Respective Getaways

More and more
in the midst of suffering fools in the world
I notice in their eyes
an increase of impatience
as they prepare their excuses
and seek to make their respective getaways from me.
From me.

The very people
I am teeth-gritting,
not-hitting,
not-quite-hating
yet barely tolerating,
are politely seeking escape
from my company
– which is fine, I suppose.
These are people
(such as they are)
never worth my time,
by my own esteemed estimations,
so being out of their presence is all to the good.
But that fact that that feeling might be reciprocated?
Frankly, it hurts.

How can people be so heartless?
Don’t they see
that I am but a man
with emotions
and blood that bleeds
when cut to the quick
from such short shrift?
I ache from these wounds
and the insensitivity
of those who treat me so.

I am better than that.
Why should they judge me
that way?

They suck.
I’m glad I judged them first.

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Break the Fort

My window’s open.
My door’s unlocked.
My gate’s ajar.
I am not protecting my shit anymore.
You can have it.

If it’s important enough
to jump fences
climb walls
sneaks through the barriers.
If another needs to take such dangerous risks
how can I claim
that I need to hold anything
so closely?
What right do I have
to close my door to anyone?

Let them have it.
Let us break open all the forts
and let those that need to survive
survive with us.
I don’t have much
but I believe
I have enough to share.

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Les Gore

Lesley Gore sang songs of empowerment.
She said she’d cry if she wanted.
She told us not to tell her what to do
and that we didn’t own her
at a point when we needed to hear it
but Lesley Gore is dead
and I don’t know
if I want to be empowered
anymore.

Maybe you should tell me when to cry.
Maybe you do own me.
Maybe it’s your party.

Tell me what to do.

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The Redundancy of Repetition

If you ask what a poem is about,
do not be surprised
to receive an answer like,
“it is about the spectral wind”
or “have you ever experienced
an autumn melancholy?
It very much like that
– but in boysenberry”
or maybe “it’s about two
and a quarter minutes”

for poets are a suspicious and cowardly lot,
ill-suited to describe their own art,
much as they love to speak of themselves
– for what subject should be a poet’s favorite but “me?”
A poet will want the work itself
to do the heavy lifting
of explication
and not require the poet to get any further involved.
Poets are lazy.
Poets are efficient.
Poets seek economy in language
and don’t wish to have to repeat
if it can be avoided.

Because poets wish to avoid
the redundancy of repetition
they’ll provide some dumbass answer
to get you annoyed enough
to leave them alone
so you will have to dig deeper
to understand their work.
Or maybe they don’t really understand
what they did at all.

I can’t tell you how often that is the case
for some poets.

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Drawn

You’re a fucking idiot
if you think you can keep drawing
from the same account indefinitely
and expect never to receive
some sort of penalty.
Everyone suffers from withdrawal
eventually.

How did you think
that account would continue recouping
and reconstituting value,
month after year,
for an endless eon?
Why would you suspect
that could go on forever?
How blessed did you believe
you actually were?

No, your good fortune
ain’t eternal
and you won’t be able
to call upon any of the amounts you thought available
anymore.
There’s nothing left,
which you should have seen coming
long ago,
fucking idiot.

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Kool, Gang?

If you have a father, happy Father’s Day.
If you have a mother, thank her for her part.
If you have a sister, go in on a gift for that mister.
If you have a kid, accept their finger-painted art.

If you’re born with a twin, pretend that you’re him.
If your dad’s got one, confuse him for yours’,
and if you’re one of those identical cousins…
share all the rest of the best hors d’oeuvres.

If you celebrate things, then celebrate well.
If you have a good time, then try that today
but if it is your preference to just sit and whine
and suffer for hours, then get to it, OK?

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Gender Stereo

I wish I’d known more
about what you were going through
so I could have helped you
(so I could have saved you
{so I could have appeared
in the nick of time
as the Big Strong Hero
and protected you,
offered you all the Big Strong Man things you needed,
and you could look at me
with Big Sweet Doe eyes
and swear that I was your hero
and you would say
you’d do anything to thank me
and I’d say anything?
and you’d say anything
and then I’d get a slightly dumbfounded
slightly creepy look on my face
and the scene would fade
before I did anything really wrong}).

But we both know
I don’t really subscribe
to those misguided old school gender stereotypes
(not really)
and you don’t need me to
(not at all)
since you’re so strong and capable yourself
but I know you were having trouble then
and I wish I was around to help
and maybe get to be there
if you ever
(at any time
{at all})
felt helpless.

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The Vagaries of Fate

When we first met
I was more interested in your blonde friend
but when you first massaged my cock
my priorities sort of shifted.

You were so warm and friendly
and smart and pretty
and willing to do interesting things
in more interesting places
than your friend was
so I’m kind of glad things turned out
the way they did.

Thank you
for shifting my priorities
so deftly
with just a flick of a wrist.

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Remnants

I live on the rags and bones
of other people’s lives
perhaps because it is easier
than finding things of my own.
Choosing takes responsibility
and it is certainly easier
in this land of opportunity
to take the opportunity
to cede responsibility
and let passivity be my guide.

So I let the dumpster decide
where my next meal comes from
or what fashion I shall wear
the next season
just as I let the season decide
what sort of activities
will accommodate my active schedule.

I dine on the carrion left
of other’s choices.
Like a willow
I bend
and form
as whatever around me may wish.

And how does that work out,
blowing like a speck in a storm
surviving on scraps
doing the best
with whatever remains?
How is this simple sort of life?
Well…
What do YOU think?

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The Story of Tonight

Is it possible
that you’ve drunk enough tonight
to forget this conversation tomorrow?
Might you perhaps be so generous
as to lack the memory
to recall yesterday
when next you wake?
Is this a reasonable request?
Is it something you could consider?

I’d be forever grateful
and inconceivably appreciative
if you could remove today from your mind,
simply excise all these events
we’ve just now experienced
and run them through your erasure unit.
Please tell me you’ve got one of those.

Please tell me
you still remember
how to forget

and if not
is there any way
I can coerce you
into drinking another round
or maybe eight?

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