When 20/20 Is Almost Good Enough

I know that I should take this like a man, as if I'm grown.

I know that in the pain of loneliness, I'm nowhere near alone.

I know the other side of being dumped ain't strolling in the park.

I know we're walking separately the same great valley dark.

I know that you are taking this at least as hard as me.

Last time we met, t'was in your face, unhid, quite plain to see.

I know. I get the gist, but I can't even say too bad

Because I'm glad.

When 20/20 Isn't Good Enough

I know this ain't an end that you were charting from the start.

I know you anted up your sweat and tears, your blood, your beating heart.

I know you don't do this to torture me–it's not for me, at all.

I know that learning how to ride is half learning to fall.

I know ten years from now, I will remember this and laugh,

and knowing me, I doubt it will take ten, or even half.

I know these things. I do. I get the gist. I'm well aware,

and I don't care.

Campaign-Sign Slalom

Your ambitions, your attempts at getting underway

At getting into power, at getting in the way

Are, in the last matter, already making hay.

You, as your kind is wont to be, are already a pain.

So I cannot help but find the mirth in seeing your campaign

Toppled by ordinary wind and ordinary rain.

Anything I Wouldn't Do

I advise “don't do anything I wouldn't do,”

But does that rule out anything? I think one or two –

I don't date my students.

I don't hate my students.

I don't chase anything but inspiration.

If those are standards, then I have them.

If not, I guess I'm an unsafe sort of person.

Unstable Psyche. Handle With Care.

It's just for me they care,

They say–in fact, believe.

But when friends visit, and I'm there,

I see that they're ashamed of me.

My way of seeing isn't shared.

It's insight–and insanity,

Inspiration extraordinaire;

Authorities want ordinary.

To be normal, average, fair?

For that they say I ought to dream.

They don't even have to cut your hair

To perform lobotomies.

Of what you're wishing, best beware.

In this ironic world, it seems

That the very stuff of nightmares

Is oft the rotten fruit of dreams.

Turn It Off, I Can't Stop Listening

The song invites inspiration and half-lost memory

Into a gray and dreary-lightless no-person's territory.

The memory, the music and the inspiration

Tease me–I hear and feel, but can't quite see them.

If they were any closer, I'd say so close I can taste,

But I'm only playing music, not horseshoes or hand-grenades.

Steamed or Simmering?

The beach has never been something I crave,

and only sometimes a thing that I tolerate.

I guess it's from having five too many days

In some weeks, where my thoughts just boil away.

I'm a computer made out of water.

I'm attached to a machine made out of water.

I'm shocked anyone wants to go someplace that's hotter.