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Daniel Cuzzo Jul 19
We may damage polar bear nests
To search for oil
to fill our SUVs
So we can drive our fat *****
to McDonald's.

For the ground where they reproduce,
To be drilled for single-use
and a waiver to be signed
so the cuteness of cubs
cannot galvanize protest or reparations,

I never want to drive again.
Not sure when I wrote this frustrated, short poem but I found it entertaining.
Daniel Cuzzo Jun 8
In My Life, few ever understood:
When I say “Friends First,”
I’m NOT just “trying to be nice,”
It’s ACTUALLY what I want.

Yet, Many Want reassurance:
before sharing stories.
And I’m stuck Playing catchup:
to Cobble up Reasons To Skip Steps.

I wasn’t looking for love
Because I find it’s contradictory.
While I DESIRE a life partner
I don’t see a road to victory.

Each avenue lead to stagnation
Except the happiness I saw with you.
There was, however, a Hard-Cap
Set by lack of communication.

Waking up is what you want.
Let me start by exiting my dream.
I’ve been in it so long, alone
It has become a vampire.

I’m done dining before beginning.
Leave the poems at an even dozen.
I’m Italian: I hate wasting food.

Here’s to a healthier scene:
where we all can grow as one
instead of focusing on:
consumption & digestion.
Pardon the less-than-up-beat tone. It's one of those days o:)
Daniel Cuzzo Apr 24
Grammarly is usually the editor
I never have for fiction.
As long as I don't get fancy,
I can work with the AI in essays.

For poetry, it's mom's backseat driving.
Every end of a line is driving off a cliff,
unusual capitalizations questioned,
diction UNDER FIRE.

"Even well-read people don't understand,
so you should choose a more familiar word."
Well, Grammarly, this one is self-explanatory,
and IF they pick up a dictionary: it's loaded.

I've long since passed the college days
playing with Microsoft Word thesaurus.
Microsoft Word says I didn't pay: but I did.
Too tired to take it up to good-old Bill Gates.

AS SOON as Microsoft became a subscription
I WAS WARNED by customer support: not worth it.
They said, "try Grammarly Plus," so here I am:
dealing with my mom's backseat driving.

In the end, I'm still subscribing.
Now, I HAVE no formatting tools.
I have NO IDEA where they save my files.
Yet, I find this transaction amusing.

Like mom can be annoying, helpful, and cute,
I wake at 2 a.m., and Grammarly's AI is there.
I don't have to wait a week for feedback
and I'm getting better with "the human touch."

Now, I'm pretentious like that unfamiliar word,
but maybe there's a reason for that too.
Writing has been Very solitary & Very public:
each poet must find balance in the enigmatic.

Other writers scoff at the separation:
poets are people who laugh at grammar.
This is correct but also incomplete:
we laugh at rules working "all the time."

Yes, I make MANY unintentional mistakes,
(which is why I have my mom & Grammarly)
but we all love the written word uniquely
and cannot help but express it in SOME way.

It's a sign of my immaturity, perhaps.
When I finish writing poetry: I still rhyme.
I handed in an essay Freshman year that did:
pretty sure the TA gave me an A-.

But even in my Senior year, a clear opinion
accumulated across my studies in New York.
Each Professor proclaimed the ability
to tell when a Poet wrote prose.

This was NOT ALWAYS an insult:
it was always, partially, praise.
After ALL, professors pick the books
& there are fewer ***** looks at textbooks.

Here's a bolder claim: THINK of the possibilities!
I can tell if a Poet wrote Legalese.
Legally binding on several different levels,
moving, symbolic, AND aesthetically pleasing!

I had a dream to be like Homer.
I realized the market didn't want that.
Here's to 2021 with no word-program
and a 3 a.m. artificial editor that's like my mom.
I haven't been posting here lately, but this poem seemed appropriate for other poets.  Most recently, you can find me if you search Dan J Cuzzo on Medium.
Daniel Cuzzo Jan 16
Pardon me, this poem is rude,
Absolutely true but rude.
If you are like 90% of people
this warning is enough.

If you’re CURIOUS
That’s A GOOD trait,
but I still can’t promise
That you’ll like it.

