311 Would Dig It

My heart hot, my blood cold, my emotions mixed,
I stand on the spot, unformed and transfixed
As a bolt of brilliance rips into the night.
The dark storm and dim slumber are, for the moment, set alight,
Marbling the black and the charcoal gray with white.
It feels wrong to take in, as splendr'ous sight,
Zeus getting in his destruction for today,
But what doesn't get less ugly, far away?

Love Is Deaf, pt. 2

I will be stunned to disbelief.

I will cry myself to sleep.
I will crave your approval,

and dread your touch.

I will spend mornings

Looking in the mirror

Searching for a flaw,

For what it was you saw

That inspired you to say that,

Searching for my self-esteem,

and I will pretend I didn't hear.

Love Is Deaf

It's the only sound that truly clears my head.

It's the only sound that could ever scare me to death.

It's the sound of unexpressed frustration.

It's my idea of celebration.

It's the final destination

For life's many awkward situations,

Like thinking you're to stupid to notice how I feel

(Like being too smart to open your eyes).

My Personal World, Part 23: The Haunted House In My Head

I don't remember the names, just the notes
That fill my head and my bedroom with ghosts,
Which is neither surprising nor quite the usual.
I'm left wondering if I'm really delusional,
If the chords wore shortcuts down in my head,
Or if I'm just easily (musically) led.
Keep the mix right, watch the ghosts coalesce;
One wrong song, they leave with unwanted gentleness,
Drawing back into the darkness, dancing dirges
To a second-rate soundtrack.

It's Not Reminiscing If You Wouldn't Go Back

I have been a shell of a soul,
a wanting well, a bottomless whirlpool.
I have known the gnawing nothing,
Been a tongueless, toothless vacuum.
I have lived through settle-for-anything,
Lived long enough to give myself this gift:
I have taken in just enough
To be empty, and hungry, but picky.

Rorschach and Juliet

I doubt that I remember the first time
I saw a beautiful face,
But I think I remember the first time
I saw a face as beautiful.
I wondered when I would be old enough
To date a woman like that.
To this day, when I see a beautiful face
It causes me to question.
I wonder what her favorite subject
In school used to be,
Or whether she would still have children
If she knew she had a choice,
Or if she could suggest a better way to write
Than starting with "I remember,"
Or whether she knows what I do
On the internet,
and whether my motorcycle is cursed,
So I will never find an empty road.

#WeCanLandOnACometButICant

I remember when there were stars.
I remember looking at them,
and then being too busy.
I remember looking for them,
and seeing only an aqueous blur.
I think I could see them now,
If I could remember to look—
If I could remember to stay still
To do anything but gaze into your eyes
and wonder why I can't find what I lost,
Or why we haven't replaced it,
Or how creepy I must be coming off right now.
I have found no answers there,
Only more difficult questions,
The kind I can never seem to ask aloud.
We can land on a comet,
But I can't even land on my feet,
Falling into chaos
and a deep blue sea
Teeming with life
Not my own.

Lies My Devices Told Me, Pt. 2

My phone says I am out of minutes.

Sounds ominous,

But what it thinks it means

Is that I can no longer talk to people,

and a mere cover story that is

For the bigger lie, the salesmanship,

the fortune-seeking foray into flattery—

Implying that I know how to talk to people

In the first place.

Lies My Devices Told Me, Pt. 1

The camera always lies.

It doesn't add ten pounds,

Or affix funny filters.

Photoshop is a mere fib

Next to the lies of the lens,

Which says that you are visible,

That it is even possible

To see or look at people.

You can only see a body.

You can only know a person,

Or maybe, if you're lucky,

You can understand.

Glass Half Broken

If wishes and hopes
Were bishops and popes,
We'd be knee-deep in goop,
With more chiefs than soup—
An ill-starred cohort.
Life's more brutish and short
and less Harry Potter.
(I've known chasers and beaters.)
I don't use fractions on water,
Just milliliters.

It Isn't You [It Is You (It Isn't Just You)]

You're not “someone I can talk to.” I'm just talking.

I never did learn shame, discretion, or inhibition.

And sure, I'm comfortable enough around you to nap,

But that doesn't mean a thing; I didn't sleep in your lap.

I trust my sleeping safety to my girth and my wheeze,

and all those times I shook Death's hand at cocktail parties.

I did wake up and have to ask what time it is,

But never know; I usually wake up and think that I'm still a kid.

In short, don't go reading into anything I do.

It isn't you. It is you. It isn't just you.

To a Girl at Safeway, Whose Time I Wasted

I have misread, miss-stepped, and misquoted.
My demons have grown scratchy-throated
From the smoke I've been blowing 'bout being improved,
But I oft' spend the half-minute that I need to choose
You as the best of ten years of mistake.
It was honestly made, with the lowest of stakes.
No one was left hurt when all was done...

...and it really did seem like you'd be fun.

The Only Part of Romance I Remember How to Do

I wish I hadn't done some of what I did.

I wish you hadn't done most of what you did.

I wish we hadn't done a single thing we did.

I wish you didn't exist.

The problem isn't what we did, or what we do,

Or even the fact that you exist.

It's just that that I don't know any way to

Forget about it.

Results of the Experiment were Unrepeatable

I have gotten into trouble

Wanting to be different,

Wanting to be better,

Wanting to be something.

I have gotten into trouble

Wanting to believe,

Because there is a river wide enough.

There is a mountain I can't climb,

and just because I did it

Doesn't mean it's not impossible.

Broken Glass, Broken People

If you don't understand, then you can't comprehend
All the lies told to eyes by the mirror and the lens.
You don't recognize my person, just a body and a face,
A house, or perhaps a prison—a place—
A dilapidated shack I didn't ask to inherit,
A mere maladaptive manufacturing defect.
You can't begin to meet, or even to see me
Until you read.

Beauty/Beast, or Little Miss Belle the Impaler Visits Waterloo

I know you as beauty; I know you as beast.
I know you by reputation, at least.
I've heard that you rip; I've heard that you tear
With the pearliest gleam of young teeth in your hair.
I've heard you befuddle; I've heard that you lie.
I've been warned that you always smell blood on new guys.
I doubt we're well metered;  I doubt we rhyme.
I doubt I'll convince you I'm not worth the time.
I'm sure you'll dare, and I'm sure you'll deign,
But you'll fine I'm a bit of a sponge for pain.
You can play to take, and I'll play for keeps.
It's only a game if you cannot weep.

Sir Isaac Newton Would Dig It

As a male, I'm a failed silver-tongued salesman

Who could ply minds with lies that only sound right,

But my sin of sloth saves me from doing work that's worse.

