Choi’s Dilemma

I have always wanted to be a writer.
I haven’t tried to read.
I love the Four Tops’ “Ain’t Too Proud Too Beg,”
yet never had time to plead.

I’ve eighty thousand pies,
but haven’t baked one cake
and you’d be shocked by how I dox
all the content I don’t make.

My first hand research’s second rate.
At least that I can admit
– and if in another way that I could be honest:
I couldn’t give a shit.

I critique with the best of them
– or the worst – from your point of view.
Sometimes, I wonder aimlessly
if there’s anything more to do?

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And Everywhere

There is no reason to stay here.
There is nothing for you to do here.
There is no one who cares here
no one who knows you here
nobody who wants you here
nobody who notices you.
You are nobody here.
You are nobody.

Here there is nothing for you.
Here there is nothing
to make you stay.
Nothing can keep you
from flying away
and becoming whatever you wanted to be.
You could be free.
You could be paperlight
waferthin – invisible
alterable as anything
because you mean nothing
and nobody knows you here
and anywhere is available.

You can flip this
if you wish.
Here and there
are both as close
as the sides of the T.

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Sarah Sail

It’s a wake-up morn, and all looks good
like another winter’s been withstood
and the day looks bright, and the sun’s come out
but you’re saying some stuff; what you talkin’ about?

Suggesting such subjects like moving away?
These are not phrases parsed everyday.
As if you could simply jump ship and set sail,
an impermanent mermaid, or a young humpbacked whale.

You can’t quit this place. It doesn’t sit right.
You belong here; you cannot just light
off to parts so unknown. This I cannot accept.
If you do such a thing. I would be left berept.

Do you see what has happened? Even the thought
of you leaving this town has gotten me caught
fully off of the rhythm of rhyming in time.
Like a limon-filled sprite bitterly absent lime.

"If you leave," OMD says, "I will pay the price."
Or did they? Who knows? My memory’s sliced
up in ribbons, a gibbering fool I’ve become
since you mentioned the chance that you might turn and run.

Oh, just quit this place; I really don’t care.
If it’s up to me: you’d move anywhere
and it wouldn’t matter; I’d be fine.
I’d be happy again some far day down the line.

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Into the Woodwork

You always write yourself out of the story
editing yourself into some smaller role
again and again
until you’re eased into a corner
and then finally out of the scene.
You might think you’ve faded
into the woodwork
but I’ve seen it happen.
You’re a disappearer.

You don’t have to do that.
You needn’t step aside for others.
You’re as important as the next.
You can look in the mirror sometimes
and say “that life matters.”
I look at you and think that often.

I wish that you didn’t place yourself
in relief so often
when you are such a blessed contrast
to all about.
You needn’t write yourself out of the story.
It’s your damned script;
why should you flip it?

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Words of Love

I’m not sure if I’d call what you’re doing
poetry.
It’s all so unstructured, isn’t it?
It’s just words
strewn about on a page
willy nilly, Silly Billy.

It’s not really what you’d call art, though.
I mean, I’m no judge,
but I’d call what you’re doing
something other than poetry,
like “thoughts” or “thinglets”
or “pieces,” maybe.
“Pieces” has a ring,
don’t you think?

Something non-specific,
but still vaguely descriptive.
That could do the trick, perhaps?
Rather than sullying the name
of a form I know little about
but will continue to speak
as if I were an expert on?

How does that suit you?

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Words of Love

I’m not sure if I’d call what you’re doing
poetry.
It’s all so unstructured, isn’t it?
It’s just words
strewn about on a page
willy nilly, Silly Billy.

It’s not really what you’d call art, though.
I mean, I’m no judge,
but I’d call what you’re doing
something other than poetry,
like “thoughts” or “thinglets”
or “pieces,” maybe.
“Pieces” has a ring,
don’t you think?

Something non-specific,
but still vaguely descriptive.
That could do the trick, perhaps?
Rather than sullying the name
of a form I know little about
but will continue to speak
as if I were an expert on?

How does that suit you?

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Camille

Camille’s days are full.
She has the kids.
She has her projects
and all the good works she’s been involved in
and a good name she’s invested years in
and she just doesn’t have time
for that nonsense in Phoenix.

Camille is occupied.
When she has time, maybe.
She’ll stop by
pay a visit
see how things are going.
If she has an opportunity
in her week
perhaps she can be driven down
on a sunny day
with the top down
and the wind blowing free
and she can look around
at the birds and the trees
and the sun in the beautiful new world
and Camille can decide
what she’ll do with her day
and the next
and the next.

If she ever does get a chance
what with her days so busy
and her time full.
Camille
will just have to figure it out
in the next three to ten years.

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even roads not taken

and what if it all works out?

Just take that in
for a second,
that slight possibility
that every chance you failed to take
every opportunity lost
every door unopened
or broken promise…

What if all the mistakes
and even roads not taken
what if they led you down the primrose path?
What if all your bad works
took you to heaven?

What would that mean?
What would that do?
What do I deserve
if it works out for me
after all that I have done
to absolutely not earn it?

What then?

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What You Know

What you don’t know could fill a house
a world
a universe
and does
– except for this tiny little thimble
that you’ve got
in your tiny little room
that you keep protected
from everyone around you
except when you open your window
to give people
a piece of your mind.

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Your Fraudulence

I’m not sure if you quite understand.
This is not how the story goes.
The narrative
up there on the screen
what you’re seeing
it doesn’t follow that path.
It doesn’t go down the road
you are watching it go.
The story before you
DOES NOT HAPPEN
do you get it?
We are watching
a fictitious story!

Yes
I see the irony in that.

This tale that is not flowing appropriately
is my tale.
I am it’s director
and I should know
how it flows
how it goes
and homies and hoes, this ain’t it.
This ain’t right.

The left turn is at Albuquerque.
The last train’s at Clarksville.
The lady demands satisfaction.
I know what happens next.
I wrote the book on this
and I cannot for the life of me
see what is going to happen
when I turn the page.

I am frightened
to turn the page.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

I wrote the script, dammit.
This is my movie.

What happens next?

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