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. Try the RANDOM button to sample the sometimes surprising breadth of quality (and in several Novembers, breathtaking quantity as well), or click the "ANY GOOD" label* for those poems labeled with it. On any poem, old or new, feel free to offer your remarkable insight or critical acumen.

*I haven't yet revisited many pockets and stretches of time to appraise and label the "any goods," so some are missing. Please feel free to point out omissions, or - especially - erroneous inclusions, in comments.

but aren't they all random?

Saturday, January 20, 2018

"return trip"

Please,
let her get down ok.
I know I don't pray how I should
so much. But
I'm making up now
for all of it,
if sincerity counts
like they say it does.
I can't get her down
myself, and she
is in no position
to give her help.
If you let her get down safe
in one piece,
I swear I will get her
home to keep, if she wants,
and hold her,
and take all the time I'd waste
to make it a place to stay.
It would be the least
I could ever do.
Just give me a chance,
and she will too.

amateur act

Even if you think

you wouldn't have asked
if you'd thought it through
just a little more first,

I am glad you didn't and did.

You give me so much chance
to consider for better and worse,
and to pick through better
towards best.

Whatever your questions,
let them come. It always reflects
so well on me, when I stare down your gun.

Like a limelit magician of bygone age,
awaiting the crack and the flash
as we both prepare

for the bullet catch. Indecision
is only a stage.

So take just one -
one very deep breath, between
us two. I wouldn't be standing here,

if I didn't trust your aim.

And you wouldn't pull if you didn't believe
it was all in hand. Well, just between us,

I always believe
we can make all the mysteries plain -
and people will think
it was always planned, and you
were a plant.

Or maybe I was? Either way, some risk
of pain. So who

is magician's assistant, here? Are you
aiming guns, or am I throwing knives?
Which one of us, trapped, is tied
to the wheel, or shut in the box?

And what's with the saw I saw you hide?
Behind your back - or else up my sleeve,

It's a little unclear who's assisting who,
but our outfits are clearly equally cute,

and it hardly matters what props we use.
Each gay misdirection points straight
to another truth,

as another clean sleight of hand
produces its proof, suitable to belief.
Not too far beyond what the casual mob
could understand,

with a bit of a reach.

kinds of damage

Are you the one? Who

wants to be with
me? For real, I mean.
The one who sees -
maybe not a future,
specifically, yet, but
a road ahead, at least?
To who knows where,
but you know,
you want to find out
wherever it leads - and
for it to go on, and to go
together with someone. Which
in your case, that would
be me?

If you're the one
wanting that,
I mean.

Me,
I know that if you are not,
the one,

If it turns out you turn aside,
and bid buh-bye,

I will give in
to despair! I will
give up completely
- privately, mind you!
Someplace well out of your
hair - Oh! God

I'll miss your hair,
but not so's you'd know
about it, though.
I would give, so
completely and discreetly,
up.

On you, love. And
on love. Just

'cause I always do?

So many times,
I believed
too much. And too
many times I have given up.

So many times, I have given
all, given completely
and all the way,

for the rest of my life, or
intending to. Then had

to revise that estimate. And too many
times, because of it, I've given
completely and all the way up,

for the rest of my life, or
intending to. But

so many times, I've had
to revise that estimate, too.
Too many times I'd have one
last try. One very last chance,
I would give myself, because
someone convinced me that I
knew what I was doing, and why. Which was no
fault of theirs! Quite the opposite.

Such people are scarce, which is fortunate
and regrettable.

So too many times I had one last fall,
where all was destroyed,
again,
for life,
and there I'd lie:
saying "Damn it, that's all!
I have said 'That's all!' just
too many times, by now! That's it!

I'm through. Enough! For me.

I am done." So, if you are not

the one,

don't worry too much.

I'm probably not either,
by now. We can see,
but I probably won't be,
and that's ok.

I will say
we were right to try. At least,
if you think so, too? It was
probably just as big a risk,
for you. Wasn't it?

Were we right to try?
To see how it worked out?

Yes I know! We're not even there, yet!
I meant, hypothetically. Because
when I look at you, I say "We'd be

some fools
not to take a chance,
to try, to see! However it goes, or
how and whether it ends,"
Well,

wouldn't we be?
Does anything good end
well?

I guess we'll find out, or
I guess we already are, or
working towards. One way
or (hopefully not!) the other. But
if that's how it breaks, despite
our current near personal best
intentions, shared interests
and mutual joys - don't worry
about me.

I'll be ok, at some point
considerably past
that point. Perhaps I will not
recover with poise,
with aplomb,
but trust me.

