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

but aren't they all random?

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

unironic requiem

Anyway, I'm sure glad irony's over
I never understood that crap, it went on
and on, forever seemingly, and over
my head. I couldn't recognize it

if it bit me instead of just

cruising past unnoticed, honking
its horn, flashing its tits,

man. Irony was everything
in those days, and the irony is

I don't even know what it is.

Tuesday, January 08, 2019

past mastery

mastery is acquired effortlessness
the hardest thing ever to learn.

it takes years
and years, working hard

you train

your eye
and mind
and hand
and arm, and
everything else

involved in the practice you chose,
to devote your work and time. And one day,

you forget all you know, and make beautiful music

or forms and shapes
in space or on paper

or somebody's face,

and away you go

wanting to be here

I got a postcard the same day
in the post. A bold design
in white and dark blue:
a big sun in the middle
of a small squared sky,
rays radiating out to clouds
above, and trees
and beach and waves
in a semicircle below,
with lines all through
all swoopy and straight
and underneath it says
"wanting to be here"

wanting to be here

wanting to be here. I haven't

turned it over yet. I want

to suspend the surprise a bit.

I'm trying to decide

what I want from it.

Sunday, January 06, 2019

the long lullabye

That's all for tonight.
Call it over for now.
We'll go to sleep angry,
and wake up somehow.

Perhaps we can meet
in dreams, unaware
that there's anything wrong
waiting for us, out there

when we wake up. I know
it will all come back, then.
And we'll still be in love,

or we'll try to pretend,
or we'll fight our way through

to the end.

Saturday, January 05, 2019

The stars don't even know their own light.

Because they have a sense of proportion.

Because they have priorities.

What are your priorities?

The reachless expanses of space spinning out to infinity?

Or the things you can reach and touch,
that can reach and touch you?

People are mightily significant in the latter realm.
Each of us can be potentially the biggest thing
in another's life: more significant

than all the universe outside the solar system
put together - which it isn't.
The potential significance of a human being
to another human being is that cosmically huge.

It makes more than that difference.
As a species,
too,

our significance on this planet
has been huge. Dominant. Potentially world-breaking.
Significance can be for bad or good.

So far as we yet know, though, humans
are the only things capable of creating
and receiving significance.

Capable of signification.

The far-flung stars signify much to us.

Do they signify anything at all to the stars?

If you say yes, you're just making-believe.

Don't pretend to me, love. You know you are.

Another thing we do. Another thing
that so far as we yet know, only we do.

If we find another species of being
capable of signification and imagination,
that couldn't diminish what we have,

only enrich it.
But until we do,

we have no reason at all to conclude
we're anything other than the source

of all significance in the universe.

Pending another confirmed source.

So far, there doesn't seem to be one.

The stars don't even know their own light.

At least, there's no reason to believe they do.
Not like we do.

So when you stand under the wheeling night sky
trying to reach all those lights with your
so-called so insignificant mind,

reflect: as far as you know,
you're standing on the only place
in all that vastness, where such reaching out

is going on.

And that thing you're reaching with
- your human mind -
is the only thing known that even tries

to discover and assign such

cosmic

significance.

Don't kid yourself. The rest of us
all do it as well, you know. Quite as well
as you. Idly, we'll marvel and gawp
out at the skies,
at the distant and relatively insignificant

stars. Myself,

I glory in them, from right there
where I stand. Their brilliance,
and especially their distance.

It’s mind-bending.
But it's trivial.
And through it all,

I don't lose sight of the things
I really can reach and touch,
which can reach and touch me. The things

that really signify, mightily, meaningfully.

I have a sense of proportion, you see. And humans

are far more than just significant.

And not just to me.

Friday, January 04, 2019

pinprick manifesto

Sometimes, with poetry you just
write as beautifully as you can,
and screw rhyme. It's called

free verse,

but sometimes
they forget to write beautifully, and
sometimes I forget to screw rhyme

Thursday, January 03, 2019

kissing lessons

After first kisses
come better and best kisses (though
first ones have
unique sweetness, it’s true.)
A kissing relationship
should be like conversation:
no one is only talking
or listening. Each of you is both
teaching how you kiss, and
learning how the other kisses. You begin

passionately, furiously -
or tentatively, yearning. You shift

gears together, pushing speed
tearing around your frantic curves
and powering through straightaways,
pulling back slowing down going deeper

into the abyssal bliss
of a moment drawing out
into infinite sense
with less than a conscious thought

- getting yourselves completely lost,
and if you're luckiest,
finding yourselves
in the other. You both

know how to kiss! You've kissed before
- you've seen it
in the movies at least. It’s basic
and it's imitable.

