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.

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Inarguably. pt.2

You can always remark
unremarkably, to disprove a point
that remains unphased; you can always
ask questions

that any can see
have been answered before you asked,
or maybe you raise a concern
that isn't one. It isn't a question,
just 'cause you pose. If nothing
is there to be asked, but you ask
something anyway, that just shows
what you know.

It helps if you know
what your basis is, and whether
there is any basis in it. And how
to proceed with grounded steps,
from one to the next without a skip
or a leap to avoid the gaping
crack that you probably know
is there, but hope to obscure
by your choice of facts. It's
interesting that (and why) you care.

Some people like to argue to win, not
to come away with the strongest case
even if it's no longer the one they
brought in. Some people argue to keep
or save face, in disregard of what lies
behind: their brains, just not a priority.

These people can question, unquestionably.
But often enough, the unquestionable
remains, inarguably - though they will:
they argue with it in so many ways,
and with questions they raise
that are no more than pose,
without substance or basis, overt
or inferred. There are no stupid
questions, they say it's true. But truly,
there are stupid questioners.

reasonably well-known

I want to be reasonably well-known,
but not
for what I do best. For something
else, not what I hold sacred
and dear. And people could get
into that as well, if they want,
I guess, but I'd probably
tell them to go to hell.

inarguably

But arguably, all things
are questionable,
in the same sense as all things
are remarkable:

the literal sense.
All it takes is a will

to folly, whimsy,
or inconsequence.

busted flush

I have never before
in my life felt like
there was no way out.

And I don't feel trapped -
just becalmed, or marooned, but with less
a suggestion of color. Without
any great deal of grief or regret,

I hear you
ask how I've been. And then
how I am.

I'm still me, and that's good.
I always am. But no news. No news
is good. And I'm happy as hell

that you're happy with him.
You deserve that shit, bitch. You're
the ace queen jack ten flush
that I almost had, an unbeatable
hand. But I was the king

of not coming through on that,
and you're never a bitch. I'm sorry,
I just needed something for emphasis.

How's the kid, how's the knee, how's the
rain, how's you? I'm just happy to hear -

yeah,

you know. That's me.


malicious :-)

i
was the one
who deliberately dropped
a clump of dryer lint

on top of your plate
of saucy rice and meat

it was me. I confess,

but the lint was clean,
you know
I would never hurt you,
though

i was the one
who put all the ice
in your drink, to hand it
to you. Did you know? You didn't
want ice in that drink. You know,

you never want ice in that drink. You like ice
in the other drink, the one that you asked for. I

gave you the drink that gets no ice, that you didn't
ask for, with ice in it. That was me

i was the one
who keyed your portable hard-drive
shiny in Corvette red, i
was the one who answered the phone
when your sister called up
to tell her you're dead, i
was the one

who punctured the bed - your waterbed,
you know I sleep there too, so you'd never suspect
- but I was the one. There's nobody here

but us two.

the other plum

In the palm of my hand
like a plump, ripe fruit
sits a plum just as good
as a metaphor. I could
test it with teeth,
be the judge of its juice,
but I'm saving this one for
you. Je t'adore

Yes, I know half the plums
at the store are sour, but
the other half shut your
eyes with bliss, and take you away
with their beautiful flesh,
and their juice flowing sweet,

and I already ate mine first.
It was sour, so this

is for you. I will watch your face

"Tell By Looking"

I gave up on my baby it's the worst mistake
I ever made
I thought that I'd be better off with this attractive
better-looking babe
it didn't quite work out that way, I found myself
in misery
and then I called my baby, she said she did not
give up on me

oh, she's in love again, ah
she's all in love again,
oh, she's so in love again,
you just can't tell by looking
can you though

and things are not the same oh no my baby gets
to call the shots
and most of them are right at me I dodge with
all the speed I got
and I can understand I understand why she's
upset with me
but I'm so glad I'm forgiven, I'll treat her good
as I can be

oh, she's in love again, ah
she's all in love again,
oh, she's so in love again,
you just can't tell by looking
can you though

and things are getting better, she looks happier
most every day
I'm sorry I was wrong to her, I'll say to her
I'll say, I'll say
and soon she'll stop doing all these things and treat me
like it used to be
well just the other day, for instance, she did my laundry
just for me

scattered my clothes around the block
borrowed my car and changed the locks
I really don't care I'm still in shock - she loves me!
she loves me

oh, she's in love again, ah
she's all in love again,
oh, she's so in love again,
you just can't tell by looking
can you though