I've been there
before, and too many times
not to trust myself.
And trust me, my trust
may not, but I

will tend to survive, and
probably, go on. Too many
more times.

But maybe this one
will be the time - maybe this time
a corner is turned?

And I won't claim anything
special,
or final,
or permanent
has occurred.

And I'll move on,
as if it's all de rigueur.

Friday, January 19, 2018

heatbeaten (a haiku)

Licks her frosty fruit
ice brick, says 'shit!' as juice drips
to sizzle on legs.

Thursday, January 18, 2018

sea-change

Let's go down by the ocean,
girl. Let's go in, let's give
in
to it.

We'll see
how it spits
us out gasping
and spread on sand,
some unknowable sea-change
worked upon us.

Lying there,
faces half in sand, half-gazing
half-knowably into our deep
ourselves, and each others
with minds washed clean
of everything but trust.

As waves spread out,
and up and in,
and half-over us both,
and we lay
there half-lost,

as the shallow waves
draw back, we wait
in a shared half-gazing
that goes on and on
between waves, and waits
between us

for the next,
to see what it brings
breaking over our toes,
rushing past our hips,
over random akimbo limbs
spread out, like shipwrecked
and washed-up mannequins,

dressed in the latest styles
to swim. Our minds swinging wide,
breathing grateful air
as the next wave breaks
halfway over you, just

- and finally, breaking out
in a shared and idiot smile

with you,
at us.

You
are something to see. And I

am something made to be seeing you.

There's joy
in finding one's purposes,
and in everything else
we will be so free
to be led
to do.

sea curls

The eddies and whorls and twists
and curls of your sea-drenched hair
have dried in the sun

into mobile sculpture,
wildly

and loosely hung.

Movingly
framing your angel face:
a reverse-night sky,
where constellations of freckles
twinkle
upon a cool veil
of milk.
I could take
forever and gaze
for days,
counting all of them,
and I'd wish on every one.

But instead
just now, I'll breathe in -

take your hair up into my hands,
and breathe through it.

You have caught all the sun,
and the salt and spray
and you,

in your net.

And it would take
a skyful of stars, and a lifetime
of nights to wish
for all of the sun,

and salt
and spray,
and you,

to fill
all the days
you want to come.


Wednesday, January 17, 2018

none the wiser

I could woo you,
as easy as speaking the truth,
I think. Your truth
is so congenial to me
that I speak it by accident,
believing it's mine. And maybe
it is. What
an exciting thing
to find out! Every time,
despite you would think

it should be assumed,
by now.

And so often you speak to me
what I've never noticed, but always
known, put into words that work
dark arts and my soul
is changed to light, or
my body to stone. Like a sorceress,
you always profess to have done
nothing smart, or unique or
strange.
I wonder if
you've been fooling me? Maybe
you have me completely wooed.

If so, it would have been perfectly
plain.

And nevertheless, I suspect
that I could, too. Woo you,
as easily as you
please.
And I'd never
catch on to you, and you
would never catch on
to me. We'd just go on,

speaking each other's truths,
not even confused as to whose
is whose.

"boat swain"

I spill too much water from my oar
as I cut this curving river
in ragged halves, my backswerving boat
overcorrects
with every stroke
I pull powerfully, losing half my force
to the splash, making eddies and whorls,
using all the wrong words
for everything.
I could use you now,
in the back of my boat,
yelling at me, and
so encouraging.

Monday, January 15, 2018

rule of belonging

Instead of leaping and reaching for greatness, perhaps
we should let it fall into our waiting and grateful laps,
where we'll find it has always belonged. Let it sit
on the tops of our legs and bounce, excited to be there
or nestling down and between like an eager puppy,
saying hi to the shyest of cats.

While we're at it, perhaps
we'll avoid forcing our metaphors.
Henceforward, let's make it our only law
to be graceful and easy and natural,

and let us be ruled as the winds that blow,
and bound as the rivers that flow

to the stars. Ah, there I go out again,

reaching too far.
As long as I've lived,
life has always seemed
like leaps and bounds
over anything dreamed.

I promise to be more grounded,
for now. I will take my shoes off,
walking far and around, and regarding
the trees, and the birds in them
from a proper place,
for a sensible man.

For I want to be sensible: making plans,
and laying foundations and building
on them. As long as I'm mine,

I will wish to be yours. I hope you'll agree
that's a practical cause. I will love you
in peace, tumultuously - and reach
for whatever you name and wish. And you

will not have to reach for me, any farther
than leaning in to kiss.

written-off friends

Take your shriveled little soul and retreat
to where you can feel comfortably under siege,
with esprit de corps because everyone

thinks like you: united in contempt
and hate for all those who don't,
and who therefore ruin the world.

