A Poem for Jill

Jill may be a beagle,
but she's not Snoopy,
doesn't even like to
lie on top of dog houses.

She's my sister's dog,
a few months shy of Jack
but a constant sparring
partner and leading
contender for ownership
for any toy they want
to play with, a big dog
trapped in a small dog's body.

Her eyes will convince
anyone she's adorable
and will get her out
of any trouble (until,
maybe, you begin to
catch on, but it'll
still work anyway).

If Jack's a Charlie in the Box,
then Jill is the one everyone
wants, says they'll kidnap
(not jokingly, if they
really could get away with it),
and will let leap and lick
all over them, because
her tongue is lethal,
and nobody minds. But,
truth be told, she's
really worse than Jack,
and if she weren't so cute,
everyone would notice.

But they still wouldn't care,
because Jill is cute and
that's all there is to say
about that. Oh, and as far
as Boo is concerned, Jill
thinks she's got just another
tumbling partner, no matter
what Boo thinks (when Jack's
away, she'll really get carried
away with that thought),
so as much as Boo doesn't
tolerate Jack, she has to
at least pretend to put up
with Jill - yeah, just
another example of the Jill effect.

She really has gotten better
since the training, but she's
still playing catch-up with Jack,
no matter how it looks.

But darn it, she's cute!

She also sheds. Like a dog.

A Poem for Jack

Technically,
the most accurate
you can be about him
is that Jack is a
German shorthaired pointer.

He's also a Charlie in the box
and older brother to Jill,
and nemesis of Boo.

He's Dwayne's dog
and the second pet
in my sister's house,
a goofy presence
and somewhat awkward
before he got some
formal training.

He tolerates Jill's
foolishness and Boo's
attacks, because that's
what a big brother does,
but joins in whenever he can.

He's a gentle presence,
loves to curl up, loves
to eat (but then, what
dog doesn't?), stand up
and brace those paws
where they'll go.

(He was worse about that
before the training,
and that's (hopefully)
why he became known
as a Charlie in the Box
to the Jill everyone
wanted to kidnap.)

He may not be everyone's
favorite, but I cherish
him all the more, because
I get to enjoy what
no one else sees, a gentle
giant and a good companion,
just someone who's more
eager than they could be,
a small dog trapped in
a big dog's body,
who'll growl and protect,
but otherwise remain calm.

Oh, and he tugs on
every walk! But that
just means he's fun
to run with!

Jack makes me wish
there weren't so many phrases
badly construed against
his name, not the least
of which being Dwayne's own
"jacked up." I don't
like using those anymore.

Jack deserves better!

But he's still a big oaf.

Julian's Wii

The things you can still learn
about friends and family...

Reverend Bill, as it turns out,
never was a priest at all,
but rather really wanted to be.

Julian was born with a Wii
controller in his hand,
but wait, it was just Photoshop.

You think you've figured it
all out, all the little details,
but then new facts about old details
come out, and you're left a little
shaken, caught off guard,
wondering how things will come
back into focus, when you'll
know everything again.

Friends and family,
well hey, maybe they're
not so different from
strangers after all,
maybe you ought to
spend your time
getting to know them,
and not just assuming
that you do.

But, Julian still
looked adorable
with his game on,
right after birth.

The Pace of Walking

The pace of walking
is much the same,
I've learned,
as the pace of thought.

That's how it seems
to work, anyway, for me.

Having no license
(or, having never
gotten one)
has made me
very familiar
with walking,
the chance to
inhabit my own thoughts
with very few distractions.

People who fill that
kind of time up
listening to their iPods,
I guess I don't relate.

I've spent time like that
listening to CDs, and that
was time well-spent
familiarizing myself
with those CDs, but I've
had too many experiences
coming up with the kinds
of thought that I commit
to these poems to ever
seriously convert that time
to anything but the pace,
the beat of the feet, which
we all subconsciously
build around, and the ability
to judge rhythm in complex ways.

The pace of thought requires
a certain momentum, an
opportunity to break free
of limits, and conventions,
to sidestep traditional wisdom
and find your own way along
the same paths so many others
have traveled before you.

The curse of an original soul
is the ability to find
such means of identification.

Nobody Knows Where They Might End Up

What happens if
I push and end up
flat on my ass?

I only have
suspicions
at this point,
coincidences
that sometimes
seem to matter
so much, a
continuing
dialogue that
surprises me
to see it
keep going.

What if it's
not what I think?

What if I'm more
a Burke, or George?

