A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.

but aren't they all random?

Saturday, May 18, 2019


We choose the risks, please
you had better take. I am
just a disinterested agent
of your destiny, for

all our sake.

apology proposition

It's not that I love
the sound of my voice, or
wanted to use
a lot of words.

It's just
that I tried to describe
what I mean. It seems

I have failed.
So much, it hurts

You may have heard

the sound, or the tone
of hurt. It is not
your blame, but

obviously mine. I'm responsible
for your take
on what I give you

because I gave
what didn't work. Well,
I'll try again. If you're

game, I am. If you are,

it's fine. I did not even
mean so much. I just tried

to get it right. Thank you
hanging in, as you always do
after this. You are hooked

for a bumpy flight

Leaving me again

People who don't understand history's doom
are repeating themselves constantly! "Why
do I need to know this?" "Why do I need
to know this?" "Why do I need to know
this?" JUST LEARN IT. THEN you will understand

why you didn't need to know. Pliability
is the skill we teach - flexible in a set
way, the better to lay the plates for
life's blanket. A rich, sumptuous
banquet of homey down comfort
to draw over you in the night,
wondering "What shall I dream?
Whom shall I wake? Supposing
I scream?" Look. If the cops
come again it's your turn
at the door. You should

have learned better in college,
and that
is why you didn't. Objection
to "should" on principle, after

that terrible philosophy course
you took on, elective as all hell
- which tripped you off on your

current, lifelong intractability
binge. Why

did you need to know THAT?

that last one.

I need to write
more poems like
that last one.
A progress you can
trace looking back,
wondering how you
hadn't noticed the way,
particularly, at the time
it took. Neat! Ordered
internally, with a hint
of rhyme, scheming
from the wings, buzzing
and strafing the stage,
but well-behaved otherwise.
On-kilter lilt, tilt
and lean forward with
even-numbered turns
left, left, left
right - guess
where and it goes
there! Leaving a smile
on logic's face because
dream can make all the sense
reality doesn't, all because
it's not supposed to. Unfortunately,
such effects, done deliberately
could ruin it, leaving us

with poems like
this next one.

Talk of reassuring sense

If anybody ever found out
what was really going on,
their mind would take a shit
in their heart. Don't ask me
I don't know that shit, I just
know people.

What the effect would be.
If people found out

there is no they. They, I mean
- with a capital 'T' - there's a
Them - Van Morrison's old band! They
used to be behind everything, hollering
gloria but then he got paranoid,
had to split or something. Go solo
- big star on the scene, dancing
on the moon with a brown-eyed girl, can
you place the blame?

Who put him there? It wasn't Them.
It was an accidental conspiracy
of his inscrutable soul and the curious
taste of others looking into it. A bad taste,
in case of some of that "Irish music" but
let's not grouse, some good tunes too. Point

is: since Them split, went offstage in all
directions leaving Morrissey to shine, moan
and mope about meat and assorted crimes
of the heart and stomach, there never

was a They. To blame things on. We just think
all strangers are lookalikes on the inside, proceed
from the same cynical, secretive motives all humans
share, and therefore - are probably in on it.

Fat Chance! Ask Van, he'll tell you.
Don't eat shit with your heart just
'cause your mind has nowhere else
to crap itself over lack of control.

That's paranoia, friend. Kinky as hell,
and no place for your state of mind
to come dancing.

Friday, May 17, 2019


Bursting open at the seems
things are happening too fast
for me to quite react to them
- I reach a hand to catch,
to grasp, and only tip
to misdirect
a fall ordained by plausibly,
deniably: a suspect. Who
made me do this? I'd fall

myself, but I

know what would
catch me then. And

it's not hell,
and I don't want to go. I don't
concern with it, or coincide,
I do not fit. My best


is too slow. So
just say no,

I guess. And then?
Say yes
to something else again.

"The skeptic's oath"

They say knowledge is power.
Well hell, it might be,
but the might that makes right
is more easy to see.

