Done for now

Helping one person. we will all see how this will come out.

I found her, she is like me.

I Am A River

I am a river, I move

Sometimes I have waves, I thrust!

Things fall into me

And sometimes I am done with things.

I move!

I am a river, I change

And am changed

Because that's what rivers do.

I'm Done With Things

I'm done with things

or else I'm not.

I'm done with things.

But I'm not sure.

I have all of this

confusion.

Forever, or else it seems so.

How much before I get to be done

with these things?

The confusion isn't even interesting!

same old same old.

Sometimes I stay awake until dawn

by accident.

And I suddenly notice that it's lightening

It's a surprise.

It's, kind, of, funny

in a small gentle way

But at the same time, stark.

Here you are, Miep

And here is the light, again

Who will be the winner, this time?

Who will be the winner?

Death Comes First; Excuses Later

I cannot say what I have read

It is too terrible, and too cold.

And too self-explanatory.

I don't want to spread these memes

I want to bury them

I want to bury them like sad corpses

that never quite got it

when they were alive.

I don't want a fight

I don't want a kill.

What I want

is a burial.

With ceremony.

We'll light candles, and we will have a dance

in honor of the death

of bad memes.

Of evil thoughts.

A ceremony in honor of all of those

who have ever fought against any of these.

Including those who are dead.

Especially including those who are dead.

Especially those who died wrongly

Those who were killed

by their own hand

by the hands of others

or just by being drowned

in fake memes.

There will be no excuses

Because we've gotten beyond that

Or if we haven't, we must

We must.

Drowned in fake memes

we're dead.

No more excuses.

All that's over.

Somebody please

text the phoenix.

A Poem for the Topix Forum

What an amusing little Forum this is
with its adjectival ratings
and its total HTML fail.

Cute.

Look at all the funny little people,
with their ever-changing names
and their never-changing rocks.

I could write a program
of most of these people
That would be slightly more amusing
And I'm not even a trained programmer
though I had promise.

I really did. I understood
the whole decision loop thing.
These people don't have a lot of forks
in their trees.

Give me a week to work it out.
I'm a quick study.

Occasionally one runs across
Intelligence
It's always sort of a shock
Like really pretty slime mold

And I like slime mold
I think slime mold is cool
Some of my best friends are into slime mold
They have posted me
beautiful photographs of slime mold.

And then there is Topix
which is a lot less complicated than slime mold
although in its own simple way
Kind of geometric.

And nowhere near as pretty.

Still, occasionally
a stalk pops up from the fungi
With a head with a brain
And we trade comments

such as:
"The windmills here aren't even worth the tilting"

or

"I kind of agree."

And then, fungal me
I go and write more stuff at them
I use my writing like soft napalm
to gently burn away their shells.

They don't like that, much
those Topix creatures.

I could become dozens of them. I could become
an entire Jerry Springer Show all by myself
Right there on Topix.

The main reason
I do not do this
is because I'm already crazy enough. However

Should I decide
that I'm making progress, becoming stable
Planting the good garden, being the good citizen
Making a change that isn't about clothing

It's helpful to know
that I'll have a
fallback
position.

Bad Poem

I know that

I have been bad

Though I don't want to admit it, who does?

I'm well aware that I have committed the cardinal sin
of engaging in the occasional cheap shot

Though I didn't mean to. I was not thinking. That happens.

There are no excuses

it's just what happened.

I did try to notice, and remember, and attempt to become better.

This is a stupid poem.

This is a poem about how I want to hate on you

because you were so in love with the cheap shots

and because I put up with it for so long.

This is a poem of no love

just cheap shots and martyr moves.

Very boring.

I'm trying

to actually turn this into a poem

To try to see into the dark of all of this

To try to redeem you.

But I cannot.

I just can't do it.

I know you have problems.

Bad problems.

You've always had bad problems.

Thus, I should be kind

I should be forgiving

And I would, if it wasn't for

that lacuna in the middle

of all the bad stuff

where things were going relatively well for you

And you got meaner and meaner

And then I left.

I never talked to you about this. I didn't want to give you
the satisfaction of knowing that your betrayal hurt so badly.

I still think you knew. At least in the moment.

You've likely forgotten by now. You're thinking of me as another betrayer. One you cared for.

And then she left, why?

How can I explain the years of meanness?

How can I explain being told I had to submit to your friends' crappy treatment?

What is the point of even trying?

I don't even know what's happening with you anymore, though I'll likely hear, sooner or later.

Small town.

I did hear that you're paralyzed.

You're actually, physically paralyzed.

That happened. After you drove me away with your cruelty.

Be careful what you wish for.