The
yes-man
ladies and gentlemen
is almost
always
saying
no.
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The words I’d say to an unborn son.
If you’re not ready to let go,
then don’t.
Hold on as long as you need,
and then some.
These are words I’d say,
to an unborn son.
If it seems repetitive,
that’s good.
If it hurts in a hundred different ways,
it’s supposed to.
If you don’t want to smile,
let them see you frown.
These are the words,
I’d say.
Does it get easier,
at times.
Should you forget,
never.
Is it your fault,
no.
The words I’d say are these.
Life will kick your ass.
Love will break your heart.
Death will drug your senses.
With the strength of a mother’s love,
I would say.
You are your father’s child,
but make no mistake,
you are not your father.
I think I’m literally starting to get it.
I could say
I’m hunched
though
I’m seated kind of
lazily – leg on couch
neck bent, ankle
sprain elevated
on green and white pillowcase –
typing
methodically
with a headache
from late payments
unpaid bills
and paranoia,
that could all sound
so sweet, so elegant
like the sound of a typing machine,
if only I was still a romantic
perhaps
I’d use big words to describe my feelings
but
for today
the clouds literally fill the sky,
there’s no check in the mail,
and I’ve got more work to do
at the finish
of this
poem.
A funny conversation I had about work.
Do you do much marketing?
She asks.
I went to Art School, so…
So what?
They taught us how to feel,
not how to eat!
You’re never completely alone.
Allow me my sadness today.
We can talk tomorrow.
As you walk away, we
die a little more – separate machines.
But take care knowing, if
you decide to speak.
We can talk today.
Always.
Change.
It’s clear that you are trying.
But things have changed,
haven’t they?
You have changed.
And that’s a good thing,
change is good.
But it’s clear, from us
looking in
that you aren’t quite yourself
you aren’t quite as we remembered.
And if you are,
then clearly we too, have changed.
But we haven’t changed,
not really, in the sense
that your new found glory
has taken control.
And if I’m wrong, tell me.
Tell me something beyond common sense.
It’s crystal clear,
isn’t it?
Us know-it-alls, know it all.
So for now, you’re out of the club.
And that’s a good thing, rest,
because we all come back eventually.
Those who speak of love.
Beware
of those
who, so often
speak
of love,
remember
not to
get too involved
with
their plight,
chances are
there is someone
responsible
and you
just might be
picking up the pieces,
because Love
too often
is mistaken for
infatuation,
but they
won’t see that,
they can not
see so well through the fire
the mystery
of the heart,
the failure
of the brain,
at face value, yes
they may seem true
but beware
the unhinged
romantic,
they know
what they’re selling
but not so much
what to do after they’ve made the sale,
yak-yakkity yakking
their pattern back
to heartache.
Where the actual music begins.
Living life
like a Bright Eyes song
will only get you so far.
At some point
it’s time
to turn the music off.
That’s where
the actual music begins –
that’s when you sing, your song.
E major
works for me,
what works for you is not my business.
White Noise.
Somewhere among the static
I remain
speaking on your terms.
Individual Sadness.
We each have our own
individual sadness.
Like a fine wine.
I drink it down.
Some tastes better
than others.
I drink hers down.
Then open another bottle.
We much prefer red over white.
Dry over sweet.
Though there have been those who’ve poured
and those who’ve carelessly spilled.
But none like this.
None so direct.
Covered in a deep, warm red
I much prefer her careful aim
as she throws the Cab into my face –
Betty Davis style.
Words Of An Average White Male 