I will join you,
whenever you poke your head out
with the rest of us,
here.

All your written-off friends, plus
everyone else who hasn't given up
on them.

I will miss you in the fight, but I hope
we'll embrace in the end. My shriveled
little soul

still likes to pretend.

storybook, ending

If you were the narrator,
and I was the protagonist,
I bet you'd rig the story
in my favor. To my benefit
- and even risk the story, conflict,
character development, and drama

for my sake,
To make my story happy.
it would take

a miracle:

Intelligent design, a narrator
somewhat unreliable
- unfaithful to
your chosen or appointed
line

of work, you would shirk

all codes
of narrative ethics
to the contrary,

and you'd insert
yourself.

Become a character. But I'd know
in an instant: you already were.

You'd sweep in, snap me up,
describe
the closing of a storybook:

"Happy ever after,
the beginning."

Could be worth a look?

cheated

Last night as I went more or less
to bed, it was like I could see
the approaching dreams. And they'd all

be of you.
But you never
showed up.

I woke in the morning, and kissed
your head and you stirred in your sleep:
you were smiling.

You made a small sound, like a pigeon's coo,
and stretched yourself lazy as luxury.
You opened your eyes - I thought,
guiltily.

I asked you your dream. You smiled

"It was you."

But it wasn't
me.

Every night some guy who looks
just like me, so you claim

has you fully, completely fooled

while I sleep and dream of a long
day's work, where nothing makes sense
and the day never ends

and you never show up
'til I wake

with you.




Sunday, January 14, 2018

composure over nothing

The end of believing in you
feels so far off, right now.

But closer than it used to be,
And closer than I wanted it
to get to me.

It gets to me.

I know I never want it to.
This thing between is even better now
than it has always been. Which I believe
was always better anyhow than everything.
I don't know what is happening.

If life turns so
I can't believe in you, I know

I won't believe in anything.
I won't deserve to have or find a thing
I can believe again, with anyone.

Because I know that you,
much more than anyone, bring out
my best and favorite self -

someone you introduced me to.

Someone I'd never meet again,
without.

The end of my belief in you
would end the world I'm living in.

The last thing that
I ought to have
is doubt. Ok

Who's worrying?

threat assessment asset x

I'm running a threat assessment
on everyone in the vicinity,
area,
environment,
everywhere
they happen to be
where I can see.

Call it "people-watching." That's exactly what
it appears to be

- right up until
I observe
a threat.

And then I do

what I do best:
I flee

Saturday, January 13, 2018

male gaze takedown

It isn't right
for a man to look
at a woman based purely
on visual.

As if those aspects
are all she is?
Just light reflecting
from surfaces

If only you'd think
you can easily see
she is so much more,
a totality

But you won't see that
from her face,
her tits her ass, her legs,
and personal bits
- which you can't even see!

But you visualize.

Try imagining her soul for once,
you guys.

Friday, January 12, 2018

coparenting

A child is crying at Disneyland.
The saddest thing that was ever planned.
Her bastard ex-dad deliberately failed
to get the right pass for the runaway
monorail. Lord knows it's her favorite
ride. Now she's on Instagram with the tears
in her eyes just to stick it to mom, crying out
at home, stuck.

It's sick,
the sad stories
that people make up.

Thursday, January 11, 2018

wings of hesitation

we don't know any better
but caution feels like wisdom
There's nothing at risk.
There's nothing at stake.
but it feels like there is
it just feels like it is
with so much good
up so high up

we forget what our wings are made of

we forget there's no ground
below us now,
to break upon

and we can't crash
now, only dive in
from above on high,
straight down, cutting glass -
make a splash,
make a wave,
and drown

Then, with thousand-mile reach,
in the skip of a beat
that passed
we'd cough up on a beach,
beating each other's
heart, and breathing each
other's breath. Coming to ourselves

with a gasp,

and laughing at all of the caution
we'd fashioned to wings,
until time enough
was more than past

to hurl ourselves
to the wind
to the death,

and as if,
and at last.

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Attack of the strangely familiar

You wouldn't know Deja Vu if it bit you in the ass
- but you'd think that you do. It would feel just like,
in the back of your head - there's
a memory, maybe
a dream, where

something happened. You can't quite -

find your way back. But it feels
very certainly, teasingly
like what just happens to be
happening, just about now.

