The Life You Want

The life you want for me

Is pretty,

A life thinking of how I'm saving my money,

Instead of spending my time intuitively,

But I don't want to settle for pretty.

I want a life of beauty.

I was once your baby.

I am not your dolly.

Stop trying to make me

Into the woman you think you should be.

Those People, Pt. 2

I am without the company

Of some who meant a lot to me.

I was lost when the Lord

Pulled out all the starters,

Left my life less populous.

Whatever was between us,

I hope you always knew

I was better to have known you.

I'll be lost without the company

Of those who mean a lot to me.

Whatever lies behind us

Is plenty not enough.

To those who pulled me through:

I am better that I know you.

I, nervous, seek the company

Of those who lie ahead of me,

Who I hopefully don't scandalize

Before I start to realize

That they'll mean something to me soon.

I will be better, once I know you.

Meet Your Master

I have known the few right moments,

and I have known hundreds of the wrong ones.

I know my way around the in-between.

I am the master of the moment,

and in all those moments, I have known myself.

I have known the me that mollified,

and I have known the one who horrified.

I am the master of myself.

So I think that I will know my moment

Before it is present.

I think, one day, I will call down to death,

That harmless little traitor,

and tell her to come and meet her master.

I Stayed Darkened

You were always sure I could see for myself.

I though only I saw how much you helped.

My eyes were oft blurry before I first wept,

But one eye stayed darkened from the night that you left.

You wouldn't believe what it took to open:

It wasn't until I heard our mutual friend,

Our mutual creation,

Fifty pounds of bounce and Rawlins leather,

Too young to know any better,

Say “I wish you, instead of she, had died,”

and I said, “so do I,”

“Son, so do I.”

Why I Write, Part x+198: Those Frantic Moments

I love those frantic moments,
Searching for anything to do,
Except for that one thing I don't want
and do need to.
It's a skill I've learned.
It's an all-purpose excuse.
They say procrastination burns;
I say it's the ultimate muse.
I can write about the process.
I can write about the product,

Or I can write about whatever the farce I want.

A Little Too Full/Complain of Emptiness

I'm a little too full to complain of emptiness,

But my sides will fold in at the slightest distress.

How many restless nights will I reduce

To another new story, a proximal excuse?

How many wakings in sickening dread

Will I blame on fatigue, or the flu, or my head?

How many angst-ridden rhymes will I write

Before I find answers, the end of the line?

The problem is, I don't know where to start.

Am I missing someone, or my own Grinch-sized heart?

Am I craving a challenge, some new summit to climb,

Or should I search for serendipity–people, places and times?

I think we all have a monster to feed.

We don't know what we're looking for,

We just know that we need.

Had/Didn't

I know what you had that I didn't:

A soul, a heart, a brain, a mission,

Talent and toughness, reason and rhythm,

A history of making less-than-stupid decisions,

Support at home, and more from close friends,

A path, a plan, a future, and a bad end.

What I've never been able to figure out:

What in our lives was the other way around.

What did I have, that you didn't?

What did we both need, that only I had?

Why did it have to go so bad?

It Isn't Just

If you asked for the reason,

I couldn't give one answer.

It isn't just the posture,

The arms folded like a mother

Or an impatient stranger

Or a substitute teacher,

Nor just your expression,

Which leaves the face of a friend

On the verge of unfamiliar,

Nor just your own clipped answers,

But I'm worried.

And I don't worry.

Getting Over, Pt. 2

I have a future,

Much to my chagrin.

(When you don't want an ending,

It seems toxic to begin.)

I have a future,

Much to my dismay,

Though I overlook it, finding

Silver linings in today.

I come to terms with moving forward

By narrowing my sight,

By moving closer to the long term

In one short term at a time.

Is this called getting over,

Or just not growing up?

Getting Over, Pt. 1

I put in the work,

Though not in those terms–

Unsolicited kindness

For the sake of spending time–

But she wants nothing to do with me.

I want to throw my phone,

Turn it into choking hazards,

Like the last one,

But only for a second.

Then I don't, because it's not worth the effort.

Is that called getting over,

Or just getting older?

Secret Shame

All my friends have secret shame.

Folks do, without exception.

Thinking I will see them differently

Is cause for their deception.

They're right to think I'll change my mind,

But wrong to dread or fear.

Their destinations I admire already;

Why not their journeys to here?

Built to Last

No moment, no mighty mountain peak of time
Was built to last.
They are eroded, brought lower
By the falling rains of time,
That cascade of presents past.

Then, as the moment grows less dizzying,
As it becomes less sharp,
It begins to serve as a refuge,
A place of comfort.
One moment produces double the joy
Once one can appreciate what it has become,
As well as what it was.

Pursuit of the Good Life

Americans dream of three fundamental rights:

Liberty, Property, and Pursuit of the Good Life,

But politics get in the way of that dream,

When nobody can figure out what good life means.

For every family to making home drawn,

A clique of carousers shouts,“let's get it on!”

Neither of those examples shall this poet heed–

Four more years without puking is all that I need.

Why I Write, Part x+197: Skip

I skip over words like a kid over kerbs.

Poetry and sidewalks both have lines,

Which I will step right over,

If that's where I'm going.

Sometimes, I actually write what I meant.

It rarely if ever looks how I expect.

If my writing ever went the way I planned,

That would be an interesting day.

Probably a boring poem, though.

Strange Angels

A cold keeps me out of school on picture day.

Searing back pain keeps me awake

Long enough that I check my alarm.

A flat tire keeps me out of a pile-up and greater harm.

They're out of beer at concessions, where a foul ball is hit.

There's no doubt about it–

God has sent me all kinds of strange angels.

Just a Man/Group Work

I'm not just a man.
I'm the grizzled veteran
Of sixteen hundred poems
and a ravenous scavenger of television,
So I can't help thinking
I could have written a better ending,
But I wasn't the only one
Holding a pen.

That's why I hate group work.

I'm Sure You Remember/You've Probably Forgotten

I was nervous that first time, out in the park.

I might not have dared if it hadn't been dark.

I'm sure you and I both remember the theater.

You've probably forgotten the parking meter.

I walked through a blizzard to get to the bridge,

As sweet as any of the places we've repeated.

I can never decide on which is our best kiss,

Until I concede that it's whichever is last.