Poetry Toad

It's hard to write about one's own introspection

It seems a bit excessive, too narcissistic

The muse exits, says "Well? Where's the art in this?"

And that's a good question. Where, indeed is the art

in obsessing on one's aging

these arbitrary milestones

They are of religion, in some ways.

The necessity of compliance.

The guilt, the frustration, the competition.

Prima donna things, these birthdays.

A friend lost once told me

that one should always throw one's own party.

Don't have expectations. Don't do the guilt thing.

Make it yourself.

She was right about that. She was wrong about other things.

A gift of age is noticing that, observing that people

can be totally wrong in some ways, and totally right in others.

It doesn't seem valid, but there it is.

Right up in your face.

All of these romantic failures, and sad memories of greatness.

All of these attempts to find perfection, and seeing it in confusion

Because that's what it's really all about, even when it looks like

perfection, or evil, or right or wrong.

Mostly it's about confusion. The most pure

stuff mostly gets unnoticed.

Because it is not screaming for attention.

It's just there

waiting to be sullied.

And I know, that sounds mean and bitter

I am mean and bitter, to some extent.

I make no excuses.

But that is not all that I am

I am lots of other stuff, too.

I am the Poetry Toad

She's funny.

She's my ghostwriter.

She croaks in my dreams, when they get too confusing

She brings me back to the terrible dismal nature of fantastic life

And the giggling nature of strange.

Well, what does the Poetry Toad have to offer
for my birthday, looming soon?

She's being a little quiet now.

I know she's kind of a she

like I know I'm kind of a he.

We are a mixed lot.