They wonder why he writes so much,
That there’s so few will ever read;
And what this strange compulsion is,
This all-embracing need —
But long he travelled through the shadows
Of the vale of night:
He first wrote just to breathe,
But now he breathes
So he can write
(“The Poet’s Fate” – 11/6/2014)
I’ve always seen what isn’t there,
And so, I’m under doctor’s care;
For through my window eyes I see
Far, far beyond reality
I see the workings of your heart,
How love leaks out in midnight drips;
And how you’d hide it, if you could –
But will and tongue have frequent slips
I’ve felt you kiss me in the night,
In circles all around my face;
But yet, we have not spoken yet,
I guess you need your breathing space
But yet I see the world set free,
And through stone portals, one lone tree,
A sky of blue, a field of green,
And no more bullies. No one mean.
The doctor says I’m very bright,
Her thoughts will be with me tonight;
I view them when she’s not around
You won’t believe what all I’ve found
Her fantasies are very great,
And sometimes, inappropriate;
She also sees what isn’t there,
So maybe my gift’s not so rare —
But you, blog reader, don’t you know
We all have been afflicted so?
We’re mental patients, all of us,
Who blog for therapy. Discuss.
But still, I see inside your head,
Where you would rather be, instead
Of glimpsing what now you full see:
My steadfast, bald insanity
But maybe that’s not there, as well.
With crazy folks, it’s hard to tell:
Tonight, what isn’t there I’ll see,
And aren’t you just a bit
Like me?
(“A Litany of Slightest Madness” – 8-7-2015)
I give you what I have in posts
For we are poor in other ways;
We walk along the waterside
And dream of nights, amid these days,
Of multitude, and lassitude,
And attitude, and power:
A sun that shines on shoulders cold,
A view atop the tower —
I give you what I have in posts:
To walk in joy, to sleep with ghosts,
To hear the water, as we should,
And try to make gold out of wood —
For augury, and penury,
And apathy, and yearning
Are how we’ll have to warm ourselves
With not else left for burning —
I give you what I have in posts —
To climb upon, to walk beside,
To mark in passing as you ride
Toward what you want and need the most,
For everything and anything
And all the things that bind us,
There are still posts that mark the cage
That formerly confined us
And we are waves upon the sea,
A wave within a larger host
To lap up on eternity
And brush the careful dawn
In posts
This will take some getting used to. Nothing looks the way it should; I guess change is worth embracing, Or it should be, when it's good -- Everything's in this weird font, now, With this vaguely shaded fill -- This will take some getting used to, And perhaps, I Never will
The few, short hours that we get
To sit upon the dying grass,
The days of sunlight soon to fade,
As they, like we, are born to pass –
Habitual endearing of
Those close enough to plunder —
And this, we’ve come to glorify;
It sort of makes you wonder
A song this morning played, a song
Of love that just went wrong;
It had a beat, we danced to it,
It didn’t last that long
Then guided by our appetites
We craved the beat unceasing –
And bought what wasn’t anyone’s
For having or for leasing
It’s only life. It’s only art.
It’s only six A.M. —
The sun is shaking off its sleep,
It’s soon to rise again –
I think the sun’s benign, another
Elementary blunder;
In days that butcher who they can –
It sort of makes you wonder
The girl that’s looking straight at me
Is only eight years old;
She knows no trepidation, she
Is wild as she is bold
How can the aging father say
The young should wary be?
I turn to go about my day,
And trust posterity
Will lead her to a world of light
The world she sees before her;
I won’t pour water on her soul,
Not badger, nor ignore her
Perhaps, she is a healer, not
One made to mar or plunder —
What she could be, we should have been,
It sort of makes you wonder
Behold, the living narrative
Is spun before our eyes;
It’s there to tell us how to live,
What we should hate, or prize –
But every kind of shadow blocks
Some other kind of light;
And wear whatever mask you will
It’s coming off tonight
Insanity and vanity,
They’re our one legacy;
As we will follow slavishly
Our prized un-parity –
It kind of makes you wonder;
Then again, it just may not —
The few, short hours that we get
To sit until
We rot
She wrote often on intimate subjects;
He obsessed often about them.
So, to his mind,
They were perfect for each other.
And she lived in the very same city!
So, he contrived to meet her;
Fascinated with this beautiful woman
Who wrote so passionately about
Enjoying physical relations with men —
Sex without relationships.
So, he did meet her.
She was polite, but, most definitely,
Not interested.
He was confused and angry.
How could this be?
Oh, my poor unfortunate friend:
Just because she enjoys dating men,
Doesn’t mean she wants to be with you;
And “Sex without relationships”
Doesn’t mean “Sex with people
You aren’t attracted to.”
The moral of the story
For heterosexual guys looking for
Sex without relationships
Is as follows.
Attractive jerks:
Welcome to the 21st century!
It is all yours.
But then,
It probably was ever thus.
Unattractive jerks:
Sorry dudes.
Life can really suck.
Of course, you COULD
Look for an actual relationship
With a woman
Not based solely on sex.
There is even a rumor out there
The sex in an actual relationship
Is considerably more satisfying.
So, I was here watching Schrödinger’s cat,
Now it’s both dead and alive:
How it has managed this, I do not know.
Somehow, though, it did contrive
So both to be and to not-be at once
Putting poor Hamlet to shame:
So the old Law of Non-Contradiction’s
Broken, and I am to blame.
So in the middle of Animal Rights
Physics, and Theater too —
I’ve violated immutable laws
What’s a poor blogger to do?
I wandered into poetry
Since little else made sense;
For all the clots and retinues
Grew steadily more dense –
But here, in this reality,
I’ve found it to be true
That where our finest speech does naught,
The slightest touch
Might do
(“I Wandered Into Poetry” – 7-17-2015)
He let imagination play
And spill across each fevered page;
Of life spent at a breakneck pace,
Of love and hate and
Sex and rage
And peaceful moments that would touch
The hearts of any who might see;
But wonders now, and over-much,
If all of it’s
Not vanity
He wanted what he wrote to shine,
The brilliance of a million suns;
But now, he simply wants to write
Some thoughts that you’d read
More than once
(“On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer” – 7-11-2015)
