but aren't they all random?



A Pocketful of Poesy was a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog* up until the great derail of 2013. The impossibly-high standard of quality proved impractical to keep up, without a book deal. But don't take my word for it: click RANDOM and judge for yourself! And feel free to offer your critique.
*based on poem rate for calendar years 2009-2012. Also, kidding about the book deal.

Friday, June 23, 2017

beyond count

Pinpricks in the sky,
Like budding cherry blossoms -
A lace made of light. Night pulls
covers over us, way way way out past
cities making wishes. A shooting star
hovers, one syllable over
in the otherwise straight line
of God's haiku

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Easy truths, become cliches

Easy truths lend themselves
to overuse. And, become cliches,
offend the ear of those who
value novelty. It isn't that
they aren't true, or have no
true or real value, it's just
that we begin
the fifteenth time,
the fiftieth, the thousandth,
to suspect the one who hits us with
such easy truth - a baseball bat
held wrong-way up
- does not know how to hit,
to win.

But still,
the truth

is just as straight
and curved and hard and long
and fast, as many days
as it's proved true, the first
as true as last, the worst

that you can say of it
is: this. The human mind
can grasp

and use

a truth, poorly, even
wrongly - we may reach
for what we mean, try
to say just what we want, and maybe miss, or kiss
the pitch fair, pure luck - and so,
deserve no credit! But that truth, itself
has force. Even if

we only hold it out
to bunt,

take off and run

Monday, May 01, 2017

ominous flight

Listen while the rowers in the wind fly o'er
droves of solitary birds, ravens, crows -
all in one direction, in silence dipping oars
something coming after, maybe? Fuck it - who knows

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Message from a bottle

Hang in there, you. Take heart.
Be of brave, good cheer. Regard
the world with shining eye, and if
it won't meet your gaze, maybe
it's not lying. Maybe it's just shy.

I have learned from being here.

From birds, not how to sing but why,
from friends what enemies are laughing
at, from the mirror
that my sad face looks fake, and
from you, that you'll never help me practice it

but a lesson like that is a piece of cake
- you can eat it, too. Falling off a log
with you, a lot depends on who lands first,
but it's not a race. In ancient days,
I might have been mistaken, enslaved,
worshipped as A GOD - and you, my favorite sacrifice,
but more likely,

the science fiction ending: unstuck
in time, place, parts of speech drifting
away and on your face, as always,
facial features
- unreadable without the cereal box top
decoder ring. Send away,

I am receiving.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

strong coffee

I got the worst night of my life stuck in my throat
I need something to wash it down before I choke
Well I can't take heed of the warnings, I've tried
and I fear my old age will never take me alive
so I'm coming to a stop 'til it starts again
I know nothing's going to help me
in the state I'm in, but give me strong

coffee, ma'am
certified organic or petroleum-based, hey
I don't really give a good god damn
just so it's strong
coffee for me. Black, no
sugar, don't leave any room for cream

I can't prove one single thing I've ever done
and don't know who I am or what
I have become
It's like you wake up from a dream and can't remember your life
I know every stupid thing except why, why why?
Someone please turn down the light, I can't
focus my mind, I need something I can taste
'cause I've sure gone blind - just give me strong

coffee, ma'am
certified organic or petroleum-based, hey
I don't really give a good god damn
just so it's strong
coffee for me. Black, no
sugar, don't leave any room for cream

Sanity Check

Your vanity - any mirror you check,
can only reflect
your sanity.
In that
looking glass -
if you were not vain,
speaking rationally,
you'd be insane.

Monday, April 17, 2017

from the inside

To each their own
cell, no guard
except God if there is one,
no visitors
allowed inside, no fellow prisoners
for company - only a couple of windows
and these companionable walls,

through and over which you can stretch
your neck, strain your mind, sneak
a peek out. You can still catch a glimpse
of familiar space, in the dawning light
on a stranger's face. Well,

if anything's sacred, that must be it. If the piece
that you're holding won't ever fit, what if
somebody, somewhere, out in the cold has
a jigsaw gap, just the shape you hold...?
You can't fucking get it to them, though.
All you can do is describe it. And then they
can pretend they know
what it is to hold.

Ick.
Today's topic is
"Have you ever felt utterly alone?"
Yes, most always. Although
I am not the only one.

bookkeeping

Sometimes I am out of line,
and you let me off the hook.
But in that case, it's not my
call. Not my business, in your book
the entry's blank - it's not my place
to call you to accounts,
just to offer thanks. I owe nothing
- in generous amounts.

