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, September 18, 2018

welcome bag

Hey new neighbor
maybe you remember me, so
just
in case you do, I'll

just leave this
upon your porch

no push, the bell
no clonk, the knocker

really, there's no urgency just
whenever you get the chance,
happen to notice, open

the door, maybe later
you're going out
pretty much like before
like you always do

like a bitch? you would demand suspiciously
but I'd quell that bull shit suspicious shtick
with my patented COLD EYE

and speaking of which,

And furthermore
wow,

WHAT

a huge, beautiful brass
knocker you've got! This door
should have two of these

Really stand out.

Anyway, for you

in case you don't remember who
it's me, from before and I'll just

leave this bag
on fire,

which

is actually appropriate,
if you think back a bit

findings

At first this poem
was intended as a controlled study

of the effects of poetry upon
the statistically representative sample,

including a subset who would be force-read
a placebo.

The results were shocking. Nobody
showed up. All symptoms vanished

without reported side-effects
and the whole thing, really

had to be viewed as complete success

to be understood in its proper context.
In the history of poems, it proves nothing

and everything one might imagine

a poem is capable of

to be either true, or substantially
capable of supporting such interpretations
as render truth

itself suspect. In which case,

we must concluding: funding
must be secured immediately

and gigantically,

so that the future of poetry
vindicated by the findings
may proceed assured.

occult motion

In that perfection that came to truth so easily,
there is nothing to sacrifice, nothing to
misunderstand. You can study on it

or profess to believe, but

Do not take a hand

unless you're prepared to take the stand,
and be sentenced free

for the rest of your life
you can already see.

It was not unplanned

Monday, September 17, 2018

"Gift of Sight"

Unveil your lamp,
o goddess of moon!
Loose the fasteners,
let shutters fall
and light spill out
like pale champagne,
as all mankind (at least,
all yours - all mine)

grows drunk from the light you play,
so generously as the shadows fall
from eyes aglow,
eyes that know,
and can never again see obstacle
or obstruction, or veil

your naked light.
Eyes can never be blind,
that have had such a gift of sight.

Sunday, September 16, 2018

For catching up on sleep

For catching up on sleep
so far
this year, I've got
so far ahead, my waking life
will not catch up. I've lapped it
twenty times in bed,

in chairs, on beaches, under stars -
the harshest sun could not stop me
from following my dreams right down
to where they live, insensibly

Saturday, September 15, 2018

"Same Love"

Why's it always got to be so hard
When it's always so true in her eyes?
When you can tell he means every word?
But the truth
works out to a compromise
Why's it always got feel so wrong?
We have to fight all the way through
to agree
Is one of us not honest at all?
And is it me

Well if it ain't two in love
Then how could it be you in love?
If you're not in the same love
You're not in the same love
Well if you say it's understood
Then you better agree for good
'Cause if you're not in the same love
You're not in love

Why's it always got to be so dumb
Like the same stupid thing always tripping us up
and in the end, we agree to be wrong
But the truth is - we take it on trust
'Cause baby I can't believe that you'd lie
And your faith in me, so painful to see
But we can't see what's right to save our live
between you and me

Baby if we ain't two in love
Then how could it be you in love?
If you're not in the same love,
you're not in the same love
If you can't share the same idea,
then you better get one thing clear:
You're not in the same love,
and you're not in love.

"Wine & Roses"

One day we'll quit our jobs and live like kings.

Or you can live like a queen, if that's your thing
And poets will cast all our thoughts into rhymes,
and artists will paint our views
And the artists, and poets, will each be us
And love will be our muse

and I'll make love to you, every chance I get
And you'll continue to go straight to my head
And boldly we'll stroll where no one has before -
the sun shining in your hair

and we'll spread our cloth and lay our picnic out,
right there, and I

Will bring wild roses,
and you will drink red wine
And days will pass like moments,
and nights will freeze in time

And the world your heart encloses
will be filled with love from mine,

And I

will bring wild roses
And you
will drink red wine

Said I'll make love to you, every chance I get
Our lives will be saved, our futures will be set
Horizons will open as far as the eye
can't take it all in at once

And the world will provide for all of our needs,
and satisfy our wants, and I

Will bring wild roses,
and you will drink red wine
And days will pass like moments,
and nights will freeze in time

And the world your heart encloses
will be filled with love from mine,

And I

will bring wild roses
And you
will drink red wine

And when I think how I've longed to hold you, dear
And now you're standing in reach, now you're right here
And maybe we've already waited too long

but you haven't lost your shine

And I will bring wild roses, And you

will drink red wine.