But neither of you knows
how you kiss - how you two kiss.
You learn by paying attention
to what the other is doing,
by giving into it
and giving back to it. You pick up
tips and tricks to what they like
wordlessly.

You surprise each other
and yourselves as well,
and if your styles and tastes and likes
and wants and needs
are a good match, compatible -

you'll soon be ascending
to levels of mutual mastery.

Wednesday, January 02, 2019

adventures in babysitting

Wizards make great babysitters
if the child's potty-trained
- but if the wizard changes baby,
you might find your baby changed.

Tuesday, January 01, 2019

byway

I missed my chance in the mist,
and found myself stranded in a present
I'd never left, having always lived
in the now, in the moment,
I couldn't return to the past
or guess what the future
would hold, except

maybe more of the same
sort of thing that it's always held.
It's always been me, right here
right now, very different

from heaven or hell,
but beginning to get just
a little old.

Monday, December 31, 2018

unobverse

Always a bridesmaid,
never a God. The left
doesn't know that the right
one is odd. Having always believed

propaganda reports,
and taken it all in the skirt
that lies under the shorts,

it's not too late to see
there is nothing between
right and wrong, but opinion
and fact, and neither one

strong,
or sure,
but they're free.
So you might as well flip

out on me. The coin in my pocket

is tails,

but if you make the call,
then we'll see.

Saturday, December 29, 2018

definition

A soul
is the damage a body inflicts
on the spirit inhabiting it. What once
was so pure, perfect and featureless
has become as it grows mature,
and you grow into it, so much more
featureful - and less
pure: so how

does it fit?

Do you soar
above yourself, disdaining
this realm, or sink
beneath without care
or qualm, or just go

on and on, and on
and on

Thursday, December 27, 2018

Snippets from the Diary of a Rogue Ad Man

When life gets you

down?

GO GATORADE. Gatorade
is like the tits on a nuclear squid.
You start sucking on that glowing
ambrosial nectar, suddenly it turns

your whole DNA crazy
like you're breathing underwater,
staining your bike shorts with black ink
and fighting crime. One time,

I got thrown out of a top advertising firm
for the boldest pitch I ever had the balls
to put over the plate. It went wild, but boy

did I turn a few heads on the way out
the door as I was escorted by an honor guard
of security's best and brightest! When I hit

the street,

I had a Snickers
to recoup my wits
and stoke the flames a bit. Packed with peanuts,
Snickers Is A Motherfucker®. Thus fortified

by that sweet hit of chocolate, caramel
and a peanut crunch, I eased on down the road
with a heart as heavy as all the skies above.
It's true,

I had suffered a setback.

But I didn't actually work for the firm
anyway, and technically
they hadn't even invited me inside.
So I counted it pretty light in the loss column

- while each of the heads that I'd turned
with my bold presentation was an undeniable win.

I was sure to have better luck at the next firm. My next stop

would not even know what hit it.

Monday, December 24, 2018

meditative

These times are so frightening for all of us
what with what's going on in the news
Oh, didn't you see? Better run,
look now. It's worse than

you even can think

trust me

Thursday, December 20, 2018

"the final possibility"

Are you the helpless twig
before my powerful storm?
But I don't want that.
I want you mighty oak after.
Are you the gentle slave
of my every wish? But
I don't want that.
I want your mind: Modern.
Womanly. Implacable. Are you

every thing I want in a woman,
ever? I don't want that. You need
to challenge me. GROW UP, woman. Tell
culture and media and peer group
fuck off! Time for you to call
shots. Finally, what I want,
babe. Ace this! Moment is
yours. You got it you know it
for real you know. Thank me

by BLOWING MY MIND

what empathy is

Empathy is not
illusion.

It’s imagination. It’s not hard
to hear words like hooks,
tearing and caught in a voice
you love, to look into eyes
lit with rage and tears - it’s not hard

to imagine yourself in the same place.
You aren't,
but you are.

It’s hard not to be
Wishing you could be
there in the same place
they are, to help them fight,

to pull them out.

