I'd prefer a society in which

I'd prefer a society in which
people were made of luminous light and sound
and sense, singing in overlapping tones
of metal, gold, and chrome; wings
spread gauzily, our edgefeathers mingled
at the tips, as we all revolve
in infinitely concentric circles
turning in upon the ringing, shining,
singing source of all of us, of which
all the beauties from which we are formed
are merely the sheerest echoes.

FACT

I'm probably completely wrong AGAIN, but I think what you meant
but I think what you meant is I take what is just plain fact
and I give it the status (in my eyes) of opinion.

and it doesn't matter what we both think "opinion" means
because fact is fact, there is no in-between state where
ever the twain should meet, as if one

that is my opinion
that is my
opinion

I'm so this

I'm so wish I'm TRUE
I'm so indefinite I'm YOU
I'm so miss it HITS
I'm so shit that it STICKS
I'm so sweet to the CORE
sticky apple juice BLEEDS
and you can't stop BITING
'til you're choking on SEEDS, I'm so this
I'm THAT, I'm so this
I'm THAT, I'm so this
I'm THAT, and there's a difference in fact

I'm so peace, it's DISTURBING
so calm, it's unnerving
I'm so mean I mean it all
(and every word, undeserving
from some standpoints, I'm sure)
but I've got so many more
if we need to go another -
let's by all means go YOURS, I'm so this
I'm THAT, I'm so this
I'm THAT, I'm so this
I'm THAT, it's just as simple as fact,
I'm so this
I'm THAT, I'm so this
I'm THAT, I'm so this
I'm THAT, I take it forward not back

conquistadore

I claim this territory in the name of Spain
I plant my flag,
and I take your name in the book of all Names
for the one I love
and the truth is,
it does mean too much to me.
but that's better than not enough

fetish

I have the fetish where I need
to give more than I have in me
to get anything out of it at all,
and there's nothing to hold back anyway
because you don't regret
anything except what you don't give.
The harder the lessons can be this time
just means the less likely I'll be
to learn them - if I
can keep out of wisdom long enough,
eventually the dice
will land with the right number of dots facing up, and
I will be set up sweet
having preserved my ability to put everything absolutely I have
into the throw.

Except this table is crap, miles long,
and at such a step grade the dice will probably
never actually come to a stop, and
I am sure all the bets made
must have slid off.

That's how I like it, though. I am no gambler
- and it is not a gamble
when you know there is no chance.

There is no chance involved.

I have the pretty sick fetish
where to this day, I want you
to be happy with what you are doing
and what you have done, and
I explain how. I tell you how
it was not a mistake, and
I'm telling the truth, but
lord
I wish somehow that I was not. Because

if only the truth were not true,

maybe I could tell you what I wish was.

thoughts on suicide

I don't think it's self-hate at all

or

maybe it is, sometimes - okay,

but not always.


You could love yourself
so much, and know
what you're worth - so
much
and more, but


if every day
is another lash
that you know for a fact
you did not deserve, and a burden to lift
that you know you can't

- it isn't self-hate
that makes you burst

when your heart, which has seen you through
so much, to the person you hoped
you could be - you are
that person.

And that person isn't enough.

just another step further, is miles
too far

When that's where you stand,
there's barely a chance
to be able to shake your head, wait
ask: "maybe it's not that I'm wrong, not strong
enough - is the problem
this path

that I'm on?"

please repeat

she said you can't get any truth
except for what you make up
and I've taken her word, not in vain
like her
but in bright, deadly earnest
like me
and everything
that I've needed to hear,
I have heard.

"the saddest math"

The object of all
of both your hopes,
intentions, and lives
has been put on the block
it was worth far too much
to afford it now. So it has
to be sold.

- and the proceeds, split,
so you both walk away
with something to show
for what was put in
to it.

What you each had to bring,
you both brought every bit.
Every bit of it changed into just
one thing:

The rest of your life

came at too high a cost, so now
you're converting it back
at a loss

and you'll both walk away
with a thorough and fair
accounting done. You do not
part friends. The rest of your lives

you will both know the price
that was too much to spend.

the suddenness

the suddenness
of catastrophe is what comforts us. We cannot see
it, a long way off. We get used to life, to how it runs.
Every day goes by, and we've learned to adjust
to being this close to able to trust.
We're at home, we can handle it well enough
every day goes by, 'til the one

All at once:

your job is lost
your car has
irrevocably died,
the woman you love
is seeing yet another guy
and the chance of getting back
any piece of the peace of mind
that you had when you woke
up,

is Spock odds, basically. Catastrophe
was always coming down on you, one
two,
three,

but for all you knew, for so many steps
on such a long way things were easy
and sweet, and

would
continue

to

be.

let's sing the blues

let's sing the blues
just me and you, while a dying man
plays guitar.

