Vaguely Amusing

When we’re done, I’m done —
Giving up won’t be fun,
But it’s easier than convincing myself that you’re not the one.
There’ll be nothing left for you but breaking into a run,
So stick a fork in me, dear, ‘cause when we’re done, I’m done.

When you’re gone, I’m gone —
I’ve been hanging upon
Someone little bit committal and a little bit non.
There’ll be nothing left of me to look nostalgically on,
So don’t look back when you go, ‘cause when you go, I’m gone.

When we’re through, I’m through —
For I haven’t a clue
How I’d cast you from my mind and look for somebody new.
But there’s something tells us both that day is long overdue…
Just call a hearse when you’re through, ‘cause when we’re through, I’m through.

I am a proud pedestrian, and I have the right of way.
I do have, I do have, I do have, I do have, I do have the right of way.
You can run me over if you like,
You can crash into me on your bike,
But it won’t be much of a lucky strike
‘Cause I’ve got the right of way.

I am a proud pedestrian, so listen to what I say.
You’ll listen, you’ll listen, you’ll listen, you’ll listen, you’ll listen to what I say.
Many’s the day it’s rained or snowed
When I’ve bravely stridden (or maybe “strode”),
So look both ways when I cross the road,
‘Cause I’ve got the right of way!

(written in fifteen minutes on my walk to class)

I’m just a little lonesome —
Tell me pretty things.
Tell me that you’ve missed me
Through all my wanderings,
Say you loved my roses,
Say you had them dried,
Say you couldn’t leave me
If you tried.

I don’t know where I’m headed —
Tell me pretty things.
Sigh them sostenuto
Like a lover sings,
Say the spreading sunset
Darkened like the day
You said, “I’ll never leave you,
Come what may.”

Don’t make this any harder —
Tell me pretty things.
Tell me what the past holds
Is what the future brings,
Swear that you’ll be faithless,
Swear you won’t be true,
Swear to me you’ll leave him
Lonesome too.

You’re “The Lady or the Tiger?”, I’m the reader who groans,
You’re the stem cells differentiating, I’d be the clones,
You’ll throw Scissors, you’ll throw Papers, but I’m sticking with Rocks,
You’re a Heisenberg electron, I’m a cat in a box.

You’re a quarter as it’s spinning in the air when it’s tossed,
I’m a senator of Rome who fears the Rubicon’s crossed.
So defect or else cooperate, I’ll go tit-for-tat —
You’re a Copenhagen particle, I’m Schroedinger’s cat.

(I started this feeling Cole-Porter-ish. Now I still feel Cole-Porter-ish in the sense that he hasn’t written a worthwhile thing in forty-five years.)

I’m just gritting my teeth as I’m waiting
     For an end to this Survey campaign;
It’s the first thing I’ve found that’s as grating
     As the e-mails from Barry S. Kane.
If you’re wanting an accurate rating,
     You had really much better refrain,
Or you might find it slightly… deflating.
     (I hope I shan’t have to explain.)

Some may say Kirkland’s beating the rest out,
     Some may say that the survey’s a cinch,
Some may get a hilarious jest out:
     ”Looks like Whoville is missing a Grinch!”
But I’m sick and I’m stuck and I’m stressed out
     And I’m feeling the crunch and the pinch.
If you send even one more request out —
     Well, I promise you won’t get an inch.

(Backstory: People have taken harassment over completing the House Life Survey to new extremes; now there’s some sort of friendly-ish competition over participation rate between Kirkland and Pfoho. Suddenly we’re expected to do the survey as a sign of house pride or house spirit, or in order to be dubbed a “manly man”, or maybe just to get the stream of personalized e-mails to stop.)

(Also, I’d written half of a third verse, which would’ve capped it more neatly, but I was advised to stop at two, and I think I agree.)

          Flew from Honolulu to the US mainland,
          Jolted from my slumbers when I feel the plane land,
Can’t remember if I’m stopped at LAX or SFO.
          Stumbling off the skybridge and I check the screen,
          Tells me my connecting flight’s at 5:15,
Don’t know if that’s now or in an hour or an hour ago.
You know why I’m disoriented?

