Why I Write, Part x+199: The Pencils and Pens

I write unabashedly,

Unapologetically, unstoppably,

Incessantly, incorrigibly

With passion and conviction and divine commission,

and now I dedicate my writing

To all of the pencils and pens that gave their lives

That I might press words to page

(Or press all the keys to this Information Age):

You are remembered, at least in passing.

My Dearest Oxymoron

I wondered how we survived long enough to meet;

I wonder now how you tolerate me.

You have the trust of a baby,

and the giggle of a baby,

and the strength of a remarkable person,

The strength of a crazy Minnesotan

Who sleeps every night with the windows open,

The strength of someone who has seen up and seen down,

Who doesn't fear flying or landing.

I promise I will never introduce you to my old crowd.

I promise I will never introduce you to my old me,

Who fit in with them.

Taste, This:

Taste is a guessing game,

A getting-to-know-you game.

It teaches you just enough

To have something to talk about.

It tells you almost nothing.

Taste is a maze of a thousand corners.

Taste is a maze of a thousand arguments.

Taste is no country for accountants.

Ultimately, taste is just a puzzle,

A print of a pastel, pastoral scene,

Punctuated by one neon-pink piece.

Woke-Up Wednesday

When I woke up Wednesday,

I wanted to skip the shower,

To brew myself a quarter of an hour.

Instead, two more hours passed,

and all I wanted was my last

Few words back, away from the ears,

Back in the shop for last-minute repairs.

Unfortunately, life isn't on repeat.

Soon enough, I just wanted off my feet.

That wish didn't have a leg to stand on.

Seeing the last hours of my workday recede,

What I wanted next was a lot something to eat,

Something nasty, six servings of several deadly sins,

So I scrounged something up; I sat down to dig in,

and that's when I learned what I wanted to know:

That all I wanted was a moment alone,

To stop wanting–to breathe.

Post-Existential Spiderweb

I stand at the hind end

Of some post-existential spiderweb,

Staring at connection beyond connection beyond connection.

Only within reach of the nearest,

I reach out in many directions, never leaving.

I consume all information that excites me,

Wishing wildly to weigh more,

Perhaps pulling perception toward my position.

I want to be the last thing they read, repeatedly.

It's senseless, and selfish, and perfectly logical,

A sole spiderweb within the soulful spiderweb.

Opposites Distract

Every moment drags

As over a road of red,

Roiling, roasting coals,

Burning my mind up,

Scraping, scratching, scoring,

Pressing passels of unwelcome partitions

Into every parcel of time.

Boredom is a universal distraction,

Hence the clock's erratic driving.

Every moment drags

As over a road of red,

Roiling, roasting coals,

Burning my mind up,

Scraping, scratching, scoring,

Pressing perception's perilous paths

Into every inch of existence.

Pleasure is a universal distraction,

Hence my mind's erratic driving.

Position

They preach. They proposition.

They jockey for position.

They appeal to all sorts of things;

Some even resort to reason.

They virtually climb over each other.

They leave no path uncovered.

For my part, I am mired

In a host of their desires

For my money and my time,

For their values and their price,

But I suppose it's nice to be liked.

An Incomplete List of Things That I Need

Passion

Compassion

Consideration

Thought

Thoughtfulness

Loyalty

Independence

Balance

Flexibility

Realistic Expectations.

A Complete List of Things That I Need:

You, to help me save myself from myself.

It scares me that you're just enough.

The Old Hand

I reach with sore hands.

I grasp with cold hands,

Hands schooled by life,

Hands scarred by living.

My hands reach one more time.

My hands grasp one more time,

Because he who hesitates is lost;

He who hesitates has lost it;

Because it's what they do;

It's what they know to do.

Clear Conscience

We've told each other uncountable things.

We've guaranteed that we both would be wrong.

Unavoidable matters are ripe to grow blame,

A morass that prevents moving on.

When you tell me not to worry about the past,

You don't use your talking-to-friends voice.

I know you want me to hate myself,

But that goes against all my self-training.

I know all you hear is your own hatred's echoes;

It drowns out my voice, and its straining.

I know it bothers you that I'm unbothered by the past,

But does this really look like my clear conscience face?

Just Because He's Right

A know-it-all with few convictions

Once made an candid prediction,

One un-masked by contradiction.

The know-it-all went unbelieved,

'Til events his vindication freed,

But just because he's right,

Doesn't mean he's not crazy.

Always Comes Back

There are some things we regret before we give up.

We stop wanting any, and can't get enough.

My everything else dropped the ball on my head.

I could have not started. I won't stop, instead.

She went from ecstatic to unhappy, quick,

With the one filthy habit that she couldn't kick.

She never asks, 'cause there's not much to know.

He doesn't ask when she's ready to go.

She still acts like she likes what she sees.

She always comes back, but not to me.

Love Is a Thing

Love is a thing,

Or so I'm told.

I have known good conversation,

Have known that many times.

I have known good sex,

Which I have been told is like pizza,

Or maybe I've been told it's like skiing–

Even when it's not good, it's still pretty good.

I have known gifts given,

and I have known gifts taken

By those armed with obligation,

With the threat of known anticipation.

I have known the dread of seeing someone,

Because I don't want this to be the last time,

But those are things,

With definitions,

That can be defined,

That can be explained,

That can be graded.

The Class Zombie, Pt. 2

They come for you from all sides,

At every particular time.

They want to hold you down.

They want to suck out your brains.

They want to make you just like them.

They did get ahold of me.

The time since, those twenty long years,

I never once fit into their box.

I never once fit into this jacket,

But at least I'm not just like them,

At least, I hope....

At least I hope.

Graduation

I have that stupid "Graduation" song stuck in my head,
Which is strange, since I haven't listened to it since 2007,
When my friend asked me to find it for her.
It could mean that I'm ready.
It could mean that it hasn't sunk in yet,
That it doesn't feel like I'm even done,
That I'm waiting for something to happen.
It could mean I'm nervous, and can't stop thinking about it,
That I'm on the very edge of feeling fear...

Thirdman

I am not who I pretend to be,

Obviously.

All of Hollywood pretends,

and only grows in emptiness.

I am not what I pretend not to be,

Whether I add by subtraction

Or replace old habits,

I can't be my opposite.

It's a matter of practice.

I am Thirdman,

Whatever lies in between.

Happy Star Wars Day, or Saturday, the 4th of May

May the force be with you.
May the horse be with you.
May the fourth be with you.
May the farce be with you.
May the farts be with you.
May The Fort be with you.
May the forks be with you.
May the floors be with you.
May the force be with you.

May the force be with you
(and also with you).