The Ultimate

Ashfall darkens the day, but at night

It softens and scatters the moon- and street-light.

It, moment by moment, grows thick on the ground

'Til it softens not only the light, but the sound

Of tentative footfalls, taken with risk

Through a landscape that soon will be barren and brisk.

I want to walk with you, hand in hand

Through a nuclear winter wonderland.

You're my beauty when skies strangle every flower,

My sweet when the skies turn the vintner's work sour.

But even if it's the last thing I ever do,

I burn to share an apocalypse with you.

Why They Don't Let a Poet Be President

I wasn't born with
the requisite talent: a
nine figure balance.

All Lives Matter

The words of a man
who will never be shot by
cops for being black.

Armageddon Horny, Pt. 2

Flowers in springtime,
foliage falls in autumn,
nuclear winter.

Get Goosesteppin'

According to Trump,
opposing Fascism is
now "Alternative."

And I'm Proud to Be an American

It takes a man like
Trump to make me proud to be
called a Liberal.

You're Fired!

Trump makes decisions
That reflect the breadth of his
Little orange Cheeto.

Armageddon Horny

All this insecure posturing

Is massively entertaining.

You got this hot and heavy,

So just do it already!

I'm having the kind of month

That just can't end soon enough.

And humanity? They had it coming.

So go ahead, push the button.

It beats waiting for global warming.

Three Chords and a Lie

Intensity, time, distance, every couple of weeks.

We're like an equation that's missing a piece.

There's nothing new you know to show me,

and perhaps you have noticed that too,

But what's been done is fun; you arrange it differently.

Together, I feel alive as ever, since my knees felt young,

and then, on schedule, to the ends of the earth we're flung.

Apart, I find syncopation; I'm mostly sure what to do.

It's not that I'm smitten, and I'm not quite addicted.

I'm just a little bit more bored without you.

To a 1980 Honda CB

Venturing outside the fence,

Moving too fast for good sense

Over the river and through the wood,

Revving it up good,

The power beneath me,

The wind in my hair,

It's like an affair:

Making excuses to be with you,

Knowing I ought not to kiss you,

Feeling more alive with you around

As long as my feet stay off the ground.

To an Ingenue, Who Deserves Better

Plenty of folks can make hearts skip a beat,

But you make a man's skip three.

You're a once-in-a-lifetime person to meet,

and a dime a dozen, that's me.

I never felt that we got close enough,

But I'm close enough to see,

To admire in you all of the good stuff

That doesn't exist in me.

Yet I know that naught comes of admiring

When it only goes the one way.

They say there's a first time for everything,

But I don't think they said it's today.

So all that's left is making myself see;

To accept these facts, deep in my mind:

That I was born nearly a decade too early,

and you were born ten times too kind.

To an Ingenue, Talking in Class

You are too young (which you're tired of hearing)

To be sick of the ride, though you've yet to try steering.

In every thought of you, I hope you really mean

That you're sick of this place, or you're sick of routine,

Or you're sick of being shuttled from the desk to the shelf,

Or even sick of time spent with the poet himself.

You won't always be locked in an ivory tower,

and our time together has ticked down to mere hours.

You're chained one more year to the life of the letter,

and I find myself hoping you find something better.

Why I Write, Part x+272: Drive It Home

I've lost some pop; I've popped, gone flat,

Replaced Bitter Bierce with soft and fat.

Now I'm the gray A-baller, just playing out the string,

An old one-trick pony still doing the same thing,

Driving a pen that sputters and coughs

Its way back to the well. I go back to the trough.

I scarcely recall having faith that I'm right.

I still wear the sword, but I skive off the fight.

I used to write because I blazed with belief.

Now I write just to turn an old leaf.

Total Loss

It's just a matter of time, but it matters.

So many miles you wouldn't know my wear pattern

Have passed under my radar and under my tread.

I aspired to leap; oft, I boiled instead.

All the cells in the boy who let you die are dead.

That idealist made by self-interest myopic

Has been wholly replaced by this consummate cynic,

So that, were I given a post-college try,

I suspect that you'd prob'ly still die.

All hail the new guy, same as the old guy.

Why I Write, Part x+271: Unicorn Blood

Of you is the gossip within my swelled heart,

So allow me to do Shakespeare's kindness, in part.

In fact, my heart won't shut up about you.

I will help you live on, just as Eos might do.

The knowledge you're near thrills my skin like a feather,

So I'd like to grant you cursed half-life, forever.

You might be immortal, but how will you know it

When committed to text by an unread blog-poet?

Why I Write, Part x+270: Why I Might Not Write Much Anymore

I failed to be the man I'd become

When you needed me, and now all is done.

I came equipped with intent, but no plan,

and I am the white-armored bannerman

Of storytelling tradition that makes women props.

Who you actually were, I have almost forgot,

Though I recall vividly how you once made me feel,

Like I need to think of myself to make you real.

Was I really your friend, or did I get confused–

the millennial Hamlet–use your ghost as my muse?

I still hope I regret my part and your ending,

But that I write of you, I'm no longer pretending,

and now that at last I have ended this lie,

We'll see how many ways I can let a thing die.

A Bad Poem for Good Times

I finally figured out which want

Is secondary need.

If contentment is elusive,

Then I've got closing speed.

It's efficient transportation

and the best part of my day.

It's called a motorcycle,

and it's my two-wheeled bae.