We take our 'might be' -
the best that we had
- and if we make do,
well, that isn't too bad.

What might be - well, some
of it's mighty as pens
and swords put together,
in quest for amends.

What's known, only might
be right. For right now,
let's inhabit meanwhile.
That could be a vow.

"butt hurt": a haiku

When your head's up your
ass - which one hurts worse? Might as
well flip a coin. Tails

Real things, yet unprovable

The things we can't possibly prove
are real: we know they are real. For
we speak of them as the class of things
that are real we can't prove. By definition,
it has got to be truth. So what can we do
to prove these things? Or at least narrow down
the field to those we know are real, even if
we can't prove. We'd concentrate hard on that
many (or few) and improved concentration and
focus would find

some way

to remove
the blind from our eyes

we would work like draft horses then,
startled by all! In our new field of vision
we'd stall, and we'd


Thursday, May 16, 2019


I think she's someone
who wants to put passion
first in everything, but too much
of the world is not that simple. And she won't

forgive herself

for acting thoughtlessly in areas
she hasn't figured out. Her passion
in areas of principle is made possible
by how well
she knows
those things. In
politics and her personal
integrity, she may be ruled

by passion, but I bet
she's put a lifetime of thought
into them, in-between the tests. Perhaps

she looked at this proposal as a crisis,
as important as any of her principles, and
whose solution required a lifetime's worth
of thought, in too short a time
to accomplish it right
or well.
She cinched off

her emotions, in an attempt to clarify
the decision that needed so urgently
to be made, correctly.

She overcompensated. And she
has paid indirectly.

mysterious origins: confirmation bias

How did bias
ever get confirmed in the first
place? When there was none?

Did somebody come along, "Here.
BIAS." And you were "SWEET!
I need one of these - otherwise

nothing can be confirmed" or
what? Because without that seed,

would not all subsequent clouds
of doubt coming over be barren? It takes rain

to make the lightning strike, or so
I've always heard, counting one
one thousand two one
thousand three one

wait. I lost count. Where's
the boom? Oh yeah

there is no storm. No seed
to make this warm low-pressure
zone take form, swirl towering up

rain judgment down
to fill my cup

it's just

without some bias
to begin with. Where

shall we dance?

"inspirational downpour"

Don't be so focused on wrongdoing you
completely forget about wrongbeing. Make
positivity your problem. Everyone has
a burden to uplift. If

you can't beat 'em lose 'em. If you
can't beat yourself, be somebody
you can. Some

of the best days come right
in the middle of some

of the worst lifetimes. When
you're always at your darkest,
remember: you help

all the light
in the world

stand out.

it means death

What if this means death
to us? What would it mean,
death? To us? Would it mean
cessating life? Is cessating
even right? Is it a real word?
If not - what would it mean
it it was? Maybe we could get
the world to embrace words
they'd never heard, and take
them up, and take them on,
and use them when we both
are gone? That would be

a legacy. But what's it
mean to you and me?

definitions of persistence

Knowledge is what persists
between observations. Reality
is what persists through direct
scrutiny and test, repelling by
its obstinacy all attempts
to falsify.


is what persists between both,
and lifts each up, and runs a charge
through every state of observation
in succession, growing large. It pulls,
connects and couples up all passing snapshots
shining through with faith in continuity,
a proving not a guessing: that between
and in-between each look, knows what
to do. The feeling stills
and swells, and never sleeps
but wait. Is it still there? Just
kidding. Yes. Not even checking. No,
not fate. Just something known,
I reckon. Something not observed
each moment, but it shows
unfailing, up for every show,
for every scrutiny, turns out
to do its duty, and persists

in being blessing, being
lesson, and existing
without lessening. Being

is what is, despite our lapse
of paid attention to. Being
laps us on the track as many times
as we weren't counting, changes

while remaining true,

and always catches up with us
in time to rest and breathe, collapse

on grass, surrendering
to gravity and trust,

and to belief
that some things last,
because we must.