What if I'm not
quite so much
like Alex or Derek
as I dream?

What if I'm
just too
dark & gloomy?

No elevator of love?

Nobody knows
where they might
end up, but what
if they did?

What if they fear

equally

getting what they
want and not?

I wish I knew...

Jury Duty

Having gotten my first
invitation to a jury,
I had to think about
that kind of experience,
and I known nothing quite
so intinmate like that
as the TV show Survivor.

Here's what I've learned
from watching it since 2000:

conquer the past
to conquer the present
so that you can
conquer the future.

Be able to keep
yourself in the game.

That's the key to
winning, to winning
a jury over.

I'm sorry, that's
what they want me for,
right?

High School Reunion

My have things've
changed in ten years.

An index:

I didn't like U2
so fanatically in '99;
I had no real groove
as a writer, hadn't
even written a single
story as a personal
project yet, let alone
become a poet; I still
thought I'd become
a cartoonist, had spent
a school year doing
a strip for the paper;
I was obnoxious, but not
really in front of
other people; I wasn't
a cat person; had never
been outside of the state
without my family; certainly
hadn't flown; hadn't considered
walking places an hour
at a time rational; hadn't had
a girlfriend, or any real
interest from the opposite sex,
that I was aware of, anyway;
hadn't had anyone say they'd
like to have had me in a
different (more prominent)
role after seeing me perform
on the stage, in front of
an audience; didn't even dream
of cutting my own hair, much
less growing a beard (but as
I've suggested, still couldn't
shave regularly for the life
of me); didn't have real
CD or movie collections;
was forced to abandon comics,
and at the time, thought
it was the end of the world,
bu it wasn't, and I got
back in five years later.

So many things came about
during that time, that I
won't list them here, though
I'd love to; from new bands,
career paths of actors and
personalities, books I read,
the license I still didn't get,
the girls who kept slipping away,
the blow-out at the O.K. Wendy,
working at a video store, a book
store, the short-lived poetry
journal at college, the fight
to keep it alive, two controversial
elections for G Wad B, 9/11,
Mr. Drummond's eco messages
becoming Al Gore's slideshows,
and I began to care less about that;
a black president, growing into
Canadian jokes, a budding relationship,
the Red Sox breaking the curse,
and then winning again, Tom Brady
elevating the Patriots, the rise and
fall of wrestling, the death of
Eddie Guerrero, the death of Chris Benoit;
all this and a mountain of work
still in progress, like everything
always is.

Maine to
Pennsylvania to
Rhode Island (briefly) to
Maine to
Massachusetts to
Colorado.

But I'm not going
to index it.

Where has everyone else been since?

Shirley, Don't Speak!

The woman who lives next door
spent Saturday night preparing
for something. I assumed it was
moving out, but it seems like
she's still there. Maybe it's
a longer process with this one.

From dorms to apartments, I've
gotten used to only sort of
knowing who lives around me,
moving in, moving out; here it's
older than I've known before, a
sort of semi-retirement home, cheap
housing, anyway, in a cheap town.

But these days I never get used to
the going, because it usually means
eviction - or death. It's not a
funny thing, but it is, because I've
never really lived around that before,
its odd little rituals, things ending
divvied up, like the suvivors are
transmogrified, for a while, into
vultures, picking the bones of a life.

Shirley, with her helping dog whom
she constantly chided, was there when I
moved in, and after a while, I lost track
of her and the bell she attached to her door.
Earlier this year, she was briefly in charge
of locking and unlocking the door of
the entire apartment building.

And now this.

The Flash in the Crisis on Infinite Earths

Sometimes I wonder
if the best thing
to do is to calibrate
the self to the world.

When he found that
he'd gotten the
super speed he'd
long admired in
Jay Garrick, the
original Flash,
Barry Allen came
to realize that
it meant he would
have to learn to
slow down, too,
because not everyone
moved or thought
or generally metabolized
at the same speed.

He could either decide
that he had no place
in the slow world or
adjust himself accordingly.

The thing is, it's hard
to visualize a Flash
who didn't adjust in a flash,
because Wolfman nor Waid
nor any other writer that
I've come across has dealt
with that, maybe Johns
in Allen's big return,
but to turn back the clock,
Barry was known for being
the consummate hero,
the ultimate good guy,
and it's a reputation
no amount of speed can shake.

But that's what Marv poses
in his book, repeating the
same dilemma, to adjust
or maladjust, the self
in the world, that's the question.

