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.

Thursday, October 01, 2015

use of memory

You'll be walking along and then
something happens to you.
Maybe it's wonderful!
, but either way, you write it down
right then, you draw it out
in colored chalk, on and along
the bumpy cobblestone curbs
and surfaces
of your shade-dappled sidewalk mind.

So that years,
decades later,

it's still there.

You're not sure now what street or town
- except, it's summer.

It always seems to be.

Why is that?

Most every rough draft
of your memory, it seems
to gravitate towards those days
of hot, red blood,
mostly from stubbed toes
- leaving your poor toe with a jaunty hat!
of a skin-flap, still attached
but throbbing, stinging
and cocked at an angle. Later,

running over more forgiving ground,
the bay shore sand
sticks all over, a scab-sand composite
making a gritty bandage - clotted
and covered,
clean. And your brother, slapping you
smack across the back
with a live jellyfish!

flung sidearm through the air without regard
to possible consequences for his own
poor hand! And
mosquitoes. Not even worth
slapping at. Not in those days.

Even if the old suburban wives'
legends about them
sucking the itch right back out
with the last of their blood meal
(if you leave them alone)
wasn't true, you secretly loved
to scratch the welts. Ah,

your own blood!
You used to be such close
friends with it. And memory!
a popsicle. It could never fail
to shock, and usually
in a good way: so technicolor cold
; at first your lips stick, your tongue
sticks; so cold
you can't really tell the flavor, only
the color

because you saw it. In this way,
we learned what colors taste like.

Now you suck blind on a memory.

You'd unwrapped it
- hoping for red!
No. Damn: grape.

Still good! (Anything but
green) Soon,
with sucks, slurps
and licks, your mouth pulls
all the cold off, and
your tongue (your whole mouth
!) starts to taste
the bright
, artificial flavor
that had been trapped in ice
the whole time.

And is now released.
sticky sweet
dripped and rubbed
on palms and fingers,
and fingertips, dripping rivulets
through and between and off them
off you,
to fall in space, first drops of rain
from a storm that could only have
blown in from Oz: Purple,
or Red, or Orange, or
- green, god forbid. The sidewalk
behind you, drip-dyed as you walk.

What color's your tongue?

You know full well.

So you write it down
Right then. You write it
in memory, because who can be bothered
with pencil? Pens
, papers? Homework
In memory, it's summer.


Wednesday, September 30, 2015

"Let go. It's time"

I will never
let go of the past
for as long as I live.
If it takes the rest of my life, I will keep it
always. It was beautiful,
and true, and so other things I'm sure
will be beautiful,
or true. The past, even broken
and scattered beyond all repair, is

the only reason I've seen to have hope

in what life can be, and I am bringing that
with me.

Friday, September 18, 2015

notes to

This is one of those
self-referential poems
about the process of composing
one. I will include

No prose, but a strong
simulated unmetered, near-
rhymed lyrically mono
-tone, female and male feet

traces of old terminology,

notes to self: don't forget to come
back later, and change the part
about her titties
to something less obvious
about her eyes,

for instance:

how they bounce, which is
by far to be preferred to
that time in that boxy Chinese
restaurant back East, way back
, back then? With the saucer
of superhot Chinese

mustard (not a metaphor for anything
but those dry crunchy noodles you dip
into it), and with every single meal,

you bring her here for
the sticks
like white rice,
and the complimentary eye roll.

Do not.

Do not.

Attempt to reproduce

that fake so-called accent
you'd use. Not to self:

Not to anyone else, either. Note:

it was not what you think.

alibi, anecdote


In California today, winter
is so close you can smell
the snow that will never fall.

And in the glow of the encroaching dark
that suffuses equally well through clouds
and off smoke, directionless light
that stays, not out of love
for what it barely bathes,
but because as it very well
has always known, there is very soon
going to be nowhere to go. And I am

out of all of the people you know,
who you've never brought home,
the one

to which we can readily refer,
in case of question
or comparison,

out of all those left
out in dark, out in cold,
who has felt it least?

I am the one.

Having had more warmth
bled out of me than whoever we're luckily
going to bring, pulled out of the crowd
to take a quick bow, and thermometer-check
for comparison, the result:

Is known.

Thank you, sit down, a big hand,
cold as stone for you. I was numb
once, but I have long since learned
who the number one is.

Possibility exists of one better than me,
than even me, at even this - though we haven't seen
the last
of me, or the first of him, or


Or her, most like.
Let me be most loathe, if you will
I will be.
I'll at least leave room,
in case you'd like to try. I'll wait

'til then, and see. I die
to be crowned with that wreath,
my friend. Having by then surpassed
all conceivable odds
any fix competition can pitch,
by God. From the pistol crack,
to the ribbon, the end. In the matter
of numbness

I will be so crowned, the numbest.
I wait out
far out in the crowd,
even now in the cold.

The number one goes
out in all kinds of weather
just as long as the forecast is rain,
sleet, snow,
or in vain,
or otherwise. He neither waits,
nor strives to find his two.
feeling less than that? It could be

just you.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

"Were She Self-"

Were she self-
congratulatory at all,
we'd have to admire her taste. But since
she is modest, and given
to praise, not boast -
we are forced to deflect
(not bestow)

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

"Insidious Influence"

Somewhere someone
you passed on by
today, without a word
or eye contact
- you made their
day. Just by
the way
you passed on by!

Thursday, August 13, 2015


I dreamed I was on the final page
of a screenplay unsold, as yet,
unmade, and with no guarantee
any deal would be struck
- let alone find its cast,
or shoot,
or come to its final cut,
or ever be screened.
It felt like the end
before a beginning
had even been made.
Like an alternate life -
not real, not art
- just something supposed
to become something great,
if we found the support.

