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, August 29, 2016

Nostalgia Stories

Remember when we were young? And
you told me I Saw Your Girlfriend's Cunt
was a good band name? What kind of a fool
were we thinking of making,
with that kind of thinking. Now,
yons and yons on
it seems, we have between us
distance and perspective all out of
proportion, and you've grown so cold
where we used to be cool.

I don't mind that now. I mind way
back then a bit,
because it was a little deceptive, but
the truth is better
to learn, whether it proves beautiful or not.

When will we learn?

We still grow up.
When I grow up, the whole world
will know it from down.
And will you be down? I will kick it
with you, anyway or how, if so or if
God so wills, or anyhow: as long as you
do. Don't ask me why, but I never minded
a bit

what happened to us,

or what's happened to us since, or what
happens to be the case - it's what's in it
that counts, and we still have time
and you take up space.

What is the worst
that we could do,
to make you see
what a fool out of me you have made
A clown suit. Sharp
like a lawyer and carrying
a polka dot brief case, walking in
all grin with a grim face
despite certain knowledge
about the judge's taste
that leads one to belief:
the whole thing's dismissed
with prejudice, as a frivolity.
A conclusion we've all gone through,
that in this case, might as well
be foregone. Well, what
are you going to do?

It's his job, as he sees it.
Give a man a gavel and he
just has to bang something. You and me
didn't need to bring this case forward
- we're wasting the court's time
and the public's resources, did you expect
the justice up in this piece to find humor
in that?

It was deliberate, the way we all sat
down to figure all that out. And how
we were sent in as a jury, and we came out
hung. The gallows by the bailiff should have tipped
us off, luckily, it was con job.

For there was always a guy on the wall
with a gun, just itching to shoot us down.
Anyway. Now that that's all done, would it be
insulting? At this point? if I ask you out?

It's a lovely day for that sort of thing! Don't
let's be all boring and stuffy
about the house. We can shake
the leg out, do turns around the block
like a couple of fool kids, telling everyone
about the band they're about to get into next.
With hindsight and wisdom maybe, you could say
we've always been about the wrong business, but
at least only one of us ever minds. Never mind

The End.

gone green

Once the lawn's
mown, you can moan and piss
over what's past
til the cows come home,
smoking grass
to explain your cried
-out
eyes, and lie about what
you can laugh about now, but
if anything, it isn't funny what
happened, but how
you can go about
wearing out rounds
you've long since gone
'round, because of her friends -
always showing up at random,
as if in accusation
like a sudden detective: what
have you done with her?

Search me.

Do you have a warrant?

You will find she's all over me
: hints, suggestions,
fingerprints that don't come off,
scraping to get in. I know

she's all over me.
I couldn't get her off if I tried.
She told me, confided
that she did, and oh! how
she lied. And I,
keeping my endless trust
inside,
am all over her
dust, by now. As the grass,
hemmed in and fenced by stained,
bleached limits of once
-implied trust,
exhales the air and grows
and grows
so green and greener
you could get sick in it.

And so you do.

There isn't any sense putting off
what isn't, any more. Nothing
that hasn't been, and gone, and done,

all over

before.

love to be

I'd love to be an empiricist. But I feel like I'd need
a dagger between clenched teeth, and smiling wide
naturally, (necessarily) like a tiger with a bouquet
of roses in each fist, whopping people
left and right, leaping and laying about me
grinning with precision, glittering
at them with my eyes pivoting - can you imagine
the buffed skin, thorn scratches, shouts,
blushes
of shy panic and indecision? Let alone the petals
strewn everywhere! and dangling in air, downward
pirouettes of a process of being strewn.
To be an empiricist, you must be a bit
of an imperialist, an ambassador from the age
of pirates, which was the age of Reason. You must
be of age, and you must consent
to skepticism, risen
to the level
of positive belief. Or anyway at least

I did!

