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.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

"where you been"

I'll tell you when I can, where I've been,
I will tell - when I can without
crying, or lying, without
feeling like these

are words we could both do without

you hearing, me having to cast
in such definite terms
all that stupid confusion
and doubt. I will tell you
when it helps,
and you'll trust me to know
when it can,
or it must,
or it does
come out.

homework advice

Side note: to anyone who thinks
it's better not for one's life's heart's work
to be assigned, for anyone who thinks
it's better not to set targets, but
rather one should just let flow
whenever you feel like it; to anyone who worries
the quality of art might suffer
because you "forced it,"

proof's in the pudding my friends.
#1 a work done wrong once
can be done right again, once
it's done once at all. And you can take that
gem from the bank, in the rough
- now that it's been found, mined, now
that it exists, it has weight in the hand
- later on, you can return to it again; it
can be polished, refined, recast and re-set -
and perhaps a new and fantastic work
will be the result you get. And yet,
you never would have had the first
raw chance to make a thing of it, if
you hadn't gotten off your ass
and made yourself
make a thing.

You can't argue
with results like those, for
what you do today in no way constrains,
prevents, or uses up

what you can do tomorrow.

Only what you fail to do today constrains.
Prevents, uses up what you will no longer later
be capable of. So,

Not advice, perhaps.

It's a god-damn harangue. Class,

Please open your books
to page one.

shitty, timid art

or for shitty, timid art,
some big intimidating thing -
Well to be perfectly honest,
I don't view poems as anything
consequential myself! I say most art

should be the tossed-off
spawn of an impulsive moment.
But it's cool and important also
to be able to get caught
up in the moment, and suddenly
want to put a ton of work

into something!

I don't think
that can happen, though

- I don't think it's possible TO get caught
up, if one's approach
to art, in general

is that a given work ought to be consequential.

If a person thinks art ought to be,
in practice I think that tends to make
for either no art,
or
for shitty, timid art.

Monday, February 08, 2016

St. Valentine's Day

There's never been another I'd love like I've loved you for so long
I know I've never made myself clear enough on this.
I was a coward
but nothing could matter to me more than your happiness
and though I've lost myself before, now
I'm ready to accept the risk

if you have ever believed enough that you'd die for it
you'd know that isn't a thing you would want to come out and admit
- like St. Valentine
like St. Valentine's Day
- like St. Valentine
Like Saint Valentine's Day

so what they tell you 'bout love is: you must love yourself about all things
that hasn't made any sense, since I first saw you
I held back
afraid, I guess
I guess I paid the price.
But now I'm ready to meet with lions
I'm ready to be sacrificed

Whatever sacrifice I have to pay to declare my love
I know what I know is right and I'm willing to take what comes
- like St. Valentine
like St. Valentine's Day
- like St. Valentine
Like Saint Valentine's Day

- my heart is read, papered 'round in lace, it's an offering
to you
- I've never been such a tragic type,
until you pierced it right straight through
like St. Sebastian, yeah so can call out the guards and the firing squads,
and give me the chair.
'Cause if there's even a heaven I know that you'll have to be there -

like St. Valentine.

Friday, February 05, 2016

Here's Looking

As Royalties and Kings come
in slumming, in gangs

while the sages
and the doctors have concocted
surprise,

though I stand upon a gallows,
my head Will Not Hang.
Nor Will I

ever, willingly,
be the one

to break contract
that has long been read, said
and done, bled
'til it dries, and signed
in my contact

with you,

bright eyes.

innocence knows

Innocence
knows full well,
I suspect you
knew that, girl
boy! Or will,
shall you? I suspect!
as much as you did. Innocence
knows this: it is innocence
that's bliss. You can live,
of the mind, ignorant
and kiss, flirt
parley with death
'til you part.
Sad. Cruel,
cried
all the way home, boo hoo hoo
hoo hoo hoo, from the deep, dark
heart, of the stormy night
it was, and then
hark!
Be denied.
For in ignorance,
you lose.
Every chance at
bliss you might have had
by not seeing whose
was the benefit. Yours?
Oh no,

you know better. It's fine.
Ignorance has got about the spirit
of the letter, but has lost
(or never had) quite the presence
of mind.
Innocence knows better.
It's struck less than half-blind, and of more
than half a mind to know
best.