It's become too late.
We can look up and see that, now.
We put pure, beating heart
into this mistake.
No act left to play.
Our read-through winds down,
and you stand.

For your part: you await the line

that perfect one line that the world would quote
to express all this wrenching and glorious hurt,
in the moment of terror, with all at stake -
the joy of a life made real
in a play of one act,
that only we two can make.
That only we two
ever need to believe,
and feel,
and you wait.

For your part: you wait.

And the pause draws out,
and your eyes say it all -
all you're willing to hear,
all that needs to be said above all,
one time, in that perfect one line

which was left off my script.

I will fumble my part as well
as I can. I won't cry over it, and if
you laugh

- I will certainly understand.
Maybe this
was a comedy, after all. And my part
- the role of a perfect life - neither real,
nor art, but a perfect life. Or at least,

Thursday, July 09, 2015

trip in time

Miladylike ladylove
traipsed through rows of bellflowers,
out the garden gate, to the belltower, fell -
in love with all her own
small reflections
in the buttons
of the cobblestone path,
colored glass
-pebbles blown
to resemble hearts and olives,
eyes, or strange celestial spheres -
done in pink, done in white,
done in amber,
done in blue - and
each one of them distorts
magic mirror tiny faces
of miladylike
who looks like

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

the natural thing

All this "let it happen naturally" is the
hardest thing for me,
I've ever done in my life.

But still we made it - did it, didn't we?
Waited 'til the fates agree.
We don't have to do that bull shit twice, we are

gone through all the courses,
of obstacles and forces,
this courtship's come in.
Let's never do that again, I wanna be

straight with you, woman.
that's only natural, woman.
you make it so easy to
come on. Come on - too strong.
I'm sorry, you do. I'm going to be

straight with you, woman.
'cause I am unwavering, woman.
you make me implacable, woman.
Come on!
Let's do the natural thing,
'cause if we mean it to be -

It's meant to be.

I've dealt in certainty, ever since
you kissed me back. I have married you,
a hundred times, behind your back
- with a thousand vows, that I have kept -
that you never heard
Don't tell me that's rushing in
I'm no fool
don't be absurd, I'm gonna be

straight with you, woman.
it's only natural, woman.
you make it so easy to
come on. Come on - too strong.
I'm sorry, you do. I'm going to be

straight with you, woman.
'cause I am unwavering, woman.
you make me implacable, woman.
Come on!
Let's do the natural thing,
so supernaturally -

We're free.

I am tumble-tongued, language lost
make up the words, only all of them
can't explain. I'm digging myself,
even deeper in, and covered in
all of this dirt. I can't excavate
what's in the stars, but to try
wouldn't hurt?

I'll always be

straight with you, woman.
it's only natural, woman.
you make it so easy to
come on. Come on - too strong.
I'm sorry, you do. I'm going to be

straight with you, woman.
'cause I am unwavering, woman.
you make me implacable, woman.
Come on!
Let's do the natural thing
- a touch unnaturally?
Works for me.

it works for me.

'Cause if we mean it to be,
it's meant to be.

Thursday, June 18, 2015


My heart, it breaks
in tiny ways the blood cannot get in to seal.
So it remains in crazy cracks,
all over pain makes mute appeal
- and all that it can feel is ache.
The only thing that could fuse back
and cauterize the miniscule
but deep-sunk wounds, that torture me -
is if some one could come along
with lightning-strike, with back-to-life,
and make of me a greater fool.

Tuesday, June 09, 2015

marine layer

In the sun,  
right now - rising
somewhere. Setting
somewhere else,
too - a glow of rose-gold 
is hung, suspended in straps
and bolts of cirrus and stratus clouds, 
over the ocean on a cool blanket
of wind and spray: a hammock
for us, or for anyone else. There,
even on the cloudiest days
- rise higher! Up and away
it awaits, stretched from each yesterday
to every today, hung still
in every dusky morning,
and as each night dawns,

in the restless,
motionless thrill
of your sleeping form
in my aching arms.

if not, then still:

a dream of someone,
asleep in a dream
of sun.  

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

low camp

Only because it's important,
for you to know always,
I've got the galoshes.

Just so you know. I neither camp,
nor trip, at least by preference, but
I'm going to bring those. Just in case!
I will always be barely prepared enough,
to be laid gently down, had
my hopes gone up.

I've been there before. I go back every summer

Because once
in a while,
and I don't know
if this holds still or not,
but I heard someone who looked,
like you,
a lot.

Like you.

I heard her say: Even when and where
I least expect, even on the high, desert

Yeah, if you ask,
any time you do, do you know -

"do you want to dance?"

Well, that depends. The answer is yes.
Do you need to stay dry, or would you
like a drink? and to go where we go, perchance
to dream? Because, you know.

I can make it rain.

high camp.

I always leave her disappointed, the loser
of another embarrassing bet, one suspects
these addictions of hers begin innocently
feeding on each other, just enough,
innocently enough, each in its own
selfish interest. But is this
even one of the steps for that? For she told
me, this: she was a girl guide in a previous life.

I said

"Woman, I

get thee to a too, too fine
degree too! Far too fine to distinguish
between the two, which:

are you the one?

The none? If so, go get thee
one, stat. Am I right? Because if I'm not,
I'd like another chance. Will you tell me,
if I lucky guess?

Are you binary? Boolean?
Because I used to know,
you know. But now,
I have to admit,
I'm pretty curious.
By nature, I mean:
peculiar, and I have
to admit I have
to ask: do you stick
at this? Do you put it
aside, or do you stick
at nothing - or switch
to a negative?