I'm not just fallen; I've hit every branch on the way down.

I used to be arrogant, advanced, ahead of my age.

I grew to be both proud and guilty about my gifts;

Had prodigious percentage of those pounded out, was still prolific.

I haven't just fallen; I've really fallen off.

Once a nerd nursing a nascent, narcotic need to be normal,

Stripping myself off to sell off everything that separates me,

I have taken a turn toward taking time to track down solitude.

I guess you could say I've fallen off the bandwagon.

Half a Hermit Speaks (Again)

I almost worry that I've been too quickly smitten

By eyes that well watched the world's story written,

By the charitable heart that lies below that sour face,

By creating a problem in my life that I didn't create.

I want you to ask if I always fall for someone older.

I want to tell you that I fall for beauty, when I get bolder.

I hope I can help you find the companion you're looking for

In another,

Because we are never, ever, ever

Moving in together.

Half a Hermit on the Seductiveness of Solitude

It's not that I go out of my way not to talk to you.

It's not that I don't want to talk today.

It's not that I don't want to talk again.

It's not your fault that I'm an extraterrestrial,

Perpetually unable to agree

On anything that humans actually believe.

I'm just overly attracted to a life

Where hours don't turn into the assembly line

At an outrage factory.

Who's not with me?!

My Entire Existence Is Up Here, Buddy!

I know how shuffling evolved from walking,

How people-watching turns into shoe-watching.

I know how hoping turns to hiding,

Or ambition into self-confiding.

I know how mem'ries turn to shame.

I, too, have sought unused parts of my name

As a symbol of self to dispose of, erase.

Let's meet each other where we live—behind a face.

The Truth in Two Lies

I see the smile behind the doubts.

You gave me a chance, and I figured it out,

Had this honor, discov'ring who you'll be someday.

I'm thrilled, though you'll leave me behind on the way.

On the way back, you can always find me.

I haven't got anywhere better to be.

I see the truth and the lie in your smile,

Too kind for contempt when not mixed with denial.

Your grin bears and bares it. When you greet, you grieve

For a time, 'til for better things you, too, shall leave.

Until then, you and I are bound here to remain.

I've no better choices, and you have no say.

The Advice I Wish They'd Give You at Graduation

I wish I could go back and tell you

What you meant to the people you knew.

I wish I could go back and tell you

That I've lived parts of what you've been through.

I wish I could go back and tell you

That everyone and everything they taught you—said—

Will never be enough,

That you must teach yourself to be enough.

I wish I could go back and tell you—

Show you—that it can be done.

I wish I could go back and tell you

That our times were the best of my life,

But I can't.

I wish I could go back and tell you,

But I no longer wish I could go back.

Wisdom from the Top of a Filing Cabinet

I believe ballplayers move like symphony song.
This smile will name no hunger under home sky.
She is hurting my thirsty heart.
Water grows you up.
Rhythm filling me—
Need to fly.

Buy Some Land! Buy Some Land!...

A dealer who goes by Ill Kenny,

Whose rims cost him a beautiful penny,

Parked his customized Caddy

Near an ambitious laddy.

Where he had rims, he hasn't got any.

There but for the Grace of God

There once was a teacher of rot

Who said things that he later forgot.

He read his quoted word

In a paper absurd

and remarked “I like this one a lot!”

The Whole—and Nothing But

I can't quite testify in a court of law

That one year my friend lived on nothing but slaw.

I'm unable to swear on my mother's grave

That I remember every last gift that I gave.

I can't place my hand on the Good Book (or even one that's just okay)

While I tell the story of my biggest Bueller day.

I can't take an oath and tell before a judge

That I drove clear 'cross the country pursuing a grudge,

But cross my heart and hope to die,

I'm not the kind to tell a lie;

I'm a bard.

Refreshing

I suppose I must just not be civilized.

Those few moments that most people prize

Are on my list as just another chore.

I don't care to be clean; I care that my morning or

My evening has a hole in the middle, gored.

I only care that I'm bored.

Living Up To My Ideals

I should have all my grades in, but some work was late.
I should be ready to teach, but I made a mistake.
I should do this better; there's just too much at stake.
I should be grading, but I needed a break.
I should be planning, but I needed my break.
I should enjoy my alone time, but I can't stay awake.

Judgy Juries and Executioners

I'm not even in yet, but soon I'll go out
To face my firing squad, and my doubts.
Sidelong glances from snide eyes explain
Exactly what's wrong with my heart and my brain.
I guess I could change; I guess I could hide;
I guess I could freeze up until I can't think,
But I was born in a snowbank, and raised in the Arctic.
They'll never scare me inside.

The Pleasures and Perils of a Rich Inner Life

I do in fact recall when we first met.

Having nothing to do, and only others to look at,

I told myself a long and winding story about you—

Where you live now, where you came from, what you do,

The origin of every patch on your pied, misshapen hat,

and everything you carry in that bag slung on your back,

The way we met eating fast food, and how we left together,

First for something casual, and then, we thought, forever,

After you resigned yourself to a long and childfree life,

But I couldn't resign myself to the mother-in-law strife.

I thought of asking you to tell me a bit about yourself,

But I figured the story in my head was much more interesting.

That's still the one I'm going with.

The Relativitism and Subjectivity of a Rich Inner Life

Privacy is breath—essential to my life.

I thrive in solace, in that relative quiet.

I could stay in, and have, for days,

Away from the insults and the cliches

and celebrity gossip being hurled.

Plus, I do things with the repeat button

That I would never show the world.

The Advice I Wish They'd Given Me at Graduation, pt. 3

Love is an iron manacle

Forged in the heat of passion.

It binds us to our mistakes,

To unhealthy relationships.

Love is the only reason that I

Have ever spent contiguous hours of time

With someone who makes my nails reach for my eyes,

But over the years, in all of the seasons,

There've been people I liked for explicable reasons.

Spending time with them is something I choose

Despite freedom, despite other things I could do.

God likes me. God likes you.

The Sins of the Researcher

You were incandescent, illuminating, whether you smiled or frowned.

Colors were bolder, sounds were louder, flavors were stronger with you around.

I would have given up life in the sun for you; I would have made the bet

That you wouldn't burn me, that you wouldn't blind me, that you wouldn't even set.

Like all gamblers, I decided what I deserved, and that's what I got.

Like you always do, you left me to wilt, left me laughing, left me to rot.

So many years later, I don't even want to know why I believed you,

But I think I could learn something if I knew the reasons I wanted to.