Thursday, April 06, 2017

tea ceremony

When you've plumbed and traced the shape of that ache,
you will find you can draw it forth as a blade
to cut paths through the phantoms of could
and should be, that are placed in your paths
by the enemy. Who,
disappointingly and undramatically enough,
is often you yourself, pulling
one of those subconsciousness snuggie cloaks
close around you and down over your eyes
in a sinister attempt at incognito,

but I know you

and you've been beginning to get wise
to that bastard's ways for a while or two
by now. Time to sit down together to a TEA AND CRUMPETS PARTY.

You two are ON THE SAME SIDE!

But it all begins
in examination of that ache,
with an eye towards fashioning it
into a defensive mechanism and multi-purpose
instinct-guided and -guiding tool. It is the ache
that is in you, in the shape of what is not,
that teaches us what's missing,
and the negative space in us into which it will fit.

It is strange that we want
or need such a thing. But it is only by feeling the shape,
by knowing our ache that we can make our eyes wise
to its possible fix, every wherever we come across its shape
in this profuse and abundant world.

Meanwhile, sit
Have tea, and linger

in this moment of getting to know

'til it hurts.

'More Than Sum'

The product of two,
divided by none
and raised to the power
of equals, is
less than three
to infinity, and
they're already writing
the sequels.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Tuesday, March 07, 2017

the witness

If a tree falls in a forest, it
was not sound. You didn't
hear a thing, you
were there, on the scene
- in the way, and
perfectly positioned
to say. "It didn't make
a sound! I'd have ducked, dodged,
run away otherwise," resolutely refusing
to blame your earbuds, maintaining a cracking,
groaning, giving-way tree ought to out-racket
anything on your playlist, therefore:

it didn't.

It was silent. You're perfectly confident
you are competent to swear
on the truth in the matter. The proverbial treefall

did not make a sound.

If a tree falls in a forest
and it kills the only witness,
is it any of our business?

Well. In memory of the thing,
now definitively settled,

Let us have one minute's silence.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

execution style

I'm always sneaking up, but
you never have once.
But we all have wants -
How can you be so cold?
No, not cold: direct.
You have never let me hang,
But I kind of wish you would.
Let me stretch out my neck

You

stabbed me in the heart, but at least
it's from the front. I will turn my back
on you, if that's what you want

if that's what you want.

Let's do this. Execution
-style, I'm sick of pleading
innocent. Not guilty,
'cause I might be insane, but

I'm not giving up on it.

post-op

You've sewed shut your lips, and you're waiting
for the stitches to melt.
You'll never once open your mouth
to tell how it felt.

Friday, January 27, 2017

exclusive committed

No tongues, no lips, no
pussies no clits no titties
no nips, no dicks - not even
just the tips! (no "practice
dips"), that's just
how it is.
These things, contact with,
each to each
is reserved. No, it didn't
need saying, but it's good

to observe.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

hurry on, torchbearer

I'm not smoking, I'm just carrying a very small torch. I
took it up right when you gave me a ring, quite a small one

but grand! we both thought. Give or take
four more and, by the time I am though
with the added tax on every pack, beginning in April
then on 'til I quit, I am sure I'll have paid twice over
for it, and more. But it isn't for you,

that I go through the world like this. Shed my
light, passersby incensed,

And it isn't for you,
this world's smallest torch. Oh it's you
that I carry it for, I admit, but

it's more on behalf of my very last breath, and
the sake of enjoying my way to it

that I light this torch, and I hold it high

as if lost in the mist of its heavenly scent, or

what passes for it.

universe plans

the universe plans nearly all
of my moves, in the obstacles
waiting wherever I roam. They
make sense to me, at least one

sometimes three

So I'll see
or I'll feel, my way up
if that's where
I am trying
to go. And with taste,
I will find my way home,
if that's where

I am

or am trying to go.

They make sense
to me, so I know
what to do. Where it goes,
how to act, and:
accordingly. Is
how I act.
Is there any
way else that I've
missed? Accordingly works,
I have found. That it is
always evident,
always makes sense,
where I go. On the way
to wherever it goes.
It is always the plan,
so I've found.

So I ask: why bother with those?

Roads, so much easier read than their maps.
Obstacles, easily through or around, or
at worst, back the way that you came - which
is wide. Buildings,

so easy to read from inside.

Why bother with plans? You can plan
it all out, but the universe can,
and it has, all you need

to decide.