And what, anyway
were you looking for
So hard, when you looked at me.
Into my eyes, and lost
what you lost -

which we need not say now.
It has been enough to be
elaborated upon,
each upon each,
needlessly lost
in all the consequence,
lost in all the bets, lost

in yet another staring contest.
Which, I begin to suspect,
was fixed. I'm beginning to suspect
she fixes these bets, myself.

See, let me tell you. My life
has a sort of a story to it.
And as it happens,
it began to be so earnest, so right
about the time. When was that? What time
was it, girl? I remember. I was the cub
who never made it to eagle
point lake for the initiation, too busy
ducking my presumed duties, I guess,
avoiding the altar, assiduously
preaching to the choir - or one of them,
and praying more than preaching really.
All while the priest's back is turned, you know.
Boys will be boys, won't we? We will be damned,
most of us, if we don't. Or do

you still claim I wouldn't do it,
all over again, even
a little bit
differently? I would not
trade places,
not even if you asked

It wasn't only because they didn't
have altar girls in those days - but choir?
You'd be amazed. The harmonies, my heart
broke before my voice, that of an angel
confessing to the love of my then-young life
that no,

I wasn't the one who had carved, fortuitously
or not, our initials, suspiciously
at the perfect center
of a large,

love heart.

deep, in the white-washed plywood obscured,
by the high weeds.

In a vacant lot, ostensibly.
Nearby, it would prove to be impossible
to find. For the rest of my life, I would realize
I had naively presumed so much,
so flush in the knowledge that after so bold a dumb
move, I was fully prepared to be wrong! So flush,

So busted.

And so I went fishing, eventually,
you and me. I mean she and I, technically,

because by then I assure you we'd each got
our respective persons,
with no chase. And me without bait,
let me without bait be the one
casting the first hook, wait
- it was before that, getting ready,

between me and

to compare the two.

She found me wanting, as usual.
But as she compared, I realized that we -
rivals, in some misunderstood sense, were two
of the same kind, weren't we?
Brothers? Closer than that even?
Don't you think? That's a mirror

she's looking at and troubled a bit by.
What she sees deep within, or
what seems to be the problem, off
the top of your head? Can you touch
the tip of your nose?

Could I?

These are the questions, by which
we would live. Or else we die,
both in suspense, he, she,
and I: redundant, as such: not I.
Emphatic. I refuse not to subjectify
myself. Certainly not in the same sense
or sentence in which I'd already referred,
to me, myself, as a third person. And
really now. Why would I? What was in it,
for me, even then? I barely knew.

I couldn't even say the stupidest
things such as where was I? Wherever
I was, we,
in suspense,
in a manner of life
and death, in a matter both living
and dead, and holding
our collective breath, as
our collective soul shakes
its collective

(imaginary, not as far as she
could see)


But she must have guessed.
Because I haven't seen the last of her,

And she found me wanting, as I said.
She almost always did. It used to bother me
quite a hell
of a lot to go through
all that sweat and toil
- even in winter, she "made India
too hot to hold her," as the saying
so innocently goes. And it was
too hot, which was less than half
the bother by the time spring came,
prematurely that year, I got so hot
trying to figure out what the hell
she wanted! And whether or not it was
morally permissible,
for her,
a pretty,
staunch pescetarian,
to claim she cannot
gut a fish,
I ask you.

Can you blame me if
I had more pressing things on my mind
than I did where I'd have preferred them?

That's what we called it, in those days,
a halcyon, which if you look it up means
nothing we could see. In those days,
as the saying went on and on,
we were not far from blind
In love,

were we?

And t'accuse! What nerve, what gaul
had you even looked up whether
that was an accurate thing to do? Thundering


Is the more lewd? She the one
(or he who) is openly,
shamelessly lewd,
or the dude (or dude-ess) whose like,
and maybe, even

Run a little to the lewd side, is that
alright with you? Except all
the while, he or she takes
such ambiguous, punctilious care
never to let it show. Not unless
or until he's left,
or she's left him,

And so it was my fault? Was it
hers? Who led who? On
whose head,
never mind.
You get it.

You get what I'm driving at, or rather,
given my druthers, trying
experiences would have built us up,
not rent us asunder, like that damn
tent you got off Craig's damn list
of his. And yet, you have to admit

Even in the grip
of all that effort,
to appear,
to seem
seemly, in the tick of a
second this seeming hypocrite
will spot the next likely
prominent lewd leader-on,
and follow on from there,
and on,
Where does it stop?
Where do you call a halt? Stop
by the (INNOCENT
I ASSURE YOU is right now
sleeping alone

in that very same tent!
By my very sane lone
self, or so I hope.
Even in my wildest dreams I haven't hallucinated
anyone else but you,
not in years.

We need to bring this story of ours, regardless
- whether one of us is telling or one of us is
listening, or even if that's a completely accurate
count. We need to come close

to where we can bring it to a close. You used to be one hell
of a closer, didn't you? Well we're playing hard
ball now, miss oh so wicked pitcher.

Oh god - speaking of close quarters, do you remember?
That fucking tent!

I don't understand how you call me the lewd one, given
some of the times that tent has seen. Us

through. It's

I'm sorry

hard. To imagine
that same tent, now
is mine alone. My tent, which,
I've got to tell you, is so far
from pitched on this issue, I'd go
so far

as to call it untenanted

If I hadn't been in there
sleeping the sleep of one
who dreams as deeply
as he snores, having satisfied himself
on a pretty big score: that he
never has.

She lied. She lied, for
all of that - she lied! She had to,
I guess. Because if she hadn't, I'd have seen it
myself, in her eyes. Visine's
in the kit. Always.

It's good for that. And you, my dear are good
for nothing one kiss couldn't cure by miracle,
and make better. You my dear,
are now only ever a sight
for shut eyes.

