Poems Written in April
Sixteen (potential) bangers composed this spring, which is sometimes a tough season.
A Very Beige (Flag?) Answer
She asks me on our first date what my
love language may happen to be, and I
say, “gravy.” The most concise answer I’ve
ever given to that question, really followed my
heart, though I admit it’s not something I’m asked
with much frequency. She inquired as to why, and I
launched into a soliloquy about how for starters,
it’s so great when you’re doing it, the good ole’ gravy,
but ultimately very bad for your cardiovascular system,
and body in general — probably also the mind, as it can
get you to do some pretty weird things, if you’re passionate
enough about it and its place in your life. She threw out that,
potentially, my thoughts on gravy were more of a metaphor
for how I feel about love than an expression of what makes me
tick. I said, “Potentially. Could be a way of me saying that I never
seem to love what is good for me, or, more pointedly, good to me.
But I really do love gravy.” “Interesting,” she said, then told me her
love language is receiving gifts, which seemed somewhat shallow.
Unless, of course, the gift was always some sort of gravy.
A Good Problem to Have
I’m losing weight by walking long distances
with regularity, and eating mostly a Subway diet,
despite the fact I live in a city with so many non-chain options.
Whatever. I find it delightful in a predictable way as well as economical.
My mom joked that I could be like Jared, “except, you know…not really.
You know what I mean there.” I did not ask her to elaborate on that one.
I’ve been working my way through the menu, trying out
some new things. Even on my cheat days, which are now
sacrosanct, I hit up Subway, but get a meatball marinara
with ranch dressing on it. (Don’t knock it ’til you try it.)
Sometimes, I can be kind of a naughty little boy, dietarily speaking.
Haven’t sampled their attempt at a personal pizza, though.
That’s a Rubicon I don’t think I have the resolve to cross.
I like to get weird — but that doesn’t mean I’m completely off the rails.
Anyway, it’s noticeably coming off my man breasts, some of the poundage.
I’ve lost probably half a cup size or so. Which is great. Not much of a loss.
But it hasn’t taken action in my belly region yet, so now my stomach protrudes more than it did before. Them titties were once a canopy of sorts to hide lower girth, and while I’m sure happy to see them go,
or at least dwindle to a degree, I still always find something to complain about instead of fully embracing the little victories.
For That Woman I Would
I’d write bad checks for that woman.
This would be more a staged grand romantic gesture anyway
(albeit one that indicates I’m not very savvy with finances),
as for the moment I am actually financially solvent.
(But stuff could go off the rails at any moment; this isn’t lost on me.)
I’m also not even entirely sure where my checkbook is.
I don’t really write checks. It’s a card for everything and
cash only ever for my cleaning lady and barber, including tip.
They have requested this and you don’t fuck around with
either of those people. It dawns on me now I’m probably
implicit in light tax evasion, something that would worry me more
if the dude who is probably going to become president of the country again
after a four-year hiatus to do things like curate a new bible wasn’t so
heavy into that game. Anyway, I’d have to move some assets around
to effectively bounce a check — something I’m sure somebody else
somewhere in the history of the world has intentionally done,
strange of a move as it is. Nothing I have ever done or likely will
ever do has been truly original. Except maybe for the time I was
simultaneously drinking a snifter of Johnnie Walker Black and
chomping on a huge wad of Trident Strides Sour Patch Kids
Blue Raspberry-flavored gum. I guess if it was a big ticket item,
like putting a down payment on a house, that check might bounce.
And while I’d do some egregious things in an attempt to win
this woman’s affection, I get the dumb chills just thinking about
investing in home ownership alone, let alone with another human being.
Flats or Drums?
I tend to get irrationally upset
when I hear someone say the phrase
“Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing.”
Because to some, and I am
fully among these ranks,
chicken wings are everything.
Lucky Numbers
If you think about it, we’re all playing to try and win
some sort of lottery. And it’s nearly impossible to not
forge some rivalries along the way, if you get after it
hard enough. To achieve victory, there generally
has to be losers, even if you are only competing against
some other version of yourself. Embracing the concept of
handing out participation trophies is highly recommended.
