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No one is here
No one is far
No one can steer
(The door's ajar)
No one will come
No one will go
No one is from
(All's to and fro)
No one is by
No one has fled
No one will sigh
(Except for Ted)
It's all been done
All by no one.

Everything is an Ouroboros

The year will start
The year will end
We will not part
Will we, my friend?
No we will spend
Our hours well
And seek to blend
Them for a spell:
As one the bell
We'll answer straight
And in one cell
We'll contemplate
'Til no one finds
In us two minds.

Checkered

Checkers pieces on a checkers table

Made for nothing else, and left to sit

Among the others, all of which are able

With just a board (which, we must all admit

Usually comes with pieces) to replace

Its only purpose. What must it be like

To be that table fastened into place,

Listening to every open mic

And oh so rarely getting to express

Its only manufactured purpose? Then

Oh joy of heaven, tablekind to bless,

Two people sit, women, children, men

And play. How must it feel? Who knows?

The table simply thinks that's how it goes.

Wrong

Something is clearly wrong with me, you know.
I'm happy in a place frozen with cold,
Where nothing seems but everything is old,
And all of it is coated with grey snow,
Where crêches lit in profile cast a glow
Across a landscape delicately rolled
Like pastry dough, flattened without a fold
And underneath the snowdrifts cornfields grow.
How am I happy here, where farms are king,
The city is a college town upsized,
And not by much, and lacks variety?
You wouldn't think it was my sort of thing.
But there is something here that I have prized:
My love. With her I stay here happily.

Certain

I'm certain of a lot of things
But certain is as certain does;
Reason certainty oft brings
Of what one did or what one was
But sometimes faith can certain make
What reason wishes left behind
Or lies can of a sudden take
A false new form, and thus designed
Implant a certain notion in
A mind prepared to be deceived
So even certain things begin
To be examined ere believed
But high above such certainty
Is my belief that you love me.

525600

Time is a nemesis I cannot quell
No matter how I try to push it out
It will remain - even when I can't tell
The details of its passage, I can't doubt
It lives and still moves on. Like Galileo
I must admit, no matter what the court
May say of it, it moves. I cannot K.O.
The hours that live inside a clock, abort
The minutes of a watch, or put aside
The seasons of a sundial. No, when
I break them, smother them, attempt to hide
The truth of what they say, time and again
Time merely slips away, and counts itself
Without the ticking from the clock's old shelf.

12/25

It's almost strange...no, it is strange
To be a Jew in Christmastime.
The constant calls to rearrange
Your life, couched deep in verse and rhyme
Are wearying; I cannot bring
The Christchild or dear Santa Claus
Into my heart, though I will sing
Commercial songs wrapped in the gauze
Of movies or in ads, because
They're almost secular to me
Religion covered by the fuzz
Of pure commerciality
Or season's greetings. I get by
By staying me, and eating pie.

Humbuggery

Supersonic sleighs do seem
Slightly out of whack to me
As if in some fever dream
Huge impossibility
Was just swallowed, but once waked
All slipped off and was forgotten
Or when thought of, seen as faked
By the mind, and thus begotten
Only out of last night's cheese
Sitting oddly on the liver:
Must all presents under trees
Have a single, saintly giver
Or can we admit the thought
Of the presents parents bought?

Denialist

Is it bad of me to say
Santa may not quite be real
Nor his reindeer, nor his sleigh,
If I do admit I feel
Warmer watching children smile
Thinking of the presents coming
Ogling the Christmas pile
Cooing to themselves and humming
Christmas carols? Is it fair
To be a Grinch this way a little
If I still protest I care
For their hopes and dreams, so brittle?
Or does saying Santa's fake
Make too many small hearts break?

140?

Counting syllables like sheep
Is a fairly solid way
I can get myself to sleep
At the end of every day
But sometimes my mind in counting
Grows too interested in how
Rhymes and meaning keep amounting
To much more than I allow.
So sometimes poems do not make
My nighttime easier, but flip
My mindswitch on, and therefore take
Away the time when I should slip
To sleep. That risk is always there
But still I count, because I dare.

Tock

I shall wait, and do it well
Although I do not think I am
That good at it (if I can tell -
It presses on me gram by gram
As if a weight were lowered slowly
But perhaps it's always so
Even for those patient holy
Saints who let the world just go).
I shall be here almost eternal
Rooted in a spot alone
Until the world has gone infernal
Or the icicles have grown
Or until you get me, rather,
Despite all this lengthy blather.

12 Hours

Even this was worth it. Even this.
Even the hours in the car, just waiting,
The so many events we had to miss
The fear of freezing, or of suffocating
In an airless but warm car, even the fear
Of waking up tomorrow in a ditch
I ran into today, the thought that here
Could be the last place I would ever switch
Lanes, before a semi slammed us down,
Even the tumbling exhausted in
A bed I barely felt, the clear white gown
Of deadly ice on which the wheels would spin
All of them were worth it, with her by
Besides, I doubted we would really die.