Who in hell
needs a tent
like this? Does Craig's
list come get it for you,
if you complain enough? If not,
what is it good for!

What good's a tent

with nobody in it but the rent, and through
which the idle wind blows,
whistling, if you can believe it,
in the dark, all night long, as if to shake you.
To shake your convictions. To overturn them. To exonerate
her. As if anything can, her American thighs
will forever remind me

of our song.

The din of which hurts the ears
of eaves droppers anywhere near that fucking
tent, these days, but considerately - not
after sundown! Ironically, when you consider
the refrain. And still they circle
and gather in 'round the rent - don't they?
Do they know any better? Where they raised
in a barn with some kind of misguided
open-door policy? And why would anyone take the milk

for free

when all he ever wanted was to buy
one sweet moo cow. The meat and the leather,
really, interest me. The milk,

not so much.

Are they still out there? Outside
our tent? The hidden, unseen eaves-peepers
- you could hear them breathing, couldn't you
too? It's not the wind
through the rent
in the supposedly puncture-resistant neoprene
canvas tent that was such a great bargain,
according to you, that even though
it was indisputably yours, like me
Used to be, anyway. Yet you took that piece
of wonder-equipment and threw it out the window
along with all the rest
of my life

I mean, of all my stuff
(except for the part you claimed as yours)
(that argument's still not finished yet, FYI),
that fucking tent was not even mine, man. Woman,
this argument's not finished, even though I know
we will never agree why.


That's all these creeps do. They come
gathering 'round the tent
in the dark, breathing, and
they try

to see what it's like
in there. Don't even think to take
off those clothes, girl - not
if you're prone to stagefright! Or,
panicking in the spotlight
of an imagined crowd. Remember
when you woke up and screamed so loud,
the bear screamed! You were so sad,
because you thought that bear
was some kind of pervert.

Well he wasn't. Take it from me.

You have always been way too accusatory
and suspicious. Sitting in that tent,
like that, just as you are, just as you were,

fantasizing about being surrounded by pervert
ninjas? Girl,

You must think you're so hot.

You probably tore that rent yourself.

Well, I guess
that's just once too many times,
one number to many to count
or bless, for me. So You.

Just you.

Wait. Once,

and let's settle accounts. It is the last,
the only,


outstanding bet.

Which of us is more perverted?

I wonder if you even remember
who your bet was laid down upon, once
upon a time, and still is. I mean, last time
I saw you wearing this fucking archaic cowboy wife
muslin getup - I bet you thought your whole values
had changed, and these were the clothes to reflect
it. Well,

you lost that bet too,
the moment you shook my hand

instead of not settling for such wan,
weak gestures. We used to both
- unanimously - insist on a kiss,
to seal anything of any moment.

So let's settle this.

With all these fucking prudes and nonexistent
perverts lurking, then storming in
with double that number of entendrers in toto,
in tow,

- all that crowd! Imagine
crowded into that

to have their say, next
EVERYTHING sounds dirty, I bet

Or is that just? Or is that just your way?
To leave me like this, like that. Is that the high
you promised me, at the start of this so-called this
-is-going-to-take-forever take
of a hike? There will be

no take twos.
Or if it starts to - because secretly, I bet
if you had
had your way,
there will. If you
or if fate come around,
You will once again

find me wanting.
As it almost always will.

It begins that way.

And that's when you REALLY start saying,
to yourself, who even NEEDS this tent? It's bad
in here. BAD!
BAD IN TENT. I mean,

who needs it?

It ain't even raining - but

Can I get a shout out! From the inner boy scout?

Just in case you hadn't heard
that somewhere, deep inside, where the sun don't shine
you can't get burned - but you brought so much sun block, you figure
why not? That's
a little sick but whatever. If
you're prepared to hear what
I've got to say,

To be honest. I'd never hide - because
why? You know,
you're prepared for that too, aren't you?
Because you fantasized about this,
as a boy,
as a girl.

Just like I do, in a more present tense,
and in converse. Which of us,

Did you suppose can sport more colors of those? That person
is the real all-star. That is all
- apart from your little gang-sign secret hand-signal,
which expresses something vital to you - right
in your credo. That is all.

That matters.

It's important for you to know: always,
I've got the galoshes.

Just so you know. I neither camp,
nor trip, at least by preference, but
I'm going to bring those. Just in case!

Because once
in a while,
and I don't know if this holds still
or not, but I heard someone who looked,
like you,
a lot.

Like you.

I heard her say: even when and where
I least expect, even on the high, desert
plains, yeah, if you ask,
any time you do, do you know -

"do you want to dance?"

I can make it rain.

Monday, April 13, 2015

I am not correcting you

I am not correcting you
- indeed, no one can
ever correct anyone as to whether a piece of writing is
or is not
a poem.
It is not even
possible at this stage. Anything
a person calls a poem is a poem.
There is no longer any
critical basis one can claim
to say otherwise. All it takes
to make a poem a poem is
to call it a poem (THANK YOU,
DuChamp!). Nothing more. This

is one reason why the term "poem"
no longer carries any distinction: because
it doesn't mean anything anymore.
The previous sentence was a poem. Well,
it was! It was awkward
as a sentence, as a poem
it was a lousy poem,
but it was a poem.
The following phrase
is not a poem:

Not A Poem.

