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.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Tuesday, March 07, 2017

the witness

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

it didn't.

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

did not make a sound.

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

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

Let us have one minute's silence.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017

execution style

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


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

if that's what you want.

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

I'm not giving up on it.

Post-op ward

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

Friday, January 27, 2017

exclusive committed

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

to observe.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

hurry on, torchbearer

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

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

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

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

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

that I light this torch, and I hold it high

as if lost in the mist of its heavenly scent, or
what passes for it.

universe plans

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

sometimes three

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

I am

or am trying to go.

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

So I ask: why bother with those?

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

so easy to read from inside.

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

to decide.

Monday, January 23, 2017

"Distress Damsel"

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

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

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

let's get you out

of distress,

Shall we?

"Nothing dirty"

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

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

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

disappointing forecast

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

Friday, January 06, 2017


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

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

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

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

I imagined some of them might
have been annoyed.

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

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

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

some of them do

Thursday, January 05, 2017


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

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


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

My Inner Kirk II: The Wrath

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

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

Wednesday, January 04, 2017

Film Review in Poem Form #1: Casablanca

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

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

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

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

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

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

to sacrifice everything
for a hard, bad cause:

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

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

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

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

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

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

she walks in with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

because all of a sudden, she walks in.

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

she was going to end up with.

stupid intelligent

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

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

they tell me. PLEASE

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

Tuesday, January 03, 2017

"Sell-By Date"

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

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

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

So sure

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

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

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

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

So sure

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

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

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

Monday, January 02, 2017

hypothetical panties

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

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

cannot tell

Friday, December 30, 2016

chance conversations

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

"Crush On Everyone"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, December 26, 2016

Against you

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

Friday, December 23, 2016

more pictures of you

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


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

Friday, December 16, 2016

a few clowns short of a nightmare

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

kind of insulting
how weak in impact my nightmares
always are

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

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

and all I am is watching.

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

a few clowns short of a nightmare (original draft)

sorry. That's all I got.

The concept's too freaky to proceed with

Some "poem"

"some snowflake"

Some snowflake you are

ten stories wide and gigantically

descending to crush this gingerbread city

englobed in glass, special

and unique, like the end of every world

always is. In some higher dimension,

the lovely cataclysm you bring

will be stocked, shelved and sold,

a commemorative paperweight

in a tchotchke shoppe. They will lift

and shake it up, but reenactment

can't cancel the event. You drift,

special and unique, uniquely,

simply every single one of you

different, crashing down, crushing

delightfully, implacably you,

as usual.

Monday, October 17, 2016

the fire-place

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

then full.

Friday, October 14, 2016

demon eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's how deals get squared.

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

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

who can tell right from wrong. A courageous sight.

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

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

Don't worry.

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

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

Break Up Monday

Well I know you're not happy with me
and I have to accept any blame
it's too easy to see how it is
or to say it won't be the same
I remember us flying so high
now it's like we've embraced for a crash
but we've been wading so deep
through this hell of a week
we shouldn't do anything rash

We can break up Monday
and not ruin the weekend
we could be together
we could be ourselves again

Well we could both walk out the door right now
but we'd have to come back for our stuff
and it's hard to adjust to the thought
of the two of us not in love
we'd be miserable being alone
even more than we've been in the past
and I know that these may
not be reasons to stay, but hey
don't be a pain in the ass

We can break up Monday
and not ruin the weekend
we can be together
we can be ourselves again
if we break up Monday
I could be your good friend
we could break up Monday
or we could change our minds again

Well I know I'm not happy with you
but I've never been happy with me
and I don't want to break up with myself
as dysfunctional as it seems
and as hard as your life has become
do you think that the reason is us?
we can say we weren't right
for the rest of our lives
I don't see a reason to rush

Well, we can break up Monday
not ruin the weekend
we can be together
we can be ourselves again
if we break up Monday
we can still be good friends
if we break up Monday
we can change our minds again