"over it"

Please
don't tell me to
get "over it," when "it"
is the shining best
love of my too-short life.

Your

too-short life, will be over
all too quick. When you have
the chance,

get over it.

And tell me what
that's like.

psychic surgery

To amputate a phantom limb
involves a certain suffering
in finding out how little pain
accompanies the sudden loss
of where there never was a gain,

or really, anything at all.
Just something that you thought

was there. An attribute

you always had

depended on - and never let
it let you down. But now you know,
the drop,
the ball.

No one was playing catch with you
at all.

It's just
your mind, that it was in.
So all along, it was but prayer
or placebo - your faith,

your sin. You were the one

who counted every win, in game
no other joined. About something
no other cared.

There was no wrong,
just phantom right.

Of which,
they were the champion.

And won, somehow

- Just every
single
time.

but

it was only you,
to cheer them on, and
they did not know why

or how.

So everything
is just as was.

No wound to close,
no stitch, no fuss

You can't make up the difference, now.

"your earring," Or, "the visitation"

Wasn't somebody looking
for an earring once?
This was ages ago,
looking everywhere.

It is on the sill.

In the entrance nook. Come by
when you can, you will find it
there.

Or maybe you did come by, and you put
it there yourself, on the sill

as a sign?

That you had been there,
but not who you are.
Please come by again

It would be divine.

"Pleasures in prospect"

"I am willing to forego many pleasures,"
I reflected, absent-minded, as I do "To
enjoy the enjoyment of others not deprived
thereby." Truth, in a present meditation
on the beauty
of the orange juice, cold
from the fridge, disappearing
almost all but the jigger's-worth
of a big half-bottleful
into my huge glass.

Then, wryly
(as I often am)
returned to some semblance
of mindfulness, making off

innocently
with the evidence.

"manifesto, no"

Poetry is more than just a
bunch of thoughtful touches stuck in
for assholes to appreciate!

"Preparation for enjoyment"

I wish I had never come in,
for you to tell me now
we have to go and do. I was enjoying

thoroughly out there, no going,
no doing - now I have
to not shift gears,
but wreck the engine! Break
it and bend its flanges and pound,
whack, bang on and otherunwise
detool its just now cracked, twisted
block into the deprecisioned unfunction
machine needed

to process enjoyment
and enjoy the process
of this perverted love
of unscheduled purposeful action of yours,
that you have - and I have in you. Stand back!

I am the master. Only I
know what I am doing, here,
and - perfect! We can go.

"mixed blessings of protection"

Out of most of the doors,
almost in the first real, beautiful day for weeks
and enjoying the sceened-in porch
by yourself,

the sudden,
dancing retreating advancing whine
like a siren, a rotary saw, into
then out of the audible, middle
then near in the distance - is recognized:

one of the bugs you have found
getting happy and fat on your blood. You know
the kind,
and it pricks
your ears

and your nerves thrill sick, every sense
on alert looking out for it
as your blood takes up
the alarming whine like a populace
trembling at the crime - but surely,

safe?
In here, screened away?
Behind metal walls,
solid with billions of tiny squared holes,
in perfect array to let in the sun,
and the breeze,

and the sound

just the sound of the siren's whine? Just to remind,

how good it is - to be here,
screened off, almost in the day
so fine. Just to call,

for to tempt the blood. Just
for suspense, to build release. Just

to madden the mind with rising red,
til' you leap from the temple of sacrifice
and burst out with a yell of crazed defeat,

to acquiesce to liquidity,
consent to become the elect,
as you join the feast.

classic forms

A nihilist,
a misanthrope
and a paranoid solipsist walk into a bar. The nihilist
says to the misanthrope, "Cheer up!
These people you hate are meaningless.
Yes, even me." The misanthrope replies

"Ah, if you only knew.
The hatred gives them meaning." The paranoid solipsist says,

"Will you two
shut up? Since
I first imagined you
you have persecuted me! It is like
some bad joke." "There is no joke,"

rumbled the determinist bartender,
with an edge of regret. "Only each of us,
playing out our inevitable nature
against a backdrop of convincingly
illusory free will. Now,"

he brightened, serving the paranoid solipsist's drink,

"What will your hallucinations have?"

