How to Be, and Not Be, A Loser

There's times I mean to lose myself 
To concentrate on something more; 
But other times, I wander off 
And I'm not really thinking 
For though I have a lot to lose, 
Sometimes, my mind puts that away 
To free itself to climb, although 
I often end up sinking. 

The stairway to eternity 
That seems inviting, colorful, 
Becomes an endless loop wherein 
I struggle for a meaning; 
For though I think that I'm alone 
I bring along the weights of time, 
And it's these other spirits with whom 
I am soon convening 

It is okay to lose myself, 
But only in the service of 
A type of cleaning out of that 
Which wears away the whole, 
For there are stairs that lead somewhere, 
A somewhere that I'm meant to be: 
To lose all those mistakes I've made, 
And find, instead, 

My soul

Forfeiture –

The heart that skittered in my chest
  betrayed the world before my eyes;
  the few who I had loved the best
  had spun away to alibis.

I looked and stared, I stared and looked,
  but nothing came to focus clear;
  the wind still smelled as fate had cooked,
  and I was neither there, nor here.

The truth was, I had lost much truth,
  but hearts that change look much the same:
  as I burned under self-reproof,
  consumed to feel I was to blame —

There is a hatred we can’t ‘scape,
  for it is everywhere – and whole —
  a lurking phantom in our shape:
  the forfeiture of joy
  and soul

four acts of clemency

he realized he wasn’t
who he’d made out he was,
but thought it was worth
trying to be that guy

she understood that
the shallow criteria
she accused others of having for her
came from her

i recognized that
the many good things that
i am not
don’t obviate whatever good
i am

you discerned that
making mistakes yesterday
doesn’t mean
you need make the same ones again

My Untranscendent Self

I wish I was less selfish, and limited,
But I’m not.

I don’t deal well with chaos, or noise,
And I don’t like not knowing what’s going on.

I don’t go with the flow; in fact,
I hate the flow,
And try to stay out of it at all costs.

But it catches up with you, the flow,
And tries to drown you,
Or at least, it does me.

I don’t like crowds,
Or dogs,
Or parties;
I like solitude,
And cats,
And freedom.

I struggle against my limitations,
Because I should be
The easy-going, life of the party type,
Who rolls with the punches,
And opens his home to all at all hours, saying,
“The more, the merrier.”

So I disappoint people,
Over and over,
Who wish I was a better sort of man —

As do I.


When I was sentient, I knew a man
Whose hobby was to build things out of cards:
At least I think. For my attention span
Is very short, and doubtful in regards
To any but the widest boulevards
That truth or lone veracity might take
And subject to drive off, without a brake

At any rate: the guy. His steady hand
Was such that I admired, in the way
He could produce, from what his mind had planned,
Facsimiles of Paris or Marseilles,
Combining games of chance and macrame.
A balancing, precarious and wise
Of miracles set up before our eyes.

The pieces that I’m breaking into…

The pieces that I’m breaking into constitute a pattern surely some will recognize:
Of withheld truth more than the more alluring, active or constructive sorts of lies

Then, there’s regret for actions taken – mostly those embarked on without thought –
To know what I’m becoming isn’t what I would have been or surely ever ought

But much like fighting gravity, I struggle vainly against character and fate;
I fight the fight, but tire – seeing little good, and surely nothing great

For age despises us, and turns us slowly into caricatures and fools,
Revealing all the flaws we hid when covered up in youth among our varied schools

I sit here with so many words, so many echoes dancing in my head –
To know, like Willy Loman, that I’m worth much less alive than I am dead;
And that, whatever comes to me, I face a time that most of us would dread,
And that I cannot fix it solving puzzles, or by words I might
Have said