pearls

Just Saying (reformatted)

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2005/10/22
Just Saying

I don't know what to do.  I've got no plan
so if this works out, it'll be dumb luck
and I'll step back and wonder what the fuck
then rearrange what happens, if I can,
to make it end somewhat how it began
as if behind the scenes a deal was struck
despite my aimless nonsense, and it stuck,
so never mind the way things really ran.
Since no god comes along to run the show,
I'm on my own, come fortune or regret.
No proper word is ever apropos —
at best I'll use the best words I can get.
Is this the way to put it?  I won't know
until I'm done, and that's not happened yet.


 
Just Saying Nothing
Is this the way to put it?  I won't know
until I'm done, and that's not happened yet
nor does my drift pose too serious a threat
no matter how much it appears as though
my poetry must sport a quid pro quo
to dress up its erratic silhouette,
some sacrifice to settle up my debt
for every scrap of nothing I still owe.
For what it's worth, there's nothing going on,
there never was nor will there ever be,
unless we count each hiccup, burp or yawn —
whatever, that's still all i guarantee.
What little faith I had is dead and gone
as though it never felt a part of me.


 
Just Saying Scratch
What little faith I had is dead and gone
as though it never felt a part of me . . .
no, worse than that, like leftover debris
discarded from the refuse of my spawn.
Trust gets me nowhere.  Every move's a con
prepackaged for a dream raised on TV
where everything's for sale and no one's free.
I tried.  My application got withdrawn.
It's said I need to let the reins relax,
just let the language speak, see through its eyes,
give up control, submit to random acts,
spread open to its improbable surprise.
OK then, let's play roulette with the facts:
give Tyche my pen, let's see what she'll devise.


 
Just Saying Whatever
OK then, let's play roulette with the facts:
give Tyche my pen, let's see what she'll devise
our hopes to dress in probable disguise
uneasy in each outcome choice impacts,
our doubt to carve out inauspicious tracks.
At any given moment, last goodbyes
capriciously kiss sins we'd most despise.
We do this to ourselves, these wild attacks.
When purposes are vain, when cause is null,
or when our reason justifies abuse,
let probability the credits cull
to meaning-challenged changes we produce.
Why waste your time on such a fickle trull?
Don't try to clean my act up.  It's no use.


 
Just Saying Shit
Why waste your time on such a fickle trull?
Don't try to clean my act up.  It's no use
expecting tight control of one so loose
or drilling sense into so thick a skull.
That quiet's just my eye, it's not a lull;
this pause was just my breath, don't call a truce;
et cetera.  I've got no good excuse —
whatever choice can sharpen chance can dull.
What more did you expect? that I might last?
One force alone can promise it won't quit
and even what that's got is going fast
with precious little left to call legit.
At most I've had an accidental past;
at best you were a pointless piece of it.

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