Do I find some peace,
some real peace, eventually,
do I make myself find it,
or do I persist in the jellyfish
world, filled with tanks and
seven pounds, desperate straits
and zen philosophy that sees
art and sense, but little else?

Well, if the Flash could,
in a flash, can I?

There's A Rat In My Apartment

There's a rat in my apartment,
he seems to think it's home.

I don't know what made him think it
but it's become impossible to miss.

He's not supposed to be there
and yet I can't move against him.

Set a trap, try and kill him?
I might as well bait against myself.

I don't know why he's stuck around,
I don't have food that's everywhere.

I guess it's just a welcome place
something better than what's best.

At least for now.

The Psychology of Value

Value, thy name is Integrity.

***

To have Value is
to be recognized
for positive traits.

Plenty of things
may be recognized
and even admired,
but to be understood
as essentially "good"
is to know that there
is Value to be found
within, some intention
that doesn't just fall
to the floor, left
behind because it
ought to be left behind.

The trouble with Value
is that people don't
often seek what's good
for them, but rather what
they're comfortable with,
what they can identify,
and only come around
to Value as a last resort,
when some figure in whom
they've placed Value
has in turn stumbled on it,
and I say stumble because
by its nature, by Value
being of a positive
persuasion, people will
actively avoid it, even
those in whom Value
has been noted. People
don't like good because
they see only the bad
around them, and almost
instinctively root out the
good. That's people
for you, born with
an inability to accept
Value because Value
is too obvious, too good,
to be trusted, because
trust is not something
that is very often rewarded.

The Psychology of Trust
is actually more complicated
than Value, because Trust
is a Value more suspect
than Value itself, but
to be found with Integrity
is to have circumvented
the whole frail process,
and isn’t that something?

[untitled]

If you listen to the world,
if you listen to the world,
you will get the answers you need.

Heart Is Not Enough (Simple Twist of Fate)

Complacence is the enemy of life.

A new book about
the death of
Chris Benoit
helped me
understand
what happened
a little better.

While I will
always respect
what he did
in the ring,
Benoit was
almost asking
for a bad end.

Part of it
wasn't even
his fault;
part of it
was that he
was the very
opposite of
another Chris,
Jericho, who
wrote a definitive
book about a
career in the sport
(as a fan & competitor),
and basically
spelled out
the kind of
passion that
was never any
good, about a
camp "run" by
the Hart family
that was probably
the least helpful
thing Jericho did
in his early days
(although a
friendship with
Lance Storm
was certainly
worth it).

That camp was
a legacy of
an idea that
pain was all
that you needed,
or rather, just
the idea of
formality, nothing
real (no heart),
just a business
transaction, like
the real dungeon
itself, where Benoit
studied, where all
the Harts find their
rite, even Bret,
even Owen.

But heart is not enough.

Jericho realized
quite early that
it wasn't enough to
accept and embrace
everything put
before you as
some sort of
necessity, but
rather that you
needed to make
your own way.

What Benoit got
was a simple twist of fate.

What Benoit got
was the dead end
of a tradition
that asked too much,
and he gave too much,
and thought it was okay
to speak up only
so often, to accept
and make do, make pure,
keep the tradition alive,
a broken foundation
already, although
he didn't know it.

In Texas, a father
drove almost his
whole brood into the ground,
and in Canada, the same will
pushed brothers too far
along the same path,
one to a life he couldn't
take seriously, and the
other far too much,
and both to bitter ends.

And Benoit, he was part of
that generation, growing
into it, being accepted
too easily, finding
his way by losing it,
and when all fell down
around him, he went, too.

Heart is not enough.

What happened to Benoit
and Jericho avoided
was the acceptance that
life could be passion
and passion alone,
with no perspective,
only awful complacence,
not in the sense
that he couldn't identity
the raw deals he sometimes
got, but that he never
learned to handle them,
only look the other way.

I respect the man
and what he did in the ring
to this day, and understand
what happened to him,
how he brought it on himself
and couldn't help it,
because that's just
what he had bought himself
into.

He found himself with a simple twist of fate.

In life, he had all the respect
in the world, but in death,
he lost all of it, because
no one, not even himself,
would ever breach the subject,
the simple question, was
it really enough? Was his
passion enough to cover
all the expenses, all
the toil and success
and the admiration of his fans?

Kurt Angle would have been next.

Kurt would have been next
and he seemed even more
violently headed for
the same collision,
the same collapse below him,
but he had too many signs,
not even counting those
who fell before him,
to ignore them, and
it may be true that
finally, we have seen
the last of the catastrophes,
at least of that generation.

