I can imagine you
(the nebulous, not-yet-found you
of love poem fame).
I can imagine you
asking me someday
what makes you different from
all the other women in the world.
And in response,
I will not say
“You are pretty
and you are smart,
and you’ve got so much (so much) heart.”
No.
While I’m up for it,
I’ll cajole what poetic soul I have left
to give me a poem to tell you
that lists your quirks and your beauties,
everything you are best at,
and all the tiny details you thought I would miss.
Like a shopping list,
but prettier.
Then you will smile to yourself as you hear my poem,
while I pause and realize
that this is not at all why.
You would not want me to love
for the reasons I will list.
And I would not love
for the reasons I will list.
(Imagine someone
good in every way you are not
and better in every way you are good.
What would my poetic soul do?
And what would I do?)
No.
You are special because you are,
and I will love you because I love
(the nebulous, not-yet-found love
of love poem fame).
20110701
20110604
Metaphors, 42 (reprise)
Don’t ask me what a metaphor’s for.
I couldn’t tell you, not without looping back
or leading you to mirrored mirrors—
Well, there I go again,
symbolizing symbols with more symbols.
I’ve thought of finding the root, the source.
Just can’t do it.
The more I try, the more I’m moored,
rooted to the source of my thoughts.
The thing is,
I suspect there’s something hidden,
something entrenched in the folds of self-reference.
Is it Literature? Art?
The Meaning of Life (as espoused by self-help books)?
I’m just fermenting meta- (meta-) metaphors.
---
For the longest time, I used to dismiss the arts.
Allusions and other ‘devices’ were too effete
for my taste.
Cold and crunchy formulas
held more meaning in their wrapped rigor
than fleet wit or staccato stanzas.
I know better now.
Both artists and scientists are trying to answer questions—
questions to which we can’t know the answers
or even the actual questions.
It’s a sympatric search for stasis
(that sensation of soft understanding).
They reach for senseless knowledge
and meld it in a synesthetic cacophony
of sweat-dropped beats and slimshod scuffs.
I couldn’t tell you, not without looping back
or leading you to mirrored mirrors—
Well, there I go again,
symbolizing symbols with more symbols.
I’ve thought of finding the root, the source.
Just can’t do it.
The more I try, the more I’m moored,
rooted to the source of my thoughts.
The thing is,
I suspect there’s something hidden,
something entrenched in the folds of self-reference.
Is it Literature? Art?
The Meaning of Life (as espoused by self-help books)?
I’m just fermenting meta- (meta-) metaphors.
---
For the longest time, I used to dismiss the arts.
Allusions and other ‘devices’ were too effete
for my taste.
Cold and crunchy formulas
held more meaning in their wrapped rigor
than fleet wit or staccato stanzas.
I know better now.
Both artists and scientists are trying to answer questions—
questions to which we can’t know the answers
or even the actual questions.
It’s a sympatric search for stasis
(that sensation of soft understanding).
They reach for senseless knowledge
and meld it in a synesthetic cacophony
of sweat-dropped beats and slimshod scuffs.
20110521
20110430
Disclosure
I don’t know what brings me back. It’s certainly too infrequent to be habit, so there must be some other reason. Inspiration does not just strike at regular intervals, handing out a monthly paycheck of creativity. Or if it does, I’ve got a pretty volatile wage. There are months when I truly think I’ve thought of something original—but then there are also months like this.
Pay up, it’s time to collect.
I don’t derive any benefit from stringing words nonsensically. It doesn’t seem like anyone else does either. But maybe I believe that writing somehow helps my self-esteem, or raises my standing among others.
Oh, he’s a poet. Not was—is. That makes him a better person.
Or perhaps this small spark, this pilot light (so to speak), links me—binds me—to the timeless procession of poets and bluffers, somehow coaxing and preserving the essence of humanity in fragments of phrases.
Right.
Pay up, it’s time to collect.
I don’t derive any benefit from stringing words nonsensically. It doesn’t seem like anyone else does either. But maybe I believe that writing somehow helps my self-esteem, or raises my standing among others.