My Treacherous Best

and our fool notion sticks
as your kiss kicks in
and you lick my mind out
from surface to skin
and I keep losing sight
because you make me blind
well it wouldn't be love
without this I find

and my motives are pure:
to keep love true
and I'll do my treacherous best
to you
and I'll do my treacherous best
to keep you,
I'll do my treacherous best
for you

well it wouldn't be love
without this I find
without yours, mine, tight
without ours, combined
without your eyes gray
lost in my eyes brown
hazel, too

and my motives are pure:
to keep love true
and I'll do my treacherous best
to you
and I'll do my treacherous best
to keep you,
I'll do my treacherous best
for you

without our eyes locked
all the doors slam shut
in our future halls
closed against us, walls
where the doors should be
and no keys allowed
the whole house burnt down
when you turned around
without you, me, us
we'd be most forlorn
every vow a curse
every oath forsworn
so we have to believe
for the other's sake
just a bit deceived
with so much at stake

and my motives are pure:
to keep love true
and I'll do my treacherous best
to you
and I'll do my treacherous best
to keep you,
I'll do my treacherous best
for you

Friday, April 03, 2015

synchronicity, but

I enjoy synchronicity, but
I tend to put it down

to a sharpness of attention
brought on by the first
notice of a thing, and
the general underlying similarities
of common occurrences.

The second such
reactivates the "hey!
That's peculiar" circuit, and
primes us for further occurrences. All
the while, hundreds
of unnoticed, equally
recurrences float past

our unnoticing eyes.
I don't think this diminishes the magic.

to say that maybe a coincidence is
a coincidence. The proper response should be


closer at the world,
for all the magic we're missing.

it is in mind that it makes magic,
it is the mind that is making
these connections play -
painting raw material of the world
this way: coming all together
in gravity's sway, the world

- thick, dense, simple,
solid right through.
Built on fundamental patterns, and
the essence of these repeats,


For the most part, we are numb to it
- because it is everywhere,

all the time,
and too much
to notice. Synchronicity

occurs when some part of our mind seizes
on such a repetition as fascinating - significant.
And it makes us look for more. We look out far
and in deep, scouring
reality for further meaning

and connection.

Even if sometimes
no great lesson results,
it does wake us up. For a while,
we actively participate
in the fact that the world is magic,
before settling back into the idea that
well, magic or no,
it is also quite predictable,
and reassuringly simple.
Solid right through and through,

like a force field.

"But if we could fool them, to see their faces..."

In the case of coincidence, it is we
who play the parts of magician
and audience, and the best thing is
there really most usually is

something there to see. Something

that our mind's attention has snagged
on, something we can unravel, something
of value
that helps us understand. Or believe
we do. But to me, this something was not sent
as a sign. Not to me, not inserted
for a purpose, shoe-horned in
as a special extra
by some power with intent
to do with me. Shoe-horned in
as a special extra, in a world that is otherwise



with such special extras. No.
To me, the something was there all along
in the world,
always, but
unnoticed. The world
is positively shot through
with such things, full
of such things.

Charged with them.

Were you looking?
Did you see?

Vampyr, Agnostic

Having lived your whole life
at night, and far too far from the light
you will never know - Turn never knowing,
and face morning never knowing
when it comes, or if or why.
Expecting, if anything, to spark, sparkle and burn, if
/ when it comes.

As it was written,
so we suppose. It will
be on us before anyone guesses
or knows, and If it does,
it comes never knowing
whether it will,
and never knowing you
will not know

will you?

Thursday, April 02, 2015

"Maybe this silence will last forever"

I heard you the first time
I heard you the second
I'm planning to hurt you the third
it's been quite a lovely reprieve from your voice,
I hope that it lasts. Well,
we do have a choice:

just take your next thought,
and let it hold its breath
until it turns purple, and then
take the next, then the one after that -
and suffocate those.

It's not difficult, no. No,
it's not even close


Is that you? How've you been?
How did you get this phone?
I'm sure that it's changed at least twice.
I was so looking forward,
the next time you called -
I thought I'd have time
to invent something nice:

but I'm still thinking, love. Oh
I've thought for some time, and I guess
I'll be thinking, some time
'til it comes. If we can't say it nice,
let's say nothing then, love.

It's no question of why,
it just is what it was.


Would that be so bad?
Wouldn't that be all right?
When there's not a bit good to be said,
say goodnight, love and


Would that be so bad?
I'll be thinking of you.
All the good that you gave
was both certain and true -
all the good that you gave
which gave out, my good friend.
I'll be thinking of it,
now we're through, love.
The end, and

will last
will last
will last


Wednesday, March 25, 2015

"for all the"

In smoke,
the moonlight swirls into fragrant night
like cream into clear black tea, curling
deep down deep, visible and furled
like blown glass into marbles, only
the prettiest ones – the ones with all
the colors trapped in, except here, these
- all the colors are ash, charcoal, white,
argent, silver and grey, and the music is
click, skip, roll – regular as breaths, as
red eyes flicker and watch the play, and
your lucky shooter once again shoots
past the test, knocks the last crystal ball out
of the magic circle, and it – like the moment
it caromed from – is yours.
Gathered up in smoke,
trapped in glass, clicking
and counting each other
in your drawstring bag,
take what’s yours
and let the ash enrich
whatever it hasn’t yet set on fire. This game,
this garden, this match - like our lungs,
is done.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015


Time to wake
up, time to awake,
let a spring of discontent wash
this winter away, wash this winter
of complacency clean.

Let it come.

Let it wash over all.
Wash it over and done,
and over and over,
and under and done
as well - let it wash all,
and all wash clean. Wash under
and down, drown
every blessed thing
that can't
go on living like this,

there now. Let the buds of summer
spring from the deep spring mud,
as every growing thing
takes root downstream -

and above, let the birds pour
forth like rain
- sideways in the sun.

Let it be these ways always,
or at least, for a count of days
without count.

Let it ring.