Hello: My Name Is, or Teacher-Centered Student-Centering

I introduce you to the teacher you've known for half a year,
A replacement of convenience for experience and fear.
I introduce you to the teacher who should know you by now,
A translucent presence who dreams he can wow.
I introduce you to your teacher, who's a snowball in hell
Writing poorly, he would teach you and then hope you write well.
I would like to introduce you to your British Lit teacher,
Who is just about as British as a three-eagle t-shirt.
Now I'll introduce your teacher as a paperweight,
Keeping collected miscellanea safe in the same place,
In charge of little else but the intake and allocation,
In hopes that the students will learn more from their creations.

Just Limping Through

I lack the skills to teach myself the meaning of life.
I'm a conscientious objector to debating the origin of life.
I have yet to be convinced there exists a purpose of life,
But I could give you a summary of what it's like to be here—
An old injury started pinching and grabbing;
Then I saw my own pain-face in the mirror,
and now, I finally stopped laughing.

A Single Step, or Wed, Aug 20

My day cannot be programmed, categorized, or easily referenced,
But it can be summarized.
First, I said "Boom!  My work is done."
Then, I couldn't stop laughing.

I Already Did My Homework!

Love's long-timers, lugubrious students,
Are as committed as an asylum—
They have friends, and don't know where to file 'em.

Mr. and Ms. Right Now (Radio Edit)

You don't have a past you'd like to erase.
I don't have a particular ambition—
Not the way you see them, as vital, concrete visions—
So I'm betting that I will see it on your face
When you realize we're just counting down to done,
Because I can never be your One True,
and dating is only ever something I do
For fun.

The One True Compliment

If you're looking for love,
Then you're stuck between a stone and a cold place,
and if you're looking for life,
Then you've landed square on the bachelor's pad,
and if you're looking for the One True Compliment,
Then your treasure is in another dungeon,
But I will give you this:
You are exhausting.
Most people aren't.
I will get bored, and walk away,
and not look back,
Long before I'm even breathing hard.

Runner, the Epilogue

You're a small comfort.  I'm a big imposition.
We're a long-running joke about a friendly competition.
We look out for each other.  You look better than fine,
But we aren't in a race toward the same finish line.
I've seen where that track leads.  I know where it ends.
I hope that we're both better off as just friends.

Executive Vision For Dummies

A working definition
Of executive vision:
The courageous conviction
To make a decision
That's a nightmare for everyone.

You had an executive vision,
and my days were halloween:
Dress up and play professional.
But the road to awesome
Doesn't even have an exit at normal,

So stick it in your third eye.

The Other Side of Sensitivity

I have indeed seen the sheath, and the sharpener.
I am a woodsman of the board and the block.
What I mean is that I know right
Where I could put the knife,
But for the moment, I am too kind.

...Said the Metalhead to the Ponce Prince of Pop

Some fast and forceful words, I've wished unsung, unwrote, unsaid—
For their content, or who said them, or the paths down which they led—
But the bland, vanilla pabulum's the lesser by a mile.
A breakfast made without cracking an egg won't make me crack a smile.
That which is of value is by conflict always followed.
That which provokes interest, by definition, must provoke.
Are you too weak to survive the things that shock, annoy, appall?
The truly inoffensive is an insult to us all.

Take Me To Your Leader, Pt. 3

I'm not necessarily averse to having anyone
I'd just take exile long before everyone,
Before I'd mingle in a mangled menagerie, a human hive.
So instead, I sit, somehow hating and loving a life
On this colossal crumb of a planet where
Having headphones means never having to care.

Communications Are Down (a Poem-in-Dialog)

She said "you have to understand
That I only want what's best for you."
I said "I understand,
I just don't comprehend."
She said "it's easier for people to love you
When you act like other people do."
I said "it's only possible for me to love me
When I'm doing what I love."
She said "some of what you love is bad for you,"
and I said "life is bad for you.
It's just better than the alternatives."

Take Me To Your Leader, Pt. 2

I don't have a picture of you.

I don't even know what you look like.

I don't mean your face, your form,

That cheap car your mind drives

Because it can't afford anything better,

Needs to get around,

and doesn't have the gumption

To try a motorcycle.

I mean you you—

Not appearance, not performance—

Everything you can hide

For as long as it takes to see me,

For the time it takes until you need

To ask to be excused to leave.

Take Me To Your Leader

“We” are not vibing.

You and I are not “we.”

I don't bear the same stenciled markings,

Nor do I tell the same stock stories,

Of your irrelevant, injection-molded heroes.

I do not crave the life of a metronome.

You never had a ghost of my imagination,

and have long lost the ghost's tale of legend.

You hide yours, but I let the world see

My proud and foolish hypocrisy.

You lack even the courage

To explore your own cowardice.

I have, and treasure, it.

What I'm Not

I am not median, only mean.
I am not God and Country.
I am not friends and family.
I am not as seen on TV.

I am not opposed to alone.
I am not clinging
To any youthful longing
That Someday Someone
Special will come along,
Or that (s)he will understand,

and I am not giving up my Pen,
Who sure knows how to pretend.

What I Am

I am a patriot in an academic army.
I am arrayed against the forces
Of ignorance and anti-intellectualism.
I am in command of the scratch-paper and hoops.
I am a veteran of, on average,
About two more hoops than you.
I am less my knowledge than my experience,
and in the classroom,
I am only as credible as my volume of writing.

...Said Diogenes to Dilbert (with Apologies to Diogenes)

They say to stop choosing for looks; go with brains,
But which part?  Do I pick politics or religion?
Should she inspire me to do fun things or duties?
There's a maximum one way just one person can suit me.
It seems my life came with a salary cap,
Which once seemed like a trap, or even a slap,
Like my ex dating a slacker who plays guitar and sings,
(I guess unemployed musicians are her newest 'thing'.)
Or the crush who said literate guys make her purr,
Who's engaged now, to somebody dumber than her,

But what once raised a burn doesn't now raise concern.
It took too many times touching stovetops to learn
Not to be overwhelmed by what I hear or see,
Because I am the one perfect person for me.

Directed, Drifting, or Diogenes? (Doesn't Matter)

It's strange how much I don't care

If I'm home or not at home.

I could convince myself I'm comfortable

While in heaven, hell, or Nome.

If the language is a barrier,

It's tunneled underneath,

Those moments of near-frustration

Followed by near-relief.

Besides, how many people

Would I talk to in a day?

Any crowd I run with,

I'm alone there anyway.

To a Sportbike with Aftermarket Exhaust

The voice of a bulge where a bulge oughtn't be
Belies new, polished shine with a laugh so sickly,
A rattling, tasteless, and amoral burst
Like a two-fisted drinker out quenching his thirst,
But hawks make awful shrieks, and they manage to fly.
If I had some ear plugs, I might give it a try.