Now that this disclaimer is done
I’ll get to the MEAT…
AFTER ALL...ELEPHANTS
HAVE A LOT OF IT.

BUT NO ONE SEES THEM…
How peculiar?
Because I TALK TO THEM
IN NEARLY EVERY ROOM.

My “starseed mission” is “seer.”
If you have no clue:  look it up.
If looking it UP doesn’t help…
ONCE AGAIN…feel free to drop it.

But HERE I AM…TALKING…
To people who DON’T WANT
My opinions, tell me I need change
CAN’T LET ME DO SIMPLE TASKS
without trying to correct and advise.

AND I AM LIKE CLAY
AND THEY ARE LIKE GODS.
They can tell me WHAT’S WRONG
IN EVERY WAY, NOT KNOWING
ANYTHING ABOUT ME.

And Yes, I TAKE their advice often,
I TRY to make myself “BETTER”
But in their eyes, it’s NEVER enough.
THEY WANT COMPLIANCE.
I REFUSE TO COMPLY.

They CAREFULLY tiptoe
AROUND THEIR ELEPHANTS
AND REFUSE TO SAY
THEY EXIST!

So I’ve decided
TO TALK LESS
with the HUMANS
AND MORE
WITH THE UNSEEN.

So…if you’re wondering
WHAT I’M DOING
ALL BY MYSELF…

DON’T WORRY
I don’t need company
unless you KNOW
AT LEAST ONE
of “your elephants”
BY NAME.

ONE OF MINE
I IDENTIFY with
RIGHT NOW
is “Shame.”

[DON’T WORRY,
When I’m NOT ******
I call him “Shane”
and we have a fun time].
A thousand of these poems does not feel like enough to get to sleep.
Daniel Cuzzo Jan 2
How can someone
say your faults
and then that they “love you?”

A million explanations in mind
just like a million expressions
of your heart, your soul and body.

You might not believe,
but SEERS like it best
when they see ALL of somebody.

You don’t have to strip.
Not talking about scars or bruises.
Talking about authenticity.

We’re all a collection
a MIXED BAG of light, darkness
and other quirky rocks.

Yet MANY OF US
treat this as the time
to hide the ugly stones.

We pretend everything
that sparkles is WHOLE
and there’s nothing missing.

It’s hard to say love
WHEN ALL OF YOU
is not represented.

And each time
those “sub-par” stones
get thrown under carpets…

Each time I wish
I could give care and polish.
But we INSIST they don’t exist.

So YES, it’s my favorite time
with the weight of a full collection,
to TELL YOU I love you.

Because AT THIS TIME
I’ve finally seen you
MORE COMPLETE than ever.
Daniel Cuzzo Dec 2020
---1: Care-----
I don’t care
it takes six hours
to sleep.
I don’t care
my neck’s twisted
so my portrait
is awful askew
when we talk.

I DO care
I need a passcode
to pick a box
on a schedule.
I DO care that you
don’t make me pay
and stay after
whatever the
aforementioned box
says.

But I care more
about you
(at least,
I think I do)
than the vibrational
machine
that takes up
your speaking time
describing its
operation.

Just a preference,
things don’t have
to change.
I finally fall
asleep and get
compulsions
to write poems.

It’s really warm,
the window
at my nose
I’ve finally stacked
pillows and hands
so my neck
doesn’t spasm.
And yet again,
through my guard
I’m told to leave
the space of comfort.

It’s not my time
to dream, it seems.
That should be
awful news.
I don’t regret
it though,
even if tomorrow
this poem smells
like old shoes.
-----2: Awake--------
What seems,
a horrible rhyme
to end a “care” poem
probably is one.
I’m NOT looking
at this until the sun
takes a look at it too.

At night all things
askew.  I have a habit
of thinking to “do more,”
but to:  CARE MORE
is relatively NEW.

Care was left
aside for a long time.
I was convinced
it was me, gaming
and reading.

Intuition has
a funny sense of humor.
The lyrical words
running through,
before getting up
to write this soberly:
“kiss the girls
and make them cry.”
I HATE that tune,
I AM NOT that guy.