"history's fair warning"

Oh come now.

Those were different

Let us not enrich ourselves
trampling their funny ways
at atrocity whilst fatting
our butcher spoons for the feast
still stewing from the bones
of slaughter they made in a dim,
benighted past
none of us now
living can imagine,
except to say well, we have it quite as bad
in some respects, and why
haven't I profited?
You know what?
Screw that, LET'S.


Because we seek everywhere now
for example to make of evil. Because
we have oh so many to make right here, but
you know if we do some digging
let's find all we can! And do
a number on them to hype and psyche
ourselves up for the blood of ALL tyrants
and despoilers, past, present and future!

If we wash
and work that lather
around stiff and hard enough, surely
many who'd otherwise settle for burnt
corpse for breakfast, lunch, supper and soup
of every damn day might spit it out! And get up
to give a more personal compliment to today's chefs.

One they won't soon forget, but
not for lack of opportunity
ever to do so again. Right?

I mean, every point we make
is for now. Now, clearly, now
- for we, the living. And there are
now living among us, some scum
up to the same anciently perfected
and modernly progressed

There are fine and subtle points
to be made of the past, to good
effect, for now.

When did the b.s. come in
that we should spare the past
criticism, lest the future criticize


WE'LL BE DEAD. No sense
pulling punches while we got
a chance to lay about
us at and through all human history?
It accumulates now, even still. It's still

building up. Let us take history
as a lesson plan of what happens
or soon will, to tyrants. If YOU
don't learn your history, WE WILL


All in due process, of course. We've learned
what happens to zealots, when their blood
is cooled and thirst for others' slaked, and
they look up to see

what's left to revolve.
Every good way to protect
themselves, torn down
so it couldn't protect
the beast. That pushed them
past all grief and endurance, and so
well-deserved its fate, probably.

But did they deserve what came afterwards,
and do we? Let's deserve

better, more, more good. More liberty, security
and hard, balanced check.

Let's deserve checkmate.

Let's play like the game is a winnable one, and think
all moves ahead to some final, correct outcome
that begins with v, t, w. And let it be
victory we deserve, triumph we've earned
and a win in the books. But let's not forget

we shall have to serve. Another opponent
appears to sit down. Hit the fool
with every last trick and first cause
in the book: make them play, hard and honestly

as a hard brutal human stands by, watching on
wrapped entirely 'round in soft, brutal laws
- bound to not interfere, no not even
to kill us both! Except where all come
agreeing that it
had cause.

It is we. Our position: both players,
the board and the referee. Let us make good use
of the worst and the best and the ways they're alike
and different, every page of the book
we can point to and say: here's a parallel.

Let's make sure they never do us
this way.

Good cause. Good eye. Good aim; let's try.
Let's show them what we won't stand
and what they shall get,

before we give it away.


A person is an object
always, when we are
subject to them. They work
their wills and ways without
a trace of our intention, and
provoke response - so good!
So bad, it is in us
they make such things. But
we do not object to this,
because of all the joy
it brings when we discover
they themselves
are subject to ourselves
as well, in some
voluted circumstance
of columns sunk in fundament
we somehow share, because
we've made. To raise us up
and terrify
the demons and the shades
we've also made, to populate
such hells as still exist:
In eyes of babes, they're
flickering, peripheral. We'd give
our lives to save this one.
Believing it reciprocal,
we stage and set all kinds
of tricks to make sure they
don't sacrifice. It is our work
- a mighty gift. You are of worth.
And I will pay the price.

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

Forget the good

Forget the good we are, I
forget the good we are, or it's
as if I do. Each time
experiencing it again,
like here, with you - I just
it was this good
It can't have been,
can it? Except
I have distinct recall,
and yes, last time I thought
as much; I swore to it. Thought
just the same: it was

beyond all best

I'd ever found or known.

