Fool for You

I feel stupid even in saying that Spring’s seeds last week were sown.
for time she flies, like snowflakes, months past last been blown.
A year ago – a year ago! I swore I blew you off.
Like an end-of-winter cold; a second skin I had to slough
But here we are, the both of us, a full cycle round the sun
and while I knew it over, and we had had our run
and of everything I was secure, so sure, proven as true,
all the things I had taken on as fact and shouted that I knew,

at this point faced once again by your steely eyes of blue:
I’m a fool… all year… for you.

In all the months I kept my distance and kept your name reviled
it’s possible I swam in murky waters of denial
and when then said that I was better left off alone
and you were better swimming under many tons of stone
I was not thinking at my best – and lest the rest agree too quick,
I was keeping my own counsel, drinking much and spewing sick –
so to finally see your face again after all this twelve months’ time
is enough to make this short attention prosey poet sink to rhyme

and repeat what was admitted back in one now in verse two:
I’ve been a fool… all year… for you

I’ve been an idiot all of the time that you’ve been gone
and well before to have sung that dumb "hit the road, Jack" song.
I can’t believe the brainless butt was I to let you flee
and if I were a smarter man, I’d stop talking now, but see
the year it just continues and I’m not a wiser man
and if I was ever clever and could come up with a plan
than I’d probably have never been the dummy that you loved
or maybe could have found a way to end this.

Unexpectedly, I have arrived here at this devil’s queue.
I’m a fool… all year… for you.
It’s exhausting singing praises; my throat’s hoarse and coarse and blew.
I’m a fool… all year… for you.
I wish I had been better. I wish I had been true.
I’m a fool… all year… for you.
If I’d done it right at first, this year we’d’ve never knew.
I’m a fool… all year… for you.

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Berger on Names

I am ready to be named by another.
To long have I held the title I came by
by birth
by right
by my own deigned design.
I have been always
what I have always been
but it is time, perhaps,
to become what I am told.

I need someone to tell me
what to do
who to be, I think.
I need something.
Maybe that is it.

Maybe it’s a sandwich.

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Modern Technology Being What It Is… 28

Hey… HEY!
I know it’s been a little while.
And I might look a little different.
Its just… the years, huh?
I’ll make this quick.
You know how time travel’s theoretically impossible?

I just got this Time Transferral Portal
which lets me go back and review
my personal history
which means I got to go and see
just what our first three months was like
and I owe you all sorts of apologies.

No: let me speak!
I was able to observe my behavior
from the distance of ancient history
and let me just say
I was not a pretty picture.
Not one bit.
You were so patient with me
so kind
and you didn’t deserve one third
of the things I said about you
– the less said about that
the better.

I didn’t deserve you then
and you didn’t deserve what I did
so I totally deserve what’s coming
’cause the TT Portal’s experimental
and I don’t think I’m long for the present
since I’ll discorporate any time now
and become a thing of the past
again

which is just as well.
After all this time
I finally see
it’s all I deserve
but, oh, shit,
you don’t recognize me, do you?
Have I already been written out of time?

All I wanted to do was apologize
but I see I’m too late.

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Socks Up

Remember this:
however this day ends up
whether more positive
or even sinking further down
to more interminable depths
this ache you feel
the suffering within
it is a far better thing you have
than the alternative.

No, not better than joy
but better than nothing.
If your chest had only the absence
nothing but the blackness of before
you would be free of the pain, surely,
but enslaved by something else.
You’d be enslaved by inexperience.

And you may wail in this instant
that you wish you could lack this experience
that it would be better to live without
than to have this sucking wound.
And this wound sucks,
there can be no doubt
but from this you’ll grow
and you’ll feel again
and it’ll be better.

It’ll be better.
Maybe not today
we’ll just have to see.

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Brutal Steps

More and more
I look back
on the thing that I was
with refreshed eyes
and see layers of that other creature
that older eyes
were unable to perceive.

I didn’t realize how obvious
that thing was
how brutal its steps
how blatant his stare.
I never understood how predictable his paths were
and how easy it was
for his enemies to stop him
if anyone thought enough
to consider him and enemy.

I look back on that pitiable pathetic pompous pox
and I wonder
how he ever disappeared
into something else
and then I remember
that the mirrors are gone
and I recall
that my eyes
are not so much refreshed
as filled
with a certain sort of hindsight

And then I sigh
and I realize
that that old creature
maybe deserved more sympathy
than I had just been giving him.

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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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