And you know,
I think you already knew.
For there isn't any test
to make sure what's true.
You've been innocent of all,
free at last! Yes, declared,
dropped, charges and all:
as you try to see past,
I can see right through,
I guess: you dare,
oh, your little act
of love, does it show?
do you care, that your little
who hoo cuckoo cheek-coup routine
of play, your white flag,
your white dove, oh
- so, innocence
is bliss? Did I hear you
say? Well,
Yes.
Yes, it is.

And you know what else?

Ignorance
isn't.

Not even close, you know. But when you're so
far off the mark, you don't even know
what you hit. Let alone what's
missing.

There isn't any shame, in it
though. Only prison

Innocence knows blest.
Knows best. Knows
bliss, and as to the rest, well
- it isn't what
it thinks
it is

Thursday, February 04, 2016

Roses Are

See, perfect example. The above has all the earmarks (or hallmarks?) of a "modern poem."

* mostly prose
* novelty line breaks
* subtle if any rhyme

This gives your verse
an incredible amount of loose,
groovy freedom - but

WARNING! It does NOT

make poetry writing EASIER! If anything,
the lack
of a safety net, the lack
of an even force of gravity to pull you down, keep you

able to tell up
versus down, even - the lack

of all that
restraint and equipment,
basically - frees you up to FAIL!

, if you're not careful

Most modern poetry is a perfect example.

Mine, just
right up above
us, there - ? Well,
admittedly, less so. Far
short of a perfect example of
that sort

of thing.

That's the risk you take. Free verse is for REALS, yo.

I just wanted to point that out, because

sometimes people

are like
"This museum piece looks like my special needs kindergartener's imaginary BLIND FRIND took a SHIT on a NAPKIN and slapped it up on the refridgerator like the proverbial asshole sittin' in Pie Corner with plumbs on his thumbs." That's pretty much a cliché,
in the red
-blooded just-us
-folks world

of art critique

, in these days, ever since
hey! they finally gave up
on the sort-of progress that had been
captivating snoots for a while, by then.

You

look at some free-form MASTERPIECE
, and go "SHIT!
I could do that without even WANTING to
."

But it's just as important to note
-
the same thing applies in poetry
! It's
just poetry

never had a chance
to get bastardized by the Modernist
Hijack so bad, because poetry

wasn't in competition with photography
in quite the same way.
(That painting was.) Fine

Arts Painting basically felt itself

threatened,
grew desperate,
freaked out like a SPAZZ
into a corner and
DIED there, trying
to find even one
decent
plump

remnant

wedged into a beveled aluminum crease of a by-then-
long-since way
-too-picked
-over PIE PLATE. And let me tell you!

There is nothing inspirational about the wafting aroma
of the curdles and scrapes and streaks of remains
of purple-pulped pie juice that looks and smells
like it has been sitting out

, in a room-temperature room
, since the beginnings of the ends of days. Bacteria,
mold - you name it.

And yeast
- trying trying to eat
what's left of the sugar, but
there's not even enough moisture for poor little mister
yeast to shit out a proper alcohol molecule
as a by-product! Art,

basically,

became spoiled

and so I just wanted to make sure you're aware of the pitfalls
- the same thing hasn't QUITE

happened to poetry yet, so!

be careful, but have fun.
Just
make
sure you're not the one,

to fuck up poetry for EVERY ONE TO
COME

GENERATIONS

AFTER

OKAY??

There's no

Nobel Prize

for that.

"pass a note"

I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, I'm
so

sick a me
hit in on
you
take the shot
Take! the Shot!!
no! you don't even seem to
move. You don't seem to feel no,
impact no pain no
gain
no distortion
catch spark - no flame,
I'm so sick of my poor battered
battering ram
of the skull
to the wall
papered all in vain, not - say,
what am I,
sane?