Friday, August 26, 2016

certainly worth

You're as amazing as you deserve to be.
It was good that you tried.
Every time
It's always so good to see you try
If you can have hope, hell
Why couldn't I?
Don't answer that.
It's rhetorical, or
it's futile at least. The point is,
it's moot. You don't have to try
to play clever, now
girl. You don't have to try
to be cute.

familiar ring

The attention I pay
to the absence of you
must have worn the earth down,
by now. Just thinking, and
walking around
on how you or it must finally have felt,
found out.
The act wears thin,
after all.
After all you put,
no matter how much, no matter
how good, into it
or all you take out. Do we have
lessons learned?
of faith,
or love,
on trust,
- unearned? or just
frittered away? the attention
I pay

to the absence of you
doesn't have much to say.
that old familiar ring, just
a call away.

showoff

You are gifted
by Nature with artifice,
on a level where workmanlike
craftstmanship couldn't even begin
to tempt mastery into masterpiece.
For the life of me, I have never
been into perfectionists.
But I must say that you
make it work for you, miss.

sarcastic at all

Please don't be so sarcastic
I'm being sarcastic
No really, I'm being
sincere, so please
Don't be so sarcastic,
You don't have to ask it
You know what I think of
you, dear,

so,

please. Stop being sarcastic
about all the acid
you claim tastes so bright on one's
tongue, but

that's
just
being

sarcastic.
You know what? I'm past it.
And I'm not

the only one.

the inquest

false cry
for help arrived
a crocodile suicide
with tears baked in
on salt-streaked cheeks
by deft applique
of autopsy

Quarterly Adultery Industry Accountancy

The price of admission is everyone knows.
The price of kept secrets is not to be tried.
The price of forgiveness is risking your neck -
We both hung our heads rakishly to one side
since we risked broken hearts to possess broken
vows. And which of us promised the world, anyhow?
To have, and to hold up to scrutiny too. Well you can't
eat your heart out and have your cake, boo.

"straight flush bluff"

Oh, lord she was
the jack of one's heart,
the queen in cups, with
a six sense in spades and
I threw my hand up. Her face
showed it all: I had busted her
flush straight with chaser in tow,
all the way to the bluffs, and
fell over laughing. It was
time to show, so we both
said 'I win.'
And we both said:
'I know.'

creation of ours

Nudity is
a human invention. Recipe
apple juice,
enlightenment,
wardrobe oops,
fig leaf and repeat.

Serves two, or one, or
more or less, with the best
of intention, and be
discreet.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

feel free


feel free to feel
feel free to feel
feel free to feel that way,
that way

feel free to feel that way,

That way, you'll be able to shift the blame
like a mountain's worth, right over the edge
- the abyss looks up and sees oncrushing death
and you're left, hands clean,
with the freshest breath, or
so you'd expect, and deserve
I guess, so

feel free to feel
feel free to feel
feel free to feel that way,
that way

feel free to feel that way,

That way, you will eat from the cat-bird seat
knowing only the finest seed will be strewn
through the gold-bar cage of your gilden age
which you wouldn't divulge, but I've always known -
clearly too young to grow so wise
so soon, or so you let on
with downswept eyes,
oh,
feel free to feel
feel free to feel
feel free to feel that way,
that way

That way, with a thimble, drinking blue tears
and eating your pie of pine-smoked moon
spiced with woe so sweet, which experience taught
you how to bake, from a recipe
written down by mistake by a friend of mine,
oh you,
feel free
you have all the time
to savor that thought. That certainty,

feel free
feel free
feel free,

truly really,

from me.

That way, we can both be right.
And the grass on each side
will glow in the dark
by comparison, it's invidious,
to get into the dirt that we've had
to dig in. Feel free,

to go,
to know,
to sway, to waver,
come back or around,
to stay, or to watch
and wait, until it occurs
we don't have to have words,
- when we don't have the words,
- and sometimes it hurts,
but feel free,

if you do. I don't, somehow
But by all means, you -

You have earned it now.
Feel free.

ease

My words
are only a temporary surcease
of these:
comprehension,
intention,
plausibility;
a reprieve
from that dreadful sense you get
from those things
that make it.
A stay
of

elocution,
a finding of uncertainty
beyond unreasonable doubt, and

that certain feeling
of having been all too easy
to please,

thank,

and welcome.

stand on ceremony

It would be incredibly
suspicious if we had something
to hide - no more. It is agreed: you
with me, to stand on ceremony. In your
ever-so-slightly off-white dress, soon
-to-be ever-so entirely off
(white dress) before God and everyone
beats me to it I will seize
the whole damn stretch of days
we have left

right away,
straightaway, making
joy and pain and love
of them

just as if it were written,
destined and blest. And
the greatest piece of fortune
I have ever lucked into - you
will smile and sit upon it,
off your aching feet at last,
in lasting peace and certainty; you
with me, and I
with
and in
and all through you,
ceaselessly,
endlessly,
recklessly,
restlessly,
all the way to the end
and begin again, til
we come to rest.

