To an Ingenue, on Every Day the World Doesn't End

You're the whole field of vision in my mind's eye, though I know

That I should be concerned with the broad, with the whole globe,

With the billion souls brittled by society's rot,

But I only see you twisting yourself in attempts to tie the knot,

Never considering that someone might be a branch to your leaves,

and if not, no rope's as beautiful as even half a tree.

The Matrix/The Time Farm

They tell you to gather your seconds

Into bundles of thirty-odd thousand,

Tell you you're lucky to pawn them off wholesale,

Tell you it's a marvel of modern convenience

That you have the option to buy them back retail,

Tell you that time's highest potential is money,

But when you're out of dollars and cents

You can usually go back to work.

When you're out of minutes, hours and seconds,

There just simply aren't any more.

Court Date, a Poem-in-Trialogue

“Would you please tell the court if you are or you aren't

Guilty of stealing the claimant's whole heart?”

“Your honor, it's true that this man saw me smile,

Which I do when I'm working, at home, or on trial.

He says that we met, but I just cleared his table.

I try to make ends meet, as close as I'm able.”

“See? This man leaves his heart next to napkins on trays.

If my client did take it, she's hardly to blame.”

To an Ingenue, a Belated Apology

If somebody burned, we ask who lit the flame;

If the victim is guilty, we still assign blame.

We're both blameless of meeting, of place and of time;

Backed by grave consequence was our presence required.

You're at very least guilty of having poor taste,

Thinking beautiful thoughts about this ugly face.

You're guilty of kind and destructive intentions;

I of kindnesses legion but not worth a mention.

I'm guilty of knowing your aims from the first.

You're guilty of thinking me best, which is worse,

and I, the smart, the detached, the mature one

Am guilty of seeing you as a test of professionalism

Instead of as a person.

The Procrastinator's Predicament

Measured in years, the year's first month

Comes it at a little over one twelfth.

So does the year slip by in fractions unnoticed

By my heard, though I know in my head

That tasks with most of their twelfths still ahead

Would be easier with that first twelfth completed.

The Middle Path

I'm an imperfect, improvable person,

The kind who doesn't scare babies on purpose

But is rather amused that it happens just the same –

a lackluster sinner, to give it a name.

Between godly and ghastly, I take the middle path.

I don't know where it is going, or how long it can last,

But I do know that, trapped between sinning and striving,

My recourse has been to become rather boring.

In Praise of Aid Yet Unreceived

How many move ahead in dread of the editor,

That sternest of depressing expression-doctors,

Who looks at your work down his long nose, a slide to hell

and pronounces the whole thing to be ailing, most unwell,

But the great ones stick that nose in, and not the whole face,

Work that narrow, ferocious funnel down from a remarkable brain

Which is pinpointing-finicky and always engaged.