Oh, he’s a poet. Not was—is. That makes him a better person.
Or perhaps this small spark, this pilot light (so to speak), links me—binds me—to the timeless procession of poets and bluffers, somehow coaxing and preserving the essence of humanity in fragments of phrases.
Right.
20110302
Life Unlived
Recently she had begun to forget
All the breaks that sheared between
The seas of memory and nostalgia.
Her life stretched back smoothly to
The hazy pure sky, one blue
Blurry day forgotten in soft swells.
There was a content to recollection,
Some halcyon wist in sailing—
Or had she left already?
Had she plunged down, ready
To chase the glimmers she’d
Skimmed from above?
In the mirrored mercurial depths
She saw her twin, who, looking up,
Sought solace in droll dreamclouds.
They both dived—one up, one down.
Both yearning for flight, they merged
And disappeared into nothing.
All the breaks that sheared between
The seas of memory and nostalgia.
Her life stretched back smoothly to
The hazy pure sky, one blue
Blurry day forgotten in soft swells.
There was a content to recollection,
Some halcyon wist in sailing—
Or had she left already?
Had she plunged down, ready
To chase the glimmers she’d
Skimmed from above?
In the mirrored mercurial depths
She saw her twin, who, looking up,
Sought solace in droll dreamclouds.
They both dived—one up, one down.
Both yearning for flight, they merged
And disappeared into nothing.
20110201
Rosa asor
Little rose on the table,
how lonely you must be.
Bought and sold, accruing mold,
you are but coin in trades of love.
Suitors see your crimson flush,
rush past, pass laughs, leave one last touch.
Much love their eyes descry
as yours cry petals from lack.
Petals fall from this wilting rose,
a flaccid feminine flower unfurling.
The thorns have long since been snipped,
and its luster has all but vanished.
Bees will never pollinate this rose.
Thrushes will never hold its hips.
But the rose has no feelings.
It’s just a rose on a table.
how lonely you must be.
Bought and sold, accruing mold,
you are but coin in trades of love.
Suitors see your crimson flush,
rush past, pass laughs, leave one last touch.
Much love their eyes descry
as yours cry petals from lack.
Petals fall from this wilting rose,
a flaccid feminine flower unfurling.
The thorns have long since been snipped,
and its luster has all but vanished.
Bees will never pollinate this rose.
Thrushes will never hold its hips.
But the rose has no feelings.
It’s just a rose on a table.
20110101
42
What makes one life goal better than another? It irks me that I can’t find an entirely objective justification for preferring the thrill of solving a puzzle over, say, the artificial euphoria of heroin injection. If it’s all just the release of neurotransmitters in the brain, then why does it matter which form of hedonism I pursue?
Granted, you might say that puzzle-solving increases long-run utility, whereas drugs have detrimental withdrawal symptoms, but this merely evades the principal question. What is utility and why do we aspire to gain it? Why do we call something detrimental? You could continue like this for a while, justifying the search for Beauty or Truth or sustaining Life or whatever idol you’ve managed to prop up, but the crux of any such reasoning is circular: quality is just what you like. There is no objective justification for life.
Is there anything inherently wrong with having no ultimate meaning? It seems entirely counterintuitive, but the answer I’ve been approaching is simply “No.” There is nothing wrong with having no objective goal because the entire question is predicated on the existence of some objective definition of “wrong.” It’s a meaningless question, just as the meaning of life holds no meaning.
But, you say, how can right and wrong have no meaning if I can intrinsically feel them? “Feeling” purpose, though, has nothing whatsoever to do with absolutely justifying it. I can feel the pull of Truth, but that does not mean that pursuing Truth has any meaning outside of what I assign it. It’s a beautifully simple conclusion. “I like what I like” because I like what I like—I don’t have or need any impersonal reason to be that way.