Aching with hopeless rage yourself,
that you can’t be! That you can’t help.
Not really help. Not help what’s wrong.

But you’re here, now. With them, at least.
At least you can grasp their arm, their hand

as you both hold on. You can pull for them,

even if you can’t
pull them out.

Pull on
Pull through
the best you can do,
which is pitiful to you.

You feel next to useless,
but you hold on
for whatever it can mean
to them right now,

to have you here,
when they're so much in need.

You can be here for them,
even if you can’t really join them
in the horrible place where they are.
It’s so hard not to be able to.

It isn't hard, empathy.

Just the hardest thing
in the world, maybe. You tell
yourself you’d gladly suffer yourself,
rather than see them go through this

with you helpless to help. And no probably,

it wouldn’t be "gladly" that you'd do it.
But given the choice, you really would choose.
To be there, if only you could.

Empathy is no illusion.

You’ve been through thirty-two flavors of hell
yourself, and it’s pretty damn faint

if you can’t imagine yourself now, where they are.
How it feels, what they’re going through. Especially when

they just told you

every bit of how it feels.

Especially when they made every word tell,
especially as you reel from the hits.
Empathy’s not illusion.

It’s just imagination.
It’s just a very small

amount
of imagination.

Not even a leap! Not when
you’ve been there yourself,
or places as bad. Not when
it’s someone you love.

It’s one small step.

So real you wish you didn't have
to take it.

But there's no way in hell
you won't.

Sunday, December 16, 2018

people love "authenticity"

Why do people love "authenticity"?

Is it just
their whole lives through
they've always
heard the word applied so positively,
to some thing

that can't be otherwise
explained
itself? Some deep simplicity:

It is itself,

and true to some tradition of itselfness
it exemplifies,

others can't: others try.

This is the what
you'll have to find,
or you'll never know why
what you've learned
refers to

Saturday, December 15, 2018

Modern Man (Theme Song)

Modern Man
can do any thing
with the strength of seven billion

and gathering,

With the understanding, in modern terms
that gender being cultural fiction and all,
or so we've learned
so we can see
that Modern Man is you
and me

AND
TIME IS NOW!
THE MOMENT OURS
DON'T KNOW WHAT'S NEXT?
YOU KNOW WE CAN!

IT'S FINALLY
IT HAD TO BE
HERE COMES THE DAY
IT'S MODERN MAN!

Modern Man's
got active blood
and etherwaves and satellites
It's learning exponentially
It's learning that

it's not enough

to get it right
by increments
takes guts and blood
and time and sense
and money spent

AND
TIME IS NOW!
THE MOMENT OURS
DON'T KNOW WHAT'S NEXT?
YOU KNOW WE CAN!

IT'S FINALLY
IT HAD TO BE
HERE COMES THE DAY
IT'S MODERN MAN!

We just found out the greatest news:
that we control the climate now!
Without our even trying to!
Or soon we will - now we've found out.

What we can change: We can control.
Now that we know - it just
takes knowing how.

And knowing how
has, by degrees, been
pretty much our specialty
- so easily! our knowing goes.

Check out our cars and phones,
and clothes!

AND
TIME IS NOW!
THE MOMENT OURS
DON'T KNOW WHAT'S NEXT?
YOU KNOW WE CAN!

IT'S FINALLY
IT HAD TO BE
HERE COMES THE DAY
IT'S MODERN MAN!

epic interlude with minor exposition

The mighty she-warrior sheathed in tight
and flowing dragonsilk, stood

jutting out like a rock
outcropping,

to overlook

nothing: the hugely-shifting

mountainous drifts of colored glass
sand,

so softly bright,

all that remained of the storied
land
of bottles,
long since upended,
their contents drained, and sheathed

her sword. A

scimitar, technically
surpassed in excellence
by no known blade, forged
in the heart of a lesser star
of a now-obscure reality
show, who had turned
blacksmith after all

his legendary royalty
checks dried up, and only

surrendered the sword
to her,
after much sly banter.

It seemed like ages ago

Now
Her sheaths
both of leather and dragonsilk
were stained by the blood
of her enemies' friends

it's the closest she's ever come

to revenge.

Looking out and down, dully
across the dunes, duly-glittering

as the moon slid up, and off of them like dew

She knows about
what she always knew:

She has not yet gone too far,
and she has yet
much too far

to go.

Before she's through

body anger

body anger,
lately.