And it sounds -
so sweet, like the worst defeat
you could suffer and still remain who you are

or a little bit worse than that, in fact -
you admit, as you take just a few things back

- you work the loss into your voice, in the words
and you raise it all up, throat tight,
then slack

we are sweet and slurred
and we sing 'til our throats
fill up with ache, as plaintive as the world
we can hear it turn on its axis of prayers
every heart bled out now, too much to care

it's too much to take

except yours and mine.
This is punishment now, which is fine
by us. We have so much rope

we have given ourselves

such a beautiful song, here
beyond all hope.

"weaver"

when I think of what it takes
to weave anything that holds
in this pull-apart world
full of souls born sold
well I wish I had that skill
in my fingers or heart
to take separate, aching strands
and make them one, with art

suspense

I'm a voracious reader of the same three books
and the plot twists never fail to snare
and hook, and draw me in. Like I can't remember how
it is all going to end
when I start it over now, page 1,
again.

next chance I get

not sure when that would be,
exactly

but I believe: you plant a hard-thrown dart
smack dab in the middle of a shape drawn on the future:
it's called picking a place you want to be.

And to begin with, the shape corresponds to a set of lines
on that map of where you want to get to. And
where the will is good, well the lines on any map
where you've sunk your tack
will begin to dance and wiggle a bit,
and by and by reshape
into a square on a calendar.

Or so I faithfully
believe.

whatever it was...?

whatever it was
she accused me of,
if I could do it to you
it would be worth the fuss
to put all of my powers into
the field, and encapture you in
one leap, one
yield.

served cold

all the missed chances
I ever had
in my life
I passed them
all up, because of
what? something better
that I had to do
to be worthy of you? To be
worthy of you? No, not really
worthy of you. Just
trying to be not
worthless in general,
not worthless
as me, trying to not be
something
of no value or use to anyone else,
because
of the way it makes decisions.
You know?
Because how it makes and justifies
one decision
is going to be how it goes.

And every one
of those missed chances, miss,
I am glad I decided just
as I did.

Except for one.
Somehow, I misjudged
what was at stake

and

what I would become. And against
all hope, all odds, regret
comes way too late, as it very always
does.

But I guess, if out of all
the missed chances in my life, if I only want back
just one, well

maybe I am doing ok on balance. And need
to shut up, and pretend I have
no regrets, and say that
it's all for the best, take a dose
of whatever medicine gets the healing done,
the swelling down around the heart, and kills
the cold clammy sweats that have you gasping
with chills, bolt-upright in bed
at every hour of night,
in distress -

because you can not cannot can not see how you got it wrong,

and you can't pretend that everything you want

was a guess.

beautiful view

you've got a beautiful view
you should open your eyes
better open your eyes,
'cause it's slipping away
in front of your face
as the sun's going down
in this shade-darkened room
of the emptiest house, you stood fast
by the sink, you had lost
all your thought
down the drain,
with the soap
and the water
and blood

if you opened your eyes
you could see yourself, now

the most beautiful thing
that the world's ever seen

if you borrowed my eyes,
that is just what you'd see

somehow.

but my eyes
have gone far, far away
boring into a glass of their own
broken thoughts
in fluorescent-lit ache
laying bare to the core
a soul with its windows
blown out

perfectionism's

Perfectionist is certainly
one thing I ain't! I like
to throw paint, and have it
land where it goes. But somehow
the results comes out impeccable,
though. I once had an art critic
try to buy my clothes, just
from how I'd let the paint
speckle itself on. Perfectionism's

trying too hard,

past done.

self convinced

I'd love to fall
for a girl like you, but
there aren't any girls
like you to love
aren't any places like you
to fall
aren't any ways we could go
but once

and everything we've learned
has been confirmed
not only once, but twice
or more. There aren't
any times

like we used to have,
and there weren't at
the time. We know now,

for sure

Kathleen.

it's only the fact
that you used to pop up
in my window, surprise!
You would brighten my days. And
that keeps you in me. And
in memory, and - in that memory,
you, and your smile and eyes

keep me always amazed.

but you'll never see this.
For no purpose at all,
no ulterior hint
I set thought of you down
of your eyes, and that smile

How artistically pure of me! How
infantile. Not a motive in mind.

You will never know me. And
you'll never see this, and
and all such things are fine.

For your eyes, and your smile
might have just as well frowned
if the beauty you make
- without motive or thought,
just surprising us all -
isn't worth setting down.