If you’re still reluctant to accept this, then ask yourself the equivalent question, “What is the meaning of a hurricane?” It’s absurd, right? A hurricane is just the complex aggregate of a bunch of simple atmospheric phenomena. There’s no purpose to a hurricane’s path. It doesn’t have a vendetta against humanity or anything remotely resembling a desire at all. It just is. In a similar vein, we can just consider ourselves highly developed hurricanes. Our beautifully elaborate search for purpose—and for purpose behind purpose—is just as inherently “human” as the counterclockwise rotation of a northern hemisphere hurricane is inherently “hurricane.”
Take what you will from this. As for me, I’ll stick to my puzzles.
Granted, you might say that puzzle-solving increases long-run utility, whereas drugs have detrimental withdrawal symptoms, but this merely evades the principal question. What is utility and why do we aspire to gain it? Why do we call something detrimental? You could continue like this for a while, justifying the search for Beauty or Truth or sustaining Life or whatever idol you’ve managed to prop up, but the crux of any such reasoning is circular: quality is just what you like. There is no objective justification for life.
Is there anything inherently wrong with having no ultimate meaning? It seems entirely counterintuitive, but the answer I’ve been approaching is simply “No.” There is nothing wrong with having no objective goal because the entire question is predicated on the existence of some objective definition of “wrong.” It’s a meaningless question, just as the meaning of life holds no meaning.
But, you say, how can right and wrong have no meaning if I can intrinsically feel them? “Feeling” purpose, though, has nothing whatsoever to do with absolutely justifying it. I can feel the pull of Truth, but that does not mean that pursuing Truth has any meaning outside of what I assign it. It’s a beautifully simple conclusion. “I like what I like” because I like what I like—I don’t have or need any impersonal reason to be that way.
If you’re still reluctant to accept this, then ask yourself the equivalent question, “What is the meaning of a hurricane?” It’s absurd, right? A hurricane is just the complex aggregate of a bunch of simple atmospheric phenomena. There’s no purpose to a hurricane’s path. It doesn’t have a vendetta against humanity or anything remotely resembling a desire at all. It just is. In a similar vein, we can just consider ourselves highly developed hurricanes. Our beautifully elaborate search for purpose—and for purpose behind purpose—is just as inherently “human” as the counterclockwise rotation of a northern hemisphere hurricane is inherently “hurricane.”
Take what you will from this. As for me, I’ll stick to my puzzles.
20101203
They
I scoff at their relationships and their gossiping.
And each time they fret over this or that deadline,
Or this or that television series,
I glance down from my pedestal,
And haughtily smile to myself.
Common people. So simple.
So naïve and simple.
And I turn back to my thoughts,
My unique, monumental thoughts,
The ones no one else could possibly have,
And I pretend to solve the problems of the world
As if its enigmas were solely mine.
As if I could make my mark.
And I think back to them.
And I remember: this is all for them,
All those countless cretins
Infesting the world beneath me.
And I wonder if it’s even worth the effort
To “help” them.
Am I missing something?
Why should I improve the economy
Or bring about “world peace”
Or whatever else they say they want?
Why can’t I just stay up here
On my very own pedestal?
But it gets lonely up here.
Sometimes I wonder if I got the directions wrong,
And up is actually down,
And I’m actually just puttering around in my own little pit
As they try to help me out.
And I’m just so ignorant
That I can’t tell they’re helping me,
So I just keep puttering around in my little pit.
I don’t know why I’m writing this.
As if I’ve got anything more profound to say.
And each time they fret over this or that deadline,
Or this or that television series,
I glance down from my pedestal,
And haughtily smile to myself.
Common people. So simple.
So naïve and simple.
And I turn back to my thoughts,
My unique, monumental thoughts,
The ones no one else could possibly have,
And I pretend to solve the problems of the world
As if its enigmas were solely mine.
As if I could make my mark.
And I think back to them.
And I remember: this is all for them,
All those countless cretins
Infesting the world beneath me.
And I wonder if it’s even worth the effort
To “help” them.
Am I missing something?
Why should I improve the economy
Or bring about “world peace”
Or whatever else they say they want?
Why can’t I just stay up here
On my very own pedestal?
But it gets lonely up here.
Sometimes I wonder if I got the directions wrong,
And up is actually down,
And I’m actually just puttering around in my own little pit
As they try to help me out.