                                                          I’m all
Set to Airplane Standard Time, all
Done with stupid stuff from SkyMall,
Looking for a way back home —
There’s got to be a way back home.

          Flew from Hartsfield-Jackson through O’Hare to Sea-Tac,
          Guy behind me grumbles as I shove my seat back,
So exhausted I don’t really give a damn for etiquette.
          Overcrowded flight gets me a free hotel,
          Going straight to voicemail on my girlfriend’s cell:
“Baby, where I’m calling from, your birthday isn’t over yet.
I’ll see you in the morning. (Won’t I?)”

                                                                 I’m all
Tuned to Airplane Standard Time, all
Done with Hemispheres and SkyMall,
Looking for a place called home —
It’s in my contacts under “Home”.

          Flew in from Miami Beach B.O.A.C.,
          Had too much to drink but it was duty-free,
Said some things I won’t regret to people I won’t meet again.
          Red-eye, but I’m too awake to shut my eyes,
          Looking over spreadsheets ‘til my laptop dies,
Everybody in the world except for me’s asleep by then.
(Well, maybe the first officer.)

                                                     But I’m all —
Lord, how I’ve meandered! — I’m all
Stuck on Airplane Standard Time, all
Looking for a place to call home —
There’s no place like a place like home.

(Cf. this status.)

Oh, Christ,
Everyone’s so underdressed and overpriced.
So what’s the use of struggling,
Oh, Christ?

Oh, hell,
Everyone’s all dressed to kill and priced to sell.
So what’s the use of struggling?
Oh, hell!

Oh, damn,
They’re upon me now like slaughter to a lamb.
So what’s the use of struggling?
Oh, damn!

Subject: I love you, Santa!

Dear Santa,

I figured when I mentioned ostriches on my form that you’d have to be a little creative, but I’d love to know what kind of creativity went into finagling a real, live ratite into my bedroom this morning! I didn’t even mind that the cassowary was too small for me to ride — it was still delicious. Thanks, Santa!!!

Brian

(Helps if you’ve ever been subscribed to Kirkland-list during Secret Santa week, during which everyone, not knowing whom to thank, sends public e-mails out thanking their Santa for their wonderful gifts. I love those e-mails — they’re all so happy — but something in me can’t help but undermine everything that’s earnest or good in the world.)

Joanna Naples-Mitchell
Is terrifyingly nice —
She must have secrets which’ll
Be worth a pretty price.
There must be something dark there
Behind her savoir-faire,
Some telltale, hidden mark there
Like tan lines under hair.

Joanna Naples-Mitchell
Expects us to believe
She’s an activist who’s neither
Humorless nor naïve.
Though evidence volumin-
Ous should show it isn’t true,
To her, supporting human
Rights means liking people, too.

As I was telling Chels’ at
Length, I’ve got to find some flaw.
She’ll likely ace the LSAT,
So perhaps she’ll — practice law?
Perhaps she’ll run a spy ring
That’s a front for an NGO —
It’s thankless work, and tiring,
But that’s no surprise with Jo.

I hear she’s got a sister
Who chose (!) to go to Yale —
I’m hesitant to list her,
But if all inquiries fail…
I’m worried her escape’ll
Hinge on all the dirt I get.
Be warned, Joanna Naple-
S-Mitchell, I’m gonna catch you yet!

I used to know how I should sketch a plane,
It used to be knowledge I knew,
I used to know how I should sketch a plane,
It used to be painless (or low in pain),
But now I’m beginning to feel the strain
And worrying what I should do —
I used to know how I should sketch a plane,
It used to be knowledge I knew.

I used to know how I should sketch a plane,
It used to be knowledge I knew,
I used to know how I should sketch a plane,
I never suspected I’d go insane,
I never suspected it’d boil my brain
To something that passes for glue —
I used to know how I should sketch a plane,
It used to be knowledge I knew.

(written before / during Math 21b, Linear Algebra, today)