...Said the Teacher to the Time Capsule

I remember when I hated school,
But took it too seriously.
It was an ego trip for me.

I remember when I liked school,
But took it far too lightly,
Seeing how cool I could be.

I remember when I went to school
As to a social club: to meet,
and reconvene repeatedly.

I remember when I thought school
Was something best left behind me,
No more than scratch paper and memories.

Now, I am in charge of the scratch paper.

A Time to Part, A Time to Meet

That which rocks must always roll.
The clock, we watch but don't control.
The future racing in to meet us

Was always going to defeat us.

To each, the other will be gone.

We each ourselves will soon move on,
and yet, to end but not to leave
Will likely mean to someday see. 

The Recipe

Start with a stance, passionate but unbalanced.

Throw in dashes of Dickinson—if she hadn't had talent—

and cut into sections with rhymed ends that slant.

Into some, the essence of nineties decant.

With the essance of aughts, be a little more stingy.

Let the thing stew in a brain-bucket dingy,

Then knead it in an uneven rhythm that skips.

Alliterate lightly to cover the blips.

Mix metaphors up like a suicide soda,

and finish it off with an unrhyming coda.

Oops.

Eh, nevermind.

My Personal World, Part 22: Baggage/Around the World in 8 Tracks

If I am ever really known, then I am known to travel light.

I lost most of my memories along the road one night.

The bumps were bruising, the memories too heavy for my mind.

I think those twist and turns were also too much for my fright.

I last saw my shame on the way down a pass on I-90.

It couldn't keep up with so many bad decisions at high speed.

I might've left my marbles just east of the Mississippi.

They didn't weigh me down; I just didn't want 'em with me.

I'm not an accountant, but still, I don't fight

The influence of tastes past on my future, my life.

If I did, I'd need insurance no agent provides

For the times high-flying, erratic-steering memory collides

With the steady, ceaseless, high-speed driving of a beat,

From my most recent metal, and back to oldies.

I'm not really known for traveling heavy.

Nevertheless, I carry most of the music with me.

Alliterative, Literate, Literary, Lawless

In reading and writing, regarding the radical
I've been too focused, fixated, fanatical
On being fantastic, first rate, foremost and formidable
To find favor with the finical, fussy, fastidious,
But not once have I wondered "well, what have I missed?"

Crisis of Belief

The blunt end of Revelation grows in heaven, from a seed.

Its branches underlie us, too monumental to be seen

By the legions, billions, ignorant—a number once including me.

Until one day, down the middle, my skull was rudely pierced

By a sculptor's knife, an existential ax-blade—a mere leaf.

As ignorant as I'd been, I swore ne'er again I'd be,

But had I known the fight I'd have to make the world believe

Or even just acknowledge, to this task would I've agreed?

I lived before I knew. That knowing now comes naturally.

Knowing what I know, can I go back, forget, retreat?

It's too tiring to believe in the Truth, the kind with a capital T.

The Beautiful Terrorists

They vivisect with just their eyes,

Their talons, too, pierce many pies

All those within their reach or grasp.

They even bite the hands they clasp.

Few, lucky, leave while still intact

Their grounds ruled by unspoken pact,

Where rule's enforced by brutal words

Far too feared to be ignored.

Where Roads Diverge, Pt. 2

I know not what I wish for when I wish that I could change.

I'd do as well to trade retreating hairline for a case of mange.

To adopt the common value's to believe the TV's lies

That having more will make me happy—to hoard, and be dissatisfied.

Perhaps I ought to be creative rather than pay convenience fees,

But the bills bear someone else's face. My time is marked for me,

and while supervision rankles, it straight repels to be adored.

I hate the wrong decisions, but hate the right ones even more.

Where Roads Diverge, Pt. 1

Hard rock begat pop-metal, and pop-metal, glam.

I've evolved just enough to dislike who I am.

Sometimes I should put “long-term” before “now.”

I hate that I ask—and don't figure out—how.

I hate that others must mind when I shirk

'Cause I'd empty my Netflix queue in lieu of work.

I know I should mind earthly matters, rewards,

and respect that other folks collect them, if not hoard,

So that my debts and my enemies don't endlessly climb

I hate making the wrong decision all the time.

Let's Go Somewhere Where It's Louder (Radio Edit)

I have been obtuse too long.

You have been absurd too long.

I have been sitting too long,

Wishing the world had come with corners

So I could sit somewhere and see all the disorder,

Writing the unthinkable

To the unthinking

For kicks and giggles.

Maybe I have also been absurd.

Please, just say the word.

Red Passion

The way you move through life is fit for chess and fit for dance.
It removes my brain so I can't think, not even of romance.
You move me to say words that I wish back before they're said.
You move my heart and blood both faster, 'til my whole being is red.
You move my passions' round.  Your words blow steady winds of whims.
You move me to non-moving.  I cannot leave.  You've drawn me in.
You move the needle to the red line and the dial to eleven,
and when you finally move on, it feels like air-conditioned heaven.

Happy Birthday, Current Resident

Tick, tock.  Tick, Tock.
Five O'Clock alarm clock rock.
Shampoo for beard.  Toothpaste for teeth.
Breakfast I'm not real psyched to eat.
Switch for light, and lock for room,
and job I'm glad is ending soon.
It's time to go prepare for class,
To answer questions they won't ask.
After that, it's time to teach,
To hear them practice what I preach,
Or rather, what I read aloud.
Then back to traffic, back to crowds
Of senseless cars on thin roadways.

Nothing important happened today.

If You're Lucky

If you're lucky, you can:
Be with someone who brings out the best in you,
Be with someone who knows exactly what they have in you,
Be with someone who is proud of you,
Be with someone who can't stay mad at you,
Be with someone who can't stand not talking to you,
Be with someone who is afraid to lose you,
Be with someone who makes you happy,
Be with someone who values your time,
Be with someone who makes you laugh,
Be with someone who makes you laugh when you don't want to.
Or, if you're patient, you can choose
To be whole.
Of course,
You need to consider the source,
Who doesn't like giving up control.

Days/Daze/Malaise

What is the nature of this malaise?

It turns hours and minutes to seasons and days,

But it turns my days into nothing at all.

I'm not tripping—I'd have to get up to fall.

It isn't death and it isn't sleep.

My eyes are too bright; the head 'round them, too week.

All I really know

Is that I really have to go,

and that I won't.

The Tunnel

The tunnel is direction without reason, without light,

Where a lack of stimulation is both medicine and blight.

Today there is a reason were before was just a way.