And here I am, and so
are you. As usual
with cover blown -

as good as anything
we do.
But now
I know. I guess
we couldn't keep it up
forever. Still. Here
we both are, keeping
it up. It's looking like
we always will.

As if you had

As if you had to hope, you tried.
There wasn't any truth denied.
There wasn't any evidence, to rein
you in by rains of sensory deceit
or trickery. No optical illusions,
we - no auditory counterfeits. For
it's all here, and it all fits.
There once were fairy tales of dells
and forests, dragonless with elves
made up all stiff like mannequins.
We've done them up in motley,
smart as harlequins and rode them off
in pantomime upon our costumed,
clumsy back - a mighty hoss
we made between us two - so many
trips we took, so many forth
and back again, for denizens
to safely cart away.

In case it burned.

And when it did, we went to town
with trucks of elves, turned out
and all marked down to sell.
And if no one would buy? Well.
Towns burn too, you know. In such
fine ways we cleared out youth,
the magic and accouterment we always knew
would have to go. Washed it, wiped it
clean as snow and settled in
for greater things. Now it's
all here. And it all fits. It's bound
for greater things we are, and bound
by greater sentiments. There wasn't
any truth denied. There wasn't any
evidence, but finally or now, we find
a relevance, upwelling from within
to take us long ways 'round, and
all the long ways back of homes.
We know what we shall finally find:
behind some picket line of fence,
with sole protesting garden gnome:
a lasting peace. In lasting place,
where finally we'll be released.
The finish line. Home safe,
yell "base!" and slap your hand
on cold concrete, as all the chasers
running lost, yell "Tag!" "Not it!"
until they're beat.

The haven't been happening

The haven't been happening came
to the other day. It wasn't a normal.
First we all looked, then
it seemed as though we were going to have to.
But there would be a soon, very hopefully
to deal with. Later, the party
and all we were. Nobody could have!

Without the second, it was going to have
to wait a minute. Fortunately, though
- we suddenly have.

Never again could anyone ever, not
after such a sense we had - tremendous,
in those days. Why, it's a marvel no one's
made a name of it. What could it be then?

What could it mean?

Only such things
as have always fallen
together, haply by accident,
as if fate's chance
had finally come.
Would you?

Something Else to Feel Mad About

Another song so much better
than the one you wrote,
but you'd written it first

You came out before some tiny part
of the world,
to plant it right between their eyes -
and grow

and everyone there at least, surely knew
you'd given them peace from a blessed land

and when it came time,
yes when it came time

you chose a different stand.

This weak and wan
and trembling thing
you raised up
from so strong a calf

into so weak and bum a steer -
it is to laugh.

But throw your head back
as you do, or else

you'd let your tears drown you.
You swim and swim but can't pull clear

from tidal pull, so great you were
in all that past.

"falsest dilemma"

Without you
I'll just betray someone else
maybe myself
maybe someone else

I been good
my whole damn life
it's got me what
a run-on sentence
I don't want

full stop
or question mark
to end, but

Without You
I'll just betray
someone else, maybe myself
maybe someone else
again, I'll just betray myself
or someone else,
or maybe you

and then

I know
I never can
betray you, though
Except maybe that
is why you need to go
if I cannot betray
someone, I'm going
to slip underneath
this weight of me

and find some way
that isn't mine

without you

books and their sourcings

I do love loaning books. I never
expect them back. Why burden myself
with cares? I know
if I have to buy it again
- what a powerful thing we have
there! What enjoyable reflection
on what we have in this book's
pull and draw, it's appeal
and force. What renewable
value, to find a repeatable
test, in this field of all-too-often
one-off results? That is all
you can get from most books. If I have
to buy it again, then I have to. I want

to participate, actively, not a passive
participant, I: just open and read? Oh,
that will be me! But first:

I'll return to the scene of the crime,
where I burned my dough that first damn
time, and I'll burn it again: in sacrifice.
A reverent act, like it always was. And
I will be then, once again

a material aid

to good purpose
and such good cause: the publisher
and/or book seller ("or" in the case
of a used book store). The makers
and givers (at reasonable rates)
of such great things
as very good books.

