Originally posted 9/25/2013.

Love’s not worth
the worry. You either
have it or don’t, are loved or
are not.  Simple enough;

devastating enough.
You can’t worry about it
to the point of no return.
Worry instead till just

before that point. Say there’s a pair 
of eyes that wreck you often. Why worry
about wrecking — you will 
or will not crash, they’ll turn your way

or stay fixed elsewhere, 
and there’s nothing you can do about it. 
What else is there to do —
obsess about them

until  
you don’t see
the bridge abutment
looming?

Love’s neither voluntary
nor subject to reason, so
sitting with your head in your hands,
utterly controlled by love, is foolish — 

rest your head
directly on your desk instead
and save your arms from fatigue.
Rest it there repeatedly, in fact,

several times a minute.
It will hurt less than worrying
about love.  You’ll see — eventually
you’ll pass out and love

will fall into
its proper perspective
of blackout and pain
at which point

you may still be worried about love
but no one will be the wiser —
and maybe, just maybe,
you’ll awake with amnesia.

Originally posted 12/28/2012.

I’d like to be leashed
to silence tonight

so the safe word 
is just sound

if I whisper or say or scream  
LET ME GO

LET ME GO

~~~~~~~

tonight the safe word is
augury

if I make a dire prophecy
and suggest it may be imminently fulfilled

LET ME GO

~~~~~~~

tonight the safe word is
aspiration

if it seems that I am about to reach
my goal

LET ME GO

~~~~~~~

tonight the safe word is
ouchies

not ouch
(I tend to say that a lot)

~~~~~~~

tonight the safe word is
syllabus

if you hear that I’ve learned enough

LET ME GO

~~~~~~~~

tonight the safe word is
reflective tape on racing bike handlebars

if you hear that I’m not into it anymore
and am thinking of the Tour de France

so you might as well
LET ME GO

~~~~~~~~~

tonight the safe word should be
don’t ever let me go

we both know
what comes after that

Originally posted 4/17/2012.

your favorite writers

always tell you 
to write
to keep writing 

your favorite writers

are going to tell you to write all the time

because they claim they did and you

(following along in their wake

like sweet little sleep deprived interns

in the Hospital Of Broken Hearts)

ought to damn well do the same

your favorite writers

are going to tell you to write every day

tell you to churn thirty poems in thirty days

or a novel in a month

because that’s how it works

when the Fire is on them

that’s how they get to be favorite writers

the poor slobs

that’s how they get to be famous

one month of crazy at a time

maybe for a few months at a time

and voila

the New Hotness doth arrive

your favorite writers will tell you

all sorts of things

to disguise the fact that they don’t have a clue

as to how this works 

they agitate for cause and effect

because not to is to suggest

a case for werewolves vampires

ghosts and zombies

not as literary devices and archetypes

but as the horrid afterbirth 
of their own failed work

listen:

if your gut tells you the best thing for your writing

is to take a month off
square your taxes

screw your neighbor hugely for hours at a time

walk your mother in the park

watch a lot of television

and drink

 you owe it to yourself to try that

because when I look at my favorite writers

I see more of that 
than the cold and sober work they prescribe

for all the whippersnappers and upstarts

formulas are for chemists and physicists

writers suck at those things mostly

write when you want

how you want

where you want

and for God’s sake
take a shower
eat a sandwich 
and try to get some sleep

Originally posted 10/19/2013.

Sitting sick
with the ritual ginger ale
of sickness,
I consider offering God
a prayer for my own health.

Then I recall that
God is everywhere,
even in this ginger ale,
so instead of praying
I suck some down
and trust I will be healed.

Damn, but this is good ginger ale!

I wonder: if a sick atheist
were to drink this ginger ale
without believing in 
or noticing the portion of God 
concealed among 
the bubbles,
would there be healing? 

If  there were to be healing,
would it be enough proof of God
to sway the atheist?
Would God do it for the atheist
anyway, or would an apocalypse follow 
such unthinking consumption? 

The atheist would say 
nothing will end
as there is no God 
to manifest 
in ginger ale
no matter how good
the ginger ale might be.

I can’t imagine The God Of Ginger Ale
being so vindictive over such disbelief
that the world would end; maybe 
the atheist’s nose
would sting a bit more sharply
from the Holy Bubbles,
maybe they wouldn’t get well as quickly
as they might have.

I’m taking no chances
as to right or wrong,
world ending or continuing,
God or no God.  I suck down
a little more
of this inspired ginger ale,
this Titian altar-piece of Ginger Ale,
this Great Serpent Mound of Ginger Ale,
this Angkor Wat of Ginger Ale — 

whether God exists or not,
glory surely does.
This is glory in a glass.
I feel better already.