Direct evidence

Direct evidence does weigh heavily with me.
I've never seen a chance
never had luck on my side
if I had, if I'd noticed
I would probably have tried
to rub or buff it out.
What is this shmutz?
What did I brush up against?
Will it come off? I never even
doubled down in Blackjack. Although,
if I ever got a seven and a ten,
I would split.

Blackjack's not my game.

One time, me
and the girl I was with, had to up
and switch seats in disgust (hers,
primarily)
so that I wouldn't keep up my streak
fucking with her draws by means
of my non-conventional
system. Was it wisdom?
Or experience, that made her do that?
Very little of either
went into the decision, I assure you, I suspect
the evidence

was not direct.

Just a guess, but
ever since that day
I'm a skeptic
like you wouldn't believe. I am not one
to settle for less
than a test, lest the proof
come in and pull some bull-shit
move, that
you could not reasonably be
or have expected
to expect. Suspect everything,

trust the impossible
once it has been
compellingly
proved.

That's my sweet move

Number one with a bullet

Number one with a bullet
doesn't mean you're the best,
only that you had a hit.
Killed it.

Next?

Your gun holds six, so
you've got five left.
So ask yourself this: do you feel

lucky, punk?

Oh, yes. Definitely
yes,
drunk

on the basis of a shot.
So take another one,
or reload,

or not.

so, sew, sow

commas, a one
here, and a one
there, and a one
not there, and going
and ongoing, also
going on through sowing
and pruning 'em back,
and putting them back,
and between and in,
is the gardening trick
that can never be done.
that can never be quite
where you're finished with
it. surrender all ye,
the commas have won

the delegates

But yeah. Outside
of stories noir - some of which
were true, of course - none of us has
to dig our own grave.
We put it off.
We delegate.

In case of yours,
I will be first
to line up solemnly
in black. A shovel
laid across my back,
and I will dig six deep
so fast, and just at the tipping point
of things, as the timing hits right,
I'll be ninja slick so nobody sees
where I disappear to, as I've slipped
in right under

it.

A sort of horizontal bearer
of pall. I'm prone
to nontraditional steps,
I know. But when you gone,
you gone. You got to go
how you got to go. No right,
no wrong, no chance, no use, just

somebody had to take this on.

For you, I hereby nominate me.
For me? You can name

whoever you choose

you rank arrant unmitigated TWIT

yeah I'm talking to you
you, the one writing this
what do you mean, could you
possibly be more explanatory
of things less in need
of clarity? Such as
every other train of thought through
the prairie desert wasteland
your rusted rails rattle and hem
and haw over, as cars like carts
before the horse drag the engine roaring
backwards screeching in, only slightly on-course
to arrive, on time, nowhere.
Nowhere near. Nowhere
near the station,
at least There's a switch
that could have been pulled
some ways back, that could
have changed all that. But

seems like a dirty trick
to pull a switch.

Somehow, when you've always been running it
the same way. honestly - cracked,
vibrating rails, nails (spikes,
really shimmying towards loose, and ties
- not required, apparently,
for grand and expansive stretches of track.
You rank, arrant
unmitigated twit
Might you please,
once, just
take a look!
at your self, for example.