When I know what I want,
and I know it's good - I don't mind
paying more than once, if I'd rather

not wait.

mr. fallusy

I like to take your argument
and set it on fire
in the shape of a man
- it's an effigy.
And you're always surprised
since your argument was
made of bricks! With an iddy
biddy piggy inside, well
it goes to show
that you can't
trust me.

Better hide,
I'm a horrible
man, crying wolfish tears
at the shape I am in, under
foolish moon. Someone bit
me once, I was harmed
and I never got well
from that magical wound.
That is hardly my fault
after all of this
- what and who I am,
plus the character that
I clearly have - you conclude
you cannot trust a thing
I say! Let alone what I'm doing
from push to shove, from better
to just plain bad.

You'd be wrong, to conclude
such a thing. But perhaps
you'd be better that way.

I have taken your stance,
I have tilted the slippery ground
where you tried to plant, and I pushed
and I shoved you down hard. You are
sliding now, so far - the abyss
is about to frown
when you land
right smack
in its unblinking eye!
Which you couldn't have missed. Oh
well. You should have faced front
as you slid and fell down that slippery
cliff, or bluff perhaps? Could've stared
it down, made it blink just once
or twice, at the light from the sky,
through which you come crashing in?

But why?

Who can say. I have given you
so much to know, and uneasily
down. I have taken the highest authority,
I have hung strict quotes from its awful nose,
I have taken what ignorance proves

quite free, and clear, and you'd better
believe it shows.
If you wish, you can call
mister fallacy.
That's me. Better spell it
'phallusy' though,
'cause I'm really a dick. Informality
is a charming style, if you can

pull it off. Sometimes you can't tell
if you have or have not, with such
see-through clothes. Well,

you work with whatever
you may have got.

pep talk

There are so

That's not a threat! If
woman, you've got a man

who can see all the beauty out there
for what it's worth, well you know


for some other reason!
Or anyway

not like it sounds, but
that doesn't mean - I mean I meant
for some "additional reason." Obviously

it's implied in his eyes
reflected in yours when you both
open your eyes

in the middle of a shit-hot makeout session
and scan each other's souls for tipoffs
"how's it going?" "proceed?" "continue?"
Obviously that's what it meant. It means


He doesn't think it's some
rare archaeological treasure
to mount expeditions over
"I have discovered a GOOD LOOKING WOMAN"

It's normal, let's not lose our heads, men
you have a woman
who she says is your very own, you say
"likewise" and
- what's more beautiful? THAT?

or some passing stranger with a lilt
in the hitch in her hips as she walks, and flips
you the bird for noticing?

Come off it, you know the real answer.
Stop thinking in your pants, those thoughts

are obvious to everyone. Be real.
Be open and see beauty. Wherever.
Observe to yourself, "Big deal" wisely. Say
to yourself, "Big whoop!" And then


reassure your woman who says
she is yours. She said it for a reason, right?
Could there be more beauty in the world

than there is here?

No man
No. Not probable. So


Reassure her:

Read her this poem

Like you mean it.

Because you know what?

I'll let you in on a little secret

you do


you totally do

you fag

the episode

The scene begins out
in the middle of nowhere, or
seemingly so. It probably is
somewhere, and probably not
in the middle, but: all we can see

are the silhouettes

of some kind of tree, repeated
in sepia tones, like stage trees
set in irregular row, for the shapes

they cast in the mind: desolate, dark
against what's left of the coming light.

A twilit and gathering gloom
we dive in.

