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.

Friday, September 23, 2016

to the drink

To whatever
's been poured, as we
raise up this glass: may I
lift you back up
if you fall on your ass. Let us
drink what they pour,
til we go, dumb or
blind -
from the lip of the rim,
to whatever's behind, let us
clink. And then drink,
to what's here
in this cup.
And when
every drop's drained,
let us raise it up.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Nowhere With You

Well we've got it in our heads that we're not ordinary,
but we haven't figured out what makes us special yet.
except, of course, for what's unique in each of us.
but it's not really clear how that makes me stand out

it's my singular ambition - for a better life
and my piercing indecision, on what makes life get better
it's my having no idea how to find my way,
and my implacable need to have my way,
which has gotten me where I am today

which is nowhere
I am nowhere, with you
this is nowhere
I'm in nowhere, with you

Well I'm usually okay, but lately I've been thinking
and that's usually a sign there's something going wrong
so I opened up a random page in the dictionary
and I put my finger down on a word I can't pronounce

I considered it an omen
tried to take some stock
then I counted every moment
it did not add up

Now you're making me believe there's nothing wrong
with nothing - and maybe there is
for all I know, but it's getting me where
I have to go, which is nowhere

I am nowhere, with you
this is nowhere
I'm in nowhere, with you

To determine your location
- in the darkest dark
First you turn and face your partner
- and then there you are
Now you're making scary faces with the flashlight on,
in defiance of all that space and time
at the speed of light, you can see that I'm

going nowhere
I am nowhere, with you
this is nowhere
I'm in nowhere, with you

I am nowhere, with you
this is nowhere
I'm in nowhere, with you

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Promise

This
is going to be one of those
non-rhymed
poems,
with maybe a few
accidental

or off
-rhymes, and
in the
middle of it, I'm going

to
try to say something
truly

offensive.

"cartesian wells"

I think
a stone, a
coin, a drop,
a bucket slip
squeak-pulley
rope, and
plash - how deep?
Does this thing go
I think therefore
I do not know.

grace before

So many blessings are laid before,
but we walk right past with our eyes intent
on some glorious goal. Let us not pass by
this greatest gift you have ever sent.

Monday, September 19, 2016

"Couldn't Anyway"

It just slips out, how fucking cool -
how I see you - I see the bad, but
all that good is so much more
remarkable. And so I do!
I always have.
And it's all true,

but not too cool, huh?
Not too fair. Not too good.
As if I could -
As if I care,

As if I had
a thing to give.
I ought to shut my stupid lid, when

I can't have you anyway, and I
can't have you anyway. I couldn't
have you any way that I can see
my way clear to. And I can't
have you anyway, and I can't have
you anyway - and if I could, it's
just like me and just my luck,
and just like you - I couldn't
have you anyway. I'm pretty sure

I'm pretty sure I really need
to stop asking about these things
that have no place in space or time,
and nothing now to do with us,
or do for us - a waste of trust
a waste of patience, tried and tried
to waste imagination on
what we can't make-believe of life
and probably only one of us
would even want to make of it.

As if you wished - as if I knew,
As if I had a thing to give. When

I can't have you anyway,
et cetera, set, repeat refrain
and I can't have you anyway.
I can't fit us in any frame, I couldn't
have you anyway. And anyway, you wouldn't
want - at least, I think - that's
probably. I shouldn't speak,
for anyone

You're really something else, though huh?
Though maybe I do make too much,
it doesn't feel I've oversold.
To me, I cut back quite a lot
of all the things that come to mind.
The kind I'll say: You've said enough
already, now! It's obvious, and nothing
to be done about. And maybe you could shut
your mouth?
As if I can,
as if I could,
As if we ever had a doubt.
As if I had a thing to give
As if this was one life to life,
well

I can't have you anyway, that's
probably. I'm pretty sure.
And I can't have you anyway.
I shouldn't want you anymore,
I couldn't have you anyway.
I couldn't want you any more.
And I can't have you anyway. That's
probably, I'm pretty sure

Interpretive Coincidence Artist

Finite symbols, signs and forms,
finite numbers, dates recur.
Reach your hands out into them,
pulling out what strikes a nerve,
sets you off, makes you jump.
Teasing out connections, with
a never-ending search - commit
to drawing pattern, making fit.

