She says she likes me, yet I don't like myself
I've yet to be the man of my dreams, yet such to aspire
Not one to keep promises to himself
The one without peace behind his eyes, an unquenched fire.
Waking up unproud of the way of life, wishing to go higher
Yet she likes who I am, while I ache for who I could be,
And some days, that gap feels like failure, a longing to rewire
She sees a light I've yet to earn by my own standards, I can't retire
Perhaps that's what love truly is, a quiet conspire,
Not to wait for someone to arrive, not only for when things are dire,
But believing in them while still on their way, like building an empire
Maybe becoming isn't about being ready first, no need to perspire
Becoming is rising, its chasing desire,
for Someone who sees who you fully before yourself, are the true inspire
May be the best motivation to become what they know you are; you may now retire.
Glimitz!
According to your order - pronounce,
I weigh less than an ounce.
As gratchens flame and fly, to my disdain,
I wonder, have you got a light?
A conference call,
a violin,
a gently rappling, nightly nappling, finger poppling, ripe penguin,
all of them, on ice,
or would slipslod them on rice?
Catch a tory,
a chicken allegory,
seizing up, all oblong,
I don't belong,
I am more a scroodle square - don't glare.
Chattanooga,
What's it to ya?
Blampart on rye -
as I sit and sigh,
a bicycle goes by.
Oglethorpe in greeches,
idly ironing breeches;
say aloud:
I'm not unproud.
Morebly, I am constitutional.
Cribble, Crabble, my friend Jasper,
grasshoppers of alabaster,
frogs from South Chicago,
a ballpark frank for Joe,
did I stub my finger?
...or my stomach?
Saskatoony
on the half shell,
Pinkerton gets all wet.
Could I ever master
Vogon without regret?
Whatever mix of proteins poured
With that inoculation draught
Drunk by my vein, not thirsted for,
But sipped in the subtle rhythms
Of pulse beat, of embodiment,
Moulds to the clay that forms myself,
I know only shameful nothing,
And in my unproud ignorance
Is only a child’s solemn trust
In all that must be, for all good.
thoseies
what was i best at at work
throwing scrunched up paper into the bins
proud to be unproud
like to stretch elastiiiiiiiiiiiiic
evangelically
Still sitting on the sil of silly
B---------------------------------- ----------------------r
i---------------------------------- ------------------------l
l---------------------------------- ------------------------i
a---------------------------------- ------------------------n
t---------------------------------- l -------------------------y
obtuse
sanity never had a use
all the fight never
one neo eon and on
End with a swung took
to everyone and their God
worthless to the point
burnt all the amed
now its ash
couldn't felt
write watt scrambled sword i
wanting the tare to come
and whatever takes its place
sinews of cuts and bruises
hold hands over
-----------------the schism chasm
i write because these words were mean
Tee up its new born other
vowels-----------------------my fingers-------------------------con stant ants
Betting on the ween
four thought
fore think
for thoughties to
the turn of the urn as it runs
the turn of the urn as it runs-all just a re-run
Illusion to who
or better to whom
the window opens shut
An image ingrained
often betrays
a rose that’s long been plucked
The sun in the moonlight
darkness to burn
a promise made to none
Glory unproud
its victory profane
—the truth an empty gun
(The New Room: April, 2021)