In particular order, events

Troubling. The protagonist - she

isn't aware she's the enemy
of humanity, and neither are we
but she's starting to get
the message: there is

a monster out there, or
more than one. And in
the house, and its gotten inside

her mind, no doubt. This life

had to die, but it won't, and
it won't. Until we all fail

the attempt will go
on, and on

'til the end of the episode.
When there's a big reveal

don't ask
we don't know.

trapdoor mat

My thick pile of bushy fibers
says welcome upon it, but don't
mistake the invitation. And
as your hand unbidden reaches
out to press what you suspect
is a button of mine - don't forget
to wipe your feet, quite thoroughly.
The spikes so far down there are kept
sharp and piercing, spotless clean

for you

so as to void the risk
of nasty sepsis creeping in,
after a fall so long you'll tell
yourself ten stories why you came
on this, your free and easy way
straight down by games of gravity

you shouldn't play.

the best you

If somebody loves you
They're probably right.
They won't be mistaken,
deceived on that point,
by you, or themselves -
but sometimes they are.
Don't try to find out
by going too far, or
with tricks or with
traps pushing truth
out of joint! The
best you can do is
be you and give you
the best that you can,
and they'll figure it out
(they always do) before it's
too late, or just after, just

You were sure
it was fate, and it
isn't again.

Monday, May 13, 2019

"urgent require"

We must live now,
we must find through,
for once we die
we won't be able to.

sizing up

Kids on benches
kick their feet
until the world
grows up for them
to reach. They take
the world right-size,
however big it comes. It's easy
just believe your eyes. As it
begins to shrink, they just
reach higher for some treat.
If you just take it as it comes,

no matter how
small it all gets
the world cannot be beat.

Act like this could make you famous

Act like this will make you famous.
What would you be famous for?
All your friends will see you stranger,
showing your true colors or
confirming what they knew you were.
Captured screen or video
shared globally, so much disgust.
Clear the coming calendar,
and say goodbye to who you trust,
who trusted you, and say hello
to everyone defining you by this. Right now.
So how did you want this to go,
and what did you want to become?
A better, decent person, then?
The kind who acts with thought
for feel? How admirable. Forget it.
No one's sharing that with anyone.
It's common. Please. Get real.

Next time, don't think
before you act, just act.

Then we'll have some fun.

Sunday, May 12, 2019

her day, from you

mothers had to come in first
and find some reason strong enough
maybe just
the love of her life?
common as a fairy tale, or maybe just
some ***hole man
Eventually, she turned to you
to show how right and wrong
she was. Eventually,
we always do.
Huge tons of hope
coursed through your tiny form
back when you didn't know
how hard hope was. She sang hope soft
in made up words, when you knew only
comfort, joy and fuss.
You knew an unconditional love
a mother's love. She'd wait
on you and circumstance
to bring conditions in,
and she would see you through
some way the two of you
- or you, at least - would
rise above. If possibly
she can, she could, she'd see
that you'd be blessed.
You are. Held desperately
to make believe the world
with you in it
is best.

Saturday, May 11, 2019

default 1st reply to your comment

I assure you, the fact
I don't care what you just wrote
^^^ up there - is not in retaliation
for your not caring for what I wrote.

I just don't care! I wouldn't have cared
anyway, if you hadn't written. When I read
what you did write, I couldn't care less.

It reflects well on you that you wrote
(if not what, necessarily). It shows
you cared, to show what you don't
care for. Perhaps,

you even dared to hope that I'd care
what you shared! If so though, whoa

It's not that I don't care
what anyone writes,
it's more

that opinion self-adjusts on sight
in worth and scope, automatically
between give and take. When you can SEE
someone's trying to hand you a hard, dry pellet
of rabbit scat - is THAT what you care for?

Take it then! Pop it like eminem
but beware such habits build
bad breath. Again:

From your side, it reflects
well on you that you cared to show. You dared
to share, and it reflects more tellingly even
you felt what you had there - is something
others, too, could care about. Why?
Because it is yours? They might care

for that reason?

It makes sense you care, anyway. And I

have no problem with your offering. We all

show ourselves in what we give.

Takes a certain daring.

Thanks for daring.