What if the personified or demonized psychological concept
of experiencing a strong but delusive or illusory sense
of the familiar were sneaking up on you
- "I've been here before!
I know this scene!" - then, trying
to remember where and when, as elusive details misdirect,
slip by right and left, bearing no resemblance
whatsoever to whatever you are trying so forcibly
to unforget - and most importantly! To
reconstruct what happens next "AAAGH! WHAT WAS THAT?!"

Whirling round,

"Something just

bit me

IN THE ASS -

AGAIN!!"

- nothing there!
no sign!

there never is.

What was it? But

you wouldn't know, even then. Even though
you're convinced

that you did.

Tuesday, January 09, 2018

ovation

I was just outside
standing on the grass
looking at the stars,
clouds drifting invisibly over them
making empty shapes in the air. I was

looking around
and thinking, as I do, and I realized
a couple things that came together
in an alignment that made me wonder at life,
and how great it is. Because
it really is, though
some complain

(though we must accept
the possibility there's something
wrong with my brain
chemistry). I turned

faster,
trying to look around all at once,
and I found I was making these
motions with my hands, as if
encouraging everyone

to stand up in the stands.

And I was happy, but with
no way to share it, really.

Which didn't remotely matter.

keep close

In a lot of ways, you feel like a secret
I keep from the world. Not deliberately so,
just that they can't see. I'd keep you however
is necessary, though, long as you keep me.
And whenever I hear from you, I smile
and feel a thrill. It's a bit childish,
like a secret club with decoder rings.
We make secret pacts and plans and wish
for events that may never come,
'cause we know some will.

We take turns holding tin cans to our ears,
and speaking through vibrating strings.
Sometimes when we talk, I slip out in the dark
as you blink in the clear morning sun where you are,
and we speak of such things as would curdle the toes
of ghosts and let angels cluck their tongues
as they crowd in close - is it just me, though?

It feels like a lovely conspiracy, everything
we share every time we do, like a secret
the whole world knows it's supposed
to be keeping from me.

And of course, from you.

enjoying eating olives

I'm enjoying eating olives -
briny, pungent, green ones. Even though

they have pimento in them, peeking out
red from hidey-hole -

I know I used to hate those. Given,
this was as a kid. I always thought it was
pimento that I hated. And

scrupulously avoided ever since,
like it was a part of me: I hate
this kind of olive. It's the pimento,
probably.

This was my truth, through all these days
and years. Even though I knew I'd come
to be quite an avid consumer of olives
of all other kinds, including all shades
of green, whether empty, with pits in
(to gnaw around like a rat!), or
stuffed with who knows what garlic,
hot pepper, anchovy or almond - plus ripe
olives, black, or the wrinkly one they
always put in your Greek salad.

Always, the classic green with red in
was the outcast, hated and known to be
bad. And now I find out it's delicious,
much like these others. So what

did I hate? Has my palate changed?

Or have I grown up, and lost
who I used to be?
Lost my faith and integrity, down
all these years.

So now any olives will do, for me.

language

speaking
tongues
in
foreign
parts

alone
with
no one
there
to hear

the cries
that echo
softly
round

I understand
there aren't

words

for everything
you've made
so clear

it works
on levels
of my brain

I never thought
to use like these

a reptile mind
descending down

and lost between
parentheses

Monday, January 08, 2018

uncomfortable.

Do you ever feel like
you're being unjustly attacked?
Maybe they're talking about you
in front of your back,
and who will ever correct the opinions
they're going to form, before they set?
You wish you knew what they were, so you
could effectively be more opposite.

Even though you know, it's neurotic
for you to concern yourself
about things
that you can't intercept
or control. And it's just as well
they concern themselves about you,
to such an extent, at all.
Assuming they do. You suddenly wonder,
uncomfortable.


less to say

How can I even tell you? How much you mean
to me - it's so easy to put
what I mean and feel
into words, they may as well
be lies. It comes out true and strong
each time, some perfect small part

of a universe that may as well be
fictional, for how little it touches
of everything you

have already put there, first. Before
I had even noticed, to pick it up, astonished
to say what it means to me. I am accurate,
but it means so much more - I am more
or less belittling it, to tell the truth. Or
it feels that way. Sometimes I wish

you had given me less to say.