Saturday, November 18, 2017

kept secrets

nights like these,
the darkness intertwines
like a secret we've always kept
between us, and the silence
is next

to break and share -
just one more little breach
, between us,

that will always be there.

our secrets broke open and kept
between us, with nobody
to tell what was known, what's always
been new, the whole world
closing in

to join in the hush
we own

the moon tolls

you might as well charge the moon
a toll to cross the sky -
when it's full, it would pay
through the nose, when it's new

- it could just about
slip by,

but you'd catch it
in passing by watching
the turns of tide.

further and farther

farther out and further in
goes the circle we've made the world of
now

the center is where we've always been
the edges are where we find ourselves

and we whip around it
at the speed of days, pushing opposite sides
even farther out.

Soon the center contains so much more of us
than anything we've ever cared about,

and I want to go farther than I've ever been,
I want to go further ways with you, further
paths leading down, to farther skies

always looking to fall, never watching
behind - I want to go further and farther in
than anyone's ever been privileged
to try. Leave the world that we've made, this
hula hoop

to shimmy away while whatever we do
takes flight

within reach

there are only times
like these.

Times where we keep
our feelings at arm's-length distance, in spite
of our differing reach,

we know where those feelings are. They play
at our fingertips, lightly, so ready for each
of us,

if we
grab and stuff in our mouths,
so as to be ready to blurt and confess -

but having stepped once, we'd each want
to go too far, we'd want to get it all
said at once.

Which is just
what those feelings want,
so we'd reach and we'd grab
and we'd stuff, until gagged
and muffled, with chipmunk-cheeks,
we'd reach out for more, to see
how much left -

then we'd find

- we'd feel, there's too much.

Those feelings
we keep within fingertip-reach won't grow
any less, as we grasp, and we gasp
and we stuff, we will never
be able to get
them all in

from the lips,
to the mouth to the tip
of a tongue

where they'd always belong.

Not to speak, maybe not. Not as such,
just to be within reach,

for whatever we'd care
to let shine through the eyes, or
take on
unacknowledged in heart,
or mind, without whisper betraying mouth
to eggshell ear, and no one

to say that it's wrong.

Let's do it.
Let's grab all of them
to keep safe and inside, where they'll always be.
No more flitting at length in a distance of fingertips:
Grab and stuff, grab and stuff, get them in
and digest. Get them all inside,
where they'll always belong,

with a swallow that feels
like the end of a song

Friday, November 17, 2017

Everything's right

I just want to make
sure everything's right -

I know I should trust
you for that, more
than me.

I rarely make
anything right, after
all, but you

have made everything right I see

at least from here,
with the two of us. And
you have got all of the truth
you need,

oh let me drop mine,
whatever it is. It's irrelevant
now, I'm sure
we can both concede

card trick

If I were the type
to play my cards right,
I should probably have
shut up by now. But I talk
my way out of the best
things in life,

as I know
only I know
how.

Autumnfall

walking, the night -

it's
melancholy,
with sharp bits of it flying around
dead leaves,

weaponized in an Autumn storm,
shredding themselves to tinder-dry shards,
trying to get in your eyes, as you strive
on an otherwise
beautiful night,

for a glimpse of the moon -
that you can't well see, with your eyes
squinched tight.

Analysis

As with anything,
you must weigh
the risks against
the benefits, and decide

not which

but whether
you want
to take them both.

For
if you don't, you always can

decide not to decide
again.

Thursday, November 16, 2017

the plaint

This poem seems haunted to me,
somehow. It feels like I never
loved it enough, like I wrote it
and just rushed on.

Now it sends out its plaint as it always does,
as it always has, maybe always
would

- but with just enough

of

an emptiness.
Echoing through the spaces and lines, that maybe
I could have filled up. Or tried,
I guess

if I could

Anthropogenic Climate Change

"Anthropogenic Climate Change." It blows my mind,
the controversy. Anthropogenic Climate Change,
if true, is the greatest and best piece of news
that was ever received

by humanity!

If we can impact global temperature -

Wait! To be clear, I think we are. But I want
to believe, so I'd like
to be sure.

All we need is to find, oh,
a dozen of things we can do
to lower the temp (oh, wait!
- we already have) and a dozen more things
that we know do contribute to raise
it up (oh, we already have). After that,
we just study which ones can we use,
most expediently,
and to greatest effect,
in directions we choose.