Friday, May 10, 2019

see me through

I want to be perfectly clear on this.
Clear to the point of transparency.
Clear as invisibility. I don't
seeing me wrong
you see.

At the risk
that you'd see me at all, I take
this chance to make all of this clear
to you

I know you can't hear me,
but will you believe?
see me through, please
see me through

bell the cat

The cat's in the room, again
- no, out. Gone off without leave,
seemingly. Never leaving at all
- just gone. And oft, you can't tell
if she's here. A curt, thorough search
of her favorite haunts
just reveals where she's not,
just now.
She moves
without notice, taking
small pride in the room
for doubt she slips in
to fill, and the one
that she leaves behind,
empty and just as still, except us

huge lumbering bums.
What things! She's very
aware where we are, and it comes
quite insultingly. A touch put out
about it, she finds. We're
no fun to stalk
at all.

There is no rush, but
there never much was
for a cat among humankind.

When we see her mid-motion, it's only
a favor - example she's trying to set
with a slink, sinuosity forward
and bored intent, antenna-tail
high, to switch and to swish
informatively. "See? See!
See this?
This behavior?
Beautiful, don't you think?

It's how to walk.

I swear, you would never
have known, but for me.
You'd never have seen this
at all, if I hadn't put on
deliberate stroll, as I chose
to show you this. Otherwise
I would wait. I habitually do
- for the wide, black bands
your attention holds in.
I just get up and leave,
I'm aware of them.
So are you.

But the difference is I
am aware with ease.

Still I cared enough,
or at least this time,
to try,

to teach you a thing
or two, by and by. Dear kittens

you're not going to last in this world.

Someone's going to snap you up - and then
who'll feed me?" A touch hurt
in the dignity, poor little girl.

She concludes her walking speech
and leaves. Even letting us see
her go. Her name
is bell,
she moves silently.
We can tell.

More than that,
we cannot know.


There's a stone that you hold
in your mouth, in speech.
It doesn't exist: it is
round and flat
where the riven and cleft
streams and rivers of words
you have clearly outpoured
all your life have rounded it.
Sound as fact: on the sides
and top, and flattened beneath,
this curve, that opening drop
- all the nicks and tics
of consonant cut, and swells
and upwells and fulls of vowels,
the shortened stops and tucks,
the pieces of sense that don't
show up, and never are missed
by familiar ear - are down
to the shape
they did not teach,
when they taught you here. But


I can tell where you're from,
can't I?

And maybe in part
what I think of you! All by the stone

which you carry in mouth,
to shape all your words around
what's true.

That sick, twisted fit

That sick, twisted fit
so thrilled we found
has been cut clear and quick
into sacred ground
where we vowed that we cared
what we came here for.
I'm not sure about us anymore.

I'm not sure about any of this.
The cross you bare like a weapon
engraved, embossed - I'm meant
to recoil from? I suppose

it is.

I suppose you think you've won.
I suppose you have.
I suppose it's war.
I'm not sure about us any more.

You can arch your back you can aim
your hips, you can rock and writhe
and depend on it, well if the you fits
I will wear and bear
up as well as you wish,
and whom shall care?

I was glad amazed
to discover your tracks.
To believe we fit
and pretend to match,
but as perfect as we've
never seen before,
I'm not sure about us any more

Thursday, May 09, 2019

long confidence

All guilty lies
Are now burned clean
All guilty scars
Are glistening
Like glossy lips
between such kiss
As only guilty lives
could miss,
As only guilty truth
could bring

And you
By now,
you could never betray
the idea of you
that you've given me
How I well know,
no. You,
by now -
somehow, could never betray
what you've given me

Oh, these innocent marks
we've been and gone
so coldly conning
and charming on,
such cunning and wrong
and graceful gulls
we've been, each
easily duped by swells
and grifters and wits
- we've also been,
so sharp and dull
'til we spot our tells
- obscured by all
of these webs to spin
the game, the plan
may refuse to gel

And you
By now,
you could never betray
the idea of you
that you've given me
How I well know,
no. You,
by now -
somehow, could never betray
what you've given me

oh, no

the unbetrayal

I ate the idea of my own foot
once, it
was delicious, and the aftertaste
I stopped telling lies when I realized
was about the same in value, plus
it insulates you. I constructed
echo chamber of my own design,
I refuted invitations to join
my kind.