Friday, September 14, 2018

sublimation

There's a fine line between subversion
and what you're doing. Subversion is cool!
When you stumble across the word, say "whoa

what's that

look it up, remember
to close your quotes belatedly,"
learn what it means and

mind blown

start using it for fucking everything

- THAT

is subversion. Specifically,
it's metasubversion.

You're subverting the word subversion,
by using it for fucking everything
and trying to get the subversive jolt

but

no dice.

It isn't subversive at all, that way.
It's not genuine or authentic.

You're just being the arriviste

of subversion
- the uncoolest subversive
there is.

Sadface subversive, realizing
how much joy
you took in it, and everyone
looking at you, appalled grimaces
eye rolls

didn't notice - didn't hear - too late

"She's RUINING subversion! Or
He is" - suspiciously to each other

meanwhile

what you're doing?

Good work!

Subversion is for fucking morons and losers.
Keep ruining it!

it's cool

a dream of more

So many people
have come to a point in their lives
looking for more.
More from themselves

More from loved ones
More

from life.
But

where do we find this more?
From Scripture? Scripture says
"Hey. Don't look at me!
That's all she wrote,
chapter and verse"
- memorized don't lie.
Wherefore then seek more?
In some weird, easy trick
- a life hack? Some Social
Viral South Keto Beach Blanket
Bingo Victory, where the biggest loser
humiliates themselves to inherit
the Earth's worth of followers
and likes? And if this shot

doesn't crack the facade

of Earth's pretended indifference,
(we know you love us, secretly
sure) and if this shot
does not, and if this
shot does not, then

maybe the next, keep trying

don't ever give up on your dream
of more. Your dream
with nothing
in it.

Nothing specific, just

wanting more.

Don't give up.
You will get it
soon enough.

galore

Thursday, September 13, 2018

She is not lost.

She is not lost.
She's not who you thought she was
She's not who you said she was
She's everything she has been

instead,
all along
Not lost.

She's just what you're finding out
Since you took the room to doubt
The picture of her you snapped,
and colored the gaps,
outside her lines,
to proceed along

without.

She is not lost.

age of effigy

We live in the age of effigy
We construct straw men to set afire,
and dance around them, feeling exorcised

in righteous and satisfied glow of ire.
Then return, disgusted, to shaking our heads
teeth clenched, flying spittle, demanding of all:

"How can they continue to be this way?
The way that I say they are,

so small
so simple

such voodoo dolls,
after all.

They don't stand for them - what they say they do.

They stand for me. I have set them up.
I know them like they don't know themselves,
from a point of view that is incorrupt

And they all mean exactly just what I say:
so terrible, petty and vile it is!
And no matter what they say they mean
and believe

- such pathetic excuse
cannot exist.

Cannot ring true, or stand
- not once you rightly know
who they are,
what they signify.

How can thinking beings go on like this?
So far,

it doesn't make sense to me at all. The lie!
Their sick motivations, I've given to them,
and refuse to consider a thing they say

- for I know what it only would mean, okay?
They haven't a chance taking me

in such sway.

But I wish
that they weren't so impossible

To understand
To reach
To hear

I don't see how they can act like this,"

Light an effigy, then dance circles

around your fear,
my dear

- it's the only way

to turn the earth over
unconsciousness,
and make the sun rise,
to illuminate yet -

another day,

you'll see

about what you think it is.

Wednesday, September 12, 2018

respect the past

Could you please

not live in the past, unless
you were actually happy back then?

Not

just dipping back
to when things sucked, but

then sneak, bolt off
and live in the imagined futures

that then still seemed
bright? At least,

enough to bask in.

This is not
living in the past.
Respect the past

if you're going to live
there,

live

in what actually happened.
Live in how it was.

Yesterday's futures -
You can just as well
pretend all those things now,
as then. It is the same exact

chance. They have not dimmed
one iota; they are every bit

as possible,
as probable,
as plausible now

as they were at the time.
Even with all of the people involved
married, or dead, or moved away now -
who were not so then -

the specific futures you believed in then
are not one bit more

unlikely now,

then they ever were. You
were just so much better yourself

at playing pretend.

nocent

in a way that connotes, but does not imply
we were too much knowing of dangerous things
and not unaware of all that transpired
which since has acquired a shameful sting

- we were each put on notice:
our presence here

would continue solely at our own risk,
and we would be on our recognizance,
upon our honor

we swear, and kiss.

