undone

I write my little poems on my phone

And hope that somewhere somebody is reading.

My heart pumps blood, but feels like it is bleeding

Into my chest; my mind is overthrown 

By worries that, like monsters never shown,

Cannot be overcome. I am succeeding

At one thing only: stubbornly impeding

My own sense of connection. I'm alone.

I stare into the phone, and wish to see

Something I have not ever seen in there.

This is definable insanity:

Repeating action (stare and stare and stare)

While hoping it will end up differently.

But where else should I look? I know nowhere.

done

My fucking god, I'm just so fucking done.

What is the point? What is the goddamn point?

What can I do or say to anyone

That matters? We're going to anoint

A senile, angry madman as our priest

And while he gets his vengeance, we get hosed.

Can nobody out here see past their nose?

Hey, "Christians," "what you do unto the least"

Should mean something, and if it doesn't, then

What is the point of calling yourself that?

And worst of all, my gender: fucking men.

I wish we weren't. The gas was two bucks flat

When everyone was dying, and now we

Are going back. Fuck this. Fuck history.

Philosophical Musings

The morals of philosophy 

Are not too hard to comprehend 

Until you try to certainly 

Assert it to some certain end.

All of a sudden there arise

A thousand little arguments

Each full of tiny hows and whys

For you to pen, each in its fence.

It's like a coastline, and its length:

So easy on a map to see

But measured closely, past the strength 

Of any true cartography.

The moment that you try to claim

A certainty, you lose your aim.

Barton

The cold equations lie to you. They lie

Not in themselves (the math is right, of course)

But in their will to power. Asking why

The cold equation rules -- is it by force? --

Reveals, or can reveal, a deep design

That someone's interest calculates and sets

To make the cold equation seem a sign

Of universal meaning. But who lets

The cold equation go on being cold?

If we all know the cold equation's flaws

Who benefits from our failing to fold

Our own protections round its jagged laws?

The cold equations are still true, still cool

But people chose to let equations rule.

fishes

I wish I were not scavenging my time 

Robbing Peter to pay Paul, and making

Each little word and every single rhyme 

A muscle torn, reused and ever-aching.

Imagine that the time ahead of me

Were smooth and open, free to fill at leisure:

Impossible the possibility

And endless the end-stopped, creative pleasure.

But it has not been so, will not be either;

I cannot count on time to while away.

I am a child teething without teether

Gnawing my knuckle bloody to allay

The pain of what is rising from below

And has no patience as it strives to grow.

test

My heels dig in so much the ground is broken

Beneath my shoes. I hate to lose. I will,

If asked for an opinion when awoken

Defend 'til I sleep, and even still

Grumble in dreams about how I am right.

My knee, once jerked, will not concede its place

To any; I am my opinion's knight

And fight for it 'gainst all foes I might face.

Yet even I, who hate to say I'm wrong,

Who close my ears and la la la along

When anyone corrects what I have said 

Will tell these presidents the way they've acted

Requires that their statements be retracted

Before some student protester lies dead.

bubble

I hear you in the other room

Your voice reminds me of your smile

It chases off my after-gloom

As I remember in a while

You will come out and sit with me

As we companionably read

Beside the dog, and drink our tea.

I think of this with utter greed.

There is no joy I wish for more

No comfort higher, greater grace

Than listening to our dog snore

While looking at your smiling face

Nose deep inside an open book

All unaware each time I look.

O Beautiful

I never understood the waves before;

It always seemed a silly little song.

To speak of waves of grain? It must be wrong.

The water always seemed to me much more

Than any field could be. How could it store

The slightest sense of surge, to bear along

A boat, and break? A farm is strong,

But like a wall, not like a wave, I swore.

Yet here, as night casts shadows on the snow

The wheat (unwaving yet, as it must grow)

Reminds me of the ocean rippling free

No waves as yet, but still an energy

That my sea-sense already seems to know

And recognizes past solidity.

Chanukah

Flicker little flame

Build a little light

In God's holy name

Last throughout the night.

Help us to remember

Long and far away

How once in December

Light for but one day

Stretched itself to eight

'Til more oil was found

To re-dedicate

Holy, sacred ground.

Let us not now be

Those from whom we're free 

Mire

I do not have the brain to be myself.

I grope towards me, but cannot seem to reach.

My soul sometimes seems put up on a shelf

Where from the box my insides slowly leach.

I want to think, but when I try I grind

Like gears too long un-oiled or unused.

There is an awful jamming in my mind

Where what was understanding is confused.

I used to leap from thought to thought with ease

Where now to say I plod would be too much;

A keyboard doesn't work with sticky keys

Nor do I think. I can't release the clutch

Enough to even settle in a gear.

Even reverse would be relief from here.