It will take us some doing. It might
take some time. If some distance inland
in high-value coastal property sinks
under rising tides, while we're studying it?

Still it's nothing compared to the next Cretaceous
- which I warmly assure you, is in store for us!
Or the next ice age - which is equally sure.
In its own good time, the Earth loves extremes
that we'd rather abhor. So to find

we're the ones
who can (actually do!) change
the global outcome - well,
how can this not be great good
news? The best that we've had
since we've been alive!

The people who think we must study
and strive to limit the impact of what we do
are small-minded misanthropes,
nincompoops. Their influence here
will be minuscule. It will not prevail.
When study we must, as study we will,
we'll study for us, and for what we want.

Which is natural.

A couple ice-caps of reasonable size, a poetic procession
of seasons to please our eyes, and our crops, and our real
estate.

Anthropogenic Climate Change.

Let no one deny,

it is going to be great!

We will study this thing, when we get around to.
Once a few things sink, they'll find money enough
- but not to curtail our influence! Not
to limit the impact we make! No love, we will study

the means to increase that impact. To direct it
in ways that pay us back, and look lovely to us.

If we do have effect, then we will have control.
If you think that we can't,
you're a lovely fool.
If you think that's a shame,
you've a numb,
numb skull. There is no way to learn
to restrain our effect, without learning also
how to direct it. We will focus our studies,
as always, on things

that are useful and cool,
and your vote will not count
in this climate change:

Anthropogenic!

BECAUSE WE RULE

rejected legs poem #1

I'm going to write a super-embarrassing poem
about your legs, only not
right now.

Anyway, when I do! it would only embarrass
me,
as a poet.
It couldn't conceivably embarrass you,
as a leg-lady. Frankly,

that should be impossible. You've got

legs like ZZ Top's got beards, specifically,
two of them. The third guy's name is Beard,
Frank, I think, but all he's got's a 'stache.

Your legs are more laid-back,
though,
than a song like those
guys would write and sing, but

I bet if they saw your legs,
they would think again.

"About Your Legs (Both Of Them)"

Her legs are like,
well, they look like
- silksoft, breatheably suffused
all through with a blushing glow,
if white could blush. 'Cause, you know,
they're pretty pale. I'm
not a racist, but her legs,
man

hers are nice. There's nothing between

us
that gives me the right
to obsess over her, so
technically I'm not. Any part
of that, I just

looked it up. To "obsess"
means something
really DUMB
man, I don't get it. People
are weird and that's
a fact. Her legs,

though,

make up for the rest
of us, in the balance
of natural things,
wherever there's lack.

With the strength in them,
and

woo.

You know? Everything else that ostensibly exists
crowds for the exits of my mind to make room, for
just what's coming in

through my eyes, to glow in my
love-heart
eyes,

pow
zoom

whenever I see
her legs.

I'm really not even
a "leg man" to be
honest,

usually

Have you noticed how the world keeps getting better?

Is it just my impression? Or does the world
keep changing,
inexorably,
for the better? Have you noticed how
that happens?

I have.

Although I suppose
that for those
who like nasty stuff hid,
subterranean,
unacknowledged,
un-dealt with
and
consequently, thriving
as if in the wild, this world

might seem
to be going to pieces, but to me,
you know? I don't like nasty stuff. I don't like
stuff that's vile. And you don't
have a hope squaring off against it,
unless you can get it dragged out
and lit, exposed. Only then
can you blast it clean, and track
where it goes, and fix up
what's hurt.

It's a process. It happens fast,

after ages of work.

The top layer
wears down, wearing slowly
right off

- and we find shocking wrongs!

that we knew, or at least we thought
had been there, all along. But soft -

Let's pretend we did not. Let's attack
and destroy, let's strike fear
into horrible hearts, oh boy
- at least, let us all give it a shot!
Now's the chance. Let's all rear up and roar!
Let's dance, shouting we'll take no more!
Saying this shall not stand!
Crying this is the worst
that it's been! Let's pretend

While we can, while we have
this exposé. Send

a clear message in, say: Outrage! We're
shocked! An excuse to win
the day, to make hay while it's hot, let's
use all of the units we've got
in play, do some real damage now,
to cowards
and brutes
and predators too,
who we pretty much
knew

all about.
But that's then. Let's find our outrage
now,

since they've dared to intrude
on the light, because we dragged them out.
Let's make damn sure their days are rued,
that they know they're screwed. And make all the people
to know: "This could be you, too."
Seize and drag, publicly by the heels
- well-chosen, with care! Seize and drag
each one,

who has always done,
as we've always known,
as we've always been very well aware.

