Applause Limes

I quite regret the text I sent.
Those weren’t at all the words I meant.
I’m coming deeply to resent
Autocorrect. Clap flatulent!



I don’t know how to write a sestina,
Not really, but already I know this:
“Sestina” is not the word you want
To end a line with. Seriously, look,
How many different ways can it be used?
I think I’m going to regret this choice.

And while we’re on the topic, how much choice
Is left once you’ve begun a sestina?
When every line must end with words you’ve used
Already, is there any art in this?
Check stanza one, line four. No, really: Look!
You see? It doesn’t matter what I want.

So, what’s the point? I guess, in part, I want
A challenge. Every day I make the choice
To keep this streak alive, which means I look
For topics everywhere. A sestina
Is harder than a sonnet, and if this
Does nothing else, it’s one more form I’ve used.

The brain, just like a muscle, must be used
With regularity unless you want
Your skills to atrophy, so think of this
As calisthenics or road work, your choice.
I’m sweating as I write this sestina,
And trust me, it is not a manly look.

Most “gimmick” forms don’t get a second look
From me (although I will admit I’ve used
My share of haikus), and a sestina
Requires more commitment than I want
To give most nights, but having made the choice
To try it out, I’m glad I tackled this.

As Billy Collins said, a verse like this
Can yield surprises. If it has to look
Or sound a certain way, the poet’s choice
Of words are thus constrained, yet those he’s used
Gain power in the process. If you want
Six bad-ass words, then write a sestina.

Is this the end already? I’m not used
To tercets. Do they look like this? I want
To not regret my choice…damned sestina.

Bite Your Tongue

Don’t say things you can’t take back.
Time travels on a one-way track
And once you’ve spoken words that sting
You cannot make that bell unring.
Better just to bite your tongue
And recognize your thoughts are young:
When they grow up, they may mature.
The point is, now, you can’t be sure,
So don’t give voice to words you’ll hate
To say you said, once it’s too late.

Fully Dissed Closure

There’s absolutely nothing left to do.
Two thousand thirteen’s over. Done. Finis.
I’m satisfied, completely. How ’bout you?
Are you as satisfactorized as me?
Does your year’s score have chords left unresolved?
Plot threads unknotted? Crunchy bits unchewed?
Will you regret not being more involved
When looking back from ’14? Dude, you’re screwed.
It’s too late now. What’s done is done. Move on.
Regret’s a waste of energy. Let go.
Dress up the past like guests at Comic-Con
And act as if it’s someone you don’t know.
The future’s where it’s at! And now it’s here!
Don’t screw it up. Or, do. It’s just a year.