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.

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.