Sunday, January 07, 2018

Summa Yourself

Summa Summa Summa yo'self
Take all of yo'self
and summa your parts
under summa the hottest sun
you've ever felt,
girl

summer yourself, go
summer yourself

It's so much more than just
to summa some parts
in the summa all things
need to simma a spell
for a start, let the sun
come shine in on all -
let the whole of you go
get a glow get a glow, girl

Summa Summa Summa yo'self
Take all of yo'self
and summa your parts
under summa the hottest sun
you've ever felt

go summer yourself, girl
summer yourself

And don't forget cha togs
cause you want to go in!
Not just to be beached -
let the sand and the skin
and the salt get soaked,
it'll feel like sin
and religion eloped
with the waves crashin'

Summa Summa Summa yo'self
Take all of yo'self
and summa your parts
under summa the hottest sun
you've ever felt

come summer yourself,
go summer yourself, girl
summer yourself

make sure you use sun cream
though

ambitionistic

I picture this whole thing wrapped
in soft wings,
waiting to burst forth as song, metamorphosed
- my low borderline-melodic semi-staccato
delivery as suggested in this first line,
only with its sing-song allowed to breathe, expand
and stretch out into the verse

- nothing show-offy; a voice understated melodically
like a wryer and wiser Bernard Sumner, only
with poetry to sing, instead of

New Order lyrics. The music, too
could be drawn from a sort of New
Order style arrangement, only not hooked
up to its usual EKGs of sequencers, bleats
and sound affect, but rather: pull the plug,

make the body of the tune jump up
from its sickbed drone on acoustic strum
deep thrum and gong - improvised instruments,
such as a genius might cobble and clang together

from a junkyard and record an album with,
for a change of pace.

But sorry! I got carried away, this is a poem. A poem
is not just some potential set
of song lyrics,

as if roving packs
of disemvoiced songs were hunting
the countryside, the rockside, the discoside
even, seeking to devour any reasonably rhythmic rhymed
quatrains they can track and bring down, assuming
they can choke them down. A poem isn't
an aspiring song. It is already song. A poem
doesn't need music, because it already

is.

Nevertheless, I'd like to give that album a spin,
it sounds

kind of interesting.

beautiful when you're

Could beauty but wear a wry face
more often, so many emotions
would be redeemed.

Each time we felt spasms
and pangs of annoyance,
we'd feel how our faces
were pulled towards yours,

and loving that look
would lift
how it seems.

Saturday, January 06, 2018

pact.

You're something like I think you are.
I know I don't know well enough
to say I know
or know you well, but
everything I think of you
comes from the stuff and consequence
you've given me,
which gift has been epiphany,
enormity, and tenderness.
I've taken it unquestioningly,
and questioned you with interest.
And you have answered me
with nothing less, seriously
and generously, from everything you are,
I guess. That guess keeps getting better, best
- and you possess and understand
the sense of me I've given you.
I'm adding to it all I can,
and you can ask me all the rest.

And all the time we're giving in,
we come to know for real and true
something for sure. We don't know all
of what it is, just yet, but we are
whetted to investigate, explore - and
we know we want the so much more
there somehow always is
to find.

We've known each other ever since
beginning to, since you
are all you've ever
given me, and I
am all I've ever given you,
and you know
you

are welcome to
the part of me that's mine.

explicit

I got turned down for sex.
I'm glad I asked though. "Sex?"
I said? She was like, no thanks.
She didn't say it, but
she was like that. What
she actually said was "Female."

I said I think you mean gender.
She replied no, that's a social
construct ("I know!"), I meant
biologically ("Oh."). So

I felt relieved that we were
clear on all that, but also
sad. And then we proceeded

not to have sex.

It was amazing. Amazing is a type
of confusing. The eyes, amazed, confuse
the mind and we're dazzled, basically
- although this was more verbal
than visual. She said

look, I'm going to want your
unambiguous verbal consent
not to have sex. She wanted it
clear. I was like what,
is this a test? I refuse! Now

what? We were up an impasse
with no way back down except
backing down, so I said "You

don't need any man's consent

for that." She said I don't want

any man's.

I want yours.

Of course, I melted all over inside
when she put it like that. "Ok! You
got it!"

I capitulated, which sounds like
a complicated, tricky maneuver.
She was duly impressed, which was
not very, but I'll take what I can get
in a case like this, which is
not much, but such as it was
I pressed my luck. I was pretty
not sexually confident,
by this point, which
was more of a line,
and we continued
on it. We were not having sex
like a couple of wild animals
by this point. Then she said

"Stop!"

I did of course. Suddenly,
like a pig or a wolf will stop
in the middle of not having sex.

"Yes?" I asked, but I was looking
another question at her.

She determined to answer both:
"Yes and no."

What does that mean? I wondered. Where
do we not go, from here? Do we continue

along Not Sex Avenue, or duck furtively
down Sex Alley?

It was like we were out for a walk.