They have done
what more decent folks have decried for years:
We Will Not Tolerate Such Behavior!

Well, that's sure clear. They had warning at least,
unanimously, even if it was lies. Let's make it
true.
For promises kept are but lies, long-deferred
and long-overdue. Down the centuries,
decades and years to this, let us now
keep our word,

for
this
world

is as good
as it usually is.

It gets better each year.
This is how it works, kids.

closer to you

this is harder for you
than you think
'cause you know I'm a jerk,
but you don't
and you're going to leave,
but you don't
'cause you want to believe,
but you don't.

'cause I'm closer to you than you are. Don't you think I know?
And I love you more than you do. Don't you think?
I know

And you never repeat
your mistakes
so you're giving me one
final chance
and you won't be repeating
yourself
won't you tell me again,
how you won't?

'cause I'm closer to you than you are. Don't you think I know?
And I love you more than you do. Don't you think?

I know

barrels

I'm scraping the ground
the barrel is on
'cause I've already gone
through the bottom. It's done
no good,
but at least
there's a few
feet further, here
to fathom.
Inspiration
is like a tick on a deer,
or a Lyme spirochete -

no symptoms, all clear

service and results

first thing you have to do is take
a number,
divide by two, and that

is precisely how long you are going to wait. Provided

you understand, we can't tell
you whether it's minutes, or hours
or days, or something a bit more exotic in time,

these units can be so
particular. Just you do the math,
you'll be ready. It's fine that you'll have

much occasion to look forward to, never knowing
which one will deliver you. Periodically, you
can plot out the next
and the one after that,

and you'll make your guess,
and you'll have your hope, knowing certain
and sure

that your moment is on the way, guaranteed
never knowing which one will
set you free.

the altruist

My name is mr. tentacle, I represent
the botherhood. And it gives me a charge
to do
some good, oh, anywhere I get
the chance
to extrude an appendage
or two, to stroke
or grope on whoever's
behalf - on you,
my pet.

It's what you are for, and
what I'm for as well. You see,
I am only one part of what
surrounds. Together, we swell
to create in your mind
an environment full
of certainty, of our mankind,
we are keeping you clear
on your purposes.

I keep you in states
of knowing full well
what you're really for,

in all of this, in this
world of ours. And I act

on behalf
not of only myself, but
of all other men - who are maybe, too timid,
or some of them, to do what is called
for pursuit of this. I
understand. I will gladly do
my part
for any and all of them.
I will do my part. I will take it in hand,
if fondling any and all of
yours, anywhere
you stray, you go, you know
you have been, I will help
you know. You're surrounded
by this, my dear. It's not
a conspiracy, no this
is a trust. We have ways
to make it clear. Let's

play. Are you game?
Will you make a fuss?
Will you make a
scene? It's a thrill, to think so. You
might,
but I don't think
you will. You know
how humiliated
you will be, by calling

all of those

other eyes

to see

what I've casually done, so free
with you. Surprise

You are making such dreams
come true

for the greater good. For a world
that makes sense. For we all have a purpose
and part to play, and all the fun parts
are assuredly yours. Would you have it

another way?

constellation says hey

The constellation
rides overhead. A friendly guy
on a thing like a horse, made of
nuclear furnaces, trailing between
them imagined lines. And we'd like to think

he is waving at us. Okay, maybe
he is. Maybe the stars
have aligned, all turned
towards Earth, to present to us

a pantomime. All on course to gift us
with their influence, in order of birth.
What blessings rain down from these beings
whose trace we have always drawn.

When the sun is amidst
this or that group of stars, (who don't even know
the sun
from Eve, so distant from anyone
they are), we call it an Age, but
it's hard to believe

that they'll ever see,
or know their place
in a sky that's so far
from where they live.
Those fucking stars
that make up a face - they don't even KNOW
each other! It's just
from one vantage point - and
of course, it's ours - that they
even scarcely resemble parades
of crooked farm animals, grotesque
celestial implements ranked in arrays. However
it looks from where they're from, with
the separate parts of their bodies outflung
and in foreign arrangements, their joints
and limbs
unstrung
in a mess making mannequins
we will never dress up, or name,
or plot out. We've always preferred

our view, somehow.

