Moron

You chose this,

settled in and resigned yourself

to failed aspirations,

to lonely nights,

to a pile of burdens

and no rewards

except what you can eke out

of the aspirations of others.

You bought the lie,

the one you found on videotape,

the one where instead

of constructing the facade

necessary in the world,

you bared your heart and soul

and kept at it until

time had passed and

you were left with nothing.

You fucked up,

followed the formula

laid out for someone else,

sought what others suggested,

and as you discovered your way

you discovered your path

lay untold miles behind.

Secluded and Eluded, Diluted and Deluded

A period comes
empty echoing
only the voice I use
when no one is listening anymore
singing, screaming, declaring
But simply that which was
which now only is when
It doesn't matter.

So the sounds erupt
but the piece missing remains
poring over some old tapes
reveals it in its glory
but that pursuit is
a quest of the young
and free.

Of course the course of years
in their merciless march
across my crevici and planes
seek to rob the fire
and the piss
and the vinegar
that defined the pursuit of something
that I now understand.

And yet reliving this
trying to capture that moment
or that year or night
when the fires burned high
and the dance carried on
is the pursuit that now
is merely the grindstone
for the hope-flavored grist.

Book of Faces

So I get on to leave the non-sequitur
As it is a day of the week.
Figure I'll browse the rows and columns
And find the answer I'm looking for.
Lots of hyphenation or just new names
Denoting a waste of time and effort.
And possibilities present themselves
Except to the chickenshit.
So I pass them by and pick another.
Another in my column.
Doesn't mean anything more than a glimpse
Through a lens in someone else's hand.
Of course the one in my own is shaky
And only fit to capture others.
And being cheap the other is darkness
Unless I add a floodlight.
But in doing so I am blinded
Which may be the better course.
As I have been sitting here for hours
With dreams and visions in my head
And sagging hope in my hand.
Perhaps I should go somewhere else
Where they put on a show for your arousal.
At least then I know to expect nothing
In return for a moment of interest.
Or perhaps I should pull the plug
And crawl into bed and go to sleep.