We were, in fact, though whoever named
the streets in this quarter seems
to have had a prescient sense
for poetic irony. I nodded my head
up at the street sign -
clear enough, as signs go. "Why don't

we amble along down thisaway?"

She agreed most pleasantly, "let's"
and we slunk
down Sex Alley,
holding hands and conversing
in hushed tones
we each supposed

were dulcet.

The alley was blind, like
love is blind, but we didn't mind. It
ended in a sort of a culvert. "Say,"

she said. "It's pretty back here.
Like a mossy grotto." I had to agree;
she had me there.

It felt like a place to make a wish. And I did,
but it isn't the kind of a wish you share.

We ambled back out, and continued on
from there - she, still refusing me
sex in every gesture, even though

I wasn't asking! I was cool to her
charms by then. I was in the "friend
zone" - the only thing that mattered
to me now was hanging out and hearing
her problems! But she hadn't any.

This was a mixed signal, but I didn't
know how to interpret it. What
does it mean when a girl
has no problems, but keeps
hanging out with you anyway?

She tossed her head with a bell-like
laugh and began gamboling coquettishly.
It felt like some kind of veterinary
emergency. "What are you doing and
what do I do about it?" I demanded,
gravely like Raymond Burr. It worked
a treat! "Come gambol coquettishly
with me," she sang, so I nodded gravely,

and together we gamboled down the street.
It was a risk I had to take, not knowing
what her game was. People pointed
and laughed as we passed, gamboling.
I'm pretty sure

we ended up on the internet, not even
trading naked pictures or anything, just
gamboling endlessly down the street! I bet
we look ridiculous.

But it felt pretty good. Liberating.
What more
could one ask

from a girl like this? Anyway,

like I said at the start, I'm glad
I asked. It's good to know she knows
it's the kind of thing I'd

ask her, and it's fun to guess,
but much better to know
the answer

"momentous"

What does it mean to be here? Now
is the only moment. When we find out,
we will wish we were there. Then,
we will know: it's too late
to care then how now will go.

Friday, January 05, 2018

adult content

Sex is the stupidest secret
we try to keep from the whole wide world
of everyone who knows,

because there are children in it. We must
keep them from finding out where
children come from.

Children are the key to the whole thing.
Not our own, necessarily - others'
work just as well. As long as there are
children
to think of! We have our excuse to protect
and preserve the dignity of the process
from being examined.

It's a grunting, slippery, damp
and laughing, ridiculous process,
an embarrassingly awkward
fumbling push to excruciating joy,
in a helpless and united struggling
against and for and against and for
the moment and its ending.

And sometimes it's awful! At least,
a mistake - you blundered it! That's not
how! Can't even look at each other now
without laughing. Maybe you should -
it might be amazing to admit

the ridiculous.

Other times
it's the sweet,
sweaty core of life
itself so amazing and beyond expectation ever
- but then, when you're done, lying there
glowing,
pulse slowing, panting
to deep breaths to relax, and
stretching into and along each other,
limbs thrown over absently
in a sliding and finding and settling clutch

- surely
it's even more
embarrassing, that
this ridiculous process

could be worth so much.

What does it say about you? About us?

We can't let all that be openly
acknowledged and known. Oh, everybody knows,
but as long as we have children - the excuse
they provide, to pretend we don't speak
or think much of such things - we can
salvage almost all of our dignity,
really. Imagine if we didn't have

the excuse of a worldful of children
to keep our secrets shameful from.

Children are a conspiracy between adults
to keep from ever having to openly admit
how hilarious much of adult life is. Shhh!
The children must be shielded from this!
Until they've matured enough to grasp
the veil of awe and mystery
we've swathed and swaddled it in,
and deduced from that: it's serious!
And treat it as such. Respect the veil
and leave it in place to be judged

grown up.

Imagine if people, to be grown-up,
didn't agree to all that. Picture people
picturing us wanting and doing all these
undignified things - enterings and clenches
and pervasions and cries - or worse:
us not. Especially don't let that
come up. Because we have to.

It's our shameful duty:

The adult content of our lives.

Whether in practice it's great or good
or awful doesn't matter. It's really much better
for everyone, to agree
let's leave this undiscussed.
Only spoken of
in giggling whispers,
when we've looked around
to make sure it's clear. Only just
us here - no children to overhear,
and giggle and whisper at things
they can't understand to treat seriously.
Only this way, we're safe with how serious
sex is. So serious it makes us look ridiculous,
by comparison.