But from some other star, there's a whole new gang
that rides sprawling crossing those skies, chasing one

little point of light,
dimly off to the side,
where we hang.

"zaftig"

zaftig
is
quite
a beautiful word,
for what it means,
and i think
we need
more of these.

But
even more,
we need
a sense of beauty

that comes from human beings,
not magazines

handily

Handy with just about anything,
in whatever situation, with
confidence to just step in.
I've always been,
and you know what? I've never been
even slightly
good at it.
Things break,
I prop them up, I step in
ready with duct tape and spit,
because they asked, and
I don't know why,

I just hope they enjoy the results
of it.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

of anything

The world is not made up of anything

it's coloured lights and homophones
and understandings, all alone

at bottomless depths of personal wells,
and you can accept the metaphors
and let the walls close in, for sure
but just enough

that you could brace
yourself
between and climb that way,
all the way up, but
when you got
to very top, and felt
the open air stir in, and even see
a tease of stars -
as one
of them falls! Before your eyes,

you would gasp and strive
and climb, those last few yards
with aching joints and burning limbs,
and suffering, bracing hard with broken nails
on nerveless hands, you'd wedge and hoist
yourself so far, so endlessly near,
the last six feet
in agonizing push and helpless pull,
against defeat, and pull
and pull your body up
and out, and
over

the stony, unforgiving rim
to find

the world
is not made up of anything,
the world

the world is not
made up


Take deep breaths now, and squeeze
and cry your eyelids shut
and count to ten, or any number
that feels
good, that reassures
your sense of when. And let
your fingers, reach and touch. Then

open eyes, and figure out
just where you really are, and why

it hurts so much

To sing this song.

Love is NOT BULL
SHIT. It's not! It's fucking

not. Love

is for real people. Love is for
real, people! Love is for real.

Love is
what makes your heart wonder stuff your head could care less
about. Love is what
makes you jump in front of a speeding plane, "Baby
don't go! We got to make a better ending
for this movie we're starred in, this
is depressing!" Don't do that. It's over, or
it would be. Act less pathological, maybe. Though love
can and do make you sick some time, I know. Love

is what could put you in a diabetic coma, metaphorically

so you better watch out except you can-not get enough

of the sweetness, regardless, when love

is the stuff

that makes you DO all shit like that, and end up
with a shucks-eating grin, lookin' like a fool

no regrets.

When you think about love, better be sitting down
because love can put you on your ASS. It's an epiphany
when that happens.

Love is the thing that goes bump bump bump in the night.

You know what I mean, on that. PEACE.

Love is also the thing that gives tender shushes, and
a perfect caress you didn't know how much you needed
'til just then that exact moment when. Oh,
sweet jeezy.

Love makes your tongue stick out,
or want to, anyhow! Depending
on context, and configurations. Love is the road

not taken, that makes you run all the way back to the fork and screech
around that corner, scattering yellow gold leaves
in your wake! Love

is a splendiddily thing, and love doesn't mind
all your diddling and dithering as you circle around it,
as long as you know

Love knows you're hooked.
And it's the sweetest sharpest piercing
barb with the strongest most unsnappable line
to reel you in, tested at
one hundred times the wait of you two
fish combined. And love, oh love
's got all the lines,
barbed and baited. Love's kind of shy,

too, you know, though. But Love
can't help it sometimes: it breaks out in a shout!
for all the world!

Hell yes!

Love don't mean a thing, except your whole life,

Love's not bullshit. Folks, it is
(love is)
the real deal. Love, to be clear
makes people smooth back their hair from their brow, to see
what's right in front of you, sometimes. Love, sometimes
makes somebody want to grab an ass
they have been told they're perfectly entitled to
grab any time and place, and with that permission
comes scant if any loss of the thrill
involved! In fact, it might
more than double the thrill, because
how can you not but spend your time
thinking about that permission, all day? All

day for days of what you've got, perfect
and as-far-as-we-both-wish-to-know-permanent
permission for: this, to love you. Oh,
wow. Love

is like shooting fish in a barrel
with a water pistol. Just that easy,
and are you gonna have to ask anyone how? Nope. Love

is also like riding your bike off a log: you
could never learn to forget
a thing like that.