I make the “girls” cry
for opposite reasons.
I show interest
and I avoid them
before it gets
ANYWHERE near
first base.
-----3: Chance-----
I EVEN googled
to make sure!
Who KNOWS
if the “bases,”
were still the same.
the first one
and the ending,
are easier to remember
but what is stuffed
on those puffy flat
footholds
hidden beneath my feet,
playing a separate game
entirely:
I can ACTUALLY
CARE LESS.

Here’s my statistics,
assuming you are
“the game,”
which I cringe at writing
THE CHANCES
of you WANTING
TO DANCE is 100%
You seem to LIKE
dancing, and feel free
in the act.
But THE CHANCE
of you WANTING
to TALK about feelings
of ANY kind
is a bit shy of 50%.
-----4: Play Ball?-----
That’s WHY
I pulled out my old
“smelly shoes.”
I’m running,
practice games,
trying to avoid
pitfalls:
like moving too fast
or tapping one of those
bases too many times
and having them burst
involuntarily.

I DON’T CARE
what the rules are
ABOUT HAZARDS,
the stupid shoes
have pointy cleats
that I’m not about
to cheat to cloud
my approach.

And my approach
is not towards a “goal.”
My approach recognizes
that bases exist
but I’m honestly
not that interested yet.
There’s similar age,
difference in gender
seems the ONLY time
THEY LET
the opposite ***
play ball together.

But I remember
MY BROTHER
who embarrassed
my dad.
He’d be picking
dandelions
out in left field.

That’s about as far,
as each of us got,
in the actual sport.
We all move on
to the metaphorical
regardless of
the “score board.”
----5: New Metaphor-----
This realm of metaphor
might be filled with rules
I’d never paid attention to,
It’s skewed in its rewards
it’s quite awkward
when I think
ANOTHER TEAM
will be batting
one after the other.

At LEAST they made
the women the land,
perhaps, the stadium.
We are just, the stupid
entertainment,
and perhaps have no right
to deviate from this
corrupted past-time.

But that’s why…
I’ve lost my train of thought.
I have 18 minutes to midnight.
The poem is shaping up alright
but flourishing my wooden bat
will ultimately get me nowhere.

I’m an “aspiring” WRITER.
This SHOULD mean I can
CREATE WORLDS let alone
a “metaphor,” much better.
BUT THAT is where
I draw MY OWN lines.

I WON’T redefine,
societal norms alone.
This is NOT a FANTASTIC
journey, I’m carrying anyone.
THE NEW NORMS I embrace
are “Co-Creation,” of sacred space.
And it cannot be done,
without mutual love, friendship
and grace to fill the gaps in ALL
that we thought we knew.
-------- 6: A Place-------------
It’s mute without others,
I’ll put that 50/50 to the test,
hoping that “smelly shoes,”
awkward jokes and sleepiness
can somehow impress
where “homeruns” do not.
Regardless, it’s 12:54
I’ll see this poetic monstrosity
in the sunrise,
and maybe, awaken to
new eyes, less prone
to criticize
all that I claim
to gallop over
with ease.

I’d like
to see
if I care.
If my sleep
is any
indication,
I think
you might
have a place
somewhere.

Here’s to 12:59
------7: The Magic----
I just realized,
I added,
too many bases.
In this new game
I’ve hastily devised
there’s six of them.

But I don’t like six,
let’s make it seven.
Besides a multitude
of corrections,
let’s leave “seven”
for someone else.
This lazy, next-day
rhyming is a placeholder.
And I got a day older,
before seeing,
I was a word hog,
a number snob:
pulled a “Cinderella”
staying past Midnight
and losing
my “smelly shoes.”
Or perhaps,
I still have one, right?
Don’t ask
what I’ll do with it.

I DON’T think,
I’ll put it on again.
Burying the metaphor
and growing better,
is much more attractive
than “proving,” that
“the shoe fits.”

Because the shoe
never fits.
Not in 3D.
When they were made
of crystal-glass
I DOUBT they were
ANY MORE comfy.

Speaking of comfort,
it’s overtime,
my “fairies” give me
an earful
and let me unwind.

While some games
might be in play,
we all put our foot down
for dandy-lions, singing birds
cleaning chores
and whispers
from the unknown.
------8: Infinity---------
Regardless of
any form of response,
I’ve taken time
to think of Earth,
modified from,
what I avoid
to something,
I can love.