We have to keep the whole thing
shushed, dismissed, deferred - "Don't ask.
When you're older you'll understand,"

No you won't. You'll just grow up, like us
and agree

We must protect and
preserve our dignity

from the children. We

who know full well
they know better than we
how funny all this looks, and is, and

ought to be.

comforts and commodities

You're so sharp,
so smart, so yourself
in too many ways to tell,
and every day I'm deeper
into you.
I can feel myself slip,
like I wanted to, and maybe
like you want me to as well?

Not to have, or to hold,
just to be sociable,
and to know that whenever
you've given up,
there's someone you know
who'd buy your soul,
and never expect it
to bring him luck.

Thursday, January 04, 2018

Evils of Absolutionism

Evil, how they talk about it now,
is fake. And it kills real people,
Like fake orange juice can, if

It's fake enough. Let's get back to real
Evil, which also kills people, but

At least you didn't have
The competing chorus of moral
Idiots and intellectual cowards explaining

It away with reference to nonexistent things,
Or the lack thereof.

Back when they knew what evil was. They were
Dispassionate about the matter-of-fact

examples:

The avalanche
or tsunami that crushes
and suffocates. The turn
of cards or markets or heels
that wipes out your fortune
or seals your fate. The blow
from above behind cracking skull
and back, whether dealt by
hand, club, act of
God (or gods, or God's duly- or
unduly-appointed representative), or
falling eucalyptus branch. Enough

Examples. These all and many
More are evils.

Evil is what befalls us. Some greater,
Some lesser: all are evils. And,

Unless you happen to live in moral
Idiocy or intellectual cowardice

(Both evils, by the way - devil
Take the lesser),

Are evil.

Evil is and evils are preventable and inevitable;
deliberate and careless; natural and artificial;
amoral, immoral, or moral; justified, rationalized,
impenitent or unnoticed; utterly random or cunningly
wrought.

Evil is and evils are very easy to see, recognize, class
and define. Evil is a useful, productive concept, and evils

Are senseless, destructive things. And

They do not lead on to good and better things.
Good and better things lead on from them.

Away from them, cursing and aggrieved, always
Away from them. Not from them. Past and through
Them and on, towards more to come, but hoping for

The preventable kind. With eyes
A bit wiser, to recognize.

Evil people

Do exist. They account for only
The smallest, or one of the smallest
Portions of the world's evils:

Deliberate, and see if you find
You think these people, or
These evils if you prefer, are

preventable.

Wednesday, January 03, 2018

honey pepper beef

You have met perfection
and so, don't expect to again,
not by chance - you know
how long it takes, to run into it
that way.

And so you say
you don't expect it. But you're sad
when it doesn't show up, secretly
you think "How hard can it be?
To get it right! For me." Someone

has shown the way, and forever
you know what perfection tastes like.
You don't expect it, but
willing to be surprised,
now that you know the possible

you look for it and ask. And

they bring you this. It is just
ok, it is good enough, if
you hadn't known. You smile, sad
and enjoy what you can,
which is mostly good.

And maybe it's time to try
new things. For now. You don't want

to live in the past.

weightless

There are times that will come
when the plans have been made,
where the means are laid out
and the ways have been booked,

and all will be set, in time
and in place

and we'll just have to wait
for it all to cook.

Today, all the cupboards
are cleaned-out bare. There's nothing
to throw together and see, and I hang
on a hook like a slab of meat
that doesn't fit into the recipe,

or the heaviest rock in a depth of space
waiting forever for gravity.

There are times that come only once in your life.
Where all the close calls and the lessons learned
too late to seize chances flown past, ungrasped,
in so many days of feast and fast,
pull together at last - and reach

for the pieces to pick and turn,
and move into place - filling up squares
of calendars. And all will be set, in time
and space. And finally, we

will be ready to wait.

And boy, that is going to be hard
to take.

Tuesday, January 02, 2018

"She's giving up Pad Thai"

She loves Pad Thai! But I guess that
it's "loved." She'd eat it all the time.
She'd even take a picture first. Her,
in front of a beautiful steaming plate
of Pad Thai, beautiful. Her face
with the most fathomless look. A look
of utter seriousness, as if "I must
investigation this dish."

I loved

those pics. So much devotion
and dare I say passion, in them.
Or passion about to be. Mind open,
primed by expectation to know perfection
is not to be expected, but hope in consummation

of what can be. Perfection sometimes.
A good and proven reason, for serious hope.