Yet to get to it, and to get it, to win it and then
miss it, lose, slip, break-crack SNAP woosh
gone! and to feel the lack

can be
the hardest things you've ever, will ever have
to go through, in sequence

with your eyes wide-open in slow-motion the better to savor
the fatality of this

crash -

and to live in consequence.
to learn to endure
or to be at peace with. No, life
without love, cannot be peace; it must be war
or else:
hell.

They say it's the same thing, and I
will not war
upon them

for saying that.

Love's the most impressive force on earth. A love song
sweeps all other songs aside. A love song
tells you what you want to hear.

That's why I'm here.

To sing this song

explaining the late silence

So you know
I'm not ignoring you
I think about you all the time
I find myself in places we
both liked to go, and doing things

I look quite silly doing by myself,
or trying to, and

you know what? I think of you.

I think of you quite often,
without meaning
it, or wanting
to. I'll look up, see

what I have done, and say

is this a monument?
A testament! But no, it's not.
I don't quite think that fits. I didn't
think at all,

when I was doing it. I just forgot

I think
I think of you
because I don't consider what
I'm thinking of.
I'm not really aware,
until

the curtain splits, within my brain and I

am standing there on stage, enacting
some bizarre tableau. I'm not

ignoring you,
you know

Even as we speak

Even as we speak,
a child is being beaten, and
across a certain distance,
a man is being shot and killed, and
a woman's screeching
not quite to
a halt,
sliding sideways
as huge headlights speed their widening jaws
to fill the glass, crash down and
devour more than half

her life,

And you and I
talk on of life,
how beautiful it is and was,
or sad, how lovely it could be?
It all depends, so much

on us

Dangerous loves

Bold explorer Elven Grimme
treks far North, every wintry clime
to find the pod of polar bears
that he's befriended every time

you have to re-befriend those bears
oh, they remember Elven well, but
it's a thing of dignity, to do with
fish, respect, and smell

He always wears the selfsame furs
He always smells the selfsame way
They haven't killed and eaten him.
He's totally sane, his colleagues say

Despite the fact that polar bears
are deadly as a bear can be - he loves
when they come in, up close
and snoot him with their noses

SQUEE!

So, Pepe Le Pui...

So, leaving aside that Pepe Le Pui
is just a horrible skunk for chasing cats
- which is totally unnatural, although
I suppose if the cat were into it,

we'd all be in favor of Wild Kingdom
coverage, make it a series even, but the point
- or one point - is that interspecies bestiality is
hardly a problem, except
between porpoises and dolphins, possibly,
where consent is also a major concern
(or to be more specific: the lack thereof),
and usually this ends up a case
where nonconsensual sex
is definitely about murder, and reduction of competitors
for the same delicious fish - but still, brutal?
For all I know,
there are probably instances of this
in the primate kingdom. Family, class - whatever.
It's not a kingdom, which
is beside the point:

skunks don't chase cats, but whatever, this guy
does. That's not our problem with him.

The problem we have with this guy is,
he is what they used to call in those days
"a masher." This was sort of a real "cute term"
for I don't know,
a platonic rapist? Someone who would
nonconsensually grab women and
wrestle with them, in

a sexually-suggestive fashion
? Now to me frankly,
I'm glad we retired the term because "masher," you know,
fuck off. There's nothing wrong with calling it "sexual
assault," which it is. And was, and here comes

Pepe, confused by a stripe of paint whose bouquet
surely he's not REALLY mistaking for the ripe musk
of a female of his own species? Paint, folks

doesn't smell like skunk, folks, if it did
we'd be considerably less consternated when one of our dogs

got in the paint. Or
when we accidentally did the whole outside of the house
in skunk. And don't tell me
skunks only stink
when they spray! Check out Pepe's tail, for gosh sakes

- you can
SEE THE STINK,
radiating off it in waves!

but the point is, here I am

Telling you to check out Pepe's tail.

This is an instance of situational irony.

The second point is: whataboutism. Everybody's all up in Pepe's tail
vilifying the guy.

And they're right. He deserves to be. Even if he were targeting
his own species.
Because he speaks English. So clearly,
- language-user, advanced sentience - he can't claim the right of animals
to amorality in the single-mindless pursuit of amorous conjunction
in complete disregard of consent, even if he spoke French.
Unacceptable.
They should be
vilifying him.