Avion

Patience is hard and I am very bored.
Why are we here? And why can't we get there?
It's not like my Chicago is abhorred
Or that I hate my home, or do not care
To sleep in my own bed. But really, I
Was ready to be elsewhere, eager to
Visit another city. Now I lie
Semirecumbent in an airport. Who
Would rather be here than be in Nebraska?
And if they would, they ought to realize
A storm more suited to, say, Nome, Alaska
Will keep us here if our plane does not rise.
I want to go, not so I leave my bed
But so my life continues on ahead.

Newsfeed

Facebook fails

To show whole pics

As it scales

It often sticks

A side or top

Away, and makes

A semicrop

That often takes

The point away

And only keeps

Something that's stray.

And as this creeps

Into our eyes

We like the lies.

1/1

If everything
Is yes and no
Then time will bring
No grays to know
Only the black
And white together
Giving no slack
Unto the tether
Simply being
One or other
Only seeing
Smoke or smother
I am neither
Nor both either.

Glass

The hours flow
So far away
And still I know
That yesterday
Is somewhere back
Behind my head
But still I lack
What is ahead
What will arrive
Tomorrow? Well
If I'm alive
That day I'll tell
But now, who knows?
The hour goes.

Changes

How can I tell you how it was
When you were there, but could not tell?
You did not know the constant buzz
Or how I'd turn and run pell-mell
To catch a bus to ride forever
Just to see you for an hour.
You did not take the late 4 ever
Or watch the midnight moon grow sour
Out by the curbside, lingering
Wishing to extend the time
Sitting alone and fingering
A phone, awaiting some new chime.
And yet you were, I can't forget
The other texter in that set.

Eww

The rain drops very slow
But constant in small drops
The wind is never low
And pushes all the slops
The city leaves behind
Into the walkers' faces
The gutters seem designed
To never wash the traces
Of mud and grime away
But rather hold them dear
The sun forgets the day
And all is gloom and drear
This day displeases me
Mostly aesthetically.

National News

Who the hell kills children? Seriously
Who does that? What twisted mind can think
Shooting a kindergarten class could be
Any response to anything? To sink
That low...it isn't on the chart. It's not.
You just don't do it. Nothing justifies
That sort of thing. A single child shot
Is evil, but the name of evil dies
Against this horror. It is too banal.
You just can't do it if you're human. Who
And how? A theater, a park, a mall,
They're all horrific, but a schoolroom too?
What are we if this thing is can happen? Why
Would anyone think five year olds should die?

On

Something correct can never be quite wrong,
But it can be a little off, you know?
The way that glowworms always have a glow
That's slightly eerie; or a night-bird's song
Still strikes you as a little sharp, or long,
Or somehow out of sync with what should go
With nighttime; or a day can be too slow
Despite the sun progressing past the throng
Of clouds as quickly as it ever did.
Something that's right is not always complete -
Sometimes there's something else that's deeply hid
Not quite fallacious, but too much discrete.
This isn't that. I'm clear and right and true
About how I feel happiest with you.

That

Some days are like that. "Like how" you may say
But that's your problem. I am very clear
Exactly what I mean, and yesterday
Was just that way. And now I somewhat fear
Today will be like that as well, and so
My week may pass along being like that
Until the end of time. How long ago
Did days start to be so? It is not pat,
Not cut and dried, but rather gradiated
Slowly progressing into thatness from
Whatever prior state, irradiated
By something thaty, and perhaps with some
Inherent thattitude. I cannot tell.
But either way, it thated me pell-mell.

CTA

Really 6? You couldn't stop or stay
Already stopped? You had to move right on
Although I should have been seen on the way
My arms still waving at your form, now gone?
I ran you down, two blocks and more between,
Limbs flailing in my desperate wish to be
Home and secure. But no, I was not seen,
Or else the driver chose maliciously
And closed the door on me. Why would he so?
What would it cost him, stopped at the next light
To let me come before he chose to go
And bring an end to my despairing flight
Not at a bus stop, cold and bleakly bare
But in a bus with room and warmth to spare?

Off

It's never easy leaving. Then my mind
Shuts down upon itself and will not let
The thoughts of my departure come. I'm blind
To my own future, but I can't forget
Making the plans, preparing, readying
To go, and so although the mind may hide
Pretending what's to come's some other thing
The truth is in there, somewhere deep inside
Insisting on existence, such that I
Despite my wishes, feel the bitter cold
Of knowing I will go despite the lie
My mind attempts to tell itself. I fold
Up in myself and think of better days.
Usually that helps, but not always.

