Artistic License

We scorn but secretly admire those creative geniuses who
care only for their art and selfishly indulge themselves
in whatever keeps their creative juices flowing.

The musician who soars in heroin-induced improvisations.
The artist who paints nude portraits of his young mistress.
The writer who drafts crime novels from an alcoholic haze.

We fantasize about their freedom and envy their ability
to engage in wanton artistic expression that brings
artistic gratification but not happiness.

On-line petitions

We love to sign on-line petitions.
It makes us feel like we’re doing something
when in reality, we’re submitting our names
to on-line marketers who can then
dun us for contributions.

It’s like masturbatory civic engagement.
It feels good, but doesn’t amount to much.

Real civic engagement is physically getting involved,
talking face-to-face with those of similar view,
challenging those with opposing views,
communicating our views with those in power
and not hiding behind feelings of powerlessness.

But I'm just too busy today.

The History Book of Lovers

In the big history book of lovers, we’ll be on page fifty-seven.
That’s the page where they talk about the couples that weren’t supposed to last,
but defied the odds and overcame the differences.

We’ll also be mentioned on page one hundred and twenty-nine,
the page where they talk about the couples that cared enough to help each other
carry the baggage they each brought along for the ride.

You'll find us on page three hundred and five where they talk about
the couples that remembered their marriage vows in spite of infidelities
and periods of disenchantment.

And we’ll be there on page eight hundred and thirteen,
where they talk about couples who learned and grew from each other,
that started out with little but ended up rich in loving memories.

We’ll also be listed in the index on page thirteen hundred and forty-one
under couples that were stubborn enough to earn
the comfort that comes with a lifetime of love.

Failed poets society meeting

They sit hunched over in the circle of metal
church basement chairs, clutching scraps of paper
and reading their pitiful poetry to the others,
each voice hungrier for praise than the last.

The long silence at the end of each poem,
is broken by an awkward comment on
the meter or the metaphor or the alliteration,
salve for wounded and bleeding egos.

Poetic Injustice

I sit with fingers poised over asdfjkl;
waiting for a metaphor to come to mind
that illustrates the way I feel.

Nothing happens.

I search my random access memory for
a keyword that will trigger a long-forgotten
experience from my childhood.

Nothing happens.

How is it the big-time poets can
always recall some prophetic image
that happened forty years ago?

With me, nothing happens.