Now, let’s go and have some real fun out there. Whaddya say?
The Boy Who Cried Comedic
One thing about joking around
pretty much all the time
(with some material landing and
most most definitely not, can’t win
’em all), even when you can’t really
get away with it or it rubs people the
wrong way or they can clearly see that it’s a
defense mechanism against several things
that consistently bring you discomfort,
is that people will almost never take you
completely seriously. Good thing sometimes,
terrible thing others. But if you do say something
with weight and you truly mean it, and it doesn’t
work out or go the way you wanted or planned,
you can always fall back, just be like,
“I was joking, of course.”
You will not be questioned.
And likely will be dismissed.
Exposure Therapy
Sometimes you gotta mess pretty goddamn heavily with
the things that have the potential to break you completely.
Lean in. Get beaten. Bounce back. Maybe break even.
It Hurts to Be This Efficient
At the time of day when there’s finally
a stirring in my stomach that reaches a level
I can no longer ignore, I hit pause for a
brief hiatus before I pass out at the keyboard.
“Oh hell yeah, baby,” I whisper gently to myself,
“it’s dinnertime.” Then I walk the five or so steps
from desk to fridge, where I take stock, rummage around,
check some expiration dates, frown, scold myself
for rarely finishing what I start before enough time passes
for it to go bad, then delicately remove some leftover Subway
and some store-bought deviled eggs that are on the cusp
of wearing out their welcome. (But expiration dates are only
cautionary guidelines, and if I’m going to subject my stomach
to a swing dance with Satan, may as well be with that side dish.)
I hover over the sink, ingesting like I imagine a goblin would,
in the name of sustenance, not particularly pleasure,
for somewhere in the area of seven minutes. I foresee a future
where I do the whole sit-down thing in the company of one or
several people with more regularity, and take some solace in that —
though I do not know when that time might come. Could surely be
it’s purely fantasy, a hope for something somehow different.
For now, though, I am, honestly, mostly, satisfied with my methods,
my habits, and if this is the way things continue to progress,
I’ll stay used to it. Then I get right back to it, filled up and re-energized
to sit back down and continue to try to figure out how to fill the void.
The Process
One thing you can do if you’re not careful
of avoiding being too careful is to think yourself
out of happiness enough times that eventually you’ll
develop a negative knack for questioning, ad nauseam,
the motives that may lie behind every single serotonin boost.
Sometimes the overly analytical will find a way not to win,
when occasionally happiness should simply be embraced —
taken and accepted at face value. Let the core of things show
their worth, all in good time. Or don’t. Either way. It’s okay.
Dark Center of My Own Universe
I have almost always
chosen content
over contentment —
you know, attention
on the internet.
Often to my own detriment.
I don’t want to talk about
what has happened to those
around me partially because of this.
Even though that’s just about
all I do with my life.
That is, in the brief moments
when I’m not fully engaged
in something, anything, about
only myself.
You Either Laugh, Or…
I’m too sad to bust
a nut. So you know,
things are in dire straits.
But I’ve been here before,
enough times to know that
the best way back is to
bust a gut.
Solo Strut
There is nothing quite like
getting some steps in in your
finest spring shacket while a
nice breeze off the lake makes
every attempt to knock you over.
Really makes you feel alive.
Reallocation
I am filling the void
by shouting into
another one.
Ready Player One
This week I lost a girlfriend
and gained a gaming console.
There is a direct correlation.
Hoping the impulse buy can
serve as a salve, a distraction,
something to do now with all
my not-so-precious time.
No matter how much I play,
though, it probably won’t
ever feel like I am really
leveling up. And I don’t even want
to talk at all about winning.
Method Acting
I’m not a demon.
I just play one
in real life.
Have You Eaten Today?
Today I was so sad
and depleted
that chewing
a slice of pizza
completely exhausted me.
But I finished it —
a reminder that I
can keep going.
