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.