I found the light at the end of the tunnel today.

Isn't the second stamp on the visa, or the airplane.

The light at the end of the tunnel is hard to explain.

I embraced the light at the end of the tunnel tonight.

I can hardly stop my thoughts for long enough to write.

The Mistake/The Heartbreak/The Second Take (Radio Edit)

I took a break from being a friend

To be lousy and lazy and human,

Not to live up to what my future's been.

The heartbreak, if not the mistake, may mend.

It's not having done wrong and been right.

It's not even the fact that I survived.

It's that my mistake came to define

Your life,

and I've learned to cease letting it define

Mine.

How can I be fine with being fine?

Go Ahead, Give Me a Reason

When the only reason to get out of bed

Is the drive to work, that's a long day.

When the only reason to get out of bed

Is the drive to work, take the long way.

When the only reason to get out of bed

Is leaving, one month from now,

Then it's best to be running the time out

Quickly, but I don't really know how.

When a quarterback wants the time run out,

He kneels on the ground with the ball,

But I find that dull and cowardly.

I refuse to watch it at all.

...Said the Sinner to the Innocent, Drifting Away

You were feuding with my best friend

About a year ago.

Before, you asked to see my writing,

But I never let you know.

You and I were on the track team

Until two-thousand-three.

Before, you were my bandmate;

Before that, a friend to me.

You were my reason to get out of bed

In nineteen ninety-seven.

I expect the pattern to continue.

One day, you'll be in heaven...

Pinwheel, Pt. 2

Water's precious beyond measure if you fear to die of thirst,
But easy to take for granted if you flood your basement first.
I had cars, and balls, and weapons, superhero capes, and rings.
I grew up too expensive to have learned to value things.
If it took time to learn, appreciate, I'd grab another toy.
I was too much of a child then to make a decent boy,
But the result of this consumption would leave Wall Street quite appalled:
No care for one thing or a hundred, scarce for one or none at all.

One More Visit to Apartment Number Five

I won't say a word to you.

I don't have a word for you,

Only a reaction.

My select mortal distraction

Is quickly gaining traction,

Driving right on past distraction—

Whining, defining, red-lining,

Driving-all-other-thoughts-from-my-mind-ing.

I ought to give thought to unwinding,

But know I can always take more.

I guess I've been here before.

Number Five

You just refuse to do things right.

Eyes are meant to take in light,

But if instead, they could take life,

I'd be a murderer tonight.

We both know looks can kill.

I doubt I wanted that, but still

It will be hours more until

I take my medicine and chill.

Don't Love the One You're Not With

You tell me what kind

Of guy you think you like,

and I think I'm your type,

But the mind likes

What the eyes like,

and I fall behind.

I guess you weren't aware

Of my un-part in your affair,

Of my trying not to stare

At the highlights in your hair,

But the longer you're not there,

The less I find I care.

I know I should move on

From our failure to bond,

But the longer we're both gone,

I'm satisfied to get along

With no more dances, only songs;

With being over, not beyond.

They say to meet and then dissolve

Beats having no romance at all.

Though it would leave the Bard appalled,

I have this problem better solved:

Get infatuated, not involved.

That way, you save yourself the fall.

By: Any Other Name

If you go back to the beginning, your entrance was unclothed.

No one's born answering to “Montague” or “Capulet” or “Rose.”

The world calls names and uses packaging so it can comprehend.

You've spent life wrapped in labels, living up–or down–to them,

But if the canners missed something, some ingredient inside,

and if it wants to see the light again, I'll take it for a ride.

See, when I was made, QC was sick, or sleeping on the job.

I can show you all the places expectation has forgot.

I Contain Duelists, or Walt Whitman Would Dig It

Whitman, a populist, contained multitudes.

I contain not a woman, and very few dudes.

I contain duelists, intransigent brothers.

One geeks out at some things; one's too cool for others.

One's politically cynical; one debates such things often.

One seeks to move on while one seeks the forgotten.

On nary a thing do these brothers agree,

'Cept if something seems normal, it isn't for me.

To the Inoffensive but Defensive

I'm not a lawyer, a judge, or a court.
I won't snitch you down or write up a report.
I know you're not guilty (at least, I assume),
But I do kindly ask you to please leave the room
'Til you leave talk of following laws by their letter
and join our talk, of how one could do even better.

Dear Parents, Newsreaders, and Elementary School Teachers

Doubts are wise, and doubts are solid, when they pull reasons behind,

But without, they're the translucent, tasked with leading the half-blind.

Worse are hateful words and gossip, which nothing and no one serve.

Unnecessary and disgusting, they're LFTB made of words.

So go ahead and talk. The first amendment means the most.

Go ahead and talk. When thinking dies, it needs a ghost.

Go ahead and talk, because no matter what you say,

I won't let it shorten my day.

The Visceral Joy of the Biker

For years, I dreamed that I could fly,

But this dream didn't have to die.

Instead, it found itself replaced

By something different on its face

But similar in ways that count.

I pilot earthly, urban mounts.

I don't feel wind blow through my hair;

The rest of me cuts through the air.

I bank through turns as if on wings.

I hardly know of better things.

Just kick, stomp, twist, and off I go:

The closest thing to flight I know.

To a 1979 Honda CG

When first we met, my nerves of steel

Turned melted cheese and pounded veal.

To say I had reactions mixed

Is like to say you needed fixed.

But th'understatement of them all:

I love the ride now, bumps and all.

May 16th 2014

Brilliant plans of man, frustrated;

Students who procrastinated;

Mid-unit review holidays;

Side conversations and delays;

Lessons short-cut or derailed;

Passes, missings, excused, and fails,

Or things impossible to grade;

Review games just some students played:

Overall grade–

I'm glad I came.

An Anecdotal Argument for 1:1 Student/Faculty Ratios

Another girl learns

To turn

Her hair before a phrase.

Someone closes his mouth,

Turns his eyes to the south,

So he can get a raise.

Someone leads a boy to think

That prowess, courage, strength

Are for the body only.

It's amazing how rapid

Life can teach girls to be vapid

Or otherwise be lonely.

The worldwide water cooler

Makes it so easy to slip

Into celebrity gossip,

and another mind

Dies on the vine.

Let's get there faster next time.

Rectangular Humanism

My brain is inalienable,

Impregnable to invasion from outer space.

I was seven years learning right from left;

I'll be seven learning right from wrong.

These truths I hold to be self-evident:

That all men were created separate,

and were endowed by their creator

With somewhat more than the other great apes

In certain various dimensions.

I suppose that makes me the humanest.