I can teach how to
not do
any such stunts

I can't teach
myself. Which is

what I don't want.

Wednesday, May 08, 2019

drawing class

I majored in art;
that life drawing class
I took was a revelation. I defy
you to take that class
with that professor, those
classmates and those models
and not wake up bare weeks into it

to how beautiful
human being is

you will be
sitting there halfway
through a session, and you will
have lavished and worked and pored
over the drawing on your board.
Half the time drawing upon it
furiously, sometimes with
the eraser, the other half
drawing blind almost,
in dim glimpse by lower periphery,
looking up and away
to your subject,
who is by no means
an object. And then the professor

over your shoulder. “That’s beautiful.”

And you look down,
taken aback.

It’s beautiful.
The textures,
the values,
the volumes,
the shadow,
the lines picking out spare frame
and tender sags, the
defeated posture half-sprawled,
half-risen to look for hope, or
death. Yet

the one person who walked in
that day, and stripped off
was never your idea of beautiful,
then. Or whatever
your idea of beautiful was
at the beginning of the semester
- though several earlier models

sure were!

(The models for this class ran
the gamut; an important part
of the lesson, I think.) But the drawing

is beautiful.
You were working so intently,
so hard on it in the small time
you had - couple hours?

Ninety minutes? You didn’t see.
You raise your eyes and look,
and see.

Maybe for the first time in your life.

How beautiful is one single human being
right there in front of you.

If you’d notice. Beautiful
in vulnerability. In hope, in fear. In attitude
and posture, and every way they hold themselves
can be beauty. Or in how else
they may hold themselves: the anger
and distrust,
suspicion they flash
across face and arms, the threat
of harm - here can be much
to find ugly. It is in

how we hold ourselves, often
in reaction to how others have held
or hold us, or we think they do.

But so too can beauty be,
from the same source. Beauty

is not in the eye, but in the hold. Of the beholder
and the beheld both. It is in
and between how we hold

In the appearance itself, at rest
and unmoved? There is even there
much to move you, but

there is noting at all to conclude.
So nothing to judge.

Everybody's Thor

I realize I'm a lot more Thor
than I ever thought back in the day
when he kept pretending to be
a super-serious humorless
cripple with an M.D. and
woo Jane with stern words, I
was like "Who is this guy? Is this
the wit of Asgardians," but how wrong
I was forsooth! He's just a big fun
guy! Not a manchild as he's called,
but a puppygod of some sort! Embarrassing

to realize wry deep absurd truths about
how one grapples joyously with one's life
to the death, from a dude dressed

as he quite fitly does. For him
anyway, I'm not going to cosplay it.

I always saw myself more as the Vision:
calm, cool to cold, stern and precise
with better powers. He could go rock
hard in a thought and just STAND
THERE, or, in another thought
of lightness and speed, he'd flit
through the very solidity of the world
- like it weren't no thang! But

they kind of messed him up. He acts
all goofy and peculiar, like
he doesn't understand them
humans. As if their ways

aren't sensible to an android. Well,
maybe that's realistic, I don't know
- but they always made sense to him before. He was all
"Yeah guys, act how you know. Wanna see me walk through
a wall!" HELL YEAH, VISZ!

That's more my attitude. But it did give me
a cheap geek thrill the way he manhandled Mjolnir
like it weren't no thang. "Here, Thor"

He observed off-hand on the hand-off. "It's business
time, and I expect you need this."

Turns out no
He only thought he did.

Seems like Thor could teach an awful lot
of us about ourselves, and worse

appears to have
done, so.