And I’m just so ignorant
That I can’t tell they’re helping me,
So I just keep puttering around in my little pit.
I don’t know why I’m writing this.
As if I’ve got anything more profound to say.
20101119
The Mind is a Coupled Oscillator
Strictly speaking,
I’m not seeking
Some great panacea.
The world would be better
Without yet another
Snake oil salesman.
Yet I’m not content
To just make a dent
On my little corner.
I refuse to concede
That our world’s wisdom seed
Holds only finite potential.
The answers are out there,
The market’s laissez-faire,
But can I catch them?
I sense the prospects
Of latent progress,
Though not how to tap it.
When winds of change
Sweep past our plains,
Will I lead the currents?
Probably
Not.
But I’ll give it the old college try anyway.
I’m not seeking
Some great panacea.
The world would be better
Without yet another
Snake oil salesman.
Yet I’m not content
To just make a dent
On my little corner.
I refuse to concede
That our world’s wisdom seed
Holds only finite potential.
The answers are out there,
The market’s laissez-faire,
But can I catch them?
I sense the prospects
Of latent progress,
Though not how to tap it.
When winds of change
Sweep past our plains,
Will I lead the currents?
Probably
Not.
But I’ll give it the old college try anyway.
20101027
Epiphany
I’ve done
a lot of thinking lately,
and I’ve reached
an epiphany.
Do you want
to hear it?
It goes
something like this.
There are two
types of people
in this world:
me, and—
Actually,
there is only one
type of person
in this world.
a lot of thinking lately,
and I’ve reached
an epiphany.
Do you want
to hear it?
It goes
something like this.
There are two
types of people
in this world:
me, and—
Actually,
there is only one
type of person
in this world.
20100928
Musings on Nihilism
Years down the road,
None of this will matter.
Everything I do,
Everything I have done
Will turn to dust.
My greatest loads
Will long have scattered
And I will rue
Having had no fun
As I lie down and rust.
There is no secret code
To reaching eternity. Rather,
We’re all just goo:
Dying before we’ve begun,
Treading paths for which we lust.
If this is what the future bodes,
Then my dreams should shatter.
I should try something new,
Make myself second to none,
Abandon all my “musts,”
Scuff the lines I’ve toed,
Spurn the folks I’ve flattered…
I have no clue
Which way I should run
—In chance I’ll put my trust.
None of this will matter.
Everything I do,
Everything I have done
Will turn to dust.
My greatest loads
Will long have scattered
And I will rue
Having had no fun
As I lie down and rust.
There is no secret code
To reaching eternity. Rather,
We’re all just goo:
Dying before we’ve begun,
Treading paths for which we lust.
If this is what the future bodes,
Then my dreams should shatter.
I should try something new,
Make myself second to none,
Abandon all my “musts,”
Scuff the lines I’ve toed,
Spurn the folks I’ve flattered…
I have no clue
Which way I should run
—In chance I’ll put my trust.
20100830
Little Scraps
The carpet is fuzzy.
I’ve never noticed how remarkably fuzzy the carpet is.
And when I rub my cheek against
its off-white clumps, it tickles.
Slightly. Because it also scratches in an unpleasant way.
But then my eyes catch the dent in the wall
(or rather, the dent catches my eyes),
and I forget the carpet and remember
how my four-legged wooden stool
scraped there when you threw it aside after
climbing on top to turn on the ceiling fan because
it was such a hot day so many years ago.
And only then do I know that today’s another day
I won’t get up until the shadows on the wall roll east.
I’ve never noticed how remarkably fuzzy the carpet is.
And when I rub my cheek against
its off-white clumps, it tickles.
Slightly. Because it also scratches in an unpleasant way.
But then my eyes catch the dent in the wall
(or rather, the dent catches my eyes),
and I forget the carpet and remember
how my four-legged wooden stool
scraped there when you threw it aside after
climbing on top to turn on the ceiling fan because
it was such a hot day so many years ago.
And only then do I know that today’s another day
I won’t get up until the shadows on the wall roll east.
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