She kept eating Pad Thai, but
at some point she left off taking
a picture. Which was fine - it was
a whim to begin with! But I was glad
to have witnessed that look. So intent,
so into it. So interested. She kept eating
Pad Thai, kept mentioning Pad Thai - when
I ate Pad Thai with her, I think I saw that look!
But maybe not. Maybe it was always just a look
of concentration, taking a picture. Maybe that look

was her already knowing, even then, she'd be taking her leave

of Pad Thai. "My investigation, so deep and ongoing,
is almost complete. You've given me all you can,
Pad Thai!"

How can she give up Pad Thai? How
many favorite foods can you have? Food isn't
like music. Get sick of a song, sure. But food
becomes part of you! And you need it.

Food isn't like a song. It's like a person
who's part of your life. How

could you walk away from a plate heaping high
with an unending supply of what always seemed
to be your favorite?

As all the Pad Thai in the world, so
confident, happy a moment ago

watches you go?

I mean, it's fine, it's ok. Pad Thai isn't ME,
and she's free to eat what she pleases, or
what pleases her. Whatever she thinks will.
I don't want her to enjoy what she doesn't
want, just to please me. So I could say, "Ah!
So good to see you eat your beloved Pad Thai
you love so much! An enduring symbol
of constancy as its own reward." I don't
want that - I would never say that!

I might get that look.

The look that can't be fathomed,
but you think
it says "Here is a thing for deep and serious
investigation. I must continue. There

is always more and good to find,
in this most interesting and satisfying
dish. An absolute favorite,"

but maybe it says, "I wonder how much
more there is, that I can get into you?" Or
out of you.

Or maybe it says "do I look like a fool
paying so much attention to this?"

Or maybe it says "I hope that you don't
make too much of this." It's just the most

perfect and beautiful noodle dish
in the world. As I learned,

to my woe.

Big deal, they don't even do it right
half the time. Big deal

What did I even see?

in this

by halves and wholes

I could talk to you forever
about stuff like this. But

I could be wrong. What if

at some point we figure each other out? And

so help each other

figure ourselves out,
and there's no more to talk about there?

We'd have to be pretty full of ourselves,
then. Rightly so, and
there'd still be all the world,
all those other people to figure out,
and class them and categorize them where they fall,
between us. Which they surely would,

even if we have to switch
our stances and change direction
to get them all. Then there'd be the cosmos,

from quantascopic to multiversal, for us
to toss between in test and play, copied out
in miniscule and majuscule in what we say,
understanding it or not as we go, remembering
where we left off, and picking up

again,
because it still sticks out. And every thing we learn
would give us cause to go back
and review or renew everything

we knew,
or thought we knew.

I'm not worried about all of that.
It can take care of itself, but
let us care for it, anyway. There's more

than enough there
for the rest of a lifetime,
and twice as much for two.

Monday, January 01, 2018

Shocking List of Tipoffs for Narcissists and Psychopaths

In general,

you shouldn't be walking around free

trying to identify your friends, coworkers, even family
members as psychopaths and narcissists. To do so

could land you in school for a very long time,
trying to make a career of it and you can skip

that part. But be aware of this shocking list

of tipoffs: have you ever noticed people?

Is one of them apparently empathic? Tipoff.

Narcissists and psychopaths are notorious empaths.
A genetic mutation, they can sense emotions of others

and this is why they don't care. Tipoff number one.

Has your lunch been taken with no sign, from the communal
fridge multiple times by the same person? Tipoff number two.

That person is a sociopath. He (and it's always he
with these clowns - not sociopaths, the lunch thing) should have left

a sign!

But we're not focusing on sociopaths. That's tipoff
number three.

At this point you may be:
avoiding eye contact,
mentally rehearsing stories,

fidgeting with your left hand only, or your right hand
if you're left-handed, or both
if you're ambidextrous -

these body language cues can be very illuminating. Thank you.

Do them. Don't hide

who you are from me. That's tipoff number four,
if you do but I can see you're not. Therefore

I'll let you off with a warning: you may

be having an off day, and not
have a pathological problem.

Go on about your existing business - and watch out.

Somebody around here's a narcissist

or a PSYCHOPATH.

And I know who it is

She glitters

She glitters,
she shines,
the light loves to bounce
everywhere that she does
sends it curving around
her, and shifting the spectrum -
the prism breaks wide,
all the colors
catch wavelengths
and scatter to hide
in her eyes, as she tosses
her glorious locks,
she surfs away gaily, and I
wake

in her wake,
and wash up

upon rocks.

damaged goods?

damaged goods,
you could call me.
I wouldn't see much
to correct you with.
I couldn't correct you
if you were wrong,
and I am damaged.
By years past, by loss
of faith. In what,
I'm not sure anymore.
But if you ever thought
I was goods, I'd take

or put
stock in that,
and open a store.