Never, Ever Change

There was a time I could not picture thirty,

and another time I pictured myself

Worse for the wear and better for it.

Now, I picture thirty as a lot like thirteen

and a little bit like three hundred.

I may have grown a bit inside my skull and waistband,

and shrunk a bit inside my knees and boxers,

But I have never, ever changed.

But What About the Woman Wearing It?

The hat is two sizes too big for her haircut.

I don't know what color it used to be,

But now it's a light shade of fallingapart,

The little I can see between patches and buttons

Which hold it together and speak for it:

“12th Annual Farm Festival,”

“PETA: People Eating Tasty Animals,”

“Mean people suck,”

“Bush/Voldemort '08,”

“:)”

It lost all its seams to be falling apart at.

It is better than new.

Lame Walking Dream

I walked from task to task with no memory.

It was better than work, but a lame walking dream,

and now it's time to clean off a long day's grime,

The stains and the stubble of twelve hours' time.

I stand at the sink, half awake or still dreaming.

It doesn't seem like my hands doing the cleaning.

This thing could be sublime, and it might just be weird,

But that guy in the mirror would look better with a beard.

(F)utility

I am waking up and rushing away,

Off to mark time 'til the end of my day.

I'm working, just to make money, just to spend it,

and borrowing more–there's not enough to lend it.

I am pushed, pulled, and put off, harried and dismissed.

I am the workforce, wondering if this is all there is.

Persistence, or The Crawl Less Traveled

First they asked, and I said, “nah, I'm busy.”

Then they asked, and I said, “no thanks.”

Then they asked, and I said, “I'm going out of town.”

Then they asked, and I said, before walking away,

“I think I'm already over my legal limit of fun for the day.”

Then they asked, and I said, “sure,”

and it has made all the difference.

Not Even Boyfriend Material

Promising forever, to have and to hold

Always struck me as boring and old.

I promise that I will never say the words

“Don't look up.” I'll stare in another direction

Until you start staring the same way.

I promise you'll ask “what are you staring at?” a lot.

I promise that I will not bring my chainsaw

Inside your house or apartment.

I promise I will never put money first,

Second, or under anybody's mattress.

I promise that I will never read your mail.

Sometimes, I may choose to read mine.

I promise to tell every joke I make

Until I know that you heard it.

I promise to keep my eye on the ball;

I promise to keep my head in the game;

I promise to keep my hands to myself,

At least when I'm playing non-contact sports.

I promise that if you rank a day's two weirdest questions,

That I will have asked both of them.

I promise that I will forget things,

But I'll probably forgot I told you so.

Why I Write, Part x+221: Maunder (Again)

I remember the day when I was looking for The One

Who could satisfy multiple needs,

Who could be both physical and intellectual.

You were there, and you were perfect,

and I hope that you stay forever.

Sincerely,

Your Insane Poet

We've Met

She walks around the back corner,

Where I always sit. She says,

“Oh, there's something sitting here.”

I suppose she's new here.

Two hours later, she leans over my desk,

and asks “

Strange that I met someone today,

and I could say we haven't met.

Colorblind

I used to tell people that I was colorblind.

I won't say our backgrounds are no different; that's not right,

But people around me always talk about people as black and white,

While in my experience, they may be dark or may be light,

But they are always brown, just samedifferent enough to delight.

Just Don't Over-Oil It

In the wrong hands, it is soft and smooth.

In better hands, it feels like a notebook

An old one, the cover soaked in butter,

Knowledge and natural smoothness,

What I once thought love would be,

What I wish I could be.

In the right hands, it only feels like nirvana,

Universal truth.

Oddly Enough, Made from an Herbivore's Skin...

Flexible and supple in its cocoa skin,

What a beautiful, powerful predator,

and clever.

It merely sits back and waits

For its round, white, faster prey,

and once the predator finds its spot,

Prey has an odd tendency to fall into the jaws.

That Time When I Wasn't In A Crowded Theater (No, Really)

This is fire.

This is fire that I need,

Fire with purpose,

Artist's fire,

Fire.

That fire is a little bigger than I intended,

Fire too big for its purpose.

Fire.

Fire.

I should run.

Run.

It's funny that I can't feel the fire.

Run.

It's funny that I can't feel the running.

Fire.

Run.

Fire.

It's funny that time is moving so slowly.

Sink.

It's funny that I can't feel the cold water.

Fire.

It's funny that my hand is green.

My...

My...

MY HAND IS GREEN?!?

Control

Avarice is our society's fuel and engine oil.

It has a tendency to grow the economy and spoil

Every last inch of our souls and insides,

Making people spend their lives on the things that they buy,

So I trained myself out of it eight years ago July.

Living the modern definition of desire got old,

Trading my life away for my means of control,

But I didn't quite manage to get away,

Because you influence my thoughts of past and future from today,

and I would gladly accept you as my ball and chain,

Hopelessly enamored with my constraints.

It's The Middle Things...

We drive in half-measures–with the wheel in one hand,

With one foot on the music, eye on lemonade stands,

Until a car the other eye missed leaves a texting hand shattered.

Driving's unkind to those who forget that it matters,

Like the weather–could strand you in rain wind or snow–

Like just about anything done in a boat,

Like that friend you take for granted, who doesn't know you don't want more

Who spends years getting less, back to even the score,

Or lightening, or riptide, or the height of your roof.

They argue for attention using people as proof.

It's not the little things that kill, nor the grandest regrets.

It's the things that, whatever their size, you forget.

Lost Minutes

Your bossy's less in what, but how, to do.

It's funny. I've watched people just like you

Lose minutes blown out the window,

Out of your grasp, daily, out on the road,

You drop second after second on the ground

Wherever you stop and go and turn around.

He who lives by “a little bit at a time”

Will lose years off his life, being nickel-and-dimed.

My kind of moderation is the average of extremes;

Long lines of wild stabs affirm diversity of dreams.

Failure's part of my existence. I simply had to choose

Failure writ spectacular on time I'm bound to lose.

The Adult Diary of Amelia Bedelia

Don't break the seal if the contents are shook.

Don't judge the cover artist by the contents of the book.

Don't buy the cow if you're just here to look.

If you think you fit the line, then don't bite the hook,

and never, ever stick your emotional investment in crazy.

...But Horsehide Does Not Smell White

Leather even smells brown,

Bashfully, perhaps, but big,

Not like the dirt, the earth,

Which is everywhere beneath us

and hardly smells brown at all.