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, July 17, 2018

no gardener

I discovered that I am no gardener.
I like to put on my old favorite
t-shirt, now holey, my old favorite
Chucks, now riddled with rips and
no longer maroon; I like to put on

my soft, tough yellow leather work gloves,
and pull, slide into them, fap and thap
between the knuckles, working them on,

I like grabbing the tools I plan to use,
and I like planning to use them.

But several hours later I have been frustrated
in my active meditations. I have not gloried
in my bodily exertions. My mind spent the time
in confusion and regret, thinking "is that also
a weed?" Reaching in and grasping long stems

of twined vines, woven through the bush's branches
and pulling them through and out, like
entrails. Making piles of them.

Thinking "Why must I cleave this poor
vigorous, green leafy blossomlike shoot
just to be even with the others?" Working my way
all the way around the house, over and through
and into the bushes. Killing a spider, who
was in her home, not mine.

She had glaring, neon orange rays
on her abdomen, like an alien death's head.

Thinking, near the end, "I think I only love
wild plants,
that grow and thrive without being tended."

Thinking all along, maybe it was the weeds I love.

Work done, gloves sweat through in patches like
cow spots, standing back and looking at the
now-tamed hedge, I think: I bet this whole thing

could be a weed if we let it.

advice from one's self-image

Instead of jerk,
be the True King in this
ex-relationship!
Make your move with sure
and honest. If Question comes -
beat it with truth.
She will be the one amazed,
and not blaming you
for a thing. Breaking up
with her was in ways,
a gift disguised.
Now you reveal it.
Surprise!

Monday, July 16, 2018

aftermaths

You held your finger in the flame by accident
and so you burned it even worse
than you would have.
And you'll be nursing it all day
like a baby
too young to have learned any lesson
beyond how to cry.
You refuse to cry.
You wouldn't give yourself
the satisfaction. And

you love the pretty lights
dancing. The candle isn't worth
the game, maybe, but it's worth

The candle. And the pain of it
drowns, growing wrinkled in the bath,

as the wet block of book
that distracted you,
that you dropped in surprise
lies spread open, and sunning itself

in the window-light.

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

RIPE

I saw a girl at Walmart, she was RIPE

or so her baseball hat said
in spangly letters, pink on green.
She had
those eyes,
and
that hair,

and denim butt-shorts.
Her t-shirt proclaimed
"Thank GOD

when you see me,"
So I did. And
I prayed for humanity.

Monday, July 09, 2018

subjectivity

Isn't this nice? I don't know what is

if I have to ask, I guess. But this
is nice to me. And to you, I hope

you can see what I mean. I am not,
after all,

a dope.

And if you agree
this is nice? I know
other things I'd guess

you would like, just as well - or
well, almost. It could be I've led

with the best thing I know,

just to mess with your head.

Sunday, July 08, 2018

alphabetical order

I want to read you in alphabetical order.
Meticulous from A to Z, look you up
sequentially and deeply read you
through and through, from literal
to subtext, you with all your hints
and innuendos - nothing would be skimmed
or missed.

Every part of you, perused, pondered in
and deeply kissed. Poked and probed,
I should suspect - though some parts
maybe more than most.

And some of you's been doubly,
triply named - quadruply, even,
up to sextuply and more! One hopes

that you won't mind, but all such names
shall count as separate parts.
Each to be treated unredundantly,

to be read through again
with interest fresh as first time through,
a chance to skip around through you
and make innumerable starts,

then to resume sequentially
from where we left off breathlessly,
in perfect order to pursue.
And once we're done, begin anew?

We'd not be finished for some time,
if you approve this plan of mine.

I wouldn't take you in one go,
but rather set some time aside
to take you up, luxuriate
in stretches as the hours go by,

or sometimes snatch in fits
and starts what times we'd steal,
snuck guiltily from times we'd set
for other things we had to do,

now spent in we,
perused by us,
in every part.

At least, such is what I'd assume.
You'd read me as I'm reading you,
not lie back learning what it's like

to be a book read through,
stripped bare by candlelight.