Look

I love to see you happy. Don't forget
I think the greatest joy this world contains
Is seeing you melt inwardly and set
Your eyes on me. That look for me explains
So much, and all of it exactly how
I'd like it to. I love to sit across
From you, and watch the changes you allow
To pass over your face like so much dross
Upon a sheet of gold, until you smile
And everything is golden, bright, and gay.
I love to count expressions, and to file
The ones that I the most adore away
Inside my mind, to watch for them again.
I'll just keep watching so I see them then.

Sway

I like the way you dance. It makes me glad
To see the way you move: how happily
You sway in time with music. And to see
The happiness that you have always had
Come out is wonderful. Even when sad
Your motion makes me think inevitably
Of warmer days and smiling times. For me
While you are dancing, nothing can be bad.
And so I watch you, and I grin, because
Your mood's contagious, and I am infected
By your bouncing joy. Whatever buzz
You're feeling is in me, and as expected
Your smile ignites my happiness, so I
Sway with you 'til we hear the music die.

Silly

There are some times I feel ridiculous
As if some cosmic joke were being played
Which looked on me (or sometimes looked on us)
As creatures living only to be made
The butt of all. I do not mind this fate:
To laugh is wonderful, and who am I
To tell the world that it must be irate
And let my follies pass unlaughed at by?
No, I should learn to laugh among the rest
And see my problems for the jokes they are;
To put each issue in the light that's best,
Make light of it, and see how it's bizarre.
In doing so I might well benefit
By seeming to have humor, poise, and wit.

Alterations

Some hours ago
So I hear tell
The heart was low
As if in hell
But now I see
Thank God on high
A jollity
Without a sigh
So what is this
That changes men?
A soulful kiss?
A love again?
Or something small:
Mere hope, that's all.

Oh Well

Well, I seem to recall
That there used to be rules
In the back of it all,
Back before all the fools
Made their way to this place
And destroyed all our sense;
But I guess to save face
We put them in past tense.
Now they do what they please
And they don't what they won't
So they all take their ease
And the rest of us don't.
So the rules can't have been
All that great to begin.

On

What can I do except keep keeping on?
Why would I want to do some other thing?
The world will always turn from dusk to dawn,
And as a human, on the world I cling,
And so I must, as it does, grasp the ring,
Meeting the new day with a new approach,
Letting the sunset and the sunrise sing
Into my soul, and never dare to broach
The thought of doing otherwise. To poach
A phrase from elsewhere, I am what I am,
And so, as such, partly above reproach
And when reproached, I do not give a damn.
So I'll keep on, as I intend, and be
At least while all the world keeps up with me.

Hmph

Sometimes the schedule, as I live it, sucks.
What I desire's not what I can do
And all that I experience I rue.
Sometimes the world unlines all of my ducks,
Committing them unto their several lucks
In noncolinear space, with only two
(As two must be) in any line. I knew
That this was possible, but still, who fucks
With someone like that, Nature? And why me?
But more, why anyone? Why must mere chance
Motivated by Perversity,
That awful imp, and by his deep romance
With human suffering, make fools of planners?
It seems a breach of all (in)human manners.

Argle

Some days are long
And then feel longer
Ring like a gong
But then grow stronger
Keep waiting on
Or rushing 'round
From dusk to dawn
Or peak to sound
Or simply being
So so so slow
Or disagreeing
With what you know
So that your mind
Goes dumb and blind.

To Go

I do not like to go away
I much prefer to be right here
To hold her tight and simply stay
Where I am happy, warm, and dear.
But sadly I must go, I fear,
Must do what I have promised to:
Be helpful, active, frank, and clear
In other places. It is true
I have commitments that run through
Whatever other wishes I
May have developed; and I do
Fulfill my promises. And why?
Because I do not wish to make
You fear my promises don't take.

Comfortable Joy

Comfort's underrated. Why should I

Not love to be as happy as I am

When it is constant and surrounds me? Why

Should I pretend I do not give a damn

About a happiness that's all around,

Enveloping and cushioning my life?

Why should I prefer the sudden rushing sound

Of joy brought in in danger, storm, and strife

Over the constant heartbeat of the same

Brought forth in warmth and stillness? Is it worse

Somehow to joy without much stress or shame?

Is that somehow no worthy source of verse?

I'll write my heart, and therein comfort lies;

Still joy, though without startle or surprise.

Windmill Country

Driving south through fields of blinking lights
The only break in the monotony
Of black, dead night, I cannot help but see
Their livid red as comfort. On such nights
A sign, however slim, of human hope
Of something someone somewhere meant to do
Is heartening. They blink when they want to,
Irregular, and as my blind eyes grope
For something to hold onto, each short burst
Of longed-for light is precious and unique;
The fields between without them are but bleak
And leave me dark, to contemplate the worst.
Daylight reveals prosaic shafts and blades
But magic fills the gaps where daylight fades.