If we're found out again, in suspicious state -
there will be no shame spared upon our case.
We will strip and frisk, full disclosure galore
- giving absolute proofs, we'll protest innocence

but no one will cheer,
or ask for more.

As their finding of truth,
they will show us

The Door

Thursday, September 06, 2018

outsize

It will all be okay when he's around.
'Cause he's five feet fucking eleven tall
and monstrously huge in his looming stroll
- the closer he gets, people lose their minds
because how can one man so god damn monstrous
be contained by the visual cortex? And they make way,

because they know now he's here, it's fine.
Whatever way he goes is his - best
to get out of it, on principle.
His intimidating presence
reassures all.

They know what he says
has pretty much already come to pass,
or it might as well,
and he says: "It will all be okay."

Imagine if somebody pissed him off.
Ho-lee shit. He might flex his burly extent, flick
his baleful gaze, mournfully
upon them and mumble one or two
of his two or three pet threats: "If you say

that again I will take your BALLS
and tuck them into your asshole," or,
"I'm about to pull your head off
and go bowling with it." From how everyone dives

for cover and averts horrified eyes, dipshit who dared
knows he fucked upwardly, and must needs consider a swift
retirement from the field.

Nobody can believe that guy.
Who messes with the king of the place?
His gigantic tyranny's security's ensured
by the mere enormous menace of his presence alone,
since everybody knows it's in no one's best interest.

He wills ill to no one, but
he brooks no rivers
nor trucks with truculence. Nevertheless one time even,
he suffered a fool eternally. Everybody was like
"what the hell?" but we had to admit, it was
the craziest thing we saw all day.

For the most part though, his sweet temper
is second only to the threatening presence
he can't help, being terrifyingly gigantic. People claiming

well above six foot

look up to him considerably,
so what that let you know. Man's huge,
and his rule is "Don't start none,
won't be none." When he's around,

that goes without saying or else.
But people can tell, ultimately.

It's all okay, or it's gonna be.

resurrection theory

You are the one
who planned out your entire life
beat by beat and step by step
before you were born
and since.
You stepped
into it with a will.
God's will

is not merely God's, but
also all of ours, combined

- it is not a democracy.

We are burning
in the friction of our separate
divine,

and some of us are consumed
utterly, in agony -

and all of us
go out like candles, eventually.

But there is a memory

more perfect and detailed
than ever was reality. Holding
not only all of all we are, but

all of everything we ever thought
we could be, wanted to be
or tried to be, wished

we could be.

- and will be again,

eternally -
since all this is known,
of each of us
who wish to be.

At least, it's a theory.

Saturday, September 01, 2018

twinflames

i was in your heart
when i saw a bear
but the bear was really you

so i jumped on you
and we both flew off
to visit my heart too

we were in-between
when we lost our way
and you turned into a goose

but i loved you just
as much as before
the goose was really you

we are twinflames
we are soulmates
it makes sense to us
always

we are twinflames
we are destined
i enflame you
you are my twin
we are burning

well the world is just
an enormous sign
that's pointed straight to home

pointed straight to us
and with other signs
that point our way to roam

did we each agree
before we were born
to meet here in this place?

looking at us now
I would say that's just
the kind of plan we'd make

we are twinflames
we are soulmates
it makes sense to us
always

we are twinflames
we are destined
i enflame you
you are my twin
we are burning

Friday, August 31, 2018

sentence without possibility of

Listen, I hope you don't think I

There wasn't any point in time
What you even mean to me, I can't

Without you, there isn't anyone
Can't you see what I'm
I'm
not the one
who can finish all these

without you
to interrupt

me.

beggar's cant

The only reason I don't beg
- it isn't pride.
Chuck that, I'd gladly beg
all you would gladly give of you.
'Specially if you'd want me to, but
I don't know that you do. If I
abase myself, is that a thrill?

Or would I have imposed?

I won't! Unless you like
imposing men. If that's the case,
I will. I am

too often told, for my taste
anyway, I can be quite imposing
- and I flat refuse
imposing this on any but

who'll welcome it.