Fix that shit.

isn't a thing

isn't a thing we
isn't a place for
how do you get
that feeling you want? More
than anything else,
you don't get it
At all, at last
and at least: it
is coming to fall.
it is coming to dawn.
it is coming to earth.
to visit, to stay, and
to leave
in the lurch. And
to live
in the first
place, to better
or worst ourselves
in our lives. For real
and for true, and
it isn't a lie. it isn't
a thing
we can do.
we can try

but it isn't a thing we
can do.
we could die

of a piece

Now why are her buttcheeks so
eloquent? How
is an ass such perfect advertisement
of all that's up and under, and
slightly before? Can you compare
that to anything in love or war? All I know
is her ass
is documentary
Of all of how human history came
to want
to be. And the ongoing story
of why we want more.
Is it fair? Mirror,
mirror, oui. You,
je t'adore

decided to be cool

you saw them all together, and
the way they turned from you
doing things you wouldn't want to think that
you could ever do
you tried so hard to fly
beneath their notice all the time
that you fell

see no it isn't really bad as all of that
look at it this way until you don't know what
you're looking at
every time they turn their bright attention
on your life, to make it
hell

til finally you
decided to be cool
yeah, finally you
decided to be cool

maybe there's a reason for how everything turns out
hard to see what's wrong with it,
now looking at you shining, now
isn't it what everybody wants
to see the best one
win out?

when finally you
decided to be cool
yeah finally, you
decided to be cool
finally you
decided to be cool. you're
finally you

you hated all these people.
now they're your friends.
they tried so hard to crush you out, and
now they
respect you
one day down the road,
you'll share a laugh about it all.
with your friends.

'cause finally you
decided to be cool
yeah finally, you
decided to be cool
finally you
decided to be cool. you're
finally you

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

akimbo

The game is afoot. The glance
is askance. The limbs
are akimbo as we do the limbo
the bar is athwart, so we knock it
askew. Our chance is at hand.
It's tickling you!

Friday, August 19, 2016

curiosities

Idle hands and idle dreams and curiosities have shown
our idols up for what they are: a centerpiece
of bones and tar and bits of hair preserved
in lights, tacked up for all to own and see.
And we without dreams shall cast first stones
And they without souls shall flee

way to die

There are many ways to die.
You could die a different way each day,
if you were a cat, and the accountants
were not paying attention - but you're not,
and they are.
You could die three hundred sixty-five ways
this year, a different one each day, I assure you.
Death is unique as life is commonplace. Now wait,
you say - it's more than three six five. In one day
you might have a chance to die three times.
But you won't, though. You'll only die once: the rules.
Only once: today, stepping off the curb the wrong way,
your ankle twisted, your head way smack out in the road.
You won't even need a passing car. Swung by your body and neck:
crack! The back of your head,
and from out of the theatre
in stately, bored procession,
on a red carpet life
is leaving the building
while you lie there,
painfully mourning:
my ankle!
My poor ankle

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

"insect's eye"


as blades of grass
cut morning dew, I blink
the sun from my hot eyes
and think of you, and where
we went. Right or wrong,
our day shall be
well, spent: extravagantly bought
and paid in coin of realms
by shores
of seas laid under
spell: so soft now, to sleep.
Perchance to dwell, cool
by breeze.

Perchance to change. Perchance
to keep, jingling now - brass
and nickel bells, in pocket
of the jeans you wore the day
we let it rain. Perchance
to weep.

- but wither now? Wither us?
What time, why fate, which chance? And what
luck shall we make dance, and whose funeral
shall we brighten, with our vows
to live?

I ask you now,
unfairly. Give or take, fair
life isn't
and ain't. Such things
as these cannot be known,
at least, temporarily. We wait
in vain, without complaint.

What will be
shall unfold
as buds in the sun,
petals breathing into season, parasols
for bugs below,
scuttling for a crumb

Monday, July 11, 2016

"That Look"

Intense emotion - you wear it well,
but I can't tell if you
have been going through hell? or perhaps
it's just hot inside, where you are. I could swear
you've been crying. But without leaning in,
it could easily be just a sheen of sweat.
From afar, either way
- you have the look
of someone who knows torment. And I wish
I could cool you off,
whether today has been hard, or soft
or whether you burn from without,
or within.

I wish I could kiss the salt from your skin.

sailor & coke

Don't let the sunny side
shining a light on sadland
bring you down! 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" and then taste carefully
and see. Sometimes you have to be
your own mocha. Sometimes mocha
is not what you want.
Two broken hearts
walked into a bar and one said
"You look just like my better half."
The other said I can see why the fit
didn't work. Look, you're dull cracks
where I'm jagged edges. You're rounded, where
I'm all broke. You can't make
two hearts like these
beat as one, and
the bartender served them sailor & coke.