I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, and for you
- not a scratch, not a dent
not a crack! not
a vent, this volcano's blowing over
all the smoke's been spent, but yet

oh, here it goes again. No,

here it comes again. No,
here it comes again and will you even notice
when?

There appears to be some rule
of the universe, here. We are Force Equals
mass times whatever, it's clear
where the object irresistible
hits immovable force - "hey man, do you like,
like me?" Who me? Well,

Sure!

Of course.

What are you trying to SAY?

Speak more plain, please.

(drum solo)

I'm so sick of me hittin on you!
Like a fist
to the heart pound, thump
skip, beaten and through, I'm so sick of me
hitting on you, this is not, really my kinda style of
strict kung fu, and I'm sick of me
hitting on you.
Knock it off!
Cut it out,
man. Even Bruce Lee can't outbox
a rock statue of Muhammad Ali.

Two particularly quite sexy men, by the way, but don't kid
yourself Ali's statue
isn't even going to notice that dead Chinese guy
all...

flailin' at him.

He's just that stoic. Take
a lesson from a poet, or - if you must!
remain in school, and maybe pass a note! Man up,
Grow up, and
pass a fucking note up the row,
or something

Huh?

Cause man? That's childish man. Childish

Tuesday, February 02, 2016

"Cross your fingers"

If the refrigerator light
stays on in the dark, and if
just through the door,
there's a national park, and if
deep in the center, there's a sacred grove -

if a tree falls by chance on a crock of gold,

Will a rainbow break out, arc and hold in the sky
as a kind of alarm?
Will there be an outcry
to shock us from our beds?

So we rush to the door
- throw it open, grab hold
of the bottle we know
is the coldest and best
for emergencies, now
- and pour.

We have found

that in trouble and doubt,
we have had to learn how.
And at least, we have tried.
Who can sleep anymore?
Since the luck has run out.
Since we looked out, and saw
we've let every tree
fall.

Did the first make a sound?

But how could it? It had already died
after all, after all,
after all.

"It was not meant to be
after all,"

she lied;
closed the book

by its cover,
her eyes on the world,
her heart on the end of the story,

and sighed.

Friday, January 22, 2016

"Close The Door"

if you close the door I will cease to exist,
you won't track me down from the clues I left
all scattered around, you know
they point nowhere now

if you close the door I'll remove my head
and reveal myself as the alien dead,
go back to my planet and report
that love is unsound

but I'd rather be human with you

and you know you make me feel like
I was one

and I want to be new and improved,
and you said you want it too
and then you said you wanted to
run

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Shall I compare thee best to a sausage?

Shall I compare thee best to a sausage?
Thou art sweeter, yet no less savory for it -
and of buns, you require none but thine own.
Of heat and steam, thine is the more wholesome entirely!
You freshen the air splendidly, and all who breathe in it
are wakened to a hunger not merely bodily in nature,
but of soul and of mind, transcending to realms ethereal
and empyrean. In form thou art more delightfully various;
in face, certainly had any sausage a face, we would scream
to see it! Yet upon thee, nothing could sit lovelier
than the dulcet light
within thine eyes,
shining in and upon the song
and the dance
of expression that passeth
in every glance
of the play
of thy face.
Shall a sausage fit
to compare with this
ever be ground, or stuffed,
or hung? Methinks,
fuck no. No fucking way in hell pal
Not too fucking likely.

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

I BEAT WIVES!

I BEAT WIVES!

I BEAT WIVES!

