Self vs Nurture.

Self is the part of our nature we make. 
Good is the part of our nature we ride,
except for the good we made in ourselves. 
In such artifice, such weenies as we 
take unnaturally overweening pride. 

Self wants it all to be natural. 
Self wants to say "I'm this way!" Doot-di-doo
Self wants a bag of mad powers, plus wings. 
Self gets them, too. 

twining strands and binding hands

Truth is stranger than fiction they say, 
and sayings are stranger than lies.
And lies are stranger than art and craft,
and fiction
scores all of these ties. 

scenario dear

I don't fight
hypotheticals, I play!
Like a mouse

with a kitten 
who has her way. 

I am always at the mercy. 

Fully-immersed 
in this mediocre case,
always posed as worst. 

I have fun. fun, fun!
Batted forth, disemboweled 
batted back, I have lost 
my tail somehow, but

it's all in the flow, and
precisely as posed.
I would really have done

my best, just-so.    

strong as wine

Deeply I drank of your wine dark eyes 
'til found the drug you'd spiked
in the dregs.

I noticed the taste 
and knew what it was,
but I always trusted
my poisoner's wiles. 
As the woozy gauze  
grew legs, swept me
off, gaining traction
in me, and the slur crept
into my honeyed tongue, 
the dark dilated beyond
my gaze, and
I guessed it 
was probably
just the wine

the remembered
that we'd 
had none.

perception is shift

If I have to, I can picture everything. 
My mind's eye rakes the world 
with a scorched-earth gaze, 
and I don't really mind 
what I don't see. But 
you might be surprised 
how little I praise,
or am phased. Or 
is this just a phase, 
all along? Will I wake 
this afternoon as a butterfly?

I can picture that fine.
I'm a hypothete 
with a taste
for immersion 
as strong as wine. 

to be sure

One time,
I was up a tree
with my neck stuck out on a limb
when she said to me, "Boy? Please,
cats are for trees, not you."
It was strange,
because she
was not there.
No one was there, so
she said it with the rustling
of leaves. I knew who it was,
though, and immediately
began ignoring her while behaving
ostentatiously in hoots and ee-ee's, like
a monkey, not the ape of an angel I suddenly
knew then I was  - an astute rebuttal to her feline
claims of arboreal dominance, I thought.
I concentrated, awaiting feces to throw.
No dice. I had patience at once,
and began casting hopeful eyes
about for places to throw it. But
she was not there, as noted. Suddenly I
was seized with a shame such as I have never
felt, and still haven't. However,
there was no harm done, and anyway
- I hadn't imagined the leaves rustling! 

They were rustling still. Only
they seemed to be reassuring me
"I was not crazy, we are rustling"
- with distant meows mixed in.
I purred and began looking for lower limbs
I could use to haul ass out of there in my blithe,
insouciant way. With panache if possible. 

When I fell...it was as if
the whole forest listened.
But there was not a sound.

She wasn't there. 

I knew it. 

Still, we all do what we have to,
to be sure. 

Listen people who hate hate

Listen people who hate hate
find ways to make love die 
inside for the haters they can't 
abide.
Soon
they fan
hate's flames 
and glory in hate's
ways, and they love it 
how much love
hate can raise. 

Don't fall for that dodge. 

You've got to find ways 
to love haters despite 
their hateful ways, well
You know you can fight 
hate relentlessly, all the
better with love in your 
sights, carefree.

a bit of a bind

I feel like I'm sitting 

across from you with 

nothing to say and nothing
to do
 - my favorite
place to be
on earth.
In a bit of a bind, 

working all its worth.

it's the business

I have an unfortunate, sappy
tendency to want the sunrise
blushing glow to draw out
forever, never burn into
unforgiving day, never clash
and break into late afternoon
storms, never wither and die
never to rise again. I want
cool people to be all happy!

It's bad for business, though.
One wants harsh, hard, lurid clash
in plots with points like gnashing,
grinding teeth of gears! And sometimes,
stories don't have happy endings!

Toughen up, hombre.
I speak for myself here, 
not believing you need such 
reminders, but in case you 
agree: toughen up, hombress.

Catastrophe
builds character, 
and what makes you
stronger won't make you
Nietzsche, thank God.
Don't worry about it.
The abyss thinks you're
cute, and so do I. 

There is at work in us
and between: a work. And
it never needs why. Just 
two whos and a how. 

unrequited

Authors should love their creatures
inordinately. They have yet more
cause to do so than mere mortals do
each other. Yet they must not spare them
their trials and failures by wan, unsatisfying
miracle, every page required. These seeming
beings drive the plot by their cunning and driven
wish, and are in turn driven by it where things must
lead. We must not believe

our creatures would wish
for less than this, and we

must be at least
so courageous as they.