Let the choir of frogs and
angels sing, for the fall of man
is always such a glorious thing.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


My eyes occasionally stumble,
with the dancer you are
as a partner, I can't help
your gracefulness

precedence, and leads
consequence astray, my eyes
awry, but I follow - as best I can, and so
am drawn in. Your steps,

like a web,
are weaving, and woven,
and warped, and weft, and deft
as I try to be
- caught.
my eyes are read
with intent,
by you, with surprise as I'm sure
you've read faces
and hands,
and eyes
before. Caught dead
to rights, and whatever was planned,
for one of these nights at least, at
last, we have finally both been caught
at a glance, and (I hope)
we both
we can have this dance.

Monday, March 09, 2015


I wish you well.

I wish you tonight, in a life
under skies full of sharp, shooting stars
in a garden of dark, smelling deeply
of green.

And without any thought
in your mind for a wish, or
for what it all means - far as wishes go,
this: with a dream of what's coming,
Awake to what is.

Not to what it all means, putting whys
to what's wrong, setting all whats to rights -
for whatever it's worth in this garden,
tonight, there is peace here on earth.

except only my soul,

or whatever
it hurts

Friday, March 06, 2015

knights errant

Once upon
high horse
with lance

and shield,
in armor,
shall we dance?

Oh knock us off!
Draw sword,
dismount -

Close in, you feint
I faint,
You count
from ten to one,
so very slow,
deliberate -

and then you go.

Then I arise.
Triumphant me!
I am a pacifist, you see.

Thursday, March 05, 2015

Life Is Effectively Over

You sit staring out of the windows your walls don't have
and the world you imagine outside doesn't look too bad
but the world you envision is freedom, and you're sealed off
and if you even got out, would it really be there at all?
You're at the wall, now

is effectively over
only it seems like nobody knows it but you
life is effectively over
still they expect these perpetual motions that you go through

You stand looking over the brink, and you can't help laugh
at all of the meaning that life was supposed to have
you see it now that it's too late to do anything right
still struggling a bit, but you're not even in the fight
You know damn right, now

is effectively over
only it seems like nobody knows it but you
life is effectively over
still they expect these perpetual motions that you go through
it's effectively over
but you've still got to make it work
do you really believe that we've all got a place in this small, cruel

The fat lady's gone anorexic and she won't sing
you're standing at the Cracks of Doom but who's got the Ring?
You wish that it was more of an epic majestic loss,
but the story's petered out, and the end
is so many pages off.
And the cause is loss, now

is effectively over
only it seems like nobody knows it but you
life is effectively over
still they expect these perpetual motions that you go through
it's effectively over
but you've still got to make it work
you know I believe that I will find a place in this cool, damp

Monday, March 02, 2015

books, our last line

I love books,
and will miss them
when they're gone. If they go,
I should say. I hope
we're not so short-sighted
as to let

all our key

migrate to forms that
need a power source! What

if the polar icecaps reverse? What

if the satellites come streaking down, and all

our batteries turn into beetles? Then

what? Books!

We'll be thrown back on books. Anyway,

will rise again don't you worry about it.

I'm writing a book about it for them

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

I will be yours

I can see where your eyes are going -
great big windows
little soul
and as far as what you'll do next, dear
there's no knowing
but I know
and as much as I've learned about you
and as much as you let me down
there's a fist in my chest
and it won't unclench
and it holds you forever now

And I will be yours,
and you will be somebody else's.
And as strong and as deep as my love is, you won't know.
But I will be yours,
and as dumb as I must be to say it -
still, feels good to say it.
It's good to be sure.

I can see where this life is going -
letting go, and
parting ways
And as long as you've walked beside me,
though your light goes -
your shadow stays.
And as good as your good advice is,
and as much as I know you're right -
We can be such good friends,
and the fun never ends,
and we won't ever cry or fight.

And I will be yours,
and you will be somebody else's.
and as strong and as deep as my love is, you won't care.
And I will be yours,
and you will be somebody else's.
I will try not to be so selfish -
so unfair

I can see where your eyes are going.
Great big windows,
little soul.
And as far as what you'll do next, dear:
there's no knowing.
But I know,

I will be yours,
and you will be somebody else's.
and I hope that he richly deserves it - I sure don't.
And I will be yours,
and you will be somebody else's.
And you'll feel just a twinge of conscience
(no you won't).

And as much as I've learned about you,
and as much as you've let me down -
there's a fist in my chest,
and it won't unclench,
and it holds you forever now.

Monday, February 23, 2015


I will turn my heart in on the way out.
I'm out of love, I won't fall now.
I'll turn my card in to the cashier.
Give me one last punch for the discount,
and get me outta here - get me out of here.

I've switched myths from Tantalus to Sisyphus.
Now it's time to let that whole huge rock roll over this
I bet I've got the Herculean intellect
it would take to make it through
all these labors you set, and I bet
as I make my out,
this abode of the dead won't miss me now
and I bet as I dive, swim back across
the Styx - all my memories of life aren't lost

I'll turn my heart in on the way out:
I'm out of love, I won't fall now.
I'll turn my card in to the cashier.
Give me one last punch for the discount,
get me outta here. 'Cause I'm out of here.
Get me out of here. I am outta here

I've switched tracks from corporate to business
- and I'm all that. I am roughshod over this.
With tact, diplomacy and love I'll bring war
- was there something else you were looking for?
And I guess, as I make my way through
this abode of the dead, I could plant some fruit
of the tree of the knowledge of the love we lost
- if it ever bears leaf, I'll be a long way off

I'll turn my heart in on the way out:
I'm out of love, I won't fall now.
I'll turn my card in to the cashier.
Give me one last punch for the discount,
get me outta here. 'Cause I'm out of here.
Almost out of here! Get me out of here

I'm on my way out,
I won't stop now,
I won't look back
- but I hope you will follow
I won't look back,
I trust in fate
- come Heaven or Hell,
I will wait by the gate.