So thanks,
for this chance
to stay conscious.
And add,
yet another,
title to the list:
breaking past
“magic,”
and just barely,
entering infinity.
------9: Knockout-----
-12:30AM KO
the system wins
but I don’t mind
life’s not about it,
but finding…
What?
After all words,
I can’t already know.
Save it FOR a future
where I’m NOT shivering,
hoping the path to dreams
is not too slow.

The path to dreams,
starts literally,
more often than not.
It starts on the ground,
looking up.
Dreaming a life,
is better than living:
“their dream.”
That’s why we get up
after each knockout, hoping,
for something of our own
that works out a little better
than the other party
being blown away.

At the very least,
we might all be able
to walk away happy.
---10: Champions of Heart---
12:43AM  Completely
unorganized.  Has all
the right numbers
but not much of
an easy rise.
And that’s when
I recognize
the juice is gone,
can’t write a sensible word
sleep is to organize,
redirect, refill
and I’m doubting,
whether this last part
will EVEN get a title.
We can consider it
“A Persian Flaw”
except I HAVE
enough of THOSE
to satisfy ANY
VINDICTIVE in-law.

Yet I still love it,
writing occurs
until I pull
every ounce
and rise above
what I was.

So here’s to,
rising just below.
Tenth poem,
within this poem
might not make it.

If so, it will be my secret.
Proof that I can’t remake
everything I consider a mistake.
Because as much as I dislike
to admit, I’m a byproduct
of every norm I shake.

Who’s to say,
Ideas, hope, beginning
to love will change the world?
I really, just poorly, mangled
baseball.

Perhaps, when the “new game”
plays out, my father
might be proud of it.
He’ll still watch,
the Yankees and the Sox
but perhaps, visit
“the special box”
reserved for him and mom.
I WON’T use AstroTurf
for the **** lawn.
Kids MIGHT still
be picking dandelions,
singing, dancing and hey:
maybe TALKING about
their feelings.

But I will let them,
and love them for it.
Who knows?
Someone else may
be there too.

At this time,
just dreaming,
(pre-emptively at that)
looking more for
understanding
than any long-term
commitment.
So, it doesn’t matter who.

We’re not playing,
for selfish keeps
or to be Champions
in others’ eyes. Rather:
playing, for sincerity,
for the Earth’s rise.

Maybe, we can be
CHAMPIONS
of our OWN hearts:
like we should have been
from the very start.
-----11: When We Fall------
As much as I want
to end it there
I woke up today
with much grief,
absence and despair.
Not just from you
but all other quarters.

I shouldn’t do this,
insert all sorts of names
from these New-Age
judgmental “holier than though,”
moderators.

Our job is sacred,
how can we take it light-hearted?
Every time I CRACK a joke
with these people
it’s like I FARTED in Church
where the priest had just reached
the most poignant passage
about Jesus suffering on the cross.

JESUS WANTS US THERE,
we’re sure of it.
Jesus wants us reliving
his most painful moments –
FORGET about our own lives…
We’re LOVE AND LIGHT
WE ALL HAVE our husbands, wives
AND THESE SPOUSES are elevated
because THAT’S what we do.
FIRST it was “soul mate,”
NOW it’s “twin flame.”

BEFORE THE TITLE
EVEN GETS POPULAR
WE’RE RETROACTIVELY
GIVING OUR PARTNERS
THE DESIGNATION.

If I NEVER get a partner
who can keep pace with my heart –
who knows, maybe, none will see
my kind of love as attractive at all.

But NEWS is, I’m NOT forcing.
Nor have I EVER settled
for anything less,
then a cold void
around my chest
and feelings of guilt
to all tissues in the world
because, for this issue alone
I’m my own
environmental hazard.

I’m not cajoling anyone to bed
I can barely keep
my shaky head steady as I sleep.

But one thing the “new age” revolution
has taught me, is despite “haters”
revived in their “new age” skins
for a wide new world
with some of the SAME narrow views:
they DO encourage us to dream.

