An Incomplete List of Incomplete Lists

An incomplete list of things that I am:

Writing,

A writer,

A fifth-rate poet,

Pretending to be a fourth-rate poet,

On my way to becoming a teacher,

On my way to becoming repetitive,

On my way past remotely funny,

At a world-record rate of speed.

An incomplete list of things I am not:

Ready for bed,

Ready for this,

Ready to quit,

Waiting for you,

Waiting for Godot,

Waiting on somebody already,

Waiting in the lobby,

A patient in the lobby,

Patient,

Alright,

Sane,

Done.

Nightly, Pt. 2, or To Frederick Turner

Every day, they hand me twenty-four hours,

Then they–different they–come and take about twelve away,

and I write to get away from the rest of it.

I have no relevant role models or experience

For that way to live,

So I start every day as a sleep-deprived wreck,

Lose a fight with microsleep every time I'm at rest,

and try to make up for it by asking unclear questions

and interrupting whoever's nice enough to answer them.

TL;DR: I think I have something to say.

I know I couldn't tell you what it is. Yet.

Aliens

I've heard it said that all the great ballplayers are aliens,

But I don't think I believe a word of that.

Can you imagine if the second coming of our lord and savior,

Stan Musial, began with the words “take me to our leader?”

Talk about the blind leading the omniscient.

But I'm quite certain that all the great poets were aliens,

and even some of the lousy ones.

I Intended

I intended to be a fullback when I grew up,

But by that time, it wasn't a real job anymore.

I intended to make this a perfect birthday,

But it turns out that I'm a middling present person,

and as much of a card person as I am a thin person.

I intended to get a drink of water,

But my dumb ass got lured into conversation,

Which is what generally happens,

Just not for three and a half hours.

If I did everything I intended to do,

That would be an interesting day.

The World Is Too Hot

On average, the world is too hot

To breathe and wear jeans at the same time,

But it turns out that I'm just a wimp,

Because in cosmic terms, it's frigid to lukewarm.

Our world is a pea in the solar system,

A mite in the galaxy.

In cosmic terms, our world is a little speck of nothing,

All covered in oceans and ranges and bases and chasms,

and the whole thing fit to give photographers an orgasm.

God rubbed our world out of his eye in waking,

and we didn't deserve as much.

Sparing Words For You

I am willing to risk sparing words for you.

I've heard it theorized that they are limited,

Like years and heartbeats and second chances,

and that you only live as long as it takes to use them,

But if that were actually true,

I would have given myself a heart attack

On September Eighteenth, Twenty-Twelve,

So really, I have the rest of my life for words.

So really, I have the rest of my life for thoughts,

and right now, my thoughts are about you,

But my life is not.

Nontraditional

To call us “nontraditional” would give a bad name

To the classic kind of couple who just happen to be gay.

We shout at each other over every kind of distance.

We go weeks where we don't hear, and months where we don't listen.

My heart waits here, blood-rare yet burnt to a crisp

With no reason to go on other than this:

Whatever's behind my face brightens to see your profile pic.

I guess that these days, that's what romance is.

It's Apparent

It's apparent that we came from different worlds.

That's what drew you to me in the first place,

and if I looked down on everyone who's like not me,

I'd be even lonelier than I prefer.

It's just as apparent that we will never work out.

The differences we were both willing to overlook

Are differences neither were able to overcome.

Go Where You Go

I don't always want to go where you go,

But where you are, I wish I was, and I want you to know.

I can't ignore the way we always agree,

Or maybe I do ignore what I don't want to see,

and it's true that I talked myself out of you once,

But now it's obvious that one wasn't enough.

About Amanda

The thing you need to understand about Amanda...

Okay, I won't lie to you. There is no understanding her.

The thing you need to keep in mind about Amanda

Is that she was once as normal as you and...other normal people.

Then one day, she just woke up and said “I wanna be interesting.”

The implications are astounding.

The thing you need to know about Amanda

Is that most of us are built to be workers and husbands and mothers.

In a race of conveyor-belt people, Amanda would be an eagle.

She soared so high that she made herself invisible–

The one true kind of beautiful.

The thing you need to remember about Amanda

Is that no matter how long she's been gone,

There are some of us who will never forget her.

These Messages

The United States Sasquatch Society

Of Bigfoot Hunter Hunters

Will be holding a meeting regarding the continuing,

Convenient, exaggerated rumors of our nonexistence,

Our highly-successful gaslighting campaigns in

British Columbia, Washington, Oregon, California,

Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Idaho, Oklahoma, Texas,

Ontario, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana,

Ohio, Kentucky, West Virginia, Tennesee, Alabama,

Georgia, Florida, North Carolina, and New York,

and the increasing absenteeism at our meetings.

This message will self-destruct in ten...

A Hammer

When all you have is a hammer,

Everything starts to look like a nail,

But if all you are is a hammer,

Your strategic vision is irrelevant,

and it's hard to peer up the chain of command

For a lack of innovation.

I Never Noticed

I never noticed that I spend my days

Eating what's ready-to-microwave,

Teaching what comes already planned,

Writing what's so formulaic it should be banned,

and listening to pre-made rhyme, melody and meaning.

This is the first time I noticed all the packaging.

Why I Write, Part x+188: Exaggerating

A friend of mine has claimed I've written rhymes for everything,

But I swear to you, he's full of it–okay, exaggerating.

I don't write about my childhood–how babysitters dressed me,

Or the cops who came to Pizza Hut to wrongfully arrest me.

I don't write of architecture or interior design.

I don't write about my glasses, mopping floors or drinking wine.

I never even wrote word one about the number two,

and like I promised to myself, I write no more of you.

I Have Only Seen You Scowl

When you walk by and look over, I have only seen you scowl,

But you can't care if I notice, so you'll never hear me howl.

The majority's no tyrant that I'd like to contend with,

and you, its representative, are no one I'll be friends with.

I'd rather not have worked with you, and I don't want to play,

Why don't you keep your head down? Why don't I go on my way?

Thirty Thousand Stories

I tell thirty thousand stories; on facebook, have three hundred friends.

I have a whole load of experience with less-than-ideal ends.

I've known that I can't stay here, and sometimes that knowledge burns,

But I sooth it knowing you're a friend worth leaving on good terms.

First I Was Angry, and Then I Was Hungry

I thought I would feel empty when you left me,

But first I was angry, and then I was hungry,

Which sure sounds like myself in my entirety.

There were no torrents of a downpour when you left me,

Not even a drop while I was in the library.

The skies stayed intact, and held their height, too.

The clouds parted a little, enough to see the moon,

and I known you'd someday leave me, though what could I do?

What hurt most, is why gloat without you?