Benoit might have in defeat
accomplished that much,
closed the chapter in that book,
where new chapters still remain,
in a sport that demands
perfection more than any other,
and punishes more greatly
when the absolute isn't true.

I hope and I pray
that this is true,
that somehow the message
sinks through,
that passion,
that heart is not enough,
that even a simple twist of fate,
in success or failure,
cannot cover for the lack
of a simple balance,
something more than
what's important,
in a life that shines so brightly.

Mr. Mojo Risin'

"I was interested in revolt,
disorder, chaos, and any
activity that seems to
have no meaning."

***

Making sense out of
no sense is pretty much
living the dream,
making something work
that has no reason to.

Mojo is like the ability
to make your own luck,
to write a destiny that
others can't follow,
won't even be able
to make sense of,
not with a minute
or forty years to
think on.

But still, mojo
rises to the top,
no matter what, it's
impossible to deny,
even if everyone does,
a massive underestimation
that lingers around.

Fame is irrelevant. Even
the least known person
in the world was known
by someone, and the most
famous in the world
wasn't known by someone.

Jim Morrison, the Lizard King,
(even Golden Gods like him)
was more than the sum of his
parts, had his own demons,
like everyone does, but he
somehow made sense of them,
that's all I mean.

If I Was a Pirate My Name Would Be Nobeard

You can thank
Grant Morrison
for the name
Nobeard (he
was in the
Manhattan Guardian
part of the
Seven Soldiers
project),
but me for
making it
relevant again.

Yesterday
I ended up
shaving off
the beard I
just wrote
about, but
hey, I had
it for like
a month.

It just means
now I know
what a beard
means, personally,
I mean. Deep, huh?

My OCD

The sources of OCD are a
misguided and inadequate
authority followed by an
inordinate need for control.

***

The one part of me
that I've never really
been able to say
"I know" is the part
that is out of control,
the part that makes me
angry all the time,
why I'm so obsessive.

People've mentioned it
before, but last week
a customer described me
as the one with OCD,
and maybe that actually
made him think better
of me, because he had
an explanation; I know
it makes me feel better,
anyway, even though it's
not a diagnosis so much
as an observation that's
at least partially
appropriate.

A few years ago, I actually
talked myself into avoiding
the connecting seams
on sidewalks, where the
pieces that make them up
come together, not so much
an avoidance of cracks
(because that's just silly;
I also walk under ladders
whenever I come across one)
as a need to walk only on
solid surfaces, and've
kept it up ever since.

I could go on with symptoms,
but the point is, knowing
or at least suspecting a thing
is the first step in taking
back (reasonable) control,
and with my OCD, I can make
that much more sense of myself
in the world, which is all
I can ever ask for.

Mountain Man Beard

After so many years
of pretty much
growing one,

I grew a beard
a few weeks ago.

I'm told it's
a mountain man beard,
But I swear I did
at least some maintenance,
so it's not completely wild.

I'm trying to decide
how long I'll have it,
the beard, not its length.

Am I in a beard period
or mere interim?

I started out,
personally,
by calling it
a recession beard,
so who knows, really?

If I keep it
as long as
the economy stinks,
I might be able to join

ZZ Top.

Did anyone else
hear about the second
Tea Party?

The Self in the World

Another one of my assumptions
is that people aren’t driven
toward what they find desirable
but rather away from what they don’t,
a basic comfort mechanism
that’s inextricable from our nature.

It’s why people are more
passionate about what
they don’t like than what
they do, and why
they can never turn away
from either.

But it’s more complicate
than that, still.

For most of us,
the loss of the self
is a concern that
comes far sooner
and more instinctually
than thoughts about death.

We fear losing ourselves
here, long before and
without even thinking about
but possibly subconsciously
motivated by) the end
of our lives, a loss of all control.

The result ends up defining
our mentalities more than
any other considerable
we like to think about,
because it is like
the naked thought
that expelled us from Paradise.

It is a Metaphysics of Psychology.

But first, let us consider
the nature of redemption.

Most of us would rather
not even consider that word,
because redemption suggests
that we have allowed our
lives, our decisions,
to spiral out of control,
and we would rather
deny and wound ourselves
further than admit our
mistakes, or even
the suggestion that
life isn’t defined
by a win or lose strategy,
that survival isn’t a game
but rather a series of
events that simply occur.