Thursday, October 13, 2016

le cinema

I never walk out on a movie
I don't care how bad it is
I put down my fucking money
and I want to see how it ends.
I want to watch the credits roll,
and I want to know who's responsible,
and maybe it's not so bad after all.
Or take my life, for instance
could use a more interesting plot
could use some more believable characters
or any discernible theme, but
maybe it's just post-modernist
maybe it's fucking art-house flick
the dialogue's not so well-written,
but maybe it's just naturalistic.
Maybe it's for an effect.
Hence the unsympathetic hero,
whose exploits just bore you to tears
hence the lack of compelling situations,
and the badly faked accents - maybe
it's for an effect.
I still want to see how it ends.
Even if maybe it sucks.

I still want to see how it ends.
And I want to watch the credits roll,
and I want to know who's responsible,
and maybe it's not so bad after all
but I'm not walking out.

I just hope they don't pull
that one stunt I can't stand,
that bull shit wizard of oz move
- where at the end, the lead character wakes
to discover it was all just a dream.
What a waste of time it makes
the whole thing seem.


We should amuse
ourselves with the universes
that could have been if we'd
chosen otherwise, but we should immerse
ourselves in this: because it is.
And we were wise.

Friday, October 07, 2016

rhymes with

The regional origins of the orange
are largely indifferent
to the linguistic picture, when
the stresses and pronunciations
of the original syllables are considered
as merely constituent elements
of essentially separate phenomic constructs
that have since spread everywhere, and there
undergone their own regionally-distinct
evolutions. Nevertheless, and without
unnecessary convolutions I would be willing to say:

May I have
an orange,

I ask you

how could there be confusion?

Wednesday, October 05, 2016

further along

Further along, as the world
rolls round - I will never
catch up to you, somehow
but I keep catching notes
that you throw in the air.
They encourage me: keep
hanging on,


signs of who is toxic and should simply therefore be given up on

Some people are not reliable.
Some people are procrastinators.
Some are known to lie. Often, certain
indicators, certain triggers are there,
such as "didn't want to hurt the person's
feelings!" So they lie, and some people
don't care.
Some people have a temper.
Some people are closed. They won't talk
about what's going on inside and share woes.
Some people share huge, deep - and need you too,
Some people need a whole lot of sex.
Do you? Some people don't want sex
at all, or hardly any.
Some people close down, when they blame you
for pain. Some people bear a grudge.
Some people get too jealous, act wild
and insane. And some
don't get jealous enough - don't they care?
Some people act sometimes as if you're
not even there. And some will hang all over you,
empty with need.

These are signs of potential toxicity.

Some people get too bothered by something, some get
not bothered enough, for the other person's liking.
Some people are fantastic with conflict, so
they think - direct and disarming, with charm
and a wink. While others shun conflict entirely, or
- they approach it indirectly. Some people hate that.
Call you "passive-aggressive." Accuse you of sneak.

The are signs that a person could be toxic and weak.

When you break out in hives, hyperventilate, rage
swims through your eyes, widening in sunrise hues
You see red, feel yellow and it dawns on you: no matter
what you do, try, say or change, this person is
poison to you.

It seems strange, since so many other people don't seem
to see. They get along fine. They seem to enjoy.
They interact well, and associate free: well,
they must just be fooled by their act. "Not me!"

It is never not you.

If no matter what you do, it will not work out;
if the interaction's sick, and it's time for a shot
- but you know it won't get well: well, we must operate.
Cut the limb off at the hip. Walk away, feel great
- it was poisoning you, and you don't need it.

These are the signs of a toxic fit.

People have you in their life
because they want you there.
If that's not true, you should feel
a little sick about that.
If they didn't want you,
they do not need alibi, or excuse
or diagnosis to prove or justify
that they can cut you out.

In your life, when you have
someone you can't take, can't enjoy,
all your interactions clash, and go wrong
- that person is not "toxic."

It is you who doesn't thrive
in their interaction style, personality
- they raise hives on you. Other people
seem fine. They aren't "fooled." They just don't
have the sensitivities. You do.
This doesn't make them strong, or tough.
Some of them would probably keel over
from a nut.