Future ages will look back on this,
and call it modern Art.
Interpretive coincidence: you
spot the links, you play the parts
and draw a sum much greater than
the helplessness you feel when faced
by uncontrollable events. Reach out
into the details - place
your emphasis, and draw your lines:

There is a pattern of control.
The pattern we can see here, shows
that something is behind it all.

Albeit: something sinister.
Still, we reassure ourselves.
By being in the know,
possessing hidden knowledge, we can tell
ourselves: we are not at the mercy
of events uncaused. We are
wised up, we know the score.
It all unfolds by unseen laws.

While all the sheep read digest news,
believing what they're sold into
- that uncontrollable events
weren't planned - we know,
we sift, we reach our hands
into the finite forms and signs
and dates and numbers that recur.
We spot and pick and pull design,
to find control. It's sinister

'rainbow shades'

Rainbows cast a shadow
when the sun shines
behind them.
Those shadows
are so beautiful, but
so hard to find them.

'since you'

My brain and my balls
are full of pus, And
whatever I conceive
will be sick
of us

Friday, September 16, 2016

lost in a cage

My love for you
is like a roaring cage
made out of the universe, with
you and me in it.
"You and me" by the way
- not "You and I" -
is correct. Objective case.
Objectively, it's true
we can't see the bars.
The bars don't keep us
apart. The bars didn't keep us
together, either. They were
(or are) too far away, or too
widely-spaced, maybe. But
still we both know
about the cage.
Because it roars.

Shades and Shines

To shade through, like deeper chalks
and oil crayons, pulling out dark
tones into waking light. Shading
through, like a person's soul.
What's left after death -
according to Greeks
- is not you, but

a shadow in your shape,
that moves on in your old
habits and ways.

It no longer
is you. It no longer is

moved,
as it always was,
by the dance of light
and spirit you gave it. That you
give it. That makes it you. It can
never change, not even its mind - it
hasn't one. Just a memory of. So it goes,
on through all the old steps,
shuffling off into shadow,
infinitely stage left.
It's just
whatever impression you've left.

Just so you know:
it is you now dancing,
shining, who creates and shapes
what you leave behind. You
who you are, are your life.
Your memory cast, in everyone's
love, and eyes, and mind, is
but a shade.

And that image you make
while you live every day, it grows
long and goes on, and they stand
in your shade. Already,
day by day, you you pass,
as if into shadow. But you make
of it a shadow play. Because you're
still here to play it again,
to make it last, for as long
as you stay.

Each impression you leave
with each passing of yours,
through any mind, any pair of eyes
- As long as you live to cut the light,
and step however you wish into it,
your deft decision, your grace and might
bring every shadow of you
to life.

And in some ways, maybe
you could say that shade
is a realer somehow, than you
yourself. Considered in terms
of sheer multiplicity? You
are only ever in that one place
you shine, but you leave such array
of reflection behind. Everywhere
behind.

While you live, you do everything
your shade ever can't. You cut
and drape and arrange all shapes,
and color all shades of you, as you go.
You can even stop. Look back, judge
the effect, perhaps have a moment
of self-criticism? Anguish? Some do! And then
twist, leap outward with a cry,
or after a cry,
in some new,

or at least

strange-to-you way, path, plot,
dash, stab, lash, twirl, pirouette?
Something never seen before
in your silhouette. They may not
cry encore. You may say "Hm.
That's not really me, though" but this
is the point: You're the one
who has made and keeps making that call.
You are the one who tries who tries
you on for size and fit, and flings self
into it. Any time you wish, you can throw
new shapes, let old contours go,
bled away in light. An afterimage,
fading soon to past all recall.

You are the light designer
of the show you put on in others lives.
It's you, always, and after all,
who shines.

- but the shape, tone, depth you've laid down
as you go by always shades through. The cumulative you,
in another's view: an aftereffect. And as you play
(at being you) it is that backdrop you play against.
Careful or careless of it, you choose now
always now: mark! Don't look down, step up
hit it on feel, how to get through this scene, this
act: whether word, or dance step and turn, or emphasis
on this or that matter of fact - and what on earth
do you mean by that? That meaning is what you leave
behind, but it isn't you. You have meant far more.

Very little of that has to do with
Greeks, I confess.
They didn't carry their shades out from Hades
into all the images of sense and memory
that one makes in others while living. A shade
was strictly for afters, for them. But
it seems to me, it's the same thing really.
What I thought was kind of wild is that
they knew: your shade was not, and is not
you. Just the shadow your life has cast
off.

It's true.