This one's for the LADIES:

This one's for the LADIES:

I mean those who gendersexually self-identify as "a lady,"
in preference to but without denigration of "woman"
or even "girl" - those for whom
the archaizing of the term
seems an attempt to rob an essential dignity
and elegance, that feels natural to them
and then, who risk (perhaps) a rift
between themselves and others who will wish
to invoke class war and oligarchy,
accuse you of aristocracy, or simply say
"I hate how that sounds" - demonize you that way.
This one's for the ladies.

You know what I'm talkin bout.

Awwwww yeh

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

"Lunacy"

As gravity grows in strength, and bends
the space that hems and holds his heart,
the man beaks down and says 'I shall
be prisoner to this curve, this arc;
forever hold me nearing you,
and falling in your sway, your pull.
Each day: I fall a million miles. Some force
still keeps me far from you, and going through a phase.
Always new, to waxing crescent, never wanes, and never
reaching full. Still
nights like these, come out and read
by light of me, which came from you.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Reproducible

I am made of flesh
and bone, the remains
of love diffused in blood
and memories of home
from another life I've never known,
and toads and snails and bees, and stones,
and sugar and spice, and everything else
that was laying around
when they broke the mold.
I tumbled out soft and half-deformed.
The wax wasn't even dry, I'm told

Relay

You exist
in
counterpoint to spacetime, extending
in every dimension through memory
and imagination towards infinite, possible
futures. No need

to rush, there's only us
and a roaring void, bearing down
from everywhere at once. At
the moment time's nicked
by the scythe's tip, I know

you'll only yank my precious neck
out of the way of the sweeping blade,
and probably hard enough to break it
- so go easy, babe. Nobody said
we had to make the impossible look
fun. Just so's
it runs on time,
the game's ruled fair,
you can hand me the baton,
shoot me with the starting gun
and catch me later, 'round the other side
of the looped track we're so endlessly
experimenting upon.

incoming

In the lee of the storm,
as towering hunchback clouds fling waves,
and spearfish for sharks with lightning lures,
awe shucks us like corn and we boil away
in spray, as summer comes in shorn
of every meaning but yours.

Friday, May 27, 2016

some eulogy

My appetite's destroyed.
My lust for life, decayed.
My body soon can meet my soul,
in spiritual parade
- long time coming, stranger.
At last we meet, at least.
At least let's have some pomp
and circumstance. At least,
let's follow where she leads.
I knew that girl, beforelives, man,
She's got a swell baton.
I'd follow her past hell and gone.
We never met down here. We don't believe
in soulmates, now, so much less Valkyries.
And so we die in battle, unselected, on our knees.
Every time.
It's clear there's something wrong:
it's everything they ever gave us to believe.
The game: is rigged, by being not a game,
unruled, unrefereed. At least let's have
some pomp and circumstance,
some eulogy.

A chance to stand,
break down, and tell who's left:
you were this life. This world,
for me.

run

You remember this,
from a thousand dreams
- but it's always real.
So suddenly you're back, this scene:
comes horribly true, just like
you always tried to make it seem,
and play, and feel. This time,

it's live.

Like every time, you try
to find your way, and through. Same
conflict, motivation, arc - each stage
unfolds unmercifully apace, the only part
that fits is you because you're trapped in it.
You can't get out. You're killing every house
you ever had. The curtain calls go on for nights,
and no one knows if this year's smash hit show
was ever written to be this sad.

Least of all, the crowd.
Not a dry eye in the place.
The critics are all amateurs.
They're doing it for love because
they hate to let on: they have no taste.

As this year's smash hit show goes on
its record-breaking run, we know:
ten years ago, it was the same
verbatim, line for line, for fun.
It played as uplift, triumph, feel-good
inspiration piece.

And then, a comedy.
And finally now, we weep.
Its truest sense is wrung,
and cut, so dry your eyes
my love. You are released.