The pain,
the falling apart
isn't great, but I can see

or imagine from all stories told
that it's going to be.

It's going to be great.

And oh, the rue and the irony then,
over all the times that I doubled
in tears, laughing at old people

doubled in pain, unable to do
what they'd always done, unable to use
what they'd always used, and unable to save
the smallest part of respect that they'd gained

in a lifetime of labors, trickling lost
down invisible drains. What fun,

after all
that has happened to me,
it will happen to me. I guess
It's deserved.
For making up lies

just a few lines up -
About how I laughed.

For whatever it's worth
I never enjoyed my youth,
not once, at such an expense
while it's flown half past

and now,
knowing I never again
may get the chance, I look at myself

and begin to laugh

humanity more than God itself"

"I love
humanity more than God itself"
I declared, satisfied
and pretty sure

I was saved

by ambiguity, there.
As I always seem to be.
I cannot tell a lie,
in some sense
- no matter how wet

the cherry sap

might drip from the ax
behind the next tree.

In defense of hypocrisy

People who cry "hypocrisy"
are the ones offended by the fact
that others don't even want to be
self-righteous - a game they all think
they're so good at. They say, they see

"First women say they hate being hit on
and then they flirt!" or

"First Dempublicans hate Repocrats
doing that - then they do it!"

As if all of them say it, or hate it,
or do it.

As if saying it's bad could make doing it
worse.

I think that's it. Their self-righteousness

is a nasty, sarcastic, cynical pose. They believe

it is only believing its wrong
that can make an act wrong. As if

in a world without clothes, we would all
quite naturally become prudes.

As if it's a curse to be able to choose, if
we also say why we choose?

As if the worst is to even presume
we can know why we choose, or say why we do.

What offends them is that you can tell right from wrong,
at all. Not any amount of the wrong you do.

The sin is to tell.

The sin is to say that there's anything wrong to do.

Well I guess we're all sinners then. Big surprise?
Not so much. But we're better off able to tell, I judge.
And we're better for hearing the arguments, to decide

for ourselves,
in consequence,
which of them make sense.

We feel our way up by touch.

And sometimes judge poorly, do badly, do wrong.
Do the very damn thing that we knew all along,
and said as much: it is bad to do.
But at least,
to be able to know all along.
At least to accept
where we have gone wrong. And confess

to each other, come clean. Try again,
and tarnish anew.

Instead of complaining, in rich, dripping tones
at any who dares to suggest to you
there are things that can stain us at all,
or that we could amend, or atone
where we fall.

To say there are things we should try not to do.
It's offensive to them, to hear this
from you, or from anyone else
who they know is wrong.

Which is perfectly naturally, everyone.

You must practice perfection or not
preach at all! Say these bright Pharisees
of high dudgeon and moral appall.

The doctor whose practice consists in advice
took a hypocritical oath, since he smokes!
But he tells others not to smoke!

That's not right! That's not nice!

Yes, he knows it's not right.
So he tells you it's not, you dope.

Make up your mind, hypocrite,
imbecile:

Do you,
or do you not want a light?

At the end of your rope,
you can hang, or mope, or swing
as you please. You can say what is right
or is wrong, you can say why you choose. Yes,
even to me. For my part, I can tell you
what's right from wrong, myself.

We can both compare notes,

easily, in bottles or staves
and drink to intoxication, in time

to the music it makes
where we disagree.

For who are we, anyway?

To tell right from wrong?

You are you, of course.

I'm me. Who else?

If you don't mind my asking.

And if it's important, what matters most
to you, why wouldn't you tell?

Afraid, to be hung by your own decree?

Charge! Try, be acquitted
as best you can

of hypocrisy.

limits of conception

perhaps the worst conceivable thing
would be falling asleep in the light
of God's love, and waking to find
it had all been a dream.
I say perhaps
the worst conceivable
partly because who knows
what conceivable things one may
conceive at some later point,
to disturb one's peace, or
dreams, or waking serenity,
which one has never had
in the first place, and partly
because I'm not quite sure
it's conceivable at all. I mean,
going to sleep in the light
of God's love, and waking to find
it was all a dream? What the hell
does either part of that mean?
Perhaps it's a mistake
to think one can conceive it
at all. In which case
it could not be the worst
conceivable. Anyway, one feels
one could always do worse
than just what's real

Friday, December 14, 2018

usual sci-fi gloss

A lot of people fear me
because of how easily intimidated
they are. But when pressed
and pressed hard,
they admit:

the truth of it is,
I'm such a thoroughly
admirable and stainless
human being.