Friday, September 09, 2016

Angle

All I need is a metal hook.
And a bit of flesh to push
it through, and I will catch
one bigger fish than you.

Thursday, September 08, 2016

Shades and Shines (retired draft, since revised)

To shade through, like the deeper
chalks and oil crayons, pulling out
dark tones into waking light, woken
to notice. Shading through,
like a person's soul.

What's left after death
- according to Greeks
- is not you,

but

a shadow in your shape
that moves on, in your old
habits and ways. It no longer
is you. It no longer is

moved, as it always was
by the dance of light and spirit
you give it. That you gave it. That
made it you. That gave it
life.

So it goes, through old steps,
shuffling off into shadow, stage left. Just so

you know: it is you,
dancing, shining, who creates
and shapes what you leave behind
today. You who you are, are life.
Your memory in everyone's love
and eyes and mind, is but a shade.

The image in mind - that you have made,
that you make now while you live,
every day, and long before you die -
is your shade. Already, you pass, as if
into shadow

but you make of it a shadow play.

Each impression you leave
with each passing of yours, through
any mind, any pair of eyes - As long
as you live to cut the light, and step
however you wish into it, your deft
decision, your grace and might
bring every shadow of you to life.

In some ways, you could say
that's a great deal realer
than you -
considered in terms
of sheer multiplicity? For you
are only ever in
that one place you shine,
as you leave such array
of your shade, behind.
Everywhere behind.

Yet you yourself are greater,
clearly. You
are the dancer in light, whose life
is what cuts, drapes and arranges
all those shapes, those shades of you,
for others - you do
everything your shade ever can't. Even
stop. Look back, judge the effect, perhaps,
have a moment of self-anguish and criticism?
Some do! And then twist, leap outward with
a cry, or after a cry,
in some new,

new, or at least
strange-to-you way, path, dash, stab,
lash, twirl, pirouette? Not seen
before, in any play of your silhouette
well, they may not cry encore, and you may
say "Hm. That's not really me," but this
is the point: You are the one who tries
you on. At any time, you
can throw new shapes, let old contours
go, bled away in light. An afterimage,
soon to be past all recall. You
are the light designer
of the show you put on
in others lives. It's you,
always, and after all,
who shines

- but the shape, and tone, of all you've laid down
and thrown as you go by, shades through. And as you play
at being you, you play against that backdrop. Careful
or careless of it, you choose now, always now: mark,
plot, feel, how to get through this scene, you
choose now: act, and word, and step, and turn, and emphasis, and
what on earth do you mean?

Very little of that has to do with
Greeks, I confess.
They didn't carry their shades out from Hades
into the images, of sense and memory,
that one makes in others while living. A shade
was strictly for afters, for them. But
seems to me, it's the same thing really.
What I thought was kind of wild is that
they knew: your shade was not, and is not
you. Just the shadow your life cast behind
it.

It's true.

Monday, September 05, 2016

personals

I love rain
after drought, and love
after loss, and hunger
where the food's on its way.
I love beer
after beer. I love
a kiss that actually does make it all
better.
I love to talk
about things others love
to talk about. I love an old
-fashioned, red, kite-shaped kite
against the sky - bright
red diamond with elongated
bottom point, trailing
a tail, with a ribbon
or two.

I love a deck of cards. I love an excuse
to wear a jacket. I love feasting
and making merry. I love a long, slow lie
in a hammock, preferably strung between two
big trees. I love
the difference between puppies
and kittens, and the moment
before just before you taste something
you've never had. I love loud thunder

: CRACK! BOOOOOM,

and rumbling roll. I love
people on foot who you pass
in the street. I love finding out
somebody you always assumed
was just being nice
was actually flirting with you the whole time.

I love songs. Not love songs,
necessarily, but sometimes
those, too.

I love towering clouds.
I love the weird majesty of stars.
I love beach sand, your feet
in it, damp, hiding from sun
and your eyes
in the shade of your hand.

Friday, September 02, 2016

Antiphon

Precision is
how I give in, to you.
Decision is
where you give in, to it.
It goes on and on,
if we intuit.
Concision
is how you constrict its wit,
conditioned on content, style
and form.
Depending who blinks,
we could be succinct.
We could easily rest,
take pause, go on.
We could even critique,
just to make us think.
We could even conclude,
for the sake of taste. But
before we desert
to such wastes of time,
let us first

say: grace.