I know - sounds like some
kinky shit.

disgusting horror poem

Disgusting horror poem. What
do I want in it? Body horror

like blades erupting out of
our own poor bodies, or
your feet slowly turning
into hands.

Supernatural horror, like
eldritch, occult holiness
might be responsible beyond
all comprehension, the hints
are terrifying and
inconclusive.

Psychological horror, like
clues building: maybe you
did it and don't know?

Things I don't want in it,
unless they slip in naturally
accidentally:

trashy teenage exploitation
slasher flick horror, with
horrible punishment for
dispirited, impersonal,
indifferently-acted
gratuitous sex and nudity
doled out like clockwork
by a U.S.M.(unstoppable
killing
machine)

Gothic horror, except
in atmospheric touches.

Love horror. I don't know
what that is and I don't
want to know. Except oh
shit. Maybe

that's the
only kind I ought to be
exploring? Perhaps
in a separate poem, more or

less disgusting



Thursday, August 30, 2018

"sentinel and observer"

When you wake up to your waiting world,
I hope the dreams that slip from you
are happy ones.
I would stand post
inside your mind, alert
and watchful as you sleep,
to ward anxieties and troubles off
so you can order things as you would wish,
in slumber deepening your hold
on every treasure that you keep.
So wakened safe to freshly-broken day,
you can refresh yourself
and take your post by windowlight,
and watch for me,
to wish me on my way.

Wednesday, August 29, 2018

twin flames

shush!
superstitions must be shushed
or it's bad luck and won't come true!!
what if we're not twin flames?
what if we're not
twin flames? Don't say

that we are

it's bad luck, don't tempt

the fate

we agreed to this before the universe, maybe
so don't get all haughty now,
presumptuous,

just

accept it like it was,
smug smile, if you have to,
self-knowingly and

you and I

aw, baby?

you know we are don't you?

secretly?

don't say it
it's not good luck

but maybe we are

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

"Far as I can tell"

Racism is an uncomfortable fact.
The only thing people hate more than that
is the fact it exists, so hard to deny
without people making assumptions of why
you’re denying it.

And then there’s sex. Or genders
- which, come to find out, there’s twelve.
As an intact male, I’m fine with that.
The pronoun I go with is “you,” myself.
3rd person is strictly for gossiping.

I never had much to say on that score,
I’m just keeping it straight,
and white,
and male
- which is just about as hard as it always was.
certainly no harder than it was before

far as I can tell.

Saturday, August 25, 2018

"The Curse"

You used to worry me, and now you don't.
Should I be worried about that?

I used to think of you as someone close.
Now I can't get close enough,
in fact:

I want to live with you.
I want to live for you.
I don't want to die at all!
You know I used to,
but you have cured me of the curse
just as if I deserve it all

You used to humor me, and now we just laugh.
- we never had to be careful.

But there isn't anyone who'd take such cares
There isn't anyone responsible,
out there

But I'm responsible,
and you're responsible
You're the one who filled me up
'Cause I was empty once,
but you have cured me of the curse
just as if I could ever be enough,

And you

have my heart. And I

can barely hold yours

There isn't anyone could even begin
to make such a start worth finishing,
For sure:

I want to live with you.
I want to live for you.
I don't want to die at all!
You know I used to,
but you have cured me of the curse
ever since I began to fall,

for you

Friday, August 24, 2018

Inanity Prayer

God give me the something
to do the something else,
the other thing to handle
that part, and the difference
to figure out somehow.

"the satisfactory"

She is a satisfactory.
She manufactures my content,
well-being and elusive peace,
in her well-meant and consummate
release, by cares she's given me.

I furnish iron will and raw material,
she takes them in and churns them
into finished goods, by flesh and blood
and sweat and something suddenly ethereal

- and both of us are satisfied
in what was made between, above,
beneath, behind - now side by side,
we breathe each other's labored breaths,
and spin them into giant sighs
and tiny grins, becoming shy

despite the business that we're in,
which shows no signs of running dry.

"disrobe"

The world approaches reality
like a supplicant, when your soft gray robe
rolls in tumbled folds,

cinched uninsistently
at your waist, making layers of parting cloud
- and the creamy rose sky of you
lies beneath, invincibly endlessly
modest and proud as the humblest thunderstorm
must be, cloaking you,
placing its stitchings
of lightning strikes

where they must touch ground.

