Damn it.

Between working my ass off this week and pfutzing about with various freelancing crap, I'm completely dry. (shudder) I can't seem to get my head into it this week.

So I'm sorry, guys. I'll probably backlog at some point to fill it in, but for now... my bad.

Also, I'm moving posting day to Thursday. Trying to write right after a Sunday night shift is like trying to piss into a thimble.

It's Only One Step

Well, we did it. We've elected Barack Obama to the highest office that we know of here in the States. And not only that, the Democrats control both the House and the Senate. We're at a critical place here, ladies and gentlemen. This is the time to get things done.

So what now?

I really hope someone out there's got a plan, because this is just one step in a long, long road - not just for our economy or our boys "over there", but for our bloody dignity as Americans.

Good luck, Mr. President. You're gonna need it.


It's Only One Step

Faith, (known as Hoping It Were So)
prevailed. And so we cheer, we take the streets
in our gigantic hands, we hold them sweet,
and on, the Faithful march in messy rows.
"Change!" we cry! Our Hope to over-throw
what was before consumes us with conceit,
our new-lust foams our breath, our mouths excrete
the strangest of the blessings that we know.

But through it all, there infiltrates a wraith
of shaken nerves, the road ahead's reply.
"What now?" a voice cries out; it could be any
of us here, the Faithful - we are many.
Slow, but true, we ask with tongues and eyes
this question. And once more we turn to Faith.

I'm sorry, man.

For Damon

Words are insufficient, as is prayer,
heartfelt hugs, or pattings on the back,
or lingered gazes, thickening the air
with sympathy. The cavalcade of black
does nothing, nor the Godsman's honeyed words,
nor bitter tears wrung out of you today,
tomorrow, or the next. The days will blur
together, all the colors turn to gray.

But time will pass, and you will know she's gone.
Her face will start to disappear from view,
her voice will fade. And you will carry on;
For better or for worse, it's up to you.
The colors brighten up. The rain feels wetter.
It never goes away, but you get better.


We're here for you, brother. For what it's worth, our thoughts and prayers (where applicable) are with you.

The Deaths of Things

This one's for my dear friend Lauren. Cheers, kiddo; here's to hoping your living situation gets a little less awkward with time.


The Deaths of Things

Failing light, or other deaths like that
are fascinating things to watch, my dear.
Take, for instance, us. What led us here,
what convolutions railed and laid us flat?
Was it the lack of trust? Oh, yes, perhaps
it was your sticky fingers rifling through
my e-mails. Checking my old calls for clues
of fallacy, or fault. And we collapsed
into this feckless heap, this shallow home.
A wreck of things, don't you agree, my dove?
And oh, what lofty heights we set for us;
but heights are high, and love devours love.
Our future could not hold, and we are thus:
The two of us, together, and alone.

On Stuff

(cough) I'm not backlogging. Who said I was backlogging? This sonnet was totally on time.


On Stuff

It's rare, the stuff that gives my spirit rise -
not swaths of light. Those perfect, shining skies
don't work for me. I never caught my breath
on gilded seas, or sunlight's daily death.

Give me instead a girl with patient thighs,
an unrepentant bowl of soup. The warmth
of February frost.  A thunderstorm.

I hear a lot of talk of wondrous sights,
of beauty in this world. The pallid heights
are fallacy. Beauty always dies.

And beauty never cares about you, too.
So why seek beauty? Know what's true to you.
I want a life without too many lies,
a quiet death, and all that it implies.

As I Lie Dying

There's only one downside to the advent of autumn, and that's getting sick at the first severe drop in temperature. Damn this humidity, and damn this cold. I don't know about you guys, but when I get sick, all I want to do is lie in a heap of my own misery and pray for death.

It gets you thinking, though, since you're incapable of anything more than putting on old episodes of Futurama and making mug after mug of tea. Funny how an art form that thrives on misery should have so little about this fundamental unhappiness.


As I Lie Dying

There aren't many poems on being sick.
I thought of that today as I lay prone
upon my sweaty bed, hemmed in by
half-drunk cups of juice and wads of snot
balled up in tissue. Gross, I know, but true;
it's part of life, like death, a shitty job,
or saying that you love someone you don't,
or taking out the trash on Monday night.
Seems there should be poems written of it.
Mundane, perhaps, but poignant nonetheless:
a quiet struggle on these hapless sheets.
There is no nobler fight than where I lie,
evaluating where I am and why,
and wishing I were better than I was.

Nights Like These

Sorry it's so late today, kids. I had an idea knocking around in my head last night, but I couldn't really get it into lines until today. I'm still not happy with it, but when you're over sixteen hours past deadline, you learn to accept these things. And on the off chance that anyone thinks it's about you, you're probably right.


Nights Like These

Nights like these are rare, these nights of peace;
nights like tonight, just sitting by myself.
When all the world is empty, sound asleep,
and all within is quiet. All is well.
The glass of whiskey gives me no release;
the strains of blues don't take me off the shelf.
They're company, they're friends of heavy deep,
But they're not while I smile tonight. I'll tell
you this - alone's the sweetest time for me,
booze and music drowning out the light;
it's not so bad in shadow when you see
that someone's there to make it seem alright.
And yeah, it's just a sense. Might not be true,
but I'll smile tonight, alone, thinking of you.