And let us begin.
And let us dig in: For we
define.

Garden of Even

She's got a fundament
that you could rest a firmament in.
And I would rain every star
down upon her sin, to cool
the volcanic grace
she lets go. We create
and recreate every
day we know.

Birds on Fire

The birds set on fire
fly out through the night.
Tradition, and ritual make it
right. This is the way,
our mothers used

To crack open the door

But we have squeezed through. So
do we need cruelty, anymore?

A Fine Thing

FINE. Like treasures. Like
fine things. Like spun gold,
regardless of straw. Like gems,
regardless of facets
struck from them. I,
am fine.
What more
do we want, from
Men?
Let us give it to them,
then!

Fine.

I was the Dragon

If I was The dragon, what
would I do? First,
I would present-tense that shit.
I would BELCH, no ROAR!
I'd give into it.

For nature demands: no counterfeit.

No camouflage, no feint, no dodge.
Even a dragon must
pledge that lodge.
But I'll tend bar, and
I'll crack eggs. My body
is sinuous with legs.

Thursday, September 01, 2016

new moon fever

The new moon is
the closest black hole, we know,
it recurs like the tide to draw us
rushing back in up the shores of hope,
just past the shoals, and be
either beached or wrecked,
washed up upon them.

"Small, Secret Smile"

I have a small, secret smile
that no one can see.
I wear it on my face.
Don't look at me.

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Last in Heaven?

"Last on earth, first in heaven." Hold on, for me
that doesn't work. I am first:

a servant. Seems to me the venue shouldn't make
such a difference. Can't I wear the same
or equivalent livery up there, assuming
I secure the situation, that is? I mean,

There's no guarantee. But I'd rather be last
in both places. I'd feel
kind of awkward, pomping around cloudtown
in shining raiment and a halo of laurels,
talking about some
"How ya like me now?" No.

I want to serve, first last and
always. Assuming there is
such a thing as always.
Can't I just wear my sackcloth
to the afterparty and see
what needs touching up?
Probably very little! But then,
that's what we lastcomers like
to see. We're just there in case,
in the event
of eventuality. Because we love,
first: to serve. Last, too. Why not?
Wherever we are,
we like to be.

Hair shirts, okay -
those don't suit me, but
you should see me rock a sackcloth.
I want to be last in, last out

- my usual mode. Show up on time,
not fashionably but 'umbly attired -
spiritually natty, okay perhaps. But
nothing ostentatious. Stay late
to clean up - thankless, but
task me with whatever's thankless
and guess what? You will see who
is really welcome. You are!

If someone's really welcome,
do they have to thank you? They can,
and welcome to it, but they needn't
thank me. Who needs all these
preliminaries? You can thank me

by taking advantage of the service.

If it's any advantage to you,
to do so, I mean.
So be it.
So let it be.

This is why the meek, I guess
get stuck with the earth.

Don't want to be first up there.
Awkward. Plus,

they've tasted last of every cup,
and found it sweet enough already

So last here, and wishing to be last
there, they get stuck here. In theory,
at least.

They are blessed with it, in theory
for their meekness. It is called
an inheritance. And perhaps it is true
that meekness is
genetic.

I subscribe to the nurture vs. nature
theory, on that issue. Reportedly,
according to God's Will
as reported and recorded
in the most recent edition
of the Testament thereof, I get:

The earth.

Sweet!

But the inheritance tax on that
is assessed perpetually.
On a quarterly basis.
Payable in pennies, so

You know.

I plan to keep busy.

come lie with me down

Come lie with me down
a road we can't tell
anyone else about.

It will end just as well
as deserts should expect,
after so rich a fare.

We have paid dear for this
and we don't even care
for the change that will
come,
We do not even check
any impulse at all.

Still at least 'til we've done
what we needs must do -

or we once must have

- if we didn't, we're
through. We could
not be so bad But once,

we could.

In the sun, come lie
with me down.
We would not be so good. Would
you lie?

Or have I? Come,
down. And the grass
won't complain.

We were made,
here to lie
in the course of each way
we have lain,
until now.

Showboat

I love beating people
at my Own Damn Game.
And they can't even tell! Well,
hey, what's its name? I can't say,
but there are a few rules
you shouldn't know.
It would ruin your enjoyment
how you win so slow.

Originality what a concept

If you can't find a new way to Hell, sometimes
the old ways are best, my friend.
Forget about what you didn't expect.
Expect what you wouldn't intend.