Monday, January 23, 2017

"Distress Damsel"

I don't mind a damsel
in distress, but if I can,
I'd rather get you out
of distress. Distress
is ugly, awful. Where?
did you get distress

Was it on sale? Did
you check all the
stitching? It may
have been a factory remainder, or
counterfeit

with a logo on it, but
you bought it. Well,

let's get you out

of distress,
now

Shall we?

"Nothing dirty"

The visual is all we have
to go on, through our eyes. That's why
we depersonalize.
We get to know you better, as
you speak. Eventually

we wish we could know
as much as could be, about
how you feel. Nothing dirty
in that deal.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

disappointing forecast

heavy features in a stormcloud face
but when sun breaks through, you
would be amazed. But you won't
be, though. Because you
don't bring out the sun.

Friday, January 06, 2017

Patronizing

As a child, I took delight
learning the names of the Saints
I could pray with to help me through,
this or that emergency, problem,
contingency, need – specialists,
really. Anthony for lost things,
Jude for lost causes, Christopher
(who I understand may not have
existed) to break traffic jams
and keep airplanes aloft, which
isn't hard, Nicholas
to get me on Santa’s list,
and so on. I did not “pray
to” them. Scandalous, that would seem.

Later, though, I learned “to pray”
does not mean what I thought it means.
It just means “to make a plea.” I could
pray to you if I wanted to. Prithee this,
prithee that – neat! That’s just
what they did formerly, medievally,
of old to their feudal lords, and
they weren’t worshipping them.

In my adulthood (so
-called), though,
having learned well enough
who’s who and handles what, I seem
nevertheless to have been
delighting in sending up
the perfectly right prayer
to the completely wrong guy (or
girl sometimes – as I recall,
most of the women saints
were girls, and had died so
sadly). Why? Some kind
of perverse urge, I guess!

Generally it would be a guy.
I'm a little shy around females
of stainless and perfect virtue,
sometimes. Depends on the situation,
but generally, it was a guy.

I imagined some of them might
have been annoyed.

They're specialists, after all.
The best there is at what they do, and
if you're St. Jude, me praying to you
about my car keys might strike you
beneath your dignity.

But would it? Would it really? Lately,
it struck me - I bet you’d be delighted
by a nice change of pace, now and then
in eternity. Wouldn't they? So, I don’t really
know if I should knock it off
or not.

People up there love me! To judge
by results, anyway

some of them do

Thursday, January 05, 2017

Despatch

End so it ends. Another exchange
of letters of pixels through ether. Another cut
of soul, shamelessly laid bare. Another heart
in throat leap, trusting that YOU KNOW. WHAT? Eh,
I dunno, whatever's appropriate to know, reasonably
accurate to the facts, within the scope
of the overlap between the mutual understandings
we each mean to establish, and to otherwise
question the questionable,

Even if one's standing to ask is idling
curiously by the curb while you or they
loiter indecisively nearby, unsure of
whether to tug down the hem of somebody's skirt. You
could get picked up for that
in this town, and when they drop the charges
for lack of any sense it's not going to
break anybody's heart, or make the day's news
any smarter. By the time it hits the front page,
it'll be mustard from a street vendor's oversauced
dog.

Acceptancy

It's time to be alive in the world you've made,
your destination's here. You are on its way
and your path is as sick or as well as you care
to acknowledge every symptom, and call it all
fair.

My Inner Kirk II: The Wrath

My inner Geordi said "Detecting a surge!"
My inner Data said "I seem to observe..."
My inner Worf simply growled in rage
My inner Picard said: "LOCK!...ENGAGE."

My inner Spock said "Phasers on KILL"
My inner Kirk said "Fire at will."
My inner Sulu said your shields gave in,
My inner Bones said "HE'S! DEAD! JIM!"

Wednesday, January 04, 2017

Film Review in Poem Form #1: Casablanca

So because basically he's all "In
one of the gin joints, in all
the lousy towns in the world
- and then she walks in!"

They had a history, you see, but
you don't know that. You find out
later. He'd already had a history
himself: a real idealist, mercenary
type. Running guns, participating
in losing revolutions, he thought
he was pretty much "all man"
and knew the difference. But
he had to take a little break
in Paris, between gigs, didn't he? It must have been

fate at hand,
that day - because next thing
you know, she meets this guy
and they're being all coy and
joyfully mysterious about their
pasts. Drinking, smoking,
implying sex, it was as if

it was a game to them. A game
they'd heard about before - no time
for it, then. But now, it was a game
they could both afford to play,
because it was so plain
they'd already secretly
won.
Somehow,
by that point, what did the past matter?

