A Self-Cleaning Mess

I'm sure it gets old when I whine

That I've more desires than time,

and should you wish a moment entwined,

I would steeply be that way inclined.

It's relief and dismay, then, to find

That our meters will not fall in rhyme,

For you with another recline

While my problem takes care of itself.

Clothing Our Souls

You never met a day that meant a thing

Without breaking down, breaking out, to sing,

But you presume I'm less than genuine

Each day I am not so inclined.

You complain you have not seen my soul.

Ignoring reasons for caution, control,

I don't see why you don't suppose

Our souls just shop for different clothes.

Just as you are convinced you must bring me along,

I could be sure you hide something 'hind smile and song.

I might be more subdued, and I might be sleepwalking,

But I'm still honestly me when I'm writing and talking.

The Other Other Side

I am no kind of artist by trade.

I have no devices specifically made

To name, identify, or classify color.

In short, I don't know one shade from the others,

But I have brains enough to settle, and eyes enough to see

That the grass here on my side is green enough for me.

The Dao of The Dork

Some folks stay on the lookout for a penny or a buck.

I will quit looking the second that I think I have enough.

Some people start things early so they never get behind.

I start the same task later, and then do it in less time.

Some people will do anything authority demands,

But I never have struggled with–or lingered by–quicksand.

Some people change their strategies.

I don't change horses in midstream.

I don't bother to parry accusations

That I am useless and lazy,

Though it's also been said that I might-could be zen.

Just maybe.

Stay Exactly Where You Are, Young Man!

Myself, but experienced, older,

Is all I desire to be.

Forest Gump and Horatio Alger

Both failed at inspiring me.

Neither sugar plums nor Armani

Blur my vision or dance in my head,

So not once in my life will you catch me

Either grinding or getting ahead.

To explain fully what I put into life,

Know that all I wish to get out

Is something to write with, something to write on,

and something to write about.

I Did Manage to Poke My Finger Once

I have heard it said before,

That the pen is mightier than the sword,

But if I commanded as many swords as pens

Then I would be a feudal lord,

and not this futile lord of words,

Who, in almost three decades' time

In a land with no willpower in sight

Attempted to use sheer force of will and mind,

and accomplished nothing.

Cooking Accident #1099

I cannot help but notice

Even from the very moment

That the knife hits.

Then it bites, and then sinks

Into my flesh,

Time moving at its very slowest.

My reaction, of course, is far too late,

and then disturbingly deliberate.

After all, this is not the first time.