...and I'll turn my heart in on the way out:
I'm out of love, I won't fall now!
Turn my card in to the cashier.
Gimme one last punch for the discount,
I'm almost outta here. Almost out of here!
Get me out of here. I will never be out of here

But I'll turn my heart in
on the way out.


I picture you
as days go by,
so far from days gone by,
so far
from dreams I had
of you and me,
taking hand in hand our days, to see
where paths and plans would lead -
not caring, really, for my part
what destiny or destination

I picture you so far
from there. The picture held
most everything, plus you and me
- but you, the only part of it
that meant it all, that I could see.
Oh, we could be surrounded
by majestic views - a mirror lake,
a rushing sea, a tree-lined cliff,
an ivied porch - my view was great.
I looked on you.

Whatever plot we might find out
to live upon and look out from,
my stunning view was in the light
that fell upon your face,
as you leaned in for me,
looked out on life -

That view meant more
than every place.

The world, the frame
- I let it go as meaningless.
I shouldn't have
done that, but see, the blame
belongs to you: in your clear eyes
and laughing voice
and lovely face
and to your lovely form,
and style, and sense of humor,
taste, and fun, and grace
- what else there was,
it was too easy to displace
the ground we'd walk on,
just as if
we didn't need the world
we'd find some other place to live,
to walk - I only knew if I'd have you
to walk to there, from anyplace.

And so I've lost my focus on
the paths and hills
and trees and flats
and empty wastes. I pictured you
in place of that, and now I've lost
my taste for ways. And walks,
and runs, and seas and cliffs -
the landscapes we could build upon
have all diminished in the mist
and left your hands, your lips
your hip, your thigh, your hair
your small of back, your calves
and ankles, toes, your eyes

- are closed in sleep.

And I lie back on other sides
of other worlds. And watch a re-play,
silver screens play faded white
and silent films until the ceiling fades
to dreams.

As days awake, I picture you.
So far from days gone by, so far
the days have left behind the one
I was, who thought that he could be
your movie star, your action hunk,
your silent clown, your kung fu opera
shaolin monk - I've laid those props
and costumes down. I still can play
your funny drunk, your confidant,
your comic voice, on telephone or
several other scenes and parts
that take some skill and worth to play.

I'm more an audience, these days.
I find a seat, and sit in dark. Watch old
forgotten movies spool - the only star
I come to see - the only one my ticket's worth.
The only one I'd give awards. The one who makes
you laugh, and die, and love, and hurt - I'd give that role
to you, you own that part. It's yours. You've played it once,
it plays a million times. The show
this theater only shows
these days. The only show for which
I'll stand in line.

I do walk out the doors, sometime. A smile
on my face, my feet
have found concrete, as I walk light
in dark upon the rain-slick street,
towards home at last. Or some
such thing. And maybe, pass
the perfect girl. And if our eyes should catch,
she'll smile. I'll nod. She knows

I've seen the world.

Thursday, February 19, 2015


Life is serious: don't make fun of it!
Life is dangerous: keep your distance.
Life is suffering.
Life is pointless.
That's its business - mind what yours is.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

"lighten up"

it didn't take a miracle
to make you change your mind
it must be easier for you
to measure and decide
there's everything you can't explain
I guess you shouldn't try, but
the breath you say you're wasting is
what's keeping me alive.
Anything you say?
- I'll hang on every word

And you say "Oh, lighten up, will you?
Lighten up. Will you lighten up?" You say
"Oh, lighten up, will you?"

I'm not here I can't believe
a single thing I've heard
you're just talking, just to speak.
I can't say a word.
Cover up the silences,
fill them up with dirt.
Isn't that the way
a conversation works?
Anything you say -
I hang on every word,

And you say "Oh, lighten up, will you?
Lighten up. Will you lighten up?" You say
"Oh, lighten up, will you?"
You say "Oh, lighten up, will you?
Lighten up. Will you lighten up?" You say
"Oh, lighten up, will you?"

Can't believe a thing I've heard
fallen from your lips today,
so if that's the final word
- what else can I say?
you talk to me like I'm a wall:
solid stone on solid ground,
but if it ever stood at all,
now it's broken down.
Anything you say.
I hang on every word.

I hang on every word and you say "Oh,
lighten up, will you? Lighten up.
Will you lighten up?" You say
"Oh, lighten up, will you?"
You say "Oh, lighten up, will you?
Lighten up. Will you lighten up?" You say
"Oh, lighten up, will you?"

Friday, February 06, 2015

White chocolate.

It's okay! White chocolate? It's
Ok. There's really nothing
wrong with it. It's not

- it's not "chocolate" really. It's good,
in some things,

as an ingredient, it can offer
a really marvelous texture complement
to some things, And

there's something about the sweet, blank space

it lays down
in the flavor landscape of the thing
you're biting into
that contains white chocolate,

that can be very...mysterious?

Evocative? Neutral in an aggressive way

and insisting on being considered
as essential.


Life isn't so bad
that you can't be optimistic
about the things you haven't seen
that might be nonexistent, but
that certainly inspire you

So beautiful
they are

it makes you want to take
a leap of faith
that far.

Thursday, February 05, 2015

melancholy is


is a beautiful word, and
you can't even say
how it comes about.

But usually, you've had a beautiful thing -
and life has immeasurably been enriched,
changing everything you've ever wanted from it,
making all sorts of things make sense from scratch
like they never did.

The only catch,
the only thing bad you could say about it:
is every day, you wake up to invent
the life you can live, that's nowhere
near spent,
that can do without
that beautiful thing. You can't

even say
how it came about.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

"I skipped the other day"

I skipped the other day -
you can skip,

when no one's watching.
Make of innocence such delicious guilt
-gilded pleasures,
like any childhood game.
In adulthood, the game becomes:

don't ever let them catch you playing

You can't let someone see
you skip,
but sometimes you have to
- shhhhh!

