Ex's

I am a part of all of them
even the ones I hate.
Maybe especially the ones I hate.

They are transferred paint
after the fender ******
at the unfortunate intersection
of fate and bad timing.

Not enough damage to make a difference.
Not even enough impression that
you care to be bothered changing your schedule
to repair it.

But every time you leave the house,
and on every lap around the chariot,
you see a trespassing color screaming
of either their bad decision.........or yours.

Sometimes it seems there are more accidents
than pleasant Sunday drives.
I suppose most encounters must be accidents
until we find the uncluttered road to our destiny.

L.E. was life shift
and napkins.
I didn't even know I needed napkins
when I had paper towels in the house.
I Jones for napkins these days.

D.B. was college
and fashion.
Shiny shoes moved her to the soul of my feet.
Now Kiwi polish
smells like foreplay to me.

N.R. was forbidden
and my piano teacher.
I hated practice, she loved to kiss
The oral exam was one of my best finals.
I like tests more than most people today.

J.T. was a cougar
and Tchaikovsky connoisseur.
Maturity was uncovered, along with adult lessons
about carpet knap and fireplaces.
I am Pavlov's dog in the strings of Symphony #6.

L.J. was adventure
and abandon.
She is a grassy carpet over a live train tunnel
in a memory I should regret, but don't.
She is the crossbeam in my permanent smile.

I am an estrogen inspired creation
finding purpose in soft fleshy motivation.
I am who I am
because of their compunctions and compulsions.
They scraped off on me
in the kamikaze journey to fight loneliness.
But in the dive I learned -
grace is humbling when you don't deserve it,
toilet paper has a perfect delivery direction,
I get the right side of the bed,
you shouldn't say anything
you don't want to hear again,
it's my job to take out the trash,
shutting your mouth sooner than you think
is almost always the better choice,
you can never have enough closet space,
and some experiences are so good
that you should never try to repeat them again.

She may be gone forever.
And we may not be able to have
a decent conversation for the rest of our lives.
But God knows
I'll always have napkins.

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love
                    ...or angst.

                                For the twenty seventh time today
                                            I read of a love
                                         "unlike any other".

You know the one -
                  butterflies
                  goosebumps
    ­              can't breathe
                  best friend
                  life partner kind of love.

YES, YOU KNOW THE ONE!
Most of us do.
I've had seven myself.

                                But that's the power of love.
                               (Not the Huey Lewis meets
                                Celine Dion kind of love.)
                                    The reality twisting
                                   emotionally blinding
                                        omen erasing
                                         kind of love.

Where sixty percent of lovers
who were one hundred percent sure
they were different than everyone else
found some of the others
at the "Whoops I did it again" Prom
and started over
at the new, less improved dance
trying to forget the previous ones.

                         Some of them will have the courage
                                    (or loss of memory)
                          to say how unique it is........again.

It makes one man weep, and another man sing.
And inevitably,
                 the third man will write about it.
                 Much to our unoriginal,
                 bad after-taste,
                 and at the very best "Isn't that sweet",
                chagrin.

Sentimental geysers
of sincerest and irrepressible corn,
temper your naivety
and ponder your muse of passion
before you unveil puppy love
in the face of those who have bravely ridden the Rottweiler of amore'...
                                                    and­ even been bitten by it
                                                              ­          once or twice.

Consider your thoughts on love.

Then reconsider your angst about its failings
.

               How dare you have dread
                    if you haven't yet removed twenty five calendars
                         from the wall!?

It is a whiny *** of irony that reeks of 13 year old experience, hairless underarm machismo,
blatant high school drama posing as relevance, and that left over bottle of your dad's
cologne or favorite aunt's vanilla container you knew wouldn't be missed,
while you stained the olfactory neighborhood three blocks at a time.

                                                     The genuinity of youthful angst
                                 holds the credibility of a hairpiece
                                                       ­             on a televangelist.

         This anxious cloak of writhing distress
must be earned as a veteran,
                                    where only the scars of war
get a Purple Heart.
                You can't just say you have it.

Angst is rewarded to
the single mom who lost her job
     and has four children to feed,
and to the man who has to figure out
     how to hide the diaper
     he never thought he'd have to wear,
and to the parent who holds a dying child,
and the senior citizen who can't remember
     where they live,
and the solitary soul who truly has no one.......
     no one to call
     in the darkest moments of their life.

The "poor me", single pimple, concert's sold out, boyfriend #17 *****, inconvenient day
is wanting in qualifications, and we are irritated to hear your blathering interpretation of it.
We will hear you when your words come with bandages.

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love...
                     because it has been done
                  and no one has ever gotten it right...
or angst
               ...because I am unworthy of the reward.

I think I will just write about
what other people shouldn't write about.
There is no end in this.

My mother named me
                            for no good reason.

There was no fireman hero,
     no reknown global leader,
          nor an astronaut Stephen
          setting his foot on the moon.
It wasn't even her stylist whom she honored
as he kept her trusted secrets.

The roulette wheel of monikers
whirred uninterestedly past
Michael
David
John
Robert
Mark
Mitchell
Glen
(and thankfully) Carl
and surrendered its last click
     on the formal of Steve
                                     with a "ph".

                       It was haplessly indifferent
     in the way it came be.
                  A last grasp of titles
                                       as they pushed her out
                             the hospital doors.

I have a friend whose name
was never in question.
     He was a fifth,
                       as in William V.
The Ist was proud,
             so proud that he named the IInd.
     The IInd an heir,
                so he named the IIIrd.
            The IIIrd obliged,
                          and so the IVth.
                    The IVth weary from fighting
                                the previous I's
                                and hence, the V...
as in William V,
                          as in flavorless,
                          pomposity faded,
                          worn like a hand-me-down
                                    dress shirt through five generations
                                              bereft of shape and dignity and fit.

     He wished he had his own name -

                         I did.

     And I found my name
     free to be
     designed to the only son
     my mom ever had -
                                to be as grand or plain
                       as I constructed it to be.

This one-size-fits-me tag
                      Stephen Dane Roberson
                                  is the Ist
                                              and only.
     A name that I love
          because it is filled
               with all the stuff I put in it;
and that stuff is me...

a me I wanted to be when I grew up :-)