Good Is a Bad Word

Of all the things you could have called me,

There's only one word you could have used

That said weak and wishy-washy,

Utterly un-unique and unbelievably uninteresting,

But at least you put me on to a little linguistic lightening strike:

Everything the word says about me

Is all I can say about the word.

It's Better Than Nothing

It didn't make sense. Not now. Not to you.

The story was just too horrific to be true,

But if it really did happen, it would have been quick.

I suppose that's better than nothing.

The fury clawed its way out of my lungs.

If this had to be real, if there was nothing to be done,

Then I would try to burn everything down with my tongue.

I railed against a world that would bear you away

On the wings of your own demons,

But what I railed against most was me,

The so-called man who might have seen something,

But most certainly did nothing.

I didn't make the healthiest scapegoat, either,

But I guess I was better than no one.

I begged in the short term for time's fruit, understanding.

Not finding it, I wondered what I should be doing,

and agreed, to myself, that this will never happen again,

That there would be no me if there was anyone in need,

That this mistake was the last one I had in me.

There's nothing so deadly as a deal with an angel,

A loan against time that I'd already borrowed,

A desperate, delaying denial of some horrible inevitable,

Which I guess is better than nothing.

At the failure of the futile path that I chose,

My one true talent did itself soon disclose.

Not so good at a little bit of help,

I showed some aplomb for get-the-hell-out,

and I wrote a new set of rules for failure:

Once–try harder, twice–hide.

I suppose it was better than nothing.

So now, on a path ten years in the traveling,

I have achieved at least some measure of understanding.

It never should have happened, but it did.

Death's not half as deadly as living with it.

Dedicated to My Roommate, the Ghost

I am a lover of science, who believes fervently in ghosts

Because for the last ten years of my life, my head has been the host

To a woman whose corporeal life was ended in gunflash,

But has taken this long to die in my mind–and more, for she's not passed.

At first there was the missing, both the laughter and the tears.

Since that ended, I've blamed myself, a hobby lasting years.

I don't content it's all my fault. I didn't take that shot,

But frankly, she's been gone so long, that's all of her I've got,

and if that's all of her I'm holding onto, I can see how that sounds lame,

But if I believe in cause and effect, I must believe in blame.

Blue-Eyed Girl

I took all that attraction I don't have

For a Hollywood world that I can't stand.

I saved, collected, invested in you.

At the time, it seemed the thing to do.

I liked that you smile and laugh, your thirst for fun.

I liked watching you shine in the sun,

Not realizing the polish it takes to shine that way.

Then I woke up. It was a black Tuesday.

I had frittered my investment away.

Somethingorother

The song said “maybe this year will be better than the last,”

and my friends say they hope it's all uphill from here.

I know life isn't cheap, but at least it's steep and fast.

Still, I can't imagine what is better than this.

I can't imagine what I'll do after this.

Somethingorother, I guess.

The Historical Linguist and the High-Functioning Sociopath

They say everybody hurts sometimes,

and I wonder if that's true.

They say “everybody love everybody.”

Once a day, I think of you.

They say that if it's real,

It's like getting hit by lightning.

They say no one wants to be alone,

But it's better for my writing.

I've been told that to be human

Is to always know desire–

Just one more reason to wonder

If I'm secretly a monster.

The Other Half of a Bad Night

I'm singing the self-righteous song of recovery,

and I look with the unresting eyes of the penitent,

As I plod through the age old search of the shame-reduced,

To find ways to forgive myself for you,

and I'll always sing the self-righteous song of recovery,

and I'll always plead with those unresting eyes of the penitent,

and I won't stop dragging my feet with the same of it

'Til I've forgiven myself for myself.