I had good reason,
too. I'd had a call
from somebody who'd been going non stop
bad news for weeks, me rationing commiseration
and hope, in equal measure - but
without much reason for either, when

I saw the phone light up,
my heart sank,

by then, it had been conditioned to.

All those bad news weeks, days in rows for months,
for someone you always loved
talking to.
And still do, but

- of course I picked up.

I left the place where people were,
I went out back, used the excuse
of a cigarette or two,
and was much lightened: two
of the worst three crises

had turned to triumph! And
I'd given advice
which she said she took all of.

But I didn't remember giving any.

Anyway, it helped,
and I skipped
all the way back. Except
when I crossed the doorway,
suddenly I realized
- I should walk a bit more normally.

Pity, that.

since ages since

It must be ages since I saw your soul
dancing behind your eyes. It must
be ages since I made your face hurt
from laughing. But you know,

I look round at the world, and
between you and me, it's every bit as funny

as it used to be.

Friday, January 09, 2015

"addict", or "crack die"

If the answer is yes,
I do not refuse.
If it's all for the best,
I will place my bets.
in this possible world, we can
-not lose,

now -

with so very much less to choose, left
with so very much less,
come on dice -

baby needs new shoes

"Can you make a mistake and miss your fate??"

Can you make a mistake and miss your fate??
When you saw all your years stretch down a path
that you somehow missed, some trip
on the way. Must have led you astray

your beautiful laugh
still holds all the notes.
All the music of life lived stoked,
lived loved, lived whole. Lived psyched,
but the tune pulls pain from heartstrings

A shadow of rain from every cloud,
an echo of gold in each glimpse of sun
recalls every last thing you knew you had

that was somehow lost. What a long strange trip

it must have been, love
that we fall to this -
and sprawled down this long strange path.

Was it destiny? Fate? Don't make me laugh,
please, if the joke's not true. Still the joke
is on us, either way. I do

know, and trust, that the joke was
good. I can smile myself. And you're such a good sport,

that it seems like hell
hath no fury to set against you. The report
On our fate

is a page too short.

Fate -
whatever it was
- has gone on its way
and has left us behind. Were there forks
in the road, that we missed? As we laughed
Did we act too slow? or move way too fast?
Have we killed too kind? As we shot,
locked-sure in some clear, cut joy
that was not
what it turned out to be. Were we blind?
Did we see? or ignore?
We both saw the same thing,
you know.

Either way, now
it's sure.

Destroy what was meant to be,
I guess.

it's gone.
Either way, we missed
Or else - we were wrong
from the very first guess.
From the very first glimpse
of the path we thought
looked like such a good bet!

and has come to naught,

"Not yet, not yet!" - no:
it's come to this.


has gone on its way, and left us behind. And
you don't really miss, and
I can't really say, but
I don't really mind
so much anymore.
I could stray and stray
by your side, explore any way this strange road
has to take, my bride (
once-to-be, now not)
-to-be, so let it lie.

Can you make a mistake and miss your fate?

If I'm part of your fate, you have not missed me.
I can't speak for the rest. Can you miss your fate?
If the answer's yes, if our chance
is past,
if our fate must deny
and refuse us that path -

still I'm glad we asked.

Thursday, January 08, 2015


people say you should disregard 
all kinds of stuff, and 
"it's just the personality" 
that counts, but me


 I put the whole person 
considered as one including the whole package, 
and everything in it.
If you ask me, is every quality that goes into making them the person you recognize. And no-one else

 what makes them them, 
or me me, or you you -
why leave anything off or out? What part
of the person you love

"doesn't matter?"

Not one bit.
- not setting aside even
one's wee-wee or hoo-hoo, but 
incorporating the whole thing in toto and suddenly,
you're NO WHERE NEAR KANSAS and seeing colors
 that weren't invented a second ago

I believe 

People truly love the whole person, 
or are missing something. To pick out and love
just one part

some chipped-off shard,
what you yourself lack, I suspect
 cast it aside
as unworthy. Jealous 

Lover, you miss
the whole person
 for all they are, can't see
the far greater sum 

you focus on a part. Nope,
that short sharp sighted approach -
slice, cut out what you say is worth less
- is not for me.

Love this, if it's not too much
to love: mind heart disposition sense of humor character, sure, 
soul if you got some, yes, eyes, 
smile, laugh
face body and blood and
glory hallelujah.

Love that

all. The package
deal. and set aside
nothing as if unimportant, nothing 
as if meaningless.

 There is nothing shallow
In the one I love. Her skin deep 
goes for miles and years, 
and never reach the end of it.
You can't break her down,
atomizing dissected aspects 
giving each different weights. No,

I take the one I love all together, altogether,
all I am is for her, all of her.
 all the way, and I won't miss one thing.
That's how a person can love another person. 
To bits and back again, no stray piece left
I love you, love, and

God damn, you
 are entirely beautiful

Friday, December 26, 2014

beyond burned

A heart is a mountain made out of wood,

With roots that stretch
to the depths of the earth.

And we hate and we fear
that we'll ever get burned,

As our heart stands,
waiting its turn. Waiting its test,

 as an infinite fuel
awaits its birth. 

It will burn forever and never run out.

The thing in my nature that makes me your man,
and leaves me no doubt,
is every and all of the things

That I am.

and it will not learn

nature dies.,
But it will not learn.

beyond burned

A heart is a mountain made out of wood,
With roots that stretch
to the depths of the earth.

And we hate and we fear
that we'll ever get burned,
As our heart stands,

waiting its turn. As an infinite fuel
awaits its birth.