I BEAT WIVES, I CHECK MATES AND THEN I MAKE THE MATES KING ME
IN CHECKER GAMES, THEN I BREAK THE RECORDS THEY BRING ME,
CUTTIN' SCRATCHIN OFF THE NAME OF EVERY HUSBAND'S CONSORT
THEN I WRITE MY NAME IN OVER, THAT'S A NEW HIGH SCORE
AND I'M A VERY GOOD SPORT! AND I SHOOT, AND I DUNK,
AND THEN I FAKE HER OUT HER SHOES, AND EVERYTHING ELSE, PUNK!
AND THEN WHEN VICTORY'S DECLARED IT'S LIKE "SO WHAT ELSE IS NEW?"
I'M ALWAYS RUNNING UP THE SCORE ON YO WIFE, SHE'S ALL THROUGH
FINALLY THROWING IN HER TOWEL AND YEAH, WHATEVER ELSE, HELL
I BEAT WIVES!! AND THEY LOVE IT CAUSE I WIN SO WELL!
I DON'T KNUCKLE, I PINOCHLE EVERY DAMN MAN'S SPOUSE
AND SHE'S LIKE OOH, WHAT WAS THE WAGER ON THAT?

THE WHOLE HOUSE!!

I BEAT WIVES!

Explanatory note: this is the latest smash hit from M.C. Ogynist, a full-on satire rape persona

"A Lucky Man"

He who finds
a woman true
to stand by him, 'til forever is through
She puts his needs
ahead of her own,
and he'll do the same for her,
'cause he knows

He is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man,
and all that I can do is
pretend to be him,
for a little while.

He who finds
a woman fair,
with right and wrong so strong in her stare
For him she'll choose
for better and best,
and he'll do the same, 'cause he knows
he's blest, oh

He is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man,
and all that I can do is
pretend to be him,
for a little while.

He is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man.
All I ever do is
pretend to be him,
for a little while.

And when I find
a woman good
to treat me right, like I wished someone would
For her I'll strive,
and I'm the best I can be,
until she finds a better man than me, and

he is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man,
all I ever do is
pretend to be him,
for a little while.
Oh, he is a lucky man.
He is a lucky man!
Girl you know you made me
believe I was him,
for a little while.
For a little while,
oh for a little while, I was

a lucky man.

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

reason to

I've been told
there is reason to believe, and I don't
see anything but
I trust the source. Whatever's ahead
could well cut off mine.
But if asked, I will say
I believe. Of course!

Monday, December 28, 2015

Brightens As It Destroys

To hell with the cracks
in your perfect façade
that goes all the way down
is that all that you got?

Because that would be odd.

I have something for that,
it's corrosive, it blinds,
yes - you guessed it - it's love

it was all I could find,
but it sure does the job.

Irish Wedding Blessing

Wherever you stray, may you bring them love,
And when you return, bear love back home.
May your fields grow green under gentle rains,
Surrounded by walls of white fieldstone
And may nothing but good ever come through your gate.
Wherever you two lay heads to rest,
May sweet night's sleep be your only dark,
And the light of each day shine on better and best.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

maybe soulmates

Maybe all soulmates
are born in regrets:
missed you this time, babe
catch me the next

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

"Pretend We're On Fire"


We have seen the future,
and it has passed us by.
And you watched it going
until it burned your eyes
and you can think it over
about a million times,
all your life
'til heaven and hell burn alike
We thought we'd burn forever
and never turn to ash
now we can find the answers,
but no one's going to ask
and we can rake it over,
but all the coals are spent.
All your life
if you could believe in it, again

We could pretend that we're on fire, again
burn twice as bright as normal life
see the glow reflected in imaginary eyes
We can pretend that we're on fire, again
You and I remember what it's like
And it will never be, again
but we can pretend

We were so amazing,
We knew it in our hearts -
and the world was crazy
but we were really smart.
We could see the future
was just about to start,
just about
when everything else fell apart
and as it fell around us,
we knew that we'd shine through.
We were burning so bright,
and everything was fuel.
Every fresh disaster,
we'd turn it into light -
until life
diminished, and faded from sight

Well we can pretend that we're on fire, again
burn twice as bright as normal life
see the glow reflected in imaginary eyes
We can pretend that we're on fire, again
You and I remember what it's like
And it will never be, again
but we can pretend

We were meant for greatness.
We knew it in our bones,
and the world acclaimed us
in ringing golden tones.
All our dues were paid up,
we called in all our loans.
It was time.