As it turns out, he was kidding himself.
He thought he was the one from the big
dark past with shadowy crap in it,
meanwhile she herself was just about
as rough and tumble a revolutionary
as he'd been - and worse,
even more willing

to sacrifice what's worth living for,
even more willing

to sacrifice everything
for a hard, bad cause:

whatever's right.
Next thing you know, like a chump
in the rain clutching a note,
all the meaning in the world
was running away

and he finally realized that train
wasn't ever going there. Somebody lied,
or maybe somebody just didn't say
the truth out loud.

It amounted to the same thing: beans. One hill.

By then, naturally
the only thing left with meaning
in life was to go crawl to some
Gottforsaken desert hole, and act
mister big shot in a white tuxedo jacket,
play coy and mysterious with suave,
brutal German honchos, wink sarcastically
at the disgusting antics of the barbarous
French sheriff, bandy a lot of banter
with Sidney Greenstreet and assorted
other characters, and then what?

Everybody's sitting there by this point
going, "the dialogue is delicious!" "How
can this man possibly have so much savoir faire and yet
care so little about it?"

He can't.
Nobody can.
It's because they don't know the history. Then

she walks in with it.

Ingrid Bergman
was treated so cruelly in that movie,
you know. The story's famous, and as it happens,
it goes that they shot both endings. All along
the way - even in the flashback scene,
where realistically
she shouldn't have even been thinking about it!
- the actress had no idea which man
she's going to end up with

Much like life, really,
but a cruel way to treat an actress. How's
she supposed to describe an arc?
When she knows somewhere out there,
in the future, an alternate ending
DVD extra has already happened
- was released.

And that was the real film, in that universe.
In that universe, everybody said "Ah! Casablanca.
A slight film, a charming film,
a film with wit and characters - not much
heft to it, but at least there's a happy ending!
That much is certain,

those two were made to end up together,
early, often, and ever after. What
a piece of business."

And so she had no idea. What universe
was she living in?
And she looked it! She looked like
she came in from a better one, still
had hopes of getting back there.
But at the point of her crisis, she gave up on love
for what was right. He, meanwhile, gave up on love
because of what was right.

That's also why he gave up
on what was right, or had been. He'd found out,
by then, what was worth living for.
What's right isn't it. Not a broken man, just
a bent animal in a white tuxedo jacket
and a sense of style, both of which
fit perfectly. And by then,
she walked in.

God damn it I hope I never hear that song again But
if she can stand it, so can I.

I learned all those
same lessons he did, when
I first saw the film. And
I was deeply moved because
it was just a movie. That's
what consoles us to these things. That's
what reconciles us to movies. Later,
I was sitting in a gin joint
in some forsaken town in the real world,
or what suddenly no longer passed for it:

because all of a sudden, she walks in.

It's all a lot of history,
and it never amounts to much.
The right person got on the plane,
that's all that matters.
It took me forever to realize that
the whole time, she didn't know who

she was going to end up with.

stupid intelligent

Slow and dense, these boulders of mine
- in mind, they grind the world
so fine that by the time a problem's
solved and done, the trace of it
will coat the works and everyone
need never be a bit concerned by or
with it.

Every turn it comes back round
the wheel of chance, I'll recognize
what I had found and dealt so slowly,
densely with - at half a glance,
dispense with it
with graceless ease. This guy's so

smart,
they tell me. PLEASE

only on things I have already found,
overthought by a million too many
degrees too fine, and in
-to the ground.

Tuesday, January 03, 2017

"Sell-By Date"

She seemed so fresh and appealing, He
sure looked like a likely bargain, They
made an impulse buy, on the way to check out
each other
each other

And a date was fixed, but they didn't check
what was wrong with it, when they opened up
they'd depended on these ingredients
to not go so wrong, but something's up

Didn't we want this?
Why did we get this?
Destined for breakfast,
originally - Wasn't it?
Weren't we convinced?
So sure! the sell by date
was eternity

So sure

He seemed so funny, but something
smells funny. No, not amusing, no -

not at all. She looked something sweet,
but something's sure soured
between these two, maybe
there's some way to save
what they saw?

The date was fixed, but it they've broken it
Or maybe it rolled off the line that way
Anything else that they add on top now,
what chance will there be that this taste goes away?

