Guilt

You are human built
a fallible, fleshy machine
with thoughts and dreams
and pitiful guilt.


Like shallow, hollow trees
we human built
with time we wilt
and crumble by breeze.


You are human built
with onion peelings
of unnecessary feelings
and plentiful, pitiful guilt.

Hotel Poem

The hotel I live in
isn't open anymore.
I don't know what
I should do.


I'm not afraid,
I just don't like
you. I'm sorry.


The exception to
the rule is a sad
song, and it
happens everyday.


Your eyes still shine.
It reminds me
of childhood.


The heart of the
country is a myth;
or,
it's you and me.


Imagine taking
your mask off,
and smiling.


I love you, but
more for who
you ought to be,
you see.


Why didn't I think:
What in the
world?


It's getting to the
point where things
get sad, and I don't
want that.


But I've learned
to keep going,
and smile.


Live through this
and you can't go
back.
It's closed.


You cannot live
there much
longer.


Beauty is ageless,
that is the main
reason why it
doesn't exist.


This
should be a good one.
Try as you might.


Let me just
sleep,
and dream,
one more night.


Let me begin
where I have
failed to end.


Wait for me,
She said to him.
He didn't, or
so it's told.

It's Not What it Looks Like

This is my house,
I don't always live here.
You understand.

This is my house,
it's not my home.
You understand.

She judged me,
when she asked me
"Don't judge."

I wouldn't judge
if I weren't so human.
It's just a house.

We all have houses,
not all a home.
You understand.

I like to stay home,
but
I get around.

Your vanity
was like
chocolate.

My pride
like alcohol.

Our greed - it was
like love.
You understand.

My love is like
a woman.

Yours
is like fiction.

Let's just
go home.

Two by John Ashbery

The Problem of Anxiety

Fifty years have passed
since I started living in those dark towns
I was telling you about.
Well, not much has changed. I still can't figure out
how to get from the post office to the swings in the park.
Apple trees blossom in the cold, not from conviction,
and my hair is the color of dandelion fluff.


Suppose this poem were about you-would you
put in the things I have carefully left out:
descriptions of pain, and sex, and how shiftily
people behave toward each other? Naw, that's
all in some book it seems. For you
I've saved the descriptions of chicken sandwiches,
and the glass eye that stares at me in amazement
from the bronze mantle, and will never be appeased.




Today's Academicians


Again, what forces the critic to bury his
agenda in interleaving textualities and so
bring the past face-to-face with his present
isn't naughty, but it is both silly and wrong.
The past will have to get by on sheer pluck
or charm, entirely consistent with its ten-
dency to nullify and romanticize things. The
way a pain begins. The flying squirrels of
this particular rain forest mope in flight;
the audience has already done what it can for
them; and the pure light of their endeavor
bespeaks the modesty of the program: "mere?"
anarchy. That the men with spotted suits
and ties get down to it is one more nail in
their coffin. These portly curmudgeons dig-
nify no endeavor and are also about as "right"
as the weather ever gets. All in my time.
More meteor magic. Seems like.


-both from Ashbery's Notes from the Air.

bug.spray

Bug.spray is so over-categorized.

The bugs are alive,

and with poison are sprayed.

They shan't survive,

not matter what you paid.