emotional capacity of a potato

there are times and places
and people and things,
but this is none of those
and i find it highly suspect
that you’re still trying
to stuff it in your pocket
when the jar, the bag, and
your heart, failed to hold
it. but the misunderstandings
you’re perpetuating make
me believe there is also
little reason in attempting
to explaining it to you.

yup, much more awesome though different than we’re taught.

and one day while lying in bed
and reading a clive staples commentary
on third or fifth-rate poetry,
it occurs to me that i’ve never written
a love poem. as in a poem about genuine
love and not the mushy gushy feeling
of pursuit and excitement. of the chase
so fleeting, wonderful yes, but no more love than avacado is ice cream though it shares a consistency.

and now married 8 years to the horribly imperfect, i think myself prepared
for a love poem. about dishes, fights, diapers, and choices again and again to be better than i think she deserves because i know undoubtably she’s being better than she thinks i deserve.
for though she sometimes thinks knows me to be an ass
she delights in my imperfection and offers patience with my foolishness.
finding that, in a way, we live thrive together somehow stronger with the constant struggle of maintaining one another;
stronger than we would be void of one another.
the choice so easy when weighed with the alternative.
so often left unweighed.
because to love is the choice.
the choice is to love.

whumph

for these times we
need to argue
the facts when the
truth is blurred
with rhetoric
like blue mixes
with green to make
a blue-ish green.
you know, it doesn’t
really mix. the two
colors seem always
altogether distinct
but indistinguishable
in a strange it’s
obvious but not
entirely kind of
way which apparently
poetry is unable
to express.

at least mine.

life lessons by spuds

there are potatoes in a sack in the back of your dust-infested room growing mold next to your bong which has lately only been used to smoke legal substances which due to law changes really isn’t a change at all, but the more potent blends have done nothing to sharpen your mind to the dangers of crystallized fungus or whatever happens when things mold (i never took even basic chemistry after all).

and i just can’t help but continue to wonder at the state of disarray that is your outward appearance and the calm which defines your inner being, and the way it contrasts with my own life.

woot?

a twinge of relief
followed by a sudden
sense that this win
will be long lived
but only enjoyed
shortly as the sore
ness in back and neck
give way to fever and
then throat pain
in a way Tylenol just
cant relieve

but a win is still a
win in casablanca

I wrote out a big long sappy thing and then cut it out and put this down instead. My heart is suddenly open to more feeling. And it’s been hurting for so long it is unsure of how to respond. Hope, there is room for hope again. Expectation, how I’ve missed you. Longing, I hope we part ways for some time. Shit, we’ve become far too well acquainted.

holy ethiopian palm sunday.
it’s…. finally…. over.

praise the Lord.

Blessed be the LORD,
for he has wondrously shown his
steadfast love to me

“i will not leave you as orphans, i will come to you”

and now one brother
has been released and
the other remains under
devils thumb. and we wait
some more for an endless
coming, for our God who
doesn’t experience time
in the same way we do
(or so we’re told), for our
God who experiences agony
in much the same way we do
and we beat against the air
in a (hopefully) winning-but-
not-even-one-satisfying-blow
battle.

as i wait helplessly by for my
sons. to embrace and finally
not have to let go.

pipe

say what you will
but i aint letting
go of this thing
which i’m slightly
abusing in the
name of freedom.

you think all
tobaccos are
created equal
because you
were taught
of the evils
of paper-wrapped
crap.

it is evil.

but briar wrapped
heaven is a gift
straight from
above.