More From the Pretend Poet

Originally posted: Saturday, July 21, 2007 8:27am

At Home with a Headache

The dishes are clean
the laundry's put up
the bed's nearly made
and yet you remain—
plaguing me since the afternoon hours
when I didn't take you seriously.

Perhaps it's the reading—
banal essays and unpoetic poems
that make me long for the next
overread masterpiece.
You hate what I'm reading
and beg for a change with your throbbing pulse
and your obstinate presence.

Perhaps it's the lighting—
the luminous glow
of the computer screen
emitting the freshest complaint,
emailed confusion,
or handout on thesis statements.
You'd rather the lamp—however dim—
of inspired imagination.
Candlelight would be nice, you think.

Perhaps it's the bottle—
neglected since Tuesday.
And you're feeling a little dried out,
a little too perceptive,
a little naked all of a sudden.

Or perhaps it's the noise—
the din of preparation,
the screech of undeserved praise,
the blare of human ignorance,
the booming teenage apathy.

You most certainly prefer
the perfect silence
of Aristotle,
flickering tapers,
and pinot noir.


Ash Wednesday

Hers is perfect:
a beautiful symmetry of crossed ash
revealing the faultless state of her soul.
The black edges blend into the skin,
as if the particles knew not what it meant
to be separate from her brow—
the home of patient expression,
inexplicable love, and assurance
in those around her.
Everyone knows her faith today;
her ashen forehead reveals her order,
her inner-peace, her integrity.

Mine is horrid:
a smudge—something like
marks on police reports—
revealing chaos within.
The muddled blob sits clumsily
until someone remarks:
"You have dirt on your face."
"No," I say, knitting my sullied brow,
"It's Ash Wednesday."
But the tacit truth remains:
I have dirt on my soul—
disclosed to you now
through the guise of piousness.


On Halloween

I know it doesn't make much sense
to dress up like a cat—
to don fake whiskers on my face
and prowl around in black.
And never should I reason with
a devilish attire—
two horns, a tail, a miniskirt
That mocks a dark desire.
And surely draped in princess robes,
I link with the insane;
while masking mediocrity,
I claim a regal fame.

Then why is it not lunacy
when daily I disguise
a fear quite well concealed
behind a forged facade of lies?
Deceptions of adulthood
whisper confidences clear—
asserting strength and aptitude
that's never drawn up near.

"Halloween is kiddie stuff,"
the wiser ones will say,
"a time for silly pretenses—
imaginary play."
But I see something sinister
in practicing disguise—
in wishing we were other things,
in cultivating lies.


On Re-creation

Now I understand
Why God let Noah live.
When starting something new,
It's best to use a sieve
To keep that which we love the most
And junk what we don't need—
Preserve our precious works,
Else essay a hellish deed.

At times, though, in my haste
To purge the unessential,
I scrap my written works,
My publishing potential.

Then I must create anew
A piece that I cannot—
The images, the dialogue
Escape my present thought.
Trapped in a paralysis
Of "what I said before;"
Haunting new endeavors
Like a fickle, phantom whore.