They just didn't want
to admit it at first

because it seemed wrong
to them some how,

that one guy

could have it all: brains,
minds, hearts, hands, STAVES,
CUPS AND SWORDS! It's like

I'm a walking Deck of Fortune,
sometimes, like Rick Deckard
at the start of Blade Runner, speaking
his easy patois to the noodle guy, everybody
after him 'cause he's always on the CASE - next
thing you know,

some huge origami gaffe is misconstrued
as a unicorn dream hint, and people start

saying the guy's a robot. But fuck that
no, he's not. he's
ALL MAN.

And I know what that's like,
as people will readily concede
when pressed.

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

consequitur

Consequences are immense. The only things

that hold us to.
Potentially, and make
us great, I guess. If we accept

they do.

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Novel

There's nothing left of this life
I want to live, sometimes
except
there is more to experience. Even if
it's the same as was previous
in experience.
There are more
different people
to touch, I guess
to touch, with life
with light, with whatever

I have

to touch them with?

There is more of that.

There is more of it.

I am ready to go, you know
I have done enough, but

I can see there is probably more
to do.

It won't be new,
but to someone else,

it might be good
to do.

For them

And I never did give
a fuck
about something new.

Or did I? No,

oh well

Amen.

Thursday, November 29, 2018

duh

food is POOP by the time it's through,
so where'd that SMELL come from then,
HUH?

Guys it's just a scent that your body adds to
that food. So that you don't eat it again,

duh

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

If you give up on me,

If you give up on me,
I will give up on
us

But I won't give up on you

I trust you too damn much
if you give up on me,

I will take your word.
And I'll never stop learning
from what you meant

From me, anything else
would be absurd.

ditty ditty doggerel

I love you
almost
incomprehensibly.
You understand
me perfectly.
Between us and if pressed, I guess
we couldn't even
question we.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

practicing

I flushed my throat with chords and tore
my veins with words both raw and burnt
sung hallowed, hollowed, sanctified
and vulgar, vain and profane, love

I thought that I had had enough
but I had only had the one

three songs a day
there's time for two

more yet before
this pain is gone,

and I partake
in all the promised

perfect

practice

doesn't make.

But for some sake
besides my own,

I'll discipline
these steps I take.

Saturday, November 24, 2018

this chick's tits are the business

this chick's tits are the business, and she
don't mind how I mind her business, in fact
she's an entrepreneur of d├ęcolletage
her initial and public offering's large
oh,
but oh so discreet and modest, as well.
She keeps all such assets well-wrapped,
you can tell if you make her an offer,
she's not going to sell.

What kind of a business is that?

I don't know, but she's doing quite well,
apparently. She corners the market
with ease and grace, and each presentation
she makes is high, and proud, and firm
and fair, and not at all in-your-face.

One could only wish. But really, it's better
when everything's kept
to its proper place.
Isn't it?

It is. But there is no accounting
for taste,

in this biz.

Friday, November 16, 2018

"the thing with wings"

You get butterflies in your stomach
when your heart gets in your throat.
The butterflies fly up your butt
and poop out eggs of hope

And when they hatch,
those caterpillars
eat you from within

You're all filled up with hard cocoons
a metamorphosis
to begin
Soon

soon.

You're growing wings in places you can't fly
But soon,

Soon.
Soon,

Your hopes matured
in acid bath of undigested
questions why

will burst from you
and fly,

And never die.

And you'll lie there, an empty husk
with just enough of moisture left
to cry,

with your open, staring eyes

chasing butterflies

"larksmith"

Sometimes
I become almost painfully aware
that I'm much too much aware
of trivialities, but then

even as I do, some fruitful almost
ludicrously abstruse connection will spring

between the triviality I was working on noticing
and some huge, cosmically comically life-governing fact
I'd always lived peacefully with,
or without, blissfully oblivious, and I am

consoled not more than distracted by this
- how do other people notice such things?
- or, how do they not?
- Until the next.

Anyway I couldn't really change, because
it isn't really like that.
Something like,
surely,
but something isn't me. How many ways
I like to think of myself
aren't really true?