And then on the day,
they will stretch back amazed
on a way none of them thought to use.
And you'll open the tolls,
and surpass all known goals.
They will name that road after you

Retiring, yawning, eyes all aglow,
laurels ablaze on an untroubled brow -
At last you're a trailblazer now, good sir.
For once, you're original now.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

There's a lot you can do to convince me.

There's a lot you could do to convince me.

First of all, try to stop.
Convincing me's easier done
than said. If you care to drop
a hint or two, a word to the wise
means less than the hand to the ass
you'll get instead. I mean, if you say
that again, what you've said three times?
I heard it the first time, pet.

And I'll tell you just where you can put it:

To bed.

Confessionally, an apology to Ms. Sexton

Dear, Anne, you know,
ever since I read that whole, it

was more than a book, compendium
of yours,

I have been lost
in such a rut

of confessional poem. Mine,
of course,
alas don't confess

anywhere near as many things done.
But in religion at least, at least
in mine, what you haven't done, you can burn
just as much over. So I feel
pretty well safe there.

What's missing? In mine,
I mean. Yours

are great.

But of course, unlike you
I cannot write a poem
while I menstruate.

It's not clear whether this

should be considered
privileged.

I can't very well tell,
can I?

Letters to Exes, Part Nuevo

Dear, do
you remember the time you dragged my ass
half-asleep at the wheel
across the continent to, ostensibly,
home? It sure looked nice from here,
back then, and now I've got a sense
it either never fit, or
has since been outgrown. But
it's no fault of yours. We
know. I have you to thank
for that. Dear, do
you know how much it hurt

my tailbone, falling seated vertically
drunk down half your whole staircase,
not spilling a drop (as mentioned
in my previous letter) of the martini
you made me shake? I've gone stir
crazy since you kicked me out of
that cozy-little prison of a house
of yours, and I like 'em dirty,
too. Grey goose, for you
as I recall. But I've gone to gin.
Never
have two such mutually-incipient
alcoholics ever been so well-
fit as friends, so damn raring
to begin, so well done by the end,
burnt through, to a finely-turned
crisp, and so ill-suited all the way
through and not known it, yet never
once, have two such people us that
sobered up so fast.
As a matter of fact,
I believe I'll have another but,
that belief can't last. Dear, you

the only one I ever cheated,

well that sucks. I'm going to start
another one to you and shuffle it
up. It may already be up there, written
out of order. You'll never be any wiser,
anyhow. The worst part is
to feel so violated! Dear, you

, despite the actress that you
so are, were probably the pick
of the bunch. Let's do lunch
again, like we mean it this time.
Scene. Curtain. Call me. Ah,
I'm just kidding. You would
anyhow. You're always there,
on the phone telling me some
new drama unfolding. And I
am always hanging on, you know.
Rapt. So be it. Let it be, so Dear,

anyway, I

knew you
best of all.
You know who I mean.
I mean, you know who

you are. Need I say
more? Thanks

for everything, dear.
You,
I must have left you out
of the last letter. You didn't
count. Still don't.

Ow, that's cold. Dear,
did you know when you left me
so cold? It's okay,
my jacket always looked so much warmer
on you. Keep it. It's

dirty.

Dear, you
must forgive me for all that crap
about the jewelry that time. It was just,
you know. A ring. Dear,

we must go now.
You, go on. Away
from me. I will keep
the ghost of who you never
were anyway

company.

Catharsis!

I have a theory in fact
that a feeling kept in
must explode into act,
but that there is more than one
way to skin, or better yet pet
that cat. Because the kitten's
back, notoriously pissed
at the wrong way you run
your hot hands upon it, is up.
Under better management,
you might have done something else. No,
don't interrupt, let me suggest.
Example: write a letter
to a woman's magazine, and
never send it. See? As long
as you put that feeling into act
somehow, it

has come to be! Intact,
if a bit tawdry.

Pretty easy, right?
Write a song! Learn
to paint still lives.
Life will go on, as
you depict it. Or
better yet, as you wished
you could. You start to realize
things. Next thing you know,
all those feelings have someplace
to go. Isn't that better?

No?

Well, it's fucking practice then innit?

You know what to do. You
don't need me,

or need me to tell you.

Ah. That's,
well. That's just
fine. And never
choose the lesser-meant word,
just to make a rhyme.

Take my advice, I know
what I've done and to whom.
And if you do as
well,

then you wouldn't be the only one, alone
in your room.

