Jason Swisher, the Lost Years

This poem is not about Jason Swisher,

But it does borrow his name for

Reasons unknown entirely

To most of us. It's a good name, though,

Isn't it? We have choices, and this is

Always true. Jason Swisher remembered

This through the worst of times, and

His lost years wouldn't stop creeping

Into his nowadays. He didn't have anywhere

To put them, so he shared. We weren't always sure

What to do with the extra years, especially

When the days within them were so troubled.

We lived them anyway. We had to.

Jason Swisher finally felt right with his

Ways. Much, much lighter. For a while, nobody

Got jealous, nobody minded  until some of us

Realized we weren't even halfway though them

And didn't want to go on like this. Who

Could blame us? It had been enough work

Managing our own lives even when it got

Boring. But then some      couldn't handle the

Boring and wouldn't let the years go dead

Set to keep living them, difficult or not Thrill

Seekers and addictive personality types and

Those who are always      hungry

Jason Swisher felt that the situation had once

Again gotten out of his control, but he let it

Continue because stopping it at this point was

No longer an option. Those who had money

In our hearts thought about commoditizing

All the lost years, so that those who

Wanted them could buy them (at top dollar)

And those

Who didn't could make a pretty penny

Before we died    which we were

In more and more of a    hurry to

Do. Most of us just watched

And waited for the situation to change

In some way, which it both

Did and didn't.    Right?

Please, Let's All Give Up On Something Today

Obsession becomes an ugly thing very, very quickly.

It's dangerous to talk about this more than briefly,

but let's make it known

that people do not give up easily or without ugliness.

Let's make it known that once there is a purpose to a life,

however terrible, however futile and illusory,

that life does not want to go back into the constant sea

of meaninglessness

where haplessly together all of us abide.

It's like a day pass,

something to do. Meat-hooked.

I'm telling you

this is a dirty nectar.

At this moment, somewhere far from here, a Chinese

girl with a wide face dreams of a white

Shar-Pei. This is clean, and

it is happening.

This Isn't a Poem (but I thought I'd whine a little while)

This Isn't a Poem

(but I thought I'd whine a little while)

Sometimes it's as frustrating as a lukewarm bath.

I lie in it anyway, covered in comforting bubbles, waiting

for the piano to hit the sweet note, but it doesn't. I need

something more than room temperature for these cold bones.

I have songs, hundreds of terrible ditties I should never

inflict on anyone, but sometimes I do. We are

we, they say, like that's saying anything, but I suppose

it's something. Finally reading the Brothers Karamzov, and

I wish I could say it was terrible,

but it isn't. Of course

I'm only three chapters in, so

I'll have to let you know.

Horns

An elongated extra

life inside ourselves, a folded jewel,

a shrunken mattress, we've got it,

and it comes out

like a snake.

It came out on a wet night

once. We were blurry

with drink and with the

strangeness that seemed to be

                                  everywhere.

We could smell it. Our shoes sank

as if the concrete had

turned to mud, and

trumpets sounded

from the ground, and

Dark Charles had a

flashlight pointed right at

my nose like

a hot bruise

and now they have us by the

                                             horns.

After some time

nobody really questioned it,

we just went the way our

heads were pointing,

and now we only talk

to each other, but

there are so many of us

that each is only

going where

             he's led.