hunger

I live my life with the addict's hunger,
Cravings, obsessions my personality's under.
I will eat 'til I'm drowsy, drink 'til I burst,
and water and beer aren't my only two thirsts.
I will forget my own past to learn science and facts,
If my mind strays long enough from more primal acts.
I don't finish these things.  I only take breaks,
Partake whenever the right sets of parts are awake.
Living years thus aroused, I've become my own needs,
Amiss to say they just cloud what is me.

Traffic Jam

There's so rarely a traffic jam in my mind,
Which is fortunate, but a pleasant surprise.
There must be a hundred things going back and forth
While I'm not looking, for better and worse.
Am I the animal inside, or the man my conscience plays,
The inner scholar or the scumbag who comes back the other way?
I may read, write and study for hours on end,
But I don't discourse with papers.  I devour, ravish them.
Even when they're sated, my lusts are never gone,
But since they've done nobody harm, why do I say they're wrong?

Why I Write, Part x+119: I Don't Know

When do I start stopping?  How fast will I go?
You could fill a hundred libraries with what I don't know,
Beginning with life (I don't know how it started)
Or my second novel (don't know how I'll plot it).
Thus explained:  all the reading and writing I do.
I could always learn something.  It might even be true.

A Muse Delayed

A muse whose inspiration is by circumstance delayed
May be welcome and much-wanted in some unseen future day.
Perhaps my mind's eye's darkened by the shadow of some other,
Or she's bound for corners of the world to visit or discover,
But though thinnest threads of circumstance may for so long consipre,
People walk the sphere in cycles.  I return and she returns.  I write and she inspires.

A Past Wasted

Memories looked upon painfully are a past wasted.
Life is not a cause to cry.  Was laughing when I faced it.
My eyes used to rove as if wanting, and they still are,
But sharp, vicious, they cut to the irony and leave scars
Upon the mundane isolation where humor and beauty are attached.
Life must be farmed and mined for a colorful past.

Blue

Why are the poets against feeling blue?
The skies are blue; no one is higher or more free.
The oceans are blue, great, powerful and popular.
To sum up, they are in all ways cool.
I should like to feel as the ocean or the sky,
But it is not mine to be powerful or high;
Mine is only to write first, and then realize
That neither seas nor skies feel at all;
They only inflict such upon us, the gullible thralls.

Each Moment

Each moment seems to drag on as all time,

Confined in my pen – and kept from it.

The moments are fused, flow, continuous, indivisible,

But can be separated with a thought, unmeant or deliberate.

Then, each moment seems to grow,

Take on the length of the whole.

I take comfort in finally reaching the end,

Knowing I will never live through it again.

Each moment is an individual, physical particle of pleasure.

Savor them each consciously, and they may grow languid.

They come almost too quickly when you string them together,

As you try desperately to save, to recall them all,

But they cannot be brought back; to try will just waste more of them.

One-Solution Man

Sometimes the one-solution man fails to gain.

Scratch the same itch long enough and feel pain.

But you scratch my back, I scratch yours, to effect.

I felt your talent the first time, and your practice the next.

You bypass unknowing, the search and the plan.

You're enough to make me a one-solution man.

Odds

The thought of mutual concern, much less attraction, would be odd,

But chances are best at times that make you think “what are the odds?”

Negotiations, going from us two to us, start far apart and plod.

Time often makes a fizzle, like planting fireworks in sod,

and apart by the hour-teeth of that time we are sawed.

I can't blame unknowing – absent our will, or present for God's –

But, blameless and loveless, I still see you and feel a clod,

Pure, white logic passes through my prism mind thus flawed.

To the Dregs

My whole mind must be like this, half-conscious and confused.

I always drink down to the last dregs of a bad muse.

I could throw it out before it tastes like the can, but I refuse.

Every time I see you, I think I wish that you'd gone missing,

I can't stand to see you, but the sight of your lips calls for kissing.

I don't even like you anymore, but I must still want this thing.

I see you protest such attraction. We'd like it to go, but it won't.

My mind is always stubborn when I know what I'm doing. Why not when I don't?

Texture But No Substance

Things have texture but no substance.

They are here, but we manipulate them.

They are here because we manipulate them.

They have no will, and without will, no value.

(There's a second lesson in that.)

Things collide with moments in time.

They reflect the moment's value as their own,

Or perhaps both moments and things are empty,

and the collision is the alchemy of value.

We live and fill things for those we leave behind.

I Wrote a Poem For You

I wrote a poem for you:

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

The games that you played

Numbered more than a few,

Like “tear up my poems,”

and “eat up my food,”

and “wake up the neighbors

At quarter til two,”

and “love by the bike rack,”

and “love by the bike rack with someone else,”

and “out-of-line,

out-of-control,

disorganized,

discombobulating,

rants about shoes

and gas prices

and celebrity gossip

and the weather

and classic rock music

and songbirds, and runes,

and the United States

Federal Government,”

and I didn't like most of them,

But I still like you,

But to straighten my head,

It's important I choose.

It's a hard road ahead,

Worse when un-drama-proofed.

My mind's going dead.

I've got plenty to do.

I'm going to bed.

The Advice I Wish They'd Given Me at Graduation

Time changes things; feel free to date a girl you only like.

Never be early to a concert if your name is Mike.

In fact, never be early if you could be writing.

Solid's the best choice when none is exciting.

In fact, sometimes steady's better when exciting's there.

You can get involved sometimes, just try not to care.

Don't try to be cool.

It's not you.

It violates life and popularity's first rules.