Wildfire/Spreading/Growing

The back of my throat is wildfire.
I feel it spreading.  I feel it growing,
and the pain amounts to nothing
Next to being utterly blocked,
Next to knowing I have no voice.
That pain, too, shall pass
Once I stop pretending it is new.

Your Taxes

Civilized society taxes freedom
At the highest marginal rate.
They tax them all, save one,
Then return a percentage.
This is your refund.

The one untaxed freedom is thought,
Which we relinquish without a thought
Every time we hear a word
and give that word the permission to be a thing
and give them both permission for offending.

Remember, next time you are easily upset,
That you are only raising your taxes.

Shinier

I am a poet without hope, and the shinier for it.
To lay down and gaze up longingly at the stars
Would be to make a landing pad of myself,
To invite the wild, unschooled skies
and the rigid, unquestioning authorities
Down with a cargo against which I hoped the hardest.
It's not that I can't see the poetry in adversity,
It's just that a poet who writes only of suffering
Becomes a bore even to himself,
While I maintain an avid interest in my own life.

It's Just...

It's just like me, giving the long explanation.
It's just the easier way.
It's just like your parents, the quiet frustration.
It's just one of us going away.
It's just like the time that we swore we'd be eager;
It's just plain to see that we're not.
It's just something that happens; It's just that time passes;
It's just the best option we've got.
It's just like that picnic we went on last August.
We're just the bare stem of the clover.
It's just like you not to admit to yourself–
It's just over.

Ususual Beasts

Beliefs are the most unusual beasts.
Faced with the most inhospitable climes,
Assailed at every moment, from every side
They often find a way to thrive,
Even growing stronger, more robust,
Changing only to grow a scaly crust.
Yet, elsewhere, though they are the stronger,
They may just choose to live no longer.

Tugging on the Strings

I may not be a puppet,
But from nine to five I feel it
Tugging on the strings inside.
This meat-bag just conceals it.

Other hours, the bag that contains me
Is primarily there to carry ideas.

My multi-function biotechnology
Is complex enough to guarantee
If more than one should ever meet,
That one the other will mislead.

It's A Process

Tongues always grow spry
Around unusual tasks.
They ask how (if not, it's why);
I answer if they ask.

I say “it's a process,”
and so is dialing a phone.
What I mean is “it's in progress,”
and I don't really know.