Self-Portrait By an Artist Running Out of Paint, Pt. 2

We are only ourselves in our reactions,

Those small, unscheduled intermissions

In this practiced, improvised performance,

and I, by reading and reading and reading,

In my quotidian quest to learn everything

Am finding that all this reading and knowing

Have half-begun to compromise

My potential for surprise.

The mirror's averted from my eyes.

I see the painted back instead.

How long 'til I'm a stranger in my head,

In my own house?

Self-Portrait By an Artist Running Out of Paint, Pt. 1

I am not an art …

I teach an art as aerobic …

It is the only way to do so …

It is so much work to do so …

Like one who sets a food budget that leaves her …

I find I have never been so tired for so …

I find I have never been so tired of …

I find it useless to wonder if I could be an …

As useless as wondering if I ever was an art …

I am as much one as the other …

They All Look the Same

Whether bulls and crescent stars, or lame old donkeys and elephants

Surrounded by a sucking cyclone of superfluous sycophants

Speaking for a cabal of corrupt and crass and callous cads

By violating viewers' vision with a myriad of dreary ads,

They all trade on our worst fears so, we'll trade in our freedom.

I really hate election years, although I guess I know we need 'em.

Check Your Six

I promise I won't let the trash sit for days.

I promise I won't smoke 'til our house sits in haze.

I promise I won't ever say you look fat.

I promise I won't trash your friends or your cat.

I promise I won't just watch baseball all day.

I promise I'll go look for work right away.

I promise I won't blow you off all the time.

I promise I won't put our business online.

I promise I won't be charmed away by another.

I promise I won't come between you and your mother.

I promise that soon, I'll come to the point of this rhyme:

I promise this won't be like last time.

Consciously Irrational

The facts are in, though they've never been out.

The facts that came in can suit only doubt.

The fact that you're still green, and I am nearly ripe,

The fact that you aren't, and won't be, and couldn't be my type,

The fact that I'm a swelling oval, and you're parallel lines,

They give me little pause, just enough to say “it's fine.”

The fact that I can't bear what you believe,

The fact that you'd prefer I leave,

The fact that you're a completely different breed,

They cool my mind, but not my need.

20/40

As friends graduate, move on, my mind dwells on the road.

I've traveled parts with people; in the whole length, I'm alone.

It's best traveling light on such uncertain paths.

Once confident in the route, God changes it fast.

If you asked me a year ago what I'd be doing today,

I'd say almost the same thing, just half a world away.

Hindsight's not just 20/20. It's the luxury of rest.

And foresight, done at high speed? 20/40 at best.

Why I Write, Part x+260: Why I Unwrite

In my youth drawn by song into meter and rhyme,

But with no sense of my place in it, and no sense of time,

I've learned to treat great masters' sweat-born inventions

As an Empire to fight against, as merely conventions,

So I cover over them, thinly connect them, bite into them, a spider.

I'm no author of record. I'm only the unwriter.

Playing Doctor, Pt. 2

Diagnosis: Mood disorder that doesn't exist.

Symptoms Include: Tendency to insist

On passionate wording of grand declarations

Announcements, pronouncements, and their explanations;

Attempts to regale you with tales of past glories,

Or at least entertain you with shaggy-dog stories;

Preferring my eyes' lies to other, wiser senses;

Ignoring the banalities of income and expenses;

and disdain for life, contemning days and nights

For you, and somehow thinking that it's right.

Playing Doctor, Pt. 1 (Why I Write, Part x+259)

Diagnosis: Mood disorder that doesn't exist.

Symptoms Include: Tendency to insist

On passionate wording of grand declarations,

Announcements, pronouncements, and their explanations;

Attempts to regale you with tales of past glories,

Or at least entertain you with shaggy-dog stories;

Preferring my eyes' lies to other, wiser senses;

Ignoring the banalities of income and expenses;

and disdain for life, contemning days and nights

To write.

The Perils of Picking the Wrong House-Sitter

The roses are dead

and the violets are, too.

A thumb that's not green

Leaves vacationers blue.

Alanis Morissette Would Dig It

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

I've been known to write poems;

I'll write none about you.

Collegial Conference

Three eminent young scholars (or students, anyway)
Engaged in heated argument, sans evidence, debate
About digital expression, and specifically what face
One should show to those who've seen it (also, the NSA).  

Springtime in Anywhere

Spring is freedom if you hate school. To me, it's being left

Socially and spiritually, intellectually bereft.

Though it's not a social matter, nor the people I miss most.

It's not surrounded (in Church or otherwise) that I've known the Holy Ghost.

I'm simply an animal that requires inspiration –

Intellectual stimulation–to long continue respiration.

At a time when excitement and nostalgia are in order

I come down with a reverse seasonal affective disorder.

If I'm not being creative, or at least academic,

Then I start getting depressive, or even just plain sick.

If I'm not writing or teaching with my life, then what am I doing?

I hate spring.

To an Ingenue with Nowhere to Go

It seems you can't go home again

For the risk of slipping on your solitude

and becoming mired in muddied memories.

It seems you can't go home again

While the sky cackles in triumph at your loss,

Raining in sheets to mock your mere drops,

Saying, “even your tears are nothing

To the rest of the world,” which has it all.

It only seems you can't go home again,

For Zeus profits nothing by your losses;

You were made in God's image, not Jupiter's.

You will breathe and live and love

Long after the thunderhead's cloudy countenance

Is a skull stained by rainbows, bleached white by sun.

God has the rest of the world, and has it all–

Even your back–

So go back.

Home is where the heart was,

and can find its way to be again.

Four Wheels Good, Two Wheels Better

Deciding how to please myself and my earth-mother,

I can't us'lly do both, and pick one or the other.

Always choosing between my wallet and my heart

Which, on sports ticket and employment, are miles apart,

I should unlearn my American training that bigger is better.

I don't want to drive a greenhouse in all this hot weather.

I solved all that with a cut back to two wheels, from four.

I opened the cage, freeing not just a solution, but more.

I don't need to grow wings and a tail, since I've learned

About tucks, wind resistance, and banking my turns.

I've always wanted to, and thought I wouldn't, go through with it,

and now, having started, I don't want to quit.

Countdown to Sunday/Fuzzy Math/Eight Ways a Week

Half-Satisfied/Half-Displeased

No surprise modern life leaves so many confused.

The world can't even agree on the right attitude

A person should take toward their hobbies or work.

You're either too negative or an arrogant jerk.

If I won't be my own fan, why would anyone else.

If I'm not my own worst critic, aren't I deluding myself?

The so-called healthy attitude is to try

Keeping the world close to half-satisfied

But I hold more closely with those who believe

It's much simpler to fool folks than trying to please.