But it's chilling

to see Wile E. and Sylvester to the side,

right in the thick of the lynch mob,

nervously cheering

gossip critic

famous actor and his real-life wife
have split again, in a seemingly
scripted development by M. Night
Shyamalan, no - I wasn't surprised.

I foresaw the twist, but I wouldn't
bat an eye
if they could get through this,

they could make themselves a movie on tumultuous,
and then split

the profits with their therapist.

haiku rules

five seven five is
a start. But do not forget
the cherry blossoms

jerk-worms and others

These jerks and worms
who act like the things we do or say
are governed by rules
that apply to us all,
and can be known -
they keep going on and on
about not knowing what
they can and can't say anymore.

Because "the rules have changed,"
well, jerk, or worm, no

they haven't. The rules are not.
And they have always not been.

The only rule is: you

are responsible
to know who it is you are talking to,
and what they will want, or welcome from you.
Everything you say, you know that it's cool, or
you're taking a chance. A deliberate risk. Own
it.

Because every damn time you make a mistake,
and you say or you do something they sure hate
- it is you who is wrong.
It was you who presumed. You who guessed badly
that you knew them that well. Enough to believe
they would take it well, and so you risked saying
whatever it was

that you fucked up with. Well, that risk
was yours. Wasn't it?

Do you crawl back into your shell, jerk-worm?
Or claim it's their fault, that you didn't know them?
As well as you thought or were sure you did then.
Shall you never make leaps or take risks again?
Shall you blame them for being unfair, or incensed,
or hyperinsensitive, or something? Or complain
that there aren't any rules for you, you can go by
to know what you can and can't do

with everyone??? So as long as you stick
between those clear lines, any time they get mad -
they're the one wrong?

Only a jerk-worm wants something like that. Wants to make
someone else

at fault

for their own guess, and decision, and act.

Yes: keep trying to know a person. Keep testing and learning,
keep growing in trust, and keep making leaps. Just -

when you leap wrong?

Fall to that Wile E. Coyote death
with some dignity

Fall all the way down, and hit the ground hard,
and make a huge cloud of dust,

and drag yourself up, and
go back to the board.

And for God's sake don't feel
you need to emulate Wile E. Coyote
in other respects, but damn

dude could take a fall
like he won an award

Con Artist

In comfortable kicks,
She paints the world
- a performance art,
in a series of steps
she has patented

up airport concourse,
on a plane, and off to
wherever she's led
into foreign, domestic,
locales and scrapes

by killer instinct
so inscrutable, slow
- it will draw her on steady,
inexorable. Lulling her to a sense
of comfort in things never seen
before.

Wherever she treads
in her canvas tennies
through many
a way,
and past plenty
a fool,
she paints the world:

by adding a colour to it, that only

she knew.

S T O R M HA M M O C K

I will weather this storm,
through a steady gale
as I clutch to the rigging
white-knuckled and raw,
hung swung between masts
of massive tree-trunks,
with a drink and a book
and I will not fall.
And I will not flee. I looked forward to this
all week, all month - hell I always am
looking forward to hammock time. I will not
retreat, give way, give up or give in.

Blow rain, blow wet! My drink is strong
You can water it down, it will taste
just fine. Though my book, probably
was a poorer choice. A gift from a friend, and

a favorite of mine.

"Laid Back Legs"

From all the way back,
the angle rests
and you're comfortably
perched on a chair on a deck, on a
balcony, somewhere or stretched at your ease
in a hammock, you've swayed to a lull
in the breeze through the trees, in peace.
You can see all the way
to the view, which - amazing,
wherever you go! I could look for hours,
and never get there. You'll place yourself
perfect and take one

to show

how fantastic it gets -
past your low-top Chucks,
ever-changing their hue
- and the picture is framed
and composed
so professionally,
like an artist who knows
how to win most bets.

careful what

Lie to me, you said

a challenge

wow, that's easy. I always do
lie to you. I say things that
are enjoyable for me
to say, enjoyable even to believe,
but always
knowing in some part, back of the mind, ha
ha, that isn't me! not for me -

it's for you of course.

But I find, I always do lie,
to everyone I ever talk to, but
it's special with you. I really
do care
What you think
of what I have to say.
So there - shall I lie to you?
It is easy to do.

You can always tell, any time I tell you

You know I never tell you
the truth.
I never did, I never do
I tell you once, like I'll tell you again
don't believe a word I say, my friend

shall I lie to you again?