Interpretation

It means whatever you want it to mean
it says whatever you need it to say
there are no messages in between
the cognitive quandaries I try to convey,

so glean whatever you want to glean
and weigh whatever you need to weigh
my sentiments seldom conform to the mean
so take them however you may.

Stages

Tonight I’ll flirt with Destiny
and every circumstance
I know will get the best of me
if given half a chance,

but will it hold an audience
with dialogue that’s dry?
I’ve got to act with confidence,
we all have plots to ply.

There is no lasting happiness
just moments more serene
that counteract the craziness
before the final scene.

Proof

Some pleasures that I’ve sought to shun
enjoyed would see my world undone
for am I not my mother’s son—

aware the bottle’s less than half
but daily forcing out a laugh
insisting on a full carafe;

and though it caused her cruel demise
I’ll snuggle up with all my lies
until the fire takes my eyes

unless I can remain stiff willed
embracing passions unfulfilled,
a spirit stronger when distilled.

Impetus

Why is it that we make things—
to see ourselves somehow
or hear the thunder of applause
and take a nervous bow,

to curiously instigate
a novel way to see
how truly indefinable
we were meant to be,

or is it just an exercise
of freedom to express
the need to try and make some sense
from this chaotic mess?

Whatever is the catalyst
should never be denied,
we’ll never master harmony
if ranges aren’t applied.

Riveted

The stanchions still stand stoically
assailed by summer storms
they’ve hung in there heroically
a tribute to their forms

for steel can be as pliable
as anything that bleeds
and is, perhaps, more viable
with fewer vital needs

beyond a place to bivouac
beneath an open sky
so they can diligently track
their muses spinning by.

Wastrel

I’ve wasted many words but never said
a thing discerning minds would care to read
and now it seems the urge to share is dead;

it’s like a withered skin I had to shed
a ghostly husk of self-indulgent greed
that wasted many words but never said

one single statement suitable to spread
which prompts my inner critic to concede
that now the urge to share should just lay dead.

These empty thoughts that bounce inside my head
and ricochet with ever slowing speed
are wasted words that never will be said

for no one truly cares if someone’s bled
provided they were not the one to bleed—
so now you see, the urge to share is dead.

Can sustenance be something more than bread,
could symmetry fulfill this nagging need?
I’ve wasted many words but never said
and now it seems the urge to share is dead.

Demanding

To maximize your medium
at times can just be tedium
but oh, the exultation
when they crave your creation.

Conclusion

There are ways to do things
and there are ways to get things done
you don’t need matching shoestrings
to get the distance run
or silver void of tarnish
to take a hearty bite
nor selfishness to garnish
your portion of delight—
though you must release the moorings
to get the trip begun
there are ways to do things
and there are ways to get things done.

Mindshift

I’ve mucked in mediocrity for many maudlin years
fettered by the ferrous chains of fundamental fears
but now a nascent noumenon is gnawing with a need
to break the bonds that keep the collars blue among my breed.

Terms

When I thought what I said mattered
there was so much to relay
a brand new page was spattered
with purpose every day
but margins can grow tattered
getting battered by the fray
till confidence is shattered
and there’s nothing new to say.

When I wished what I said mattered
there was plenty to parley
and though those hopes have scattered
I keep bargaining away.

Comeuppance

A happy thought
cannot be bought
it can’t be taught
to those distraught
but sometimes stray ones
can be caught
the moment they’re
no longer sought.

Mourning Personality

The phoniness is freely feigned
her mindless mask so well maintained
reciting every word prepared
as though she genuinely cared
about the hurting and debris
of televised humanity.

Later Gator

You came with every chopper bared
and caused a big commotion
you chomped and stomped
all through the swamp
without a single notion

of your intended purpose there
aside from the attention
but now somehow
they disavow
the need for your retention.

Rider

He blankly goes to work each day
and says the words he has to say
while watching all his silly dreams slowly fade away
it’s true that time does not exist
although he wears it on his wrist
to monitor the misery that grinds him in the grist

but sometimes in among the chaff
he finds a morsel worth a laugh
and savors it just like a drunkard handed a carafe—
contentment is a carousel
that spins the other way as well
condemning everyone to find their own clause out of hell.

Whet

We congregate
to consecrate
the rituals that don’t relate
yet soothe the strife
that dulls the knife
throughout the abattoir of life.