Locked up safe

You get me all
out of sorts, though. Fresh
out, of sorts. It's this
embarrassment of truth
that you put me, or push, or
every time, come to think of it - shove
me, into the way of seeing. Not
deliberately of course. Naturally, so
necessarily many things pile up, said
but not out. Not out, not loud, not even
whispered, so much - but proud,
though! I mean, why wouldn't
you be? If you mean it,
why blush?

And why not?
You are just
too much. I can't tell you
enough, but

I've found I ought to try
to let on a little less.

It feels a little too revealing,
I guess, or confess. Perhaps best
to just say: what you've heard
is but a pinch of what I've left
in my heart, all composed and
calm and blest, and ready to serve,
but. Well, that would be
absurd.

You can't let it out,
waggle wiggle around, and
expect to keep up dignity
in that kind of clown outfit.
Whose birthday is it? Surprise!
I guess it's mine, but
, again, that would be too much
to further define or divine
or delve into. It would look
ridiculous.

And I'd prefer not
to be so bold, but I am
and so I guess we have left
to hold: this enormous, bagless
cat. Who let this thing in?
It's been sitting in the room
the whole time! Just in case
of mice. We wouldn't want
to scare the elephant away.
That's why I keep mum,
like Oedipus. Another classic
allusion, from a guy
who has lived some myth.

Oh, when you have in you
one million lives
you have never taken one breath
inside, you have to let it out,
get it out, somehow. Some
sing a cheating song, some
break some vow. I,
would love to flatter myself,
could not care less. How
you look in that dress, but
you do. I am not impressed
by your style but my sense
of it is sharp. I must admit
you've taken quite quiet hold
of my heart, in some fantastic
way, in some imaginary
place, where imaginary time
ticks away,
on my watch
you have broken all clocks.
You have caged all song,
And it has to stop.
It has to break something.

But whose?

I have to let it out,
get it out, some how. Since
you won't sing along - so
it's only a song. So
we've seen, and for now,
it is harmless enough. If you've ever
lived one, you would know:

just a song
can't lay anyone low,
until it's sung.

So, yeah, most
of what's in me will
never get out. Please,
you have no idea, as
I'm sure you can imagine, so
forgive what you've seen,
if you would. For my sake,
and to benefit
a doubt.
I know,

It's a risk to take.

skip it!

She gives me such high tea,
he tee he'd, skipping
half
of the rest of unnecessary steps,
for a lark, for a laugh,
we can skip
so much quicker than
a marathon gets. By the time
you hit the wall, you're already
to rest.

When you find a wall between, well
you push til you or it

either give,
or give in, or
give in to it,
or fit,
and with soft slip-snick, as it
- clicks into place,
we shall see
how much was worth, or is left.
The self-image that she'd praise - well,
she's sure seen worse.

And she has seen
the best. So
Let's skip!
For to skip's so much quicker
than to hike. And her skirts
aren't really cut for it, so
let's steal a bike! Or,

contrariwise,
let us whistle in the light,
all the way through the dark
where the fall in your eyes
has found me out.

It's a lovely day for skipping,
Shall we? Oh, don't let's
doubt. So let's don't
start now, shall we?
We know how. As we know

What will come of it. So yes,
let us now. Let us skip along, now. Well,
we know what's come, and
how badly we will slip,
and how badly we will want,
and how badly we will part. So,
let's skip that one
part, by skipping. Let us skip
to that part.

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 do!

Friday, August 26, 2016

stray home

What if I die like this?
In cowardice, not reaching for
the bliss I have not so richly
earned? Burned
by the worst case of
the one that got away
that anyone's fairy-tale talking fish
could unfairly twist into a wish. Spurned.
Turned, by your eyes,
to go home
owned.

It's you who knows
where that home is now.
It travels around on your
back, like an uncounted bird,
like a pathless track, through
the unconsidered lilies
of my dream's widest fields, and wildest.
Fact. is what you console yourself with
When God isn't calling you back,
and the devil just crosses the
street, chicken that he is,
so as not to meet the fate
in your eyes so deep.
I looked too soon,
too far to be wise,
as I learned too late.
Could I ask you out for drinks
at this late date? Just give me

the time of day,

and I will have and keep
faith. In something great, which
I can't understand, that you taught me
once. Damn.

I'm so ready again. I am! I swear. And,
this time it won't be you
who is left in the air.

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