Untrembling hands reach out, to slide
from your shoulders and cast it down
- knowing full well that death is the price,
to tempt to embrace so much life. Let us go,
full willing into that good night, but not yet.
Not now, knowing so much day

remains to be made in this light sliding free
and sleek, still wet from the lowering cloud,
and the glow of you grows as you shine on me,

as if anything this close to paradise is allowed.

"It has come to our attention."

Here in the court of Intellect,
where Sense serves proudly in Reason's thrall,
and bound by Logic's inerrant law -
we know Nothing exists beyond these walls.
We indulgently hear and entertain
all the breathless petitions Perception brings.
These playthings and problems amuse one's brain,
but they must be deemed inessential things,
since they come from what can't be ascertained.

We shall lower our Self to proceed as if,
not because They exist, but because at this time,
we have nothing of substance to occupy mind,
and we see small chance of amending this.

It has always been thus, wethinks,
and protest it's fine: Ignorance
is all we can know of bliss
- going off, getting lost time to time
in the myths of our Memory,
chasing the you I knew,
before we reduced all of this.

We still talk, you and I - you
are just the same.

You don't even know
you may not exist.
You are just
a report
brought in from outside
- the only real thing, perhaps,
in all of that formless waste
of what Is.

Thursday, August 23, 2018

I don't know what it's called

What if there was an evil beast
- a monster, I mean, coming after you
through all your dreams? Until, wide-awake
- you thought for a second you saw it
standing there, and screamed.

That is all the time
it would take.

"The Infamous Bitch"

As far as he's concerned, she has
the kind of tits and eyes a man
could get lost in all night and day,
and maybe life. She has the kind
of hips and open heart and maybe legs,
a man could lose himself in wonders
or in wondering. She has perfection
kept within, and advertised
without the sales and marketing.
Enough to beg, to give to her
the humbling she badly wants
or needs from him. She has about
the perfect ass - but
far as she's concerned
she'll pass.

He guesses maybe
she missed what he's offering.
But how could he have made it
any plainer, though? Confused,
he stands firm, resolute
and softening.
Could tenderness
have been a thing to try,
with her? But now he'll never know.
She walks away unwon,
and undeterred - a living symphony.
A prize for which / or which
he'd rather kill than die.
The shame of it is infamy. Who does
she think she is? And why? I guess
she isn't into me. Was I too nice
a guy, not bad enough a boy? What kind
of man does she not want to so destroy?
He turns from her, disgusted with

the enmity.

Get God! Brand Cleanser

With all of the filth in your eyes and mind,

this world can be only a cesspit to you.

So get God! brand cleanser,

and then you will find

how everything can be sparkling,

clean and new!

Some Glory

Towering clouds in sunset hues
against a field of invincible blue,
with their base in shadow and bodies aglow,
on lightning legs they march on the wind

to an end they surely know,
even as they begin. Even as
they began, they surely knew.

This day is to die for, and they will make

a glorious end of it,
before it is through.

"Open Scheme"

I like rhymes
that call to each other
from a ways off, as if
having agreed to meet in a pathless woods, which I
have provided. A place for themselves
to get a little lost on the way
to appointments missed,

but casually determined to catch up late,
as catch can, unguided, or early
- surprised in the wrong time or place,
and not who they thought they'd be,

but finding it good enough - by ear,
either near, nor off. Occasionally
falling in measured step, unvexed
by perfection and setting out

from the trysting place

in search of their still
-searching friends, still echoing
in untimely calls through the wilderness,
no time to keep or waste, racing
or dawdling, falling
in where they happen and choose, or
chance, to fall - where they may,

as if all to the good
could be for the best.
And it can.

These rhymes don't seem much for schemes.
The innocent ends they seek, I guess,
are unencumbered by justified means.
And neither or so am I. I haven't decided
to intervene yet, and I rarely do,
more or less. These innocent rhymes

have eaten the fruit all through,
and consumed the knowledge of evil
and good for themselves, and remain unconfused,
and so say yes.

I look upon them, all asking why
as if already knowing the truth, and I say
it is probably just as well. Whatever day is today?

Let us give it a rest. Tomorrow,
let judgment fall. Let hell.

You dudes are okay,
and this day was well-spent,
and blest. If you let me
I think I will keep you all.

Just as you are,
just as you've fit yourselves
into this glorious, glorified mess.

You have made it a magic spell.

While we can, and before we know,
let us savor success.