Monday, May 09, 2016

"The birds greet the morning"

The birds greet the morning
like a bunch of mo-rons
as if at first light, they're already
a crowd of drunks, and
too far gone to modulate
their tone, or even yell a thing
that's interesting, or new, no, just
loud, not listening, talking over each other
their favorite strains: well-practiced
and worn, again and again they rasp
and squawk and trill and call,
and caw, because each only knows
one thing. And they want you to know,
and everyone else. And they're not listening,
but if they were, it would only be for the sound
of some other too far gone one-song asshole
giving them their favorite thing back.
Even with the windows closed, crack!
At the crack of dawn, cacophony and me
inside, wishing I could chime in reasonably,
and quiet the whole milieu, which I can do
with drunks. Drunks also only hear
the sound of their own call,
for the most part, but you can imitate that
and break in, and sing them down. Birds,
though, don't. And being strictly wild, too,
they never learned to use
their inside voice.

Friday, May 06, 2016

Indignation

We let the world go on like this.

We are the ones who let it go
on like this, it is and was
to have been our responsibility. Oh,
I know, we've clocked out for the day, though
haven't we? Done our time, paid our debt
to society, forty fifty sixty hours - isn't
that enough to ask, we've paid our debt! Yours,
mine, ours, plus the freeloading bastard we can't
look in the eye. Bastard winning the game, it's unfair
- doesn't even play. As a species, I know
we've clocked out
as a way of life,
basically. Declared fairness
government's job, I pay my taxes
don't they? Let them
look after it! So
they have.

The responsibility
was ours, but we hired it done, so
You get what you pay and pay and pay
and pay for, don't you know? It's ours,
and was, and was to have been ours
to stop authority

from taking all control.

But through no fault,
blame, or duty of our own, Some few
came along and got the job done
for us. They always do. And let's concede, they bear
a more than passive blame. They deserve, in fact,
credit I suppose, of a kind:

They have worked themselves
assiduously, into the plan,
and actively taken away
the design.

Taken systems designed to harness
ordinary, blameless greed into channels that serve
the common weal and need, taken systems designed
to create landscapes that are rigged so that
justice is the lazier path, the easier outcome to achieve,
landscapes where injustice has to work for its gains,
and work again and take pains to get away with them - oh,
there are always those few,
in every age, but - that's precisely why
they are not our excuse. They are
always present. In every age. We can't deny we knew
about these assholes. There are always a few,
and let lesson be learned, please: it only
takes a few, when you hand the whole thing
over to them, tell them it's their job, and
not to bother you.

Those few have taken all the systems we could monkey up
together in common trust to make common good common,
commonplace, easy, or at least - more commonplace, easier.
All the systems we gimmicked to put a fix in, build fairness
into the course of things as the path of least resistance
- those fucking few, who are always with us in every age
have finally hit the jackpot in ours, and really -
in a few hundred years, and purely on merit,
they have completely clipped and rigged
every system to benefit the great many
no longer, and the petty few
always, instead.

What is justice, but the very human effort
to take an unfair world and rig it in ways
that make fairer results more commonplace
than could naturally occur?

There will be an accounting, but don't worry
if you are bad at math, and law, and government,
and whatever else the job requires, don't worry
- it will be someone else's job after all. Won't it?
Isn't it? We pay our taxes, don't we? The Greater Good
is none of our concern, and so

it never is. The Greater Good never
is ours, but there will be an accounting,
don't you worry. It will not involve any
of the numbers
you know.

Indignity

The flies land on eyes
too dry to close,
and the logos run filthy all over
the clothes, where there are any. Limbs,
bellies, minds ache, naked
and wither with hope - nothing can take it
but death, at least, comes often
and ceremoniously. Everything explained,
by a pantheon - alive where nothing else
could possibly survive, God looks down,
and looks on, and lives on.

God's in Its heaven, and the kids
are alright.

Peace on earth, to everyone who
is willing to give up
the fight.

the change

Love is the change, the strangeness, the charm,
the damage another has done to your view.
The cracks in your world that were always there, that now
you can not only see, but walk through - and love
is what's on the other side, too.
And love is on your side
all over, as well.
That's what they've done to you.
If you've done it to them,
then it's heaven.
If not, it is hell.

Thursday, May 05, 2016

"masterplan (revised)"

You make me want to plan together with you
some spectacular crime that will shock the world
and everyone will say we're so devious
and so deviant and so dangerous, that
the only possible way to deal with it
would be to build a special prison
with just you and me in it.