Category: 2017

on rereading some of my old poems

wow, those were the days.
I wrote some halfway decent
shite. some of them
were dumb but some were
not at all awful. why is it
that when I try to write
a new one, it always seems
to come out wrong?

I’m out of the habit
of looking at the world
as inspiration for poetry
these days. now I think
more of songs and less
of poetry. my muse has changed
her clothes. she hums
in my ear now instead
of whispering. you’d think
they’re pretty similar –
what are songs if not
poems set to music? –
but to me they aren’t at all
the same. Terpsichore
rules my days now
instead of Euterpe.

missed II

oh, you’re here. of course
you missed our set. I
don’t know whether to be
mad or relieved. hearing
your obnoxious bellowing
probably would have
distracted me. and the sight
of your ugly mug
has made me feel ill
for some time now.
so thanks for nothing,
I guess. why don’t you
throw yourself in the trash
where you belong?

airhorn

did you know
that there’s more to singing
than just blasting out
your full volume
like a fucking airhorn?
there’s a little thing
called subtlety.
look it up. also
maybe try watching
your pitch. the
only thing worse
than oversinging
is oversinging
while flat. this has
been a PSA from
my ears.

the shipper

there’s a lady here
who I’ve only met
once before. she knew you
before we even met.
her name is Jennifer
or Laura or Mary –
not Sue. we bonded
instantly and she said
she would come to my
show, but despite
an email reminder,
she never showed.

she was one of the many
who saw how we
bantered and said
we made a good
couple, even though
we weren’t. she got a
Moonlighting vibe
from us. she
shipped it.

welp, the writers fucked up
our storyline, and
now I’ve got a new
love interest. so
much better for me
than you. I’d love
to introduce her to him,
but I can’t for
the life of me
remember
her name.

crimes III

this was the worst yet. a
full sprawl in front of
a packed house, and during
a quiet song, just to add
insult to injury – of which
there was plenty. I tried
so hard to catch myself, but
as usual that just
made it worse. I did an
extended pratfall
worthy of a clown
in a circus. except
that it hurt.

and somehow
the worst part was
how various people asked
if I was okay. I’m always
so angry and humiliated
by my shameful,
awkward clumsiness
that any acknowledgement
of a tumble, any attention paid
feels like it might as well be
outright pointing and/or
laughing. that’s why I pretend
to laugh it off and
act like it’s no big deal,
because all I really want to do
is to be allowed to run away
and gather whatever shreds
of dignity remain to me
in private, or at least
where other people are
who didn’t see my downfall.

but belatedly,
thank you, gentle
friends and
random strangers.
I do appreciate
your concern and
common human decency.
next time I’ll probably
not be any more gracious
in accepting your sympathy
than I was in crossing
the damn room.

for the wicked

defeated by the day, I
crawl into my bed again
seeking solace, knowing none
is to be found. I’m weak
with moral turpitude
and some kind of
virus. are they the
same thing? my bones
ache and my blood throbs
to the rhythms
of avoiding responsibility.

this useless waking period
has sapped my strength
and left me powerless
to resist the siren call
of a sad and guilty sleep.
I’ll rest my weary bones,
but take no joy in it.

what the dreaming self knows

in my dreams I am
a powerful witch
whose enemies line up
and ask me to punch them
right in the face.

in the waking
world I’m plagued by
itches and pains,
dirt, doubts and laundry.

I think about quitting
smoking and take every
opportunity to berate
myself. I take down
a flystrip that’s been up
since at least August.
I am interrupted in
reading an article about
how people who hit
the snooze button are
more intelligent and creative
by having to sign for a
Staples delivery
of bulk toilet paper.
I make myself coffee
at 3 pm even though
I’ve done nothing
to deserve it, and try not
to be jealous
of a young poet
whose quote appears
in my Facebook memories.

I wish I could have all
the confidence and courage
to make things happen
that my dreaming self
knows is mine by right
of existence, that feeling
that I’m capable
and undaunted
and powerful.

what can I do
to keep that bone-deep
knowledge, carry it back
like a knapsack
from the dreaming hinterlands
to the world where
I’m still myself
on the physical plane?