Redemption is a sort of curse,
acknowledgement that we
lost control, and had to
find it again.

But it is a companion,
a means to discover
things we already knew,
but never had the words
or the reason to express
before.

For most people,
the expression we
present to the world
is bound up not
in what they hope
the world to be,
but rather what they
fear it reflects back
on them, from their faults.

They fear the world
because they see in it
what they do not want to see
in themselves. They seek
only diversions,
rather than the introspection
we constantly preach
but never believe,
to judge the content
rather than the cover.

The self in the world
prefers that the world
overwhelm it, that time
allows it to forget itself
(hence the philosophy
of nirvana, in the complete
loss of the self, as some
basic ideal of perfection)
but slipping by “too fast”
rather than as it does
and as it is perceived,
as a constant experience.

Left to its worse impulses,
the self in the world
sees only the experiences
and not what they mean,
a school exam that
only seeks to recover
knowledge long enough
to be graded and leave
behind a diploma
and some chance for
a fancy career,
a sure thing that leaves
no further room for growth.

The self in the world
usually prefers only
certainties, and makes
those it cannot find
out of thin air,
and rejects those
it cannot accept,
or rather, rejects
those it cannot accept
to discover those it can.

It is the uncommon mind
that makes connections
and sees time where
others only see a chance
to reject and sand
in an hourglass slipping
ever faster, ever more
steadily, away.

The uncommon mind,
the ideal mind, sees not
randomness in the world,
but itself in the world,
a series of order,
of basic Integrity,
that may be followed
only by letting the world
in all its native chaos,
make its own sense.

The self in the world
sees itself in the world,
and does not look away.

Ideally, of course.

Those who understand this,
however much they do,
inevitably find themselves
alienated by the very world
they understand better
than those who find an
easier time within it,
blissful in their ignorance,
secure in their anger
and resentment at
what they don’t
understand and prefer
that way, a tidy
series of dances
to pass the time,
waltzes with rejection
and comfort along the way.

I speak of Metaphysics
because it is a science
in which we may choose
our own Value,
see its Integrity
for whatever it means to us,
and not follow a path of fallacy.

I envision a self in the world
who is not driven only what
they don’t want to see,
but rather sees all
and sees their worth,
for what they mean to all.

I don’t expect the world
of the world, and am wrathful
when I see those who stray
from what is in front of them,
but I subject myself
to my own rules,
and struggle to find my way.

The self in the world
need not reject the world
or itself to find peace,
but it must understand
that peace is not lasting
in a world where
the search is all the self
will ever find in the world.

Redemption is the only
reward in such a world,
the lasting chance to
reconcile oneself to the world,

Where all things truly are
possible.

The Art of War Is Not the Same As Natural Law (But Wise Men May Still Reap, From Law To War) (But Not the Reverse)

I don't believe
that war is
necessary
natural, but
neither do I
believe that
we can do
without it,
that it's
something
we can just
work out of
our system.

I believe it
has its Value,
in that,
last resort
or not,
it is sometimes
necessary,
because people
hardly if
ever behave
as rationally
as others
expect,
however
irrationally.

War is not
natural,
just as
"survival
of the fittest"
is a tired
slogan that
really has
nothing to
do with
evolution,
but its
root causes
are.

War is a
symptom
of survival,
the basic
natural law,
but it is
not necessary,
yet to dismiss
it and make
it grotesque
(more than
it is)
is more
unnatural
than war
itself.

That is all
I'm trying
to say.

Perfecting Imperfection

A beginning and end
in search of a middle,

our imperfect world
continues to revolve
regardless of what we do,

and while I am
continually frustrated,
I really am
comfortable with it,

the way it works,
because I view it
as a challenge,
even if everyone
around me refuses
to accept it.

I will keep trying,
perfecting imperfection,
because that is all
I can really do,
all anyone has
ever done

for hope.

Before Love Comes to Town

I wonder what people
are doing right before
they find love.

Are they really expecting
to find it or are
they caught off guard?

Does it really matter
how long it takes
for love to sink in?

Is it love if you
find it but the other
person hasn't yet?

Can you find love
without conforming
to its traditional ways?

Is a love prolonged
love at all or
just a variation?

What does time have
to do with love, anyway,
is what I'm really saying.

I once wrote,
there's no distance
in the space where love is.

Well, now I'm saying,
there's no clock
watching over love.

I'm saying, believe in me,
believe in love, believe
that love is,

that love is
and that when
love comes to town

you can't help
but be ready,
because love is.