Wednesday, July 04, 2018

Tuesday, July 03, 2018

"Twisted Individual"

I came to get up I came to get down, I came to get
back drive forth chase your forces around the block 
double-back, bite you in the ass and retreat.
Strategically, but you know me I wouldn’t ever admit defeat!
Even if you could pull it off, but you’re soft -
you talk loud, while you swing your little itty bitty stick around
(blatantly ignoring Presidential advice) well I suppose
the only history you know is Miami Vice, like
old tv shows, in syndication
Well I’m about to bring you up to speed with information
you ain’t seen yet, heard yet,
it’s not on the net,
in your online chat group live on the world wide web,
because the only place you’ll get it is here!
I am in your face, from the nose to the ear
so it’s clear you need to focus
I’ll conduct you to the chorus
weed your mind like it’s a garden and arrange it like a florist, ‘cause

I’m the original.
I’m the original Twisted individual!
I’m the original.
Come on come over baby and twist a little with me

I’m the original.
I’m the original Twisted individual!
I’m the original.
You get all bent out of shape but you’re cute that way!

I’m bad to the bone, I’m good the - last- drop,
I rock the players and the haters alike and I won’t stop
competing on the field contributing to the scene
I come clean and I play a clean game, but that don’t mean
I won’t hit - hard - knock out your mouth-guard
you come tardy, I roll over ya for ninety-nine yards
so it’s score 1 for the visitor
here comes the inquisitor 
Sit back in the comfy chair and just watch, as I get busier ’cause

I’m the original.
I’m the original Twisted individual!
I’m the original.
Come on come over baby and twist a little with me

I’m the original.
I’m the original Twisted individual!
I’m the original.
You get all bent out of shape but you’re cute that way!

lost plots

When I was a child once
I made up a story to tell
grown-ups, about
who I actually was.
I wasn't the hero
just the one stuff happened to.
There was narration
like a pouty detective
on a missing case,
and a trusty cap gun
for standoffs
before it was dumb. Most
of it wasn't in the
story. I told them

other endings, or
about cases I'd solve
if they were mine. The narration
would go

"I'd really like to hit that guy.
He needs it"
but I didn't. Or
"That girl's sure pretty and needs
kissing!"

I didn't though. I was my own
sidekick in those says, self-
sufficient. Urging the hero

on. I don't know what he was
waiting for. You never saw

a girl needed kissing
so much in your life.

How dear you are to me

I know how dear you are to me, it's just
that sometimes, all my feeling goes away
except
I know
intellectually, at least
how dear you are to me
has held a better world together
than the one I see. I wish

sometimes my heart
could fly away, instead
of apart, leaving me to

the lurid, lucid, detailed memory
exhumed and charged, by imitating art

to life. Then suddenly, it trickles
back to flood, scablands caressed

one million tons of meltwater
rush crushing, hurling grinding rock

the ice plug of some glacial lake
gave way, on tick of geologic clock,

you wait an age for tock, and

fuck, how dear you are. To me,
you are the line I hold

against the flow, for dearest life

to me, is yours. I see that

everywhere I go,

now. I don't know how
anymore.

Whenever it steals over me

I'll take my sleep
whenever it steals over me, I might awake
for water, end up lighting smokes
and closing windows, but
I know I'm being called,
and where, and when:
I'm bound for down,
my time has stalled
and all too soon, it must
start up, again.

And so, just now
in fact:

I wish you good morning,
and I'll chase through night
after you 'til your dawn has broken,

over me,

to get it back.


Saturday, June 30, 2018

the lesson they stayed to give

Grow up to the death of your dreams
and play them out in sour pantomime,
So everyone can see,
you never gave up
on propriety.

Mom and dad aren't in love.
They're just pretending to be,
sometimes, and this

is the lesson we've stayed to give
your entire life: oh child of mine,

This
is what love
and adulthood are like.

To believe in so much,
and give up on so hard,
and resolve so strong
to pretend through your teeth

and to teach the young

you must do what is right:
stay. Give your example to them

of relationship.
Teach them how much they must accept,

how little
they can expect from it.

Smile in their faces,
recalling with a tear, how grateful you are
your own parents
taught you to take things so far.