Surely I'm aware I'm not really
so oblivious as I like to observe.
I exaggerate the extent

from the surprise, every time
it hits me yet again, yes

again.

I put it in words others wouldn't
(I've scarcely heard anyone rhapsodize
their density or inattention) and the effect

of well-disposition over something
I don't control cheers me. I realize
or decide, I like this thing about me.

It's an important fact of why I am this way. Then
heartened and boldened, I lean
a little into it

and stalk forward into life, to see
what I will catch in this light. Except

it isn't an important fact. It's some kind

of triviality, isn't it? And to go forth
boldly in it, living as if
significance were birdsong
and who knows what else,

vanishing back into the jungle
of insatiable discovery (as if!)

- it's some kind of stunt, isn't it?
I love such stunts! But we must honestly admit
that whatever they teach us isn't much. Honestly
or dishonestly. It's faint and small,
and - apart from the consequences
of our embrace, reckless and breathtaking

- inconsequential

strange consolation

Reading a library book
is like hanging out with a friend
who has end-stage cancer
and it can't be long now. You linger
by their bedside while they whisper

out their story, afraid
lest a single drop be lost.

And then, their time has come.
And then they are overdue.

It's amazing what a little hope
can do.

But eventually, they're gone.

And you're back in the library
again, looking for a new friend

who will not be yours for long.

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

feelings left out

My feelings for you
don't appear in this poem.
I've left them all out,
this time.

They're already known,
and some things
don't need to be said every time.

Or that's what I'm saying right now.

Later, I'm sure
I can rely on you
to show me how.

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

"times that come"

I want to rest in you
as you rest on me, after
the labor of love is spent
and we're holding on to
the wonderment, wondering where
such time has gone,
and thinking to follow
wherever it went.

Monday, November 12, 2018

beginning out

We think we know each other very well.
You know. I think you do. Our time will tell.

I know. I won't say what. Don't want the jinx.
I'm confident we're more than either thinks.

We won't end up a disappointed wish.
Middling never began so well as this.

You're confident I'm more than myself knows.
We know enough to guess where this won't go,

and take a leap or two into abyss.

Untitled

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

This is a song for a woman to hear,
this is a song for a woman to sing -
some kinda figure of speech, I know.
it's either synecdoche or metonymy.
It doesn't mean literally only "ass."
The part is named to stand in for the whole.
'Cause I don't want a piece of ass, of you.
I want body mind and soul

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

This is a song for a man to hear -
this is a song for a man to sing.
it might not mean as little as it appears
it's gonna mean a whole lot more for me
'Cause I want your love
I don't mean now
I do mean now, stretching endlessly
From where I stand, panting for eternity
it's just a consequence of you and me

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

Saturday, November 10, 2018

with a wheel missing

There is no subconscious.
It's an outmoded, made-up, beat-up
old-timey bicycle Psychology Today
peddles to deliver issues
to piddling, self-interested
people too shallow to suspect
or vain to believe
there's nothing

less boring

under the blank
and endlessly bland
self-reflection of their
worthless, and far too
earnestly burnished

surfaces.

Friday, November 09, 2018

irreconcilable

What brought us to this is irrelevant
- unless? If we choose to learn from it,
uncover the causes whose dire and shining
effects, so seemingly, irreversibly wrecked -
If uncovered, if understood, could help us -
not help ourselves,

perhaps.

Some causes are lost. But such grasp,
with intent, might help us each
steer a clearer and nearer course

through consequence

than the one we steered,
to our own 'shipwrecked grief,
our mutual, consensual detriment,

our loss.

Of us.

And of ourselves.

To the point we are both
too mad at fate and what's left
of life, to weep.

What brought us to this
is irrelevant,
in terms of the damage
and ultimate wrongs: not acts,

but facts of nature

- and incompatible - between us, that you
nor I

could overcome, ever. No,

and not even we.

Understanding what happened to us,
and why,

cannot save one single damn thing
we see, or together, or even apart
have ever seen, that there was
to see.

But for going from here,

it might save two.

Maybe we can't help we.
But I could help you,

and you could help me.

If we wanted to.

dick pics are empirically not a problem

If my growing-respectable sample size of years
of experience forged in tears and in sacrifice
are indicative,

dick pics are empirically not a problem.
I haven't seen one, except those I've sent

I don't think they ever occur in real life
or if they don't,
then that proves me right.

But I never got one,
is the point.

That's life.