Deliberate Conformity and Inevitable Nonconformity

Governing two decades of life by two rules:

Better contentment than accomplishment, accomplishment than cool,

and if you can't get better or get even, just get out

Leads to roadbeds of resistance and uncounted gravel doubts.

It's not just road less traveled; it's road not even paved,

But these rules my life both guided and improved, and even saved,

and thought it's prone to washboard and it's potholed with regret,

The former keeps me wide awake; the rest ain't stopped me yet.

Poorly Planned

I'm sure that same gameplan has served you for years,

Getting by on inconsistency, bailed out by tears,

But I've got a defense like you ain't seen before.

It might have worked then, but it won't anymore.

You need to learn when to go for it, when to punt.

You ran a draw on third and twenty.  You ain't getting what you want

For the first time, left tongue-still and mouth-agape.

Good luck next time.  I'm already studying tape.

Eleven Minutes on a New Motorcycle

The first ten minutes are for butterflies and shifting in the seat,

For fluttering, thumb-fingered hands and left feet,

For trying to figure out where all the controls are

Without turning all that hardware into modern sculpture,

and after that, it's either transportation, or it's love.

When 20/20 Is Almost Good Enough

I know that I should take this like a man, as if I'm grown.

I know that in the pain of loneliness, I'm nowhere near alone.

I know the other side of being dumped ain't strolling in the park.

I know we're walking separately the same great valley dark.

I know that you are taking this at least as hard as me.

Last time we met, t'was in your face, unhid, quite plain to see.

I know. I get the gist, but I can't even say too bad

Because I'm glad.

When 20/20 Isn't Good Enough

I know this ain't an end that you were charting from the start.

I know you anted up your sweat and tears, your blood, your beating heart.

I know you don't do this to torture me–it's not for me, at all.

I know that learning how to ride is half learning to fall.

I know ten years from now, I will remember this and laugh,

and knowing me, I doubt it will take ten, or even half.

I know these things. I do. I get the gist. I'm well aware,

and I don't care.

Campaign-Sign Slalom

Your ambitions, your attempts at getting underway

At getting into power, at getting in the way

Are, in the last matter, already making hay.

You, as your kind is wont to be, are already a pain.

So I cannot help but find the mirth in seeing your campaign

Toppled by ordinary wind and ordinary rain.

Anything I Wouldn't Do

I advise “don't do anything I wouldn't do,”

But does that rule out anything? I think one or two –

I don't date my students.

I don't hate my students.

I don't chase anything but inspiration.

If those are standards, then I have them.

If not, I guess I'm an unsafe sort of person.

Unstable Psyche. Handle With Care.

It's just for me they care,

They say–in fact, believe.

But when friends visit, and I'm there,

I see that they're ashamed of me.

My way of seeing isn't shared.

It's insight–and insanity,

Inspiration extraordinaire;

Authorities want ordinary.

To be normal, average, fair?

For that they say I ought to dream.

They don't even have to cut your hair

To perform lobotomies.

Of what you're wishing, best beware.

In this ironic world, it seems

That the very stuff of nightmares

Is oft the rotten fruit of dreams.

Turn It Off, I Can't Stop Listening

The song invites inspiration and half-lost memory

Into a gray and dreary-lightless no-person's territory.

The memory, the music and the inspiration

Tease me–I hear and feel, but can't quite see them.

If they were any closer, I'd say so close I can taste,

But I'm only playing music, not horseshoes or hand-grenades.

Steamed or Simmering?

The beach has never been something I crave,

and only sometimes a thing that I tolerate.

I guess it's from having five too many days

In some weeks, where my thoughts just boil away.

I'm a computer made out of water.

I'm attached to a machine made out of water.

I'm shocked anyone wants to go someplace that's hotter.

The Beauty of Gray

To expect's a human habit, which we're stuck with, bad or good,

But when expectations turn to stone, stop being “could” and turn to “should,”

They're not the only things that harden. So do our hearts and arteries.

Raised certainty raises blood pressure. Expectation's a disease.

Expecting too much turns the light out on what we've really got.

A pessimist sees could-be and then better-than-I-thought.

Tie Our Stars Together (a Poem-in-Monologue)

“I'm not committed to tradition, and I believe there's no 'forever,'

But I see appeal in closeness that could tie our stars together.

Still, what we our is just our pasts. Our potential lies in dreams.

Your dreams aren't mine, and I can't bear to see them sacrificed for me.”

At least, that's what I say. The truth is that I'm alone

Because I could not bear to see me sacrifice my own.

Failure to Communicate in the Art of Saying "No"

It's been said late to bed and early to rise
Is how the strong make the most of their lives.
I hold to that course, for the sake of the time,
Though I suspect work is the point of such rhymes.
How does that make life better?  You say the only way how
Is to be dissatisfied with my ample life now.
That doesn't make sense.  Life is good satisfied.
If I don't care for things, why fuss over their size?
Laws declare we're free to forge forward, enterprise.
I declare myself free to settle down, stand aside.

The Grass on the Other Side

As I sit upon this mass-produced bench,
My unbelonging wafting round me, (oh the stench!)
I wonder if there is anything sadder than waiting alone.
Then I hear the ringing of the phone.
When I pick it up, I hear on the other line,
The voices of not valuing my own free time
Or not even having any of it to claim,
and of not having a purpose I hold as close as my name.
It turns out that there is a purpose in this call:
To introduce me to things sadder—some, not all.

An Idiot Talks Himself Into It

My ears tell me she's interesting;

She has a lot that's worth hearing to say.

My eyes say she's not fascinating,

But she rates at least an 'okay.'

My years of being less young than I was

Say I trained against this yearning,

That I'm happy enough, but not human enough;

I have no love, only learning.

The part of me that still thinks it's young

Says we make a good pair, so let's go.

Life has taught me that women will hide

Incompatibility. It's a strategy they know.

I don't want life (or a year, or even a month)

For us to mean hiding who she is,

But I'm a niche product, and I'm packaged as such.

She might really be interested,

and if that's the case, and if all this is real,

Then what could be the harm?

Perhaps somehow life would be better for her

If we lived it arm in arm.

I've complained that social justice wins no broad beachhead in my heart.

Is to favor interesting, not pretty, not at least a start?

All that's certain, for me, is my poetic voice

Signifies a blithering idiot

Who knows what not to do, and so uses sound and fury

To talk himself into it.

Less Human Than Human

I'm a ridiculous creature, pretending to be human,

and I certainly do a terrible job.

I occupy all space but the fine line between

Worship and neglect. I cherish and ignore every friend I've got.

