Saying so Much

You look at me like that
as you have for some time now
but I doubt
if anything’s going to change
as you may wish.
You are who you are
and I are who I are
and these are the way things are
for now
and that’s just how it stands.

I’m just telling it like it is:
I’m sorry
that you don’t like my sad girl songs anymore
but I’m not quite done singing them.
My certain brand of misery
can only be expressed in the twee
and if that’s how it continues to be
from now until infinity,
then, again: so sorry
– but not really.

I’ve gotta sing it
until I’m not sad anymore.
Maybe then I’ll roar.

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Horrorscope

I.
Open yourself up to new experiences.
New scary experiences.
New uncomfortable experiences
that can get you wet
and frozen
and might leave you on your feet
– to an extent that might cramp up your legs
not that there’ll be anyone to complain to about it
because the customer support department won’t really exist
because your next experience will be
in HELL or the tri-country area
or something like that.

II.
Try something outside the familiar
like mild amounts of poison:
not enough to kill
but enough to cause discomfort and hallucinations
and possibly demolish certain lesser-used intestines
so you can learn new things about your body
and what you truly value.

III.
Value your body more.
Get sold to slavers
who will then keep the profits
because, after all,
they own you, so they own your property (duh!)
Work for a living
and then a dying.

IV.
Start writing fortunes
for a horroscope company
thus freeing me from this curse
any time now… please?

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My Town

Manhattan, you still shock me
which should come as no surprise
with what Con Ed still charges to put twinkle in the eyes
of a couple million shoppers at a couple thousand stores
– but economics ain’t news in this City anymore.
For just today while climbing up the heights of Fort George Hill
I found one of those areas where urban life’s gone still.
In Highbridge Park I entered with no one else around
and in almost an instant – except for traffic sounds –
I was lost to all the city that has so long been my home
and found a wooded glen in which for hours I could roam.
The reverie could only last so long, in truth, because
the City’s always called me back. She will. She always does.
But for a moment, in Manhattan, I sat on a tree
and thanked you, my town, for this opportunity.

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Frost

Death shuts us all up.
After death, what’s left to say?
“I’m sorry.”
“My condolences.”
“She’s in a better place now.”
What good do those words do the dead?

What good do those words do the mourning?
What help language?
What use prayer?
How will any benefit from such useless sounds?

Better the death of noise
for now
to complement
the other losses.
Better to share these gaping absences
until some warmth returns
and we are all a little less cold.

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The Way It Is

It’s not that I give zero fucks
it’s that I get zero fucks
and then treat things in kind.
I’m just preternaturally fuckless,
is what it is.

If it were different,
I’d be offering fucks up and down the boulevard,
free of charge,
a friggin’ Jonny Fuckleseed of Main Street
but that’s not the way it is
and some things’ll never change.

I’m lacking in fucks
so have nothing to provide
regarding the giving or taking of Fuck One
through Fuck Fourteen
going into Fuck Infinity.
You get what I’m saying?
I do not give a single fuck.

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Newman and King

Sure, I’ll be there for you,
that’s what friends are for, right?
And you’re a friend of mine
so where you lead, I’ll follow
every step you take,
your shadow, strolling,
traveling along,
fighting ‘til the end.

You can always count on me.

Thank you for being a friend.

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Newman and King

Sure, I’ll be there for you,
that’s what friends are for, right?
And you’re a friend of mine
so where you lead, I’ll follow
every step you take,
your shadow, strolling,
traveling along,
fighting ‘til the end.

You can always count on me.

Thank you for being a friend.

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The Call of Night

Look around you:
the lights are low.
All sounds are dim.
You am listening to the house settle
slowly into snores.
You wait for everyone else to sleep.
Soon you’ll be the last one sitting
on guard in the homestead.

Soon
the only one awake
will be you.

Then, you can work the perimeter,
if you wish.
You can choose the channel
you could raid the freezer.
You lay in whatever position
in the living room
on all the cushions.
This freedom
is unimaginable

and it is yours every evening
that you can withstand the call of night
longer than everyone else
with enough fortitude to get up and…
just get up…
you can do it…

Maybe tomorrow then.
There’s always tomorrow…

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Rabbit/Duck

I do not hunt
except for bargains
or spelling errors
to correct commenters
thus proving my argument is stronger than anyone else’s
in any of WarnerVerse community boards
I happen to be a part of.

I do not hunt
but for failings in my characters
for the purposes of self-flagellation
so that I may feel freer
in the process of others-flagellation,
an avocation that occupies many an hour,
if I were hunting for honesty, here.
I am not
– because I do not hunt.

I do not hunt
because we are past that.
I do not hunt
because it seems cruel.
I do not hunt
because I don’t like tomatoes.
I do not hunt
though I don’t use all fingers on a keyboard
and for years have lived in Hunts Point.

Despite all these things
(and because of some others)
I just don’t see the point in hunting
but I will keep looking.

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Effective Technical

Looking back on some old poems
about you.

I really
really really really
really really really really really really really
really hated you at the end.
I hated you more than I hated the next three,
maybe together
– assuming there’s an effective technical way
to collect the hate
and tally it appropriately
which I think would be an amazing study
if done correctly.

I suspect the hate came from the helplessness I felt
because of how desperately I craved you
and knew it wasn’t reciprocated
to the degree I needed it to be.
I knew there was nothing I could do.

And, of course,
it all proved true.
A self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps,
but destiny is destiny
and we were through
while my hate burnt blue.

The poetry reads bitter now,
acrid.
I hate the animosity in every line
but I wish I could I could generate
that sort of energy on command
were I able to tabulate it
in the theoretical study referred to
above.

Anyhoo,
thinking of you.
Yours,

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