So what?

Peanuts aren't toxic. Interacting with them
is not useless. Some people do wonderful things,
make delicious dishes, it is healthy and fit.

People are not toxic. It is fits that can be. And you
are just allergic

to a person or two.

"Not me!"

Tuesday, October 04, 2016

"Recovery is a hell of a drug"

substances, foreign and domestic
disease, mental and physical
habits like these tend to make
us forget how livable life
can be, even lacking that
edge, that needle, that
knife, that mirror,
that smoke, that trail
of dust.
That thing
that we live for
just out of habit
and need that grows
in leaps, because
we've decided to
rule it in bounds,
for keeps.

your roving critic

This person
just sitting silently, there
in blind-guy shades
regarding you,
making all these sorts of
"shrewd" assessments - but of course,
not saying anything

or is he awake?
if not, what are his dreams? if so,
do his shades tint everything?

does he factor that in?

we all tend
to keep up a bit of commentary
in our heads
don't we? I do. I bet God
thinks we're creepy as heck!
No wait - probably not, because God
does the same damn thing, I suspect.
Except God gets to gauge it all
against all, the full spectrum of humanity's
deepest, sometimes awful inner thoughts. Some of which
- well, let's just say we're better off,
not being able to inspect.

We probably come off fine.

In a play-by-play
of the all the sorts and kinds
of thoughts about others we distract
ourselves with when we're stuck, sitting
in a train for an interminable time,
we make up little narratives
or assessments, guesses, etc. Life stories
of those passing through. I guess
we all do? No wait - maybe not.
It could be just me, I suppose,
just my runaway vignettes, in throwaway
prose, never to be collected or reviewed
or interpreted askance. Which is good,
because those

are some hideous pants


Unfortunately, it's policy. Policy
is that which must be unfair
in this case, in order to be fair
to all the others who have previously
received the brunt
of its unfairness. Life

has so much of this, so much
mass in motion, swinging downward
that realistically, it could crush
any of us from directions unforeseen,
without notice.

However, it's always been this way. All
our lives it's been this way, to say
nothing of all previous peoples' lives. Why
do people need the illusion of control?

Most people are not summarily crushed.
Even if they do spend their lives living
within the zone of their illusion of control.
Whenever that illusion shorts out, typically
temporarily, it's suddenly panic city
for some reason!

Realization that a person lives almost
completely at the mercy of uncontrolled
events ought not to be cause for panic.

I prefer the illusion of insignificance,
myself. A bit of proportion. Having not
control, still I am one of seven billion
moving targets - all of whom are pretty
well engineered to not only survive
but thrive in an environment
we don't and mostly can't control.

Statistically speaking, almost all
of us are going to keep surging
forward for a good, long time (by
our reckoning). My life

isn't in greater danger
just because it's more important to me,
is it?

I'm not sure
what all of that's in aid of. Just thoughts.
The seeming random nature of the incident,
the uncontrollable nature of events it touched off,
the seeming security of the position just prior
- it's one of those weird wake-up calls,
I guess,

that people get

Friday, September 30, 2016

theme with variations

chiming empty aches
gaps filling to space
spaces fit between notes
unstrung, -sung, -wrote
never planned to be heard
gathering unconceived
tumbling uncomposed
out of pieces of peace
fit to dissonant chords
come to rest, ungrieved

As if one orchestra
could read music in leaves,
lives, loves, and escapes
and play everything through
Let us listen for now
Later on, we will hear -
and consider, and do.

Ringing out, coming in
at the end, it fills up
in your head you can make
every part of it clear,
any piece of it new.

As it ends, dots connect
in your heart and awake,
trace hearts, beaks, wings,
taking off, fly anew
with whatever it takes,
into all of the infinite
things it could do.

Improvised and true -
and so musically so,
of such beautiful make.
If only some one
could intend
what you know

"we're like:"

we're like:
2 peas in a pod
two thieves in a plot
two hands in a basket
on the way to red-hot
two nuts in a shell
nestled up like birds
on a perch, cooing love
in so many words