alas
bleak comparisons
of my life
to the
hard dark ugly
nasty brutish cruel
vicious sad terrifying
realities of the world
endured (or not) by those
who actually do suffer
(Biafra Lebanon Guatemala)
(rape schizophrenia cancer)
are too pathetic
for the waste of pen & paper,
however poetic i render them.
once in my life — once! —
have i been so stricken.
once.
my life is rough at times,
and this tooth hurts like a mother
and three times my heart has been
honestly broken and
my mother's death was
phone-call sudden,
but compared to the lives
of millions in the truly
dark places of this sad world,
i am on vacation
staying in the luxury suite.
or, to quote Zevon:
poor, poor pitiful me.
poor, poor pitiful me.
bon mots, et delicieux
as i came back out of the kitchen
this time with a fork in my hand
i said,
“ 'salad spoon' is not a common utensil.”
truly a bon mot,
and truly wasted on Rick
thoughtfully sorting freshly dried laundry:
huh?
sensing that my audience was neither
appropriate nor appreciative,
i held up the fork, almost pleading,
and he glanced over his shoulder:
“this time i'll try a salad fork,”
emphasis on the word so he'd grasp,
so simply put,
the dry humor used to transform
my error in utensil selection into witticism;
the result yielding less bon to my mot than before,
but still, i thought,
worth more than the blank look and grunt
and back to folding toasty warm y-fronts.
but even if he lacks the wit
to comprehend, much less enjoy,
the subtle humor of my gustatory faux pas,
injestion of my salad did indeed prove more amenable
to the application of fork rather than spoon.
the pizza i ate with my fingers.
consolation
i wake every morning,
lie there, dull & pondering
why is it so hard?
i open my blurry eyes,
disappointed to again see
the gap separating me
from ...
how
can i speak the name
of the immensity
that is what i am not
and what i would be?
from
me to me? dreamt of
like the lover with wealth
and a need for my body,
a distance of the imagination:
infinite, therefore possible,
day by day
breath by breath
as i realize that
just as surely
as i am not me,
i have always been
will always be
me.
getting ready to blame you
i wrap my arms around you, tightly.
there is so much i hope for: too much.
this is so unfair to me
to depend on you for so many things
i refuse to see
let alone believe in.
holding you, breathing
your warm, sad scent,
i crush my eyes closed
against every disppointment i can imagine,
and cannot see if you,
caring or otherwise,
look into the same sad overwhelming
or peek over my shoulder
for a convenient route of escape.
march 18, 2008
Happy Man-on-the-Moon Day
i was twelve on that July day,
the human race's most amazing
technological achievement.
i watched in grainy black-&-white
that was appropriately beautiful
for an actual miracle.
then Armstrong botched
his big line! how appropriately human.
of the two big events of 1969,
the one built on dreams
of the infinitely possible
has been set aside for lack of funding.
we give endlessly,
money and blood,
to the other,
the pursuit of wars
like the one that killed
thousands that same year in Vietnam.
we are a people of immense skills
and tiny hearts.
we do not belong on the path
to the stars.
July 20, 2009
Louisa
a little bird
picked me up
and carried me away
to a land i had dreamed of
for so long
i could not see,
clear though it was,
the danger
into which we flew,
she and i.
a little bird
exchanged with me
soft songs of love
and guesses of forever
but those are always
the stupidest dreams
unless one of you
is awake enough
to be aware of the danger,
clear as it is,
and turns aside
while tomorrow
is something better
than a regret.
Mulligan
i want a do-over.
now that i understand
all i did wrong,
a want a chance
to do it all right:
not be a geek;
make the right friends;
go to the better college;
love the girl who got away;
avoid the stupidest
of my lifetime's worth
of stupid mistakes.
i want the chance
to live the life
i know i should have lived
and not the one
i stumbled into.
i want to live
a better life, a happier life,
the life i used to dream of,
before i have
too many regrets.
march 17, 2008
obvious
all the sparkly bits
look down on me
as i hold tight
to the last handhold on earth.
the pull is irresistible;
not so the fear:
the unknown,
the bright open question
of what happens next
when i let go,
or my strength fades just
a little bit more,
or that mean fucker
inside my head
decides to play one last trick.
that question,
or, more accurately,
that answer,
which is there before me
as large as the sky
and completely invisible
in the overwhelming brilliance
of every mote of light
that has shone on my life
while my eyes were closed.
pointless exercise #8
i know better.
i always know better.
you name it, i know better,
and yet....
i do learn from my mistakes, just not very quickly.
perhaps there are nuances
i have not recongized
in some of my mistakes,
so i am giving myself
the opportunity
to grasp the subtle details.
or maybe i'm just stoopid.
whatever the reason,
i continue to give
repeat performances
of my greatest, and
lamest, mistakes;
and always my response,
once the dust has settled
and i'm sitting red-faced
in my corner, stupified
to know i have done it again:
i know better.
i always know better.
so. what.
sensible
if i had no imagination,
o the stories i would never tell!
the dreams i would not pursue,
the hopes that would leave me in peace.
with no imagination,
i'd never worry if my talent
might ever be recognized or admired;
my talent, however great or meager, no longer
would be a concern, or disappointment.
my sleep would be steady,
my days, pleasant and mundane.
life would be tolerable
and i would know no better.
i would not care
for that which i would never know
i had never had and would never lose.
if i had no imagination
i would not even bother
to consider how empty i would be
if i had no imagination.