And that’s all I’ve been doing.
This poem is neither a contract
or binding in any fashion.
It might mention those in the vicinity
but it will NEVER define them.

And JUST the same,
you all can try,
but you’re likely NEVER
to agree:
on a definition for me.

I have to be okay with that.
In fact, I have to be happy.
So, sorry if I woke up
but have no strength.
Sorry if ANYONE
is too busy to simply reply
to my answer to your question.

We can start out
making assertions
but we’re left with
questions in the end.
Why this?
Why me?
Can’t I get
sincerity please?

We GET IT
after the meat grinder.
DOESN’T matter
if we’re NOW
VEGETARIAN.

Our bodies are processed
until we’ve stopped clinging
to our flaws, or instead
incorporated them
into our design schematics.

Because the STRESS
we all CURSE
for EXISTING
is LISTENING
to EVERY
word we say.

Whether it be praise,
frustration or gaiety,
it’s looking to hold on
to its last sanctuary
before the burst of light
that’s “supposed,”
to make us “perfect,” right?

And while we’re all
walking, healing, embodied
perfection.
We SAY, that’s the time
to DEAL with the darkness.
But planning on external help,
putting off what needs be done
thinking tasks will be easier once
the rest of ourselves are divine
is a recipe for leaving ourselves
pockets of darkness
we’re too scared
to ADMIT exist,
we’ll constantly hide,
PERHAPS by chiding others
for not being as stoic, or mature.

Mature is all about that suit and tie
or that new-age equivalent.
We ALL have our followers.
The more we tell them, love and light
they more they bite, and watch you
eat your breakfast in a live
YouTube video.

Getting back, to where I started
with caring, wondering, dreaming:
not looking to force anything.
YES, I might get carried away,
but YOU DON’T get this poem.

If it’s discovered online
that’s ONE THING.
But I’m NOT delivering
something long and odious
TO THE TOP
of a LONG LIST
of things you swear
you’ll get back
to comment on.

A guy can dream
but it’s different
from “delusion.”
We can buy-into
the idea of manifestation:
the “fake it ‘till you make it,”
mentality, that mostly misses
the point.

But I’m one guy,
one batch of ****** pain
tied to emotional strain.
My brain is still detoxing
and I’m hiding the fact
that these changes swirling
are affecting me, stressfully
embracing my tired, sore-self
I once again, pull up the pillow
I’ve had since I was twelve.

Sometimes I retire it.
Sometimes, think of someone
who can replace it,
but ultimately, repeatedly
I’m left with it again and again.

And THAT’S OKAY everybody.
Dan’s life is NOT meant to make
it look like he’s won.
He goes out when the sun
is NOT hiding behind clouds
learns what he can,
engages in online discussion,
that at this point has come into question.

Yet there’s always something
I need not question.
As much as I love questions,
there are some we don’t ask.

Is there hope
for something better?
Will I always be shivering
typing on and old EMF ridden
machine?

Is there really,
something for me
that will bring
a happy life?

These questions
are pointless.
Yes, I’ll tell others
there’s hope.
I’ll give them that.

But within ourselves,
discovering all the beauty
EVEN if NO ONE else sees
is worth it.
So bring on the tissues,
the sneezes.
Bring on the misunderstandings.
Bring on the frustration.
SOON I’ll be above it all.

At the very least,
I’ll pick up myself,
all REQUISITE pieces
put them together again
into something new:
each time I fall.
Daniel Cuzzo Dec 2020
So…hi!
A little story to tell.

Never had many friends.
Was just hoping new ones
would be more accepting.

Getting back to the story…
I had HOPED my 200th
Facebook friend would be
like that, but I had to backtrack.

As a few friends appeared
in quick succession.
But the conclusion is
that you’re the 200th one.

NO WORRIES though,
if it’s too much pressure
you can back out and leave
that space for a Shaman from Maui
(that just friended me).

NOT SURE if it works that way
but hey, it’s a thought.

Anyway, with that said:
nice to meet you!
I highly doubt, any woman
wants to be called 200,
so, I can totally stick
with Charlotte.
Yes, my few readers are in luck.  I chose the lighthearted poem to type up.  Enjoy the fact that YES, poetry can be happy...Let's hope for many more :)
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