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.

Crossing “Volcanic Eruption” Off My Bucket List

I awoke this morning to unexpectedly see

A well-produced (for Central Java) parody

Of a thousand snowfalls from a thousand memories.

Though a strange place to see this, it's not strange to me.

A soft light falls diffuse on pristine white ground

Until dirtied with man-made streaks black and brown.

Though my old friend Jack Frost is nowhere to be found,

Pele's fiery cousins abound.

Your 2014 Pittsburgh Pirates

Last season, they won despite doubts,

'Til Divisionals, where they bowed out.

Still, their moves this offseason

Sure defy any reason.

A step back? What's that all about?

My Memories of Spring Linger Eternal and Swell Like an Unremoved Splinter In a Land Where Home's June Comes Both Summer and Winter

It could sure be worse.

I've been to Semarang. There,

It's always August.

The Bule's Truce With The Hijab

That ubiquitous and perpetual scarf

Represents the commitment to Allah in her heart

and, (regardless of my level of religious tolerance)

Between the two of us, a cold keeping of distance.

How can I say we're friends if I don't even know what she looks like?

But she helped me realize that isn't quite right,

That I'm always trying to look at people stripped of culture,

and that everything I'm seeing is the real her.

How can I say we're friends if I cannot appreciate

That as much as I am my writing, she's her faith?

What Is This New Devilry?

They say the man your dog sees is the one to try to be,

But I don't have my dog, only a flash of clarity,

When my mirror's image was routed through the eyes of enemies

(A phantom to his friends who disappoints his family,

A jerk whose conversation is as blunt as it could be,

Whose entire life seems a failed quest to come off as manly,

A man whose interests, totaled, might be just a tad scary,)

and though it's not uplifting, or as complimentary,

I must report it was a galvanizing thing to see.

I Hope These Thoughts Didn't Count

It was fun for the first ten minutes.

It was boring after the first five minutes.

It was just plain boring.

Look at it. Why would I even open the box?

I can't ever imagine having been

The kind of person who would play with that.

You say I played with it a ton when I was young,

But I clearly remember wanting a different one,

and I don't remember a time when it meant anything to me.

I don't remember that.

What is it?

Won't Stop

Because I will not stop for Love,

The world must pester me

Into a carriage bound away

From my identity.

The carriage takes a smoother path

Than I've cleared for myself.

It's said to be the thing to do,

and better for my health.

We pass a school yard, full of kids.

A handful there are mine.

They lightly tug me from my desk

With grips just like a vice.

We pass the office where I work–

It pays more than to teach–

Steady, secure, reliable

For stifling ideas.

Then I arrive at my old age.

Love drops me at a home.

I can't afford a cage like this

If I am on my own.

The destination, should I choose

To go where I am bidden,

Shall be the same grave as before,

But with my words unwritten.

Between a Rock and a Hot Place

I could define my career-defining move

As between mountain town and mountain town–

Between a rock and a hard place,

Or between volcano and volcano–

Between a stove and a hot place,

But instead, I think it's best defined

As a redesign of packaging on academic minds,

Less exotic than as close a match as I could find–

The same old same I don't mind while I grind.

Blurred World Problems

I made one and a half mistakes

In misplacing something, and what I misplaced.

Desperately needing what I mislaid,

I called and texted for help, with no dividends paid.

I went looking for solutions, but didn't know the way...

...and most people, most places, could have had that day.

My Rooms/Our Rooms/The Rooms

Last month, I found out how long I can be

In places there's not really room for me,

Places full of foreign memories

That aren't mine and don't make sense to me.

Last week, I found out what a jerk I am

If things go differently when I actually plan:

Intended kindness seems for the birds

Once all disappointment breeds bitter words.

This week, I moved into my own place,

My brand new home-sweet-empty-space.

Next week, I plan to remove all doubt

That I'm most at home when alone and spread out.