And yet, so near


The Love Of My Life

You took me up,
you made me want to love
to be the fool I always was
to be the fool I always am
It always ends quite badly, ma'am
it seems a case of just because
and I don't need to understand

As long as you're still glad we met
I won't regret how much I tried
I won't regret how much I can
A good thing lived; a good thing died

The love of my life
is right here in my heart
and nothing else
can take my pain apart
and you can't make me bitter,
if you tried. This is the love
of my life. This is the love
of my life.

This is the love

You took me up,
I offered all my life
At least you took a piece of it.
The biggest piece, it always seems
The one that I can't do without,
a hole that nothing seems to fit:
the shape of you, plus room for doubt

But since you couldn't take it all,
I'm glad you chose and took the best.
I won't regret how much is gone
I couldn't offer any less

The love of my life
is right here in my heart
and nothing else
can take my pain apart
and you can't make me bitter,
if you tried. This is the love
of my life. This is the love
of my life.

This is the love

"The small"

The small of her back
is smaller than mine,
and more precious by far -
to me, at least.
I love to draw near
and kiss her behind
the knees, and her legs

- her face, her shoulder
her neck, but the small

of her back
makes me weak.

I want to be

strong, for her. Put my back

and shoulders, my all

into whatever chore

she lays out
to be done

I will thoroughly work
oh so eagerly through,

and patiently wait
on call for more.

I will never be done
so long as there's her,

and there's anything she
would have me do.

Friday, June 29, 2018

"blue balls"

"Blue balls," apparently,
are a real thing. Or
a pair, possibly. I looked it

up on Wikipedia, not wishing
to risk Google Images. It appears
(or they appear) to be some kind

of vascular deal. Treatment

includes sexual release, "or perhaps

straining to move a very heavy object
—in essence doing a Valsalva maneuver."[7]
7. ^ Chalett, J.M.; Nerenberg, L.T. (2000).

"Blue Balls":
A Diagnostic Consideration in Testiculoscrotal Pain
in Young Adults: A Case Report

and Discussion". Pediatrics. 106 (4): 843.
doi:10.1542/peds.106.4.843. PMID 11015532.
I include the citation because fuck that.

Sounds like a prescription for a hernia to me!

Don't go trying to assuage your "blue balls"

with some maniac powerlift session, hurt yourself

and in the process, blame it on online poetry!

I, like many if not most online poets,
strive to be responsible in my
medical coverage.

I'd like to think your balls
are worth a little caution.

Now, good news for myself
and any other men - men, full
in the bloom of their own very
virility! - who previously thought

"blue balls" was either a myth, a tall tale
to do with Paul Bunyan's pet ox Babe (who, presumably,
used to be a Big Blue Bull until something unthinkable
happened to his Big Blue Huevos) or else,

made up by horny teenagers in an attempt
to counterbalance competing guilts - no!

"Blue balls" is (and are) no joke. However,

they are experienced by

not all men.

Which feels like it explains a lot,
but probably doesn't.

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

"Games of Skill"

The chance of me being here,

everyday in you

You say it's your heart

I have won, and I win you

again and again - like a carnival prize

with one bean bag toss, all the bottles capsize

and you've taken me home,

for keeps, in your heart.

I guess you've won me?

The conditions weren't clear

from the start, and they've grown

more mysterious still.

I've never been happy like this

- but I will.

hypnopompic

I was half asleep,
lying on my back and the blankets
were heavy upon me.

I opened my eyes to find your face
inches from mine,
filled with see-I-told-you-so amusement.

But you weren't there, and I tried
to pull myself back down,
into the dream

with you

but it was gone.
It was time to get up.

Next time, dream girl

We will catch ourselves
before we are through.

Monday, June 25, 2018

bedtime story

The world was roofed
with polished-smooth celestial spheres,
shot through with light - when humans, looking out
saw through them all,
and did not fall.
Good night

Friday, June 15, 2018

glorious requiem

When I'm at my best,
I am something else.
When I'm at my worst,
I am something again.
For the first time now,
I'm beginning to feel
like I know what the Nothing
is like. Oh hallelujah,
Amen,
and oh what a glorious
wreck I am,
with everything I could believe
going down. Should I fall
to my knees and pretend

it will rise again?

Or just lay me now
to sleep,

as this beast with its chains
keeps circling.