Didn't we want this?
Why did we get this?
Destined for breakfast,
originally - Wasn't it?
Weren't we convinced?
So sure! the sell by date
was eternity

So sure

"My love for you is like the end of a book, not"

My love for you is like the end of a book, not
there yet but close, oh so closing
in, so much no please don't
going on - in the narrowing
thickness, each whispery flip
and flick, hope is giving way
to enjoyment or at least, trying to
as it becomes frantically clearer
what the author is doing to you - why
run out of pages like this! So much
further, you wish to be taken - eyes
intent on every foreshadow, crying out against
resolution, willing into being possibilities,
complications, cliffhangers,
sequels

In the movie version we will play ourselves, but
which of us wrote this damn thing?

Monday, January 02, 2017

hypothetical panties

It's none of my business, really
and a fine, fine line (if any)
and curious that such a thing
(or not) would engage curiosity.

I realize I have no excuse to guess
but look, I was pretty sure, just a sec
I could have sworn - but the point
is neither
here nor there - or "either,"
maybe?
Here or there, or nowhere. Say
we believe
or not, it is just
as well.
It's a matter of faith,
anyway. A gentleman

cannot tell

Friday, December 30, 2016

chance conversations

Between us, we leave a bullet-riddled breeze
we shoot through with holes and edgewise words,
and afterthoughts in tangents wrought
like filigrees
enlaced upon
the surface of a cake we bought,
a cake we can neither have
nor eat.
One can't have cake in metaphors.
But let us eat a thought, instead. Here,
you try mine
- I want yours.

"Crush On Everyone"

You've been floating on a prayer, on a
wing and a swear word
You're an angel on a greeting card,
hiding some wisecrack inside
And everyone you meet is smitten instantly -
who could hang the blame on you for
liking what you see?

You've got a crush on everyone
You've got a crush on everyone
You've got a crush on everyone
but you're only in love with you

Everytime you turn around, you're
surrounded by onlookers
I admire at a distance, as they
jockey for positions, baby
They eat your every gesture,
super-sweet bon bon
You can't help but let your self
go on and on and on and on

You've got a crush on everyone
You've got a crush on everyone
You've got a crush on everyone
but you're only in love with you

Every one is so convinced that they
must be your soul mate, and
you sincerely really think that there's
only one person for you
- Well I bet that you've met that person
every morning
smiling through the tooth paste making
goo goo eyes right back at you

You've got a crush on everyone
You've got a crush on everyone
You've got a crush on everyone
but you're only in love with you

Monday, December 26, 2016

Against you

Against you,
I can not prevail.
Against myself,
at least I have
a fighting chance.
Can we team up?
against myself
I'll help you make
the battle plans

Friday, December 23, 2016

more pictures of you

I find myself wishing there were more pictures
of you
from when we were together, but
I guess we were busy - which
is good? Isn't it? Or
we expected there would be time
later, maybe. It didn't
seem urgent. Live life, right?
That's what it's for, and
Documentation
is not as important. Now,
though, I kind of wish I had more proof
that we were not wasting our time.

room

You bring peace to me, in person
or voice or memory. You know the right parts
of all I know, and leave me
with endlessness to go.

Saturday, December 17, 2016

"So You"

A whole two times in a row,
I have somehow managed to put you in words,
so to speak, and adequately (or did the word
"perfectly"
occur?? you said it, not me!). So now
I'm like a gleeful little shit at the science fair,
so pleased
at the ribbon for his clichéd
papier mâché volcano! No,

it could be the best feeling in the world
at the moment, to try pretty hard
to put something
that means something, into words
effortlessly

- to try and succeed! by the way
- about someone you think is anyway
brilliant.

And you
you said:
"That is so me"
, meaning you.
Of course,
when you're not sure

and you're not confident, but
you feel a strong feeling towards
the meaning you're trying to get to, or get
across - and then they tell you!

"Nailed it!"

Damn that was courageous! Right? And
From now on,
encouraged thus,
the risk will be run
of me taking more
and greater, unwarranted,
increasingly reckless risks
and flights, or anyway, leaps
of attempted description of you. Which

is not easy to do, even without the handicap
of this gigantic vanity with which
you've saddled me. Until finally,
inevitably, at some point you'll be "like
Um, dude

You keep getting further and further off
on these. Come back to earth man, ground
control to asshole:

Return to base,

please"

Friday, December 16, 2016

a few clowns short of a nightmare

it was one of those naked
presentation dreams
you sometimes get
at work, or school but this time
in clownface. Butt naked otherwise,
and let me tell you nobody
noticed or commented. I find it

kind of insulting
how weak in impact my nightmares
always are

am I so jaded by
daytime life? Tsunami rides
in, I stare it down then bodysurf it
to 14th street. Abducted by aliens?
It was all a dream! In the dream,
I mean. It was all a dream in
the dream.