The future would bloom like a rose

Friday, December 11, 2015

brain like a book

Your garbled plots so think and dense and twisty don't make any sense
I see them spelled out plain as day, in squiggly lines on matter gray
I can read your brain
like a book
I can read your brain
like a book, but it's gibberish, dear
you should try to think more clear

the first few chapters lost their hold when you gave up on the lies you sold
between the lines I read out loud to your increasing shame and doubt,
I can read your brain
like a book
I can read your brain
like a book, but it's gibberish, dear.
You should try to think more clear.

I can read your brain
like a book
I can read your brain
like a book, but it's gibberish, dear.
You should try to think more clear.


What if you really wanted to put it out there in ink?
What if you came out and say what you try so hard not to think?
Why do you try to conceal, when it's spelled out plain to see?
And I -

I can read.

I can read your brain
like a book
I can read your brain
like a book, but it's gibberish, dear.
You should try to think more clear.

spice

Regret is a bitter spice, fit only
to season dishes prepared in the past
by the master chef called Spite,
for future consumption cold
during solitary banquets of colorless dolor,
in the impeccable oneness of years to come,
handmade by our own dumb complicity,
as we sit motionless marching through minutes
of exquisite dimness, folding into hours
of powerfully harrowing shallowness
before listing, and toppling listlessly into days
of sameness, piling up into weeks
of plain, dull pain,
until finally

- anesthetized by an endless injection
of the sumptuous numbness of numberless months,
we succumb, and conclude
that in the end -

regret is a bitter spice,
and we ought to find better
ways to season our food.

Thursday, December 03, 2015


Here in my heart, and
everywhere else,
you and I always
will have the future -
which we turned
away from years ago
- or at least,

I will. And you did. I know
you had all of that future, too,
back then, when you broke into mine
(it was an inside job) and we built so many
roads and plans, and all different dream homes,
and every stretch, every stitch,
every stick still stands.

You can't abandon a future so dreamed-
and lived-in that you see it in front of you
every day, while everywhere you walk,
you walk away.
sideways rain, today
the weather is always
here in my heart, it
is today again. And again, and
over everyone I ever knew,
it slows to a stop
for you. And you
alone like me,
stretch your neck
to see out the window
what kind of day will it be

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

it was all

I missed the part
where it was all just a dream.
I guess that it makes more sense
now, though. It certainly was
an improbable ride,
and such a long way to go - now I know,
I should probably conduct myself differently,
as if woken up, coffee in cup, and punched in
but I still seem to see everything
just the same as it's always been.

Thursday, November 19, 2015

practice fall

She's got a lot to prove,
and none of it true
- but what do you want her to do? And worse:
what is she going to decide to do first?
It's better, I guess, to plan
for the worst. If you now interrupt,
the process could stop and start over
again facing right towards you,
as the chief obstacle.
How are you as a wall?
An immovable object? If not,
practice fall.

Monday, November 16, 2015

"How Sweet"

It was a figure of speech,
but I would take you at your word.
And I would put it where it counts,
if I heard what I heard.
And you could add them all up,
and just one more for luck,
and one more for a wish -
I just need to know this
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

If I didn't mis-hear,
If you're really sincere
I don't make promises much,
but I would kiss your butt -
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

Kiss it goodbye

It was a figure of speech
but with a figure like yours
from my lips to god damn
I would freely explore
if I could kiss and make it better
that's hard to believe
if I could kiss to make it bad,
that'd be alright with me
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?
'Cause you could add them all up,
and just one more for luck,
and one more for a wish -
I just need to know this:
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

Kiss it goodbye

I'd never kiss it goodbye

You could add them all up,
and just one more for luck,
and one more for a wish -
I just need to know this
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?
If I could kiss to make it better -
that's hard to believe,
if I could kiss to make it bad,
that'd be alright with me,
How sweet is your behind?
And can I really kiss it?

