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.

A Poem For Pluto

Here upon the mountaintops
that don't exist

I stand, waving my arms, for a moment

and then standing still, looking around at the sky
which is all dark, but there should be stars

here soon. Because the clouds
don't last forever.

no clouds ever last forever.

Meanwhile, the hum occurs
it sings like locusts
like grillen
and all of those other unnameable critters
that bump in the night.

And there I am, in the dark
Waiting for stars, or comets, or wind, or anything
Anything.

With the world singing
in all its craziness
its crazed song breaks
its crazed metaphors
and everything else that breaks.

And there I am
starting to listen
starting to dance

And the wind starts up
my skirts fluff up

And I don't even wear skirts.
Not ever.
Ever.

And, now here are the frogs!
They are singing to me
even though they all died a long time ago.

They sing, as I sit in my rocking chair
that suddenly wasn't there a minute ago

And I dance in my chair, old lady I am
Dancing in my skirts
that were never there

To the frogs
that are gone.

I Hope You Have Not Fallen Into Illness

or something otherwise bad.

I think of you, trader that you are; still my friend, my wonderful friend whom I'm delighted to have found.

I see us as female beasts, ravaging ravaging ravaging.

But on opposite sites of imaginary fences.

I love you...you love me, I believe that.


We are fighters.

Champs always fight themselves.

Kid's got heart.

noboyfriend

Noboyfriend, noboyfriend, noboyfriend noboyfriend.

That wasn't sposed to be the end product.

Fuck. I deserved better.

I deserved better than this business of "Oh, Miep! You should slut around and pretend to be stupid, and then maybe one of them could be convinced to put his penis in you!"

Seriously. I deserved better than that.

I deserved better than the taunting, goading people with permanent sex partners.

I deserved better than their ongoing competition. They have fuckers! I do not. Thus, all of the potential fuckers belong to all of those boys and girls.

That's the way it has been for so long.

Until I threw them all away.

Goodbye, loser asshole competitive mean pseudo-friends.

Goodbye, goodbye.

I have no fucker. But I'm done with the competition, the taunting.

Bite me, all of you loser mean-spirited assholes. May you all rot in hell.

May you all rot in hell for doing a good job of making it even more difficult for me, to find a fucker.

A boyfriend.

An anything.

May you rot in hell for working so hard to try to break my ability to trust anyone, at all.

May you rot in hell.

The Music of Trolls

Oh, you.

There under your bridge.

baiting, baiting.

So misunderstood.

I bet you're really

kind of cool.

If anybody knew.

or tried.

What's it like in the sump, dude?

Kinda moist, I guess.

There but for the

Grace of Dog.

Sorry, troll.

I must decline

an invitation

into the hole.

Though I might visit from time to time.

Just to say hi.

Just to know you are there

alive

a form of living,

sump living.

Somebody's got to do it.

We insist on that, in fact

the rest of us.

It's mandatory. You got the job.

Poor troll.

&&&&

I wrote a poem about someone once

in which I inquired how his fingernails were today.

So, how our yours?

That can get hard when you live in the sump.

I worry about you.

How do you sing? Is it in gamelons?

That would work, I'd think. The simplicity and the echoes.

What do you think of, down there in the sump?

What are your days like?

I guess your sump probably doesn't have any windows

or ventilation.

After all, it's a sump.

But still, there you are

a real troll

down in a sump

It must end somewhere, dear troll.

You can't just go on like this forever.

Live or die, dear troll.

But please

at least, don't forget to try to make sure

there isn't a ladder.

For Claude

Now that you are on the other side
of an especially terrible wall
please allow me to say
that I cannot imagine what to say

other than the usual, the formal
the trite utterances, that are, at the same time
so right
because what else can one say.

Now that you have been cast
in the role of one who got the worst cast
of the dice, now that no one else
can understand, other than those
who also caught snake eyes

please let me say, that though I
don't understand
because I could not possibly understand
because I have no children
that still, I see the edges
of the horror.

Now that you have gone off to
the part of the ocean where
there be dragons
and then fallen off and drowned

please let me say
that I care for you
And that I know this must be terrible
in all of the worst possible senses of the word.

Now that you face a world of hell
for an indefinite period of time

Please let me say
that I care for you
That you were kind to me when I was feeling crazy
that in fact you've done that reliably
And that it mattered.

Now that all hell is lain open for you
Please let me say
That you are you. And nothing will change that.
Not even tragedy.

And please let me say, as well,
that I am honored to know you.
And have felt so for some time.

And one more thing, too.
That though I have no children, I believe
that you are the sort of person
who would care for me if I had one who died
so prematurely, in such tragedy.

That you would have been there.

Because that's how you are
you and your gifts of trees

That's how you are.

there you were

Amazing outlier.

There you were.

When I thought all was lost.

You came in.

From different directions. You were afraid.

We talked, now and then.

We got to know each other a bit.

Then we got funny.

And then we got angry.

And then we got angry.

And then we became friends.

And then, I lost that thing,

where one has no friends.

It became something out into the void

Where one suddenly has the energy

to exhaust the fail

but not in a bad or mean way

Just do it.

In a kind way.

And then just sit there, for some time.

Talk to your dog.

Get up in the morning, sometime.

Remember that your dog is there, needs your attention.

Remember that.

Get up. Talk to your dog.

Look at the light.

Think about what must be done.

Look at your dog.

Get out of the bed. But oh, no. First, wake up. And then stretch. Stretch a lot. That's right.

Meanwhile, the dog awaits. He knows. When you work up to the stretching...he starts to pace.

He knows.

He knows it because he's your dog.

He knows that it's time to get up.

He's polite, your dog. But he knows. He knows.