Being my friend can't be easy. The compensation

Is that you can do or say or ask whatever you want,

and I'll comply, or jump to it, or agree, or give permission,

Or just nod.

That One Time I Wished for a Middle Seat

I can't help but gaze at seats B and C,

and I can't help but notice their owners' appeal–

In the subjective, not my favorite–to be objective, surely real,

and for once I wish away my corner–window seat–

To see both their faces as they talk across me.

I can imagine what a simple pleasure it would be

To be ignored–and even silent–but still in between.

It's the only time I ever wished to have a middle seat.

Home Away From Home, Pt. 2

My morn wasn't so early as night was just late

(Though not as late as my flight in). I did things the wrong way.

At my time to do business, I was still on my flight,

So now I bend rules, telling silver-grey lies

To do in the last minute what I ought in the first.

Still, I won't say the time spent away was the worst.

I'll miss having access to old favorite foods

and six days with two half-days of business to do,

I'll have to unpack, and worse, turn on my phone,

But I'm pleased to return to my home away from home.

Home Away From Home, Pt. 1

Just when I started to feel I'd moved in,

It was time to fly someplace foreign again.

That's the nature of business. It never stands still,

Nevermind that I sit around wishing it will,

Though this wasn't as foreign as leaving my home.

The routes were well marked. I was often alone.

The streets were all wider, though equal in crowds;

I stayed near a Masjid, though it wasn't as loud.

I sat with beautiful women, not shoulders wide as my own

On my way back to away, to my home away from home.

Beneath Holmes, Watson/Above Beeblebrox, Garrison

I am a half-reformed loser who doesn't know his place

Struggling to locate the deck between a deuce and an ace,

Alternating between delusions of mint condition

Or trying to live up to limited edition,

Balancing my vain, vacuous striving for elite

Or self-pitied satisfaction as a broken-down antique,

Locating who I am despite that I'm not first,

But it has still still been half a lifetime since I was the worst,

and hoping to set a meaningful definition of success,

Searching for what it would mean to succeed and not be best.

Turbulence Upon Departing (JOG to SIN)

I was surly half-awaking from an unsuccessful nap

On the passport on the briefcase on the suitcase in my lap.

At the sight of you I thought I had ten years of youth regained,

Though I now fear that is your age, and my own remains the same.

Though it's true that I've met other girls as beautiful as you,

I've never met one who looked exactly like you do.

In my experiences with beauty, you're novel, if not a first,

Which makes this language barrier seem taller, and the worse.

Can't Live With It/Can't Live Without It

As a fountain of emotion,

It's remarkable for elasticity.

As a component of a person,

It's remarkable for inconsistency.

Forgetting risk and reward for pleasure and pain,

It's oft considered partner to the brain,

Though I find it easier to analogize

As the fickle, foolish cousin of the eyes.

But above all, I have learned to think

That everyone has hearts, and that they all stink.

A Velvet Bolt of Realization

Some people forget how good they have it.

They complain and breathe, but don't live.

Some people ignore what they've already got,

Heads full of what more life can give.

Some are so quick to the horse's mouth

They actually forget it's a gift.

Sometimes I forget how good I have it.

I complain and breathe, but don't live.

Sometimes I ignore what I've already got,

Head full of what more life can give.

Sometimes I'm so quick to the horse's mouth,

I actually forget it's a gift,

But it's a good start when work starts in five minutes

and I'm not even dreading it.

The Wild Technicolor Yonder

She still falls quickly and deeply, over and over,

Her loves gopher holes like cults.

He names the same plans differently, over and over,

Expecting different results.

He still masks his rage with the thinnest disguises,

Which flow down to his stomach, where he feels them.

She still masks her strangeness with the average neurosies,

Both hidden 'til my influence reveals them.

They still fill the same booth with the same seats,

Fill the table with the same jokes and the same eats.

We still have the same chats about different things,

When both of us talk and neither's listening.

Nothing in the world ever changes,

Except my angles, my line of sight.

Nothing in the world ever changes.

I just leave.

Gloom

I could have tried watching Donnie Darko

Under the shadow of a couple volcanoes,

But in the fiftieth hour of ash-dusk, I just don't know...

Perhaps contemplating the mysteries of the universe

While resting at the feet of fiery Hephaestus

Just felt like it would be a little too much.

The Real Reason Writers Make Terrible Husbands

All things with beginnings are all things with ends,

Which the modern world follows with detailed post-mortems.

Some people are consumed by the memories and questions,

But I am somewhat nourished by those kinds of might-have-beens.

Why take permanent plunges, risk desperately-ever-after,

When my breakups keep muses well-fed now hereafter?

The Incongruent

My body makes paths through the physical world, just as you do,

Although I have been, on occasion, sorely tempted to refuse.

To do otherwise would be impractical, and likely rude,

But all the time I wonder why I'm wearing this stupid man-suit,

Which I cannot help noticing is only a disguise

Designed by someone else to suit another species' eyes.

At times it is a vehicle. At times, it is a lie.

It would surely be easiest to dismiss me as a cotard,

But to say what it is I truly am, even for me, is hard.

Extra Extraterrestrial

No plans are just what I want from a day.

Well, that and means–and an excuse–to fly away.

With a beat for a seat and a melody for thrusters,

I killed most of an afternoon in a parallel universe.

I made my waking life surreal enough for bed,

Seeing new worlds without the mess in the back of my head.

I've grown to love the abstract and the distant, the unreal,

Despite, and all the more for, their somewhat limited appeal.

Some might say I could miss things here on earth while I am gone,

But that kind of worry's not my kind of thing to waste my time on.

Patient Presented With No Outward Symptoms

They say feelings of the heart are visceral. When mine attack

I do indeed find recourse in being Jon of the Iron Stomach,

Which is a thing that I am and a thing that I do,

Because to be human would be to vomit my feelings all over you,

and though I do it for me, the rear end of my mind knows

That to express brief infatuation's inconvenient for us both,

For you as a person and myself as something other than.

Indeed, if to disregard us both for my own sake is what is human,

Then I want even less to do with humanity than I was thinking.

Pulled

When I was young I had no empathy for ancient Orpheus.

I never understood how it was a man could miss

One person to becoming universally bereft,

But I think I understand now. Ever since the day I left,

I've thought of you occasionally, and once I wished you'd call,

But I'll go nuts in five more minutes if I can't watch some baseball.

The Flexibility of Unconventional Tastes, or Taking a Break from the Art of Saying "No"

There are plenty of issues that get my motor running,

But sometimes even the activest press pause.

I still won't watch what everyone else is watching,

But not every rebellion needs a cause.