Kiss it goodbye

Friday, November 13, 2015

windows

I see the world in your eyes,
and I am outside.

But if I let you close,
I can see myself

Reflected in you
at least, part
of the view

A secret
so big,
I was sure
we both knew

But the eyes
are the windows, they say -
in this cell,

I know your eyes are. And outside,
I can tell it's a beautiful world,
but I can't get in. I can breathe,
I can see, but as long as I look
I will never be free
again.

Friday, November 06, 2015

to go order

Whip up a frothy cup of yourself
and say, "I do believe it's hot,
I do believe it's sweet, I do
believe it's good, I do" and then
taste carefully and see. Sometimes,
you have to be your own mocha. Sometimes
mocha is not what you want.

little white loves

instead of lying about
your hair looks good, or
your outfit, or the dinner you cooked
is great, honey - why not pick specific
aspects to honestly praise? this part, this
one thing or these several
things just need, need
to be mentioned, captured
your gaze and your breath away
as well, and make love

to the highlights. Love is

loving someone for the best they are,
anyway. Oh you love all they are! regardless,
because

it is this person. You love

You've been converted.
Convicted. Have courage, then
it is no longer a critical concern
- the whole
damn wonderful is
great! But when asked

about some smaller aspect,

No need to lie. Just lead
with the best, lead with what is
striking, lead with what's remarkable. Isn't the best
simply more remarkable? Yes
maybe it is a little
dishonest to blind them with a truth
about the minor good part, such that
they forget you've perhaps not offered
your rounded view
on the whole.

It is
a little misleading, maybe,
to lead with the best. To leave them
with an all good review, of only part
of what they asked, that makes them feel
great - but so what! what's
more dishonest motherfucker!!
Tell a flat out LIE? that
the thing "is good"? Fuck that!
I MAKE PEOPLE LOVE THEIR FUCKING DAY with this shit
and meanwhile, all you do

is rehearse to deceive

and practice to have them swallow it.

Swallow it, while you smile
and say it's good,
it's all good.
Your little white love

is a lie

ornament

However I live is stringless gift,
I need neither wind, nor string
nor tail,
nor even kite,
to generate lift
- or at least I hope,
and at most I'll fail.

I'm not the kind of puppet
to dangle from strings, or hang
from rope, or at least I hope.

I'm the other kind.

The kind with wings,
and an infinite arm
stuck up my behind

Tuesday, November 03, 2015

Say Hi.

Your headline was long ago.
It's taken you down this road
and nobody really knows -
what's become of you?
But everyone just assumes
that things move in courses smooth
and everyone's going to get
- what they're going to get.
So why not you?

Say hi to the executioner.
no need to be rude to him or her!
he or she is only doing their job.
it's not their fault
you can't get off.
Don't believe the pardon's coming through
no surprise to anyone but you
but don't you take it out on anyone
it's not their fault
your time has come.

Taking a lonely meal
fixed you your favorite one
the cutlet is underdone -
could be bad for you
Taking a lonely walk
so tell me, what else is new?
At least it's the final one
it's been so long!
We're almost through

Say hi to the executioner.
no need to be rude to him or her!
he or she is only doing their job.
it's not their fault
you can't get off.
Don't believe the pardon's coming through
no surprise to anyone but you
but don't you take it out on anyone
it's not their fault
your time has come.

Say hi to the executioner.
don't you take it out on him or her
he or she is only doing their job.
It's not their fault.
You can't get off.
Don't believe the pardon's coming through
no surprise to anyone but you
but there's no need to be rude to anyone
it's not their fault
your time has come.

Sit in an empty room.
The mirror is all 1-way
and nobody's on your side
just like everyday.
The words of a long-lost prayer
remind you of childish things
if I should wake up,
before I die -
from this falling dream

Say hi to the executioner.
no need to be rude to him or her!
he or she is only doing their job.
it's not their fault
you can't get off.
Don't believe the pardon's coming through
no surprise to anyone but you
but don't you take it out on anyone
it's not their fault
your time has come.

