Self

My Self is my heart:
My ever reaching,
Never attaining
And always being
An artist.

Doldrums, Us

I can talk about who you are
What you mean to be
Who you want to be,

But the limes of our lives
Seem trivial in pursuit
Of purple skies and little
Men in green suits.

And the heart of our lies
Want heroes with guitars
And feelings on our tongue
To shoot champagne-cork wars.

We know well, yet know not at all.
We long to tell, but can't tell a soul.

I can talk about anything at all
But all I say is hurting the doldrums
Of who we are.

Grey Skies of Chicago, Part 2

It is not the isolation of which the soul yearns to fix. No, it is.
It is the solidarity of which the mind yearns to experience.
Community of the soul for the soul needs rest.
Soldiering for the mind for our minds are a nest
Of burning bushes and childhood lullabies
Where relationships end right and lives
Have reason to fight.

I tire of a mind that wonders too much
And analyzes for the time too much
And tries for the time too hard
On things not known the better of.

Black wool under white snow flakes
Shivering against avoided cold
Shoulders parallel to the abstract
Painting, streaked with reds
And golds and pinks and greens.

Two Dilettantes of Life: The Liver and the Thinker

Life lived and dreams sought, opinions voiced, ideas fought
This is the making of the life lived, not thought
Making marmalade pies and chocolate cherry drops
Being the doer, bringing the weed. Finding the lover, emotional bleed.
Friends of all, enemies of some. Eating, brawling: fat lipped with crumbs.

Thinking, in the head rehashing, dreaming of whatnot
This is the making of the philosopher, genius or not.
Eating when something has to quiet the empty lot
Being the thinker, think of the deed. Wanting the lover, emotional feed.
Friends of few, enemies: none. Reading, lulling: fat brained with hesitations.

Grey Skies of Chicago

A Girl in Grey on the long brown couch
Under the abstract painting
Of streaks of red and pink and gold and green,
The girl doesn't see the lines on the wall,
Just the pasty white screen
With no new emails
Of many job postings.
20? 30? How many different resumes?
How many different interviews?
The Girl doesn't try to count them all
It's easier to keep going
When the statistics of the past
Are kept under wraps
So the next resume can go out
With an exclamation point.