A One-Notebook Library

If identity is revealed by action,

Then it seems to be a fluid thing

Which ebbs in the face of infatuation.

I could say the same thing of location

Washed away by a steady flow of information.

Thanks to the 'net, I can be anywhere, learning.

My Reflective Reflex

I have been described as some sort of creative force,

and by some, even as something to admire,

But the very best crown I can lay on my own head

Is to say that it's possible I'm worth being kept.

The poet is not a fountain, but a hand-mirror,

Reflecting the little pores and corners of God's glory,

Too small, too blind, and unworthy to see the whole.

What a healthy, holy irony, to be remembered

For this impermanent record in remembrance of others.

“The Lost World” to “Typee”

The social climate leaves me too hot to say anything

That I consider to be the least bit funny or interesting,

But I settle when I find that it does not keep me from learning.

In the study of the way that unrequited restlessness

Turns into sickly-sweet, unsalted indolence,

It happens that conversation just to taste on the tongue

Is rejected by the stomach as completely without substance.

I find the whole experience narcotic, but unfilling.

The Other Side of Learning My Lesson

I am no longer truly young.

I can only remember a louder confidence,

The child of ignorance and arrogance,

That assured my doings could be done

What have I forgotten in learning my lessons–

and what's not yet forgotten, but some day will be?

How will accident and failing further humble me?

I imagine that once I'm forty or fifty,

Nothing at all will ever seem easy.

The Part of a Barrel Nobody Talks About

Today, I skimmed the creamy top

Of my bag of teaching tricks

For something that starts as struggle

and usually ends as a favorite.

Today it went over like a lead balloon

On an episode of Mythbusters–

That is to say, it was a spectacle

and some people enjoyed it.

My Wrong Turn at Big Brother's Place

For the first time in three days, my host had cause to worry,

Though two days ago he jumped the gun,

and then he wasn't around to ignore this one.

For the first time in a week, I slipped my tether,

To stop being on a schedule, and just be wherever.

For the first time in this month, I went exploring,

Which, though not always planned, is never boring.

For the first time in three months, I got lost–
One of the few parts of a year that taste like freedom.

To an Ingenue, Who Neglected her Homework

I don't give assignments, but opportunities,

and this time, I even gave you two.

Because there was work you decided not to do,

You wish that I would do more work,

To follow the first opportunities with a third,

But that is not how it works in real life.

You might get more than one chance to be right,

But the first incomplete effort will be the last.

It's your own fault that you haven't passed.

Every Other Time Around, Pt. 3

To go back through my old writing is a sort of horror show,

To be appalled both at my style and at what I didn't know.

I went through noun and verb phases, an adverbial, an adjectival,

Each excoriated, roundly mocked, upon the next's arrival,

But nothing makes my skin crawl with embarrassment complete

As much as looking back at all the crap I used to read.

Meaning in the Immaterial

Teens see a car as freedom, parents worry, cats a threat.

Some might see cats as food, where I see only pretty pets.

It is only with our memories that houses become homes

(and they then turn into movies if you add the word Alone).

A gun is just a paperweight, 'til aimed (or not) and shot.

A thing does not have meaning, until given such by thoughts.

Meaning in the Material

The sight of home, to weary travelers,

Seems no less than heaven-sent,

But a house looks like a wooden rock

If you've only lived in tents.

What's a tree, if you are from Greenland

Where no such things are found?

A sitting stone will grow no moss

On drier desert grounds.

What do flight or beak or “nest egg” mean

To one who's seen no birds?

Without a thing to base it on,

There's nothing in a word.

World The Football

A wing cocked his foot back, intending to strike

A ball in the corner with all his leg's might

A little over ninety minutes into the match,

But there was only a corner flag for his foot to catch,

and at that point did a tie game turn into a sleeper –

Four four minutes a center back squatted down to play groundskeeper,

Wasting minutes of once-wasted time before the game could end.

It was almost as bizarre as my weekend.