That's absurd. And when a half-decent,
legit dangerous, potentially panic
-inducing scenario starts, before you know
it morphs into a movie, or a tv show

and all I am is watching.

When I wake up, there's no sense
of relief or reprieve. Just garish
pillowcase makeup stains

a few clowns short of a nightmare (original draft)

sorry. That's all I got.

The concept's too freaky to proceed with

Some "poem"

"some snowflake"

Some snowflake you are

ten stories wide and gigantically

descending to crush this gingerbread city

englobed in glass, special

and unique, like the end of every world

always is. In some higher dimension,

the lovely cataclysm you bring

will be stocked, shelved and sold,

a commemorative paperweight

in a tchotchke shoppe. They will lift

and shake it up, but reenactment

can't cancel the event. You drift,

special and unique, uniquely,

simply every single one of you

different, crashing down, crushing

delightfully, implacably you,

as usual.

Monday, October 17, 2016

the fire-place

The present,
ever burning up,
our eyes beguiled dance
amazed as each of us breathes air
incensed, in apple, pine and ash
we blaze, a sense of crackl'ng residue,
of blacken'd sap and coming fall,
in twisting wires of what we are,
of wood-grained muscle, fired by youth
and wrenching, cracking, spitting fire,
twisting, writhing, splitting off
in ember glowworms, fall and dim
and dull to gray, too soon
to cool, in gloaming dusk
of coals well-spent,
or if not well -

then full.

Friday, October 14, 2016

demon eyes

I never mind being demonized. Accuse
me of the worst, and I'll know which side
- and I'll know you are on it, and I'll know
you'll fight.

The people who refuse to accuse aren't right.
When they know what's wrong: when they hear it
proclaimed, by a person in the room -
and they let it stand. They stand to the side,
saying "who am I to blame? To accuse, to
cry out, to challenge, to name?"

You're the bystander, that's who. Get in the game.
Quit folding your hands as the stakes rise high.
This isn't a table you can walk away from.
We are all all-in by the time we die, so

Take a hand: and call it, when you see foul play.
When everybody sees, and when no one will say,
that's how the damn devil wins the day. And the devil
is us, all day, everyday that we won't stand up.
You have got to accuse, when you see the dirty dealing
that would see us all lose. When you see it proclaimed,
right there in the flesh, right there in the room
you're in - and you let it stand. And you sit. They win.
Meanwhile, if you could only speak out, just for one,
just for you - wouldn't half the people squirming
in the room feel relief? Chime in, throw their hand
in with you, rise to their feet?

You are not the only one there who knows what's true!
And everybody there has the problem you do. You've been
taught to be polite, is the problem with you. Who taught you?
Can you guess, mister politesse? Mister status quo
- or excuse me, is it little miss?

Silence is consent. As the world spins on, and you sit
and you see, and do not speak out: you consent
to wrong. In every single room where you let it stand,
you are the one who throws up your hand.

If you call me a racist, I know two things:
you hate racism, and you've got the gall
to call it where you see it. And that is all.
If you're on the right side, I can take the fall

I don't mind. I get up! Those falls don't hurt.
When a shot goes wide, it does not break skin
so no matter how thin someone's skin can be -
how can you be offended by an on-target shot
at the enemy, when it misses you wide?
When you know you're not the mark? Aren't you on
some side? Don't you know right from wrong?
Big deal. Who cares. Can you TELL
right from wrong?

That's how deals get squared.

And if you stand accused of being the worst,
you know just two things: that person is, first,
someone who hates the worst. Secondly, they are someone
who'll engage with the enemy. Whose side
are you on? If you don't pick one,
you consent and support every wrong
that's done.

So accused, demonized, I don't flinch. Just rise,
spread my hands out wide, with my demon eyes bright,
and greet this cool fool who'll engage with my foes.
Who speaks out, who - so much better than knows! -

who can tell right from wrong. A courageous sight.

Pardon me, can I help you to set me right?

They narrow their eyes, of course. They get suspicious.

Don't worry.

Between two people who can both tell right,
agreement-reaching's easier than doing the dishes.

As long as you never mind being called wrong,
you will find so many people on the side you're on.