Why I Write, Part x+254: A Strange Kind of Strangeness

It has been said that I write poems because I am smart,

But I think this cannot be the reason, by far.

A youth's awkward, precocious intelligence

Plus the scorn of others and possible concussions

Equals an actor playing a genius on television.

It has been said that a poet must be a romantic,

and I won't say that such words have made me sick,

But I have two personal rules for my own verse:

“Write as much as I can,” and “romantic topics are worst.”

Even in my love poems, I come off as a jerk.

It has been said that I write because I cannot cope with life,

and of the reasons given, this is as close to being right

As any others given. The us'ual famous singer in the us'ual famous band

Is idiosyncratic. He is not a normal man,

But his misbehavior is a strangeness that the normal understand,

While I am alone in an unculture, most complete,

and yet also a wanna-be synesthete

Wishing I could see the sound of my own thoughts;

The pen and the poem come close as I've got.

Infinite Knowledge, No Will To Power, Thy Name Is...

A GPS could be named Bossy. An iPhone is named Siri.

Microsoft Word has been known to answer to Clippy.

Google has a personality well known to many of us,

For it's part. Google is that particular kind of of genius

That knows everything there is to know, on instant recall,

But is lacking in every form and shred of common sense at all,

and in any idea of what it should and should not say,

When it should and should not speak. Poindexter's Google's name.

Pondering the Philosophical Consequences of a Bak Mandi

I don't do culturally embedded topics, but for this:

I cannot up and change my every habit that exists.

I'm spoiled for choice, but they're rotten decisions:

To be miserable, or to reject the soul of a nation?

But how many of these reject parts of my own soul,

and how many of them are just sort of uncomfortable?

Sweet Brown on Romance (Extended Edition)

Acquaintance and money, as everyone knows,

Are easy to come, and they're easy to go,

and I am no petrostate; I've no energy

To be giving away to pursue things like these.

Nor do I desire to pay out my time–

The one thing of value, the one thing truly mine–

For that fleeting, fair-weather and fickle acquaintance

So commonly known to the world as romance.

More At Home Hunting White Whales

Football's the primitive art of controlling space and people.

I have a multitude's experience that taught me to manhandle.

There's precisely nothing in my past to help me handle you.

I don't know how to get closer, to study your truths,

Nor can I measure the lengths I must go to keep my distance,

Yet I find myself wishing the skills to do both at once.

My Dearest Arsenic

You went down quickly enough, and turned me to putty.

Though you were on occasions bitter,

You seemed only delightfully nutty.

You disguised yourself in everything I seek,

A perniciously perfected performance

So that I would make you mine and you would make me weak.

Thought you met my lips, you came from the hands of another.

Though in a way you'll be with me forever,

We can not, or will not, ever live together.

That Awkward Moment

It's the bright despair of landing on the perfect thing to say

For the first (it could eas'ly be the only) time today.

I could leave it on your Facebook, and the entire world could see

What an attentive friend I can be–or at least, that I can seem.

It was thoughtful to the point of being intelligent;

It was topical to the point of being relevant;

It was even complimentary and – (guess what?)

Totally inappropriate.