Thursday, October 29, 2015

like you different

the different thing you're doing with your hair -
I like it like it
the dress you've got I've never seen you wear
I like it like it
that new tattoo - hey when did you get that?
I like it like it
since last I saw you, it's a brand new act
I like it like it

your - hey, oh, shit - wait
sorry!

I thought you were somebody else

I thought you were somebody else.

That's awkward, but
I don't take any of it back.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

"giant monster movie"

She's a little bitty girl just a little bitty girl not much to look at
She's as sweet as can be, it isn't easy to see that she could stomp your world flat
She's no mutant at all, it's just that she's got a natural knack for havoc
You think you might want a piece, but you won't want it where she's
gonna let you have it,
She's on a rampage run for your lives
Amazing colossal, Tokyo size
She's radiating fire from her eyes,
Just cover and hide, man
She's a giant monster movie
She's a giant monster movie
And there's no early alarm ain't to time of a month she just can't be predicted
And don't be fooled by her charm, you push it over the line your scales are gonna get Richtered
Yeah if you're in her way, better evacuate, find a stampeding crowd and blend in
for your own sake, if you're in her path she's gonna flatten that ass
hey do you wanna be pancaked?
She's on a rampage run for your lives
Amazing colossal, Tokyo sighs
She's radiating fire from her eyes,
Just cover and hide, man
She's a giant monster movie
She's a giant monster movie
Guitar solo
Drums solo
Bass solo
Explosion!
She's on a rampage run for your lives
Amazing colossal, Tokyo sighs
She's radiating fire from her eyes,
Just cover and hide, man
She's a giant monster movie
She's a giant monster movie

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

reveille

As another dream dies, another day dawns. Let us not mourn the night
until evening comes, and the day's hope proves to have died once more.
So to sleep, so to dream, and perchance

to snore.

look the part

I'm adrift no one else even knows what I'm doing. They only know
the things they funnel my way, and that stuff
once funneled never, doesn't ever come back. I need
to start dressing more ominously in black,
and speaking in clipped sentences
with a subliminal hint of menace.

Monday, October 19, 2015

loved & lost

oh
how
good it is to see you!
You're in my eyes - everyday and oh,
how
good it is to know you
'll never go away.
Never go away, you
taught
me
so much of what love means
love
I
never knew before
love
I'll never know again -
what'd you teach me for, then?
what'd you teach me for?
is it better - is it all better?
is it better to know me?
is it better - is it all better?
was it good for you to?
is it better - is it all better?
can you hear this violin, 'cause I
love
you

and I've lost everything.

before
I
didn't know what I was missing
now
I
know it through and through, I can't
unlearn what you have given, and
I know I shouldn't want to. I shouldn't want to!
if life
could
be that damn amazing
you'd think
that's
a thing you'd want to know
but I can't
unsee
the heights you've shown me
I'm still falling from them,
since you let me go
is it better - is it all better?
is it better to know me?
is it better - is it all better?
was it good for you to?
is it better - is it all better?
can you hear this violin, 'cause I
love
you

and I've lost everything.

all the love you ever had
all the love you've made
what if you could find one love
to leave them in the shade?
make them seem ridiculous,
inadequate and small
that's the love you taught to me
what'd you teach me for?

Is it better. Is it all better?
Is it better to know me?
Is it better - is it all better?
Was it good for you to?
Is it better - is it all better?
Can you hear this violin, 'cause I
love
you

and I've lost everything.

talking to you

talking to you is like waking up
alive inside the mind of a bird, the taste
of the juice of a drought-sweetened peach; how
a sudden memory can astonish - like remembering
how you smelled as a baby. In Australia,
do pineapples roll uphill? It couldn't be true,
but it must be so. Gravity is what sugars the stars,
little ones and you'll know
when the dawn comes: flowers
open up in a tremble of birdsong
and for once,

it doesn't need to make sense

and does anyway.

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!
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.
Icky,
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.

Use
colored
chalk
.

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

LOOK OUT

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,

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

her.

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.