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Poets are like

Poets are like
metaphors, trying to be similes. They hold
something back, and something
in store. An idea of language in mind,

which they rarely use; an ideal

they rarely attempt to test or prove,

But when they do:
they try to form thoughts
into words, with a mind so focused
that no words appear at all
- except necessary ones.

The right word - not its stranger sibling,
as perfect as effort can make it,
nothing to strike,
and nothing missing.
All that's there, combined
and working together,
aligned to fit: one purpose

(whatever it is; the poem’s)

to justify truth into meaning
by minimum means necessary,
to a maximum of intended truth, and yes,
effect too. In general,

poets these days eschew

limits, except
to explore, fruitfully enjoying
the ins and outs of a bright line held lightly,
or employed more seriously, held in place
to add pleasing structure. And so

sometimes, or
even oftener,

Poets don’t rhyme.

But sometimes they rhyme. No limits?
Why not then? They’ll use a scheme
as a stunt, a flourish,
with meter to drive the beat home
to a satisfying finish,

syllables running through
in even array, or stop-start
choppily strewn awry,

all a technique to emphasize,
to counterpoint, or to magnify
effect, and meaning, and whatever else
the poet has handy to show or imply.

A poem

is an example of language distilled
to specific purpose, using any
of several unnatural means
to lull us into its dream logic,

to learn and feel whatever the poet
is trying to be, or prove, or feel
themselves, that day. By an art

more artifice than otherwise,
the poet attempts the natural,
by sneaking in under it, usually.
And often - some say, too often,

in an act far more sloppily, lazily done
than focus or discipline well describe.
More exuberant play than a focused work, or

- maybe that’s just the effect conveyed
and contrived? Which would then be deliberate!

And if so, deserved. Earned. For whatever
it’s worth: when it works,

all in tune (so the poet hopes)
with intent, and all their effects
pulled together, and meaning

- nothing at all? Maybe. Or
something worthwhile, perhaps.

When it’s over, you wake
safe at home, and
you shake your head, and
decide (maybe not) to smile.

That's about all the poet hopes.
A lapse of some moments, to sink
in a world, composed of words,

in which you might spot something
worth taking with you, into the air,
clumsily, like a fledgling bird

or elegantly, like the sophisticated
reader of poetry that you clearly are.

You won't be shaking, reduced
to emotional states they have expertly
crafted and given to you, to become.

That can happen, true! But it's not
something poets expect to pull off,
or get away with, as a rule,
To change someone

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

uncertainty tales of indeterminate moral

In the dark,
She was wearing Schrodinger’s Clothes
She was like the Empress everyone knows
to be decent, and wise, and true

and with the Event drawing nearer,
I knew I would settle for two

out of three. And She

would, too. We were so out of sorts
that eventually,
we couldn't observe

our position or course

without everything getting confused,
but we knew
in due course,
we would cover all possible states
and places at rates
simultaneously fast, in fact

it appears that we're already there!
Miraculously, it is holding, and it

appears to last!

indeterminately?


Sunday, June 10, 2018

the picture of pie

The people who sneer they are getting less
wherever they go. The picture of pie
and the one that arrives. They sneer
at the difference to show
they have not been fooled. They know
that this world is not as it's advertised.
So they advertise themselves, but I
am not fooled. They feed
on the difference that lies.
They live
upon what they're superior to,
and they are getting less,
wherever they go
than you and I used to do.

creative realization

Sometimes you hate what you have to do
get ready
and go
and be there
and stay
and wait
while admiring views
and the view
of people saying what they think,
or pretending to

why can't this be easy?
why can't it be wonderful
like it sometimes is?
and you go hoping this
will be one of those times,
which it never is,
since you've been mine

And sometimes you think
what we have to do
to get through,
whether lie
or quit
or screw
will be fine

Saturday, June 09, 2018

sad, anachronistic hijinks

Your full-on commando panty raid
was spoiled by lack of underpance
You bungled it in the planning stage
Your Intel did not give you a chance -
For they
are full on commandos, too.
And now you're at bay, and they
have the drop on, and rather
a bone to pick with you.

arise the weresquirrel

I now believe in sleep debt
And the possibility of paying
it back.
The zombie I've been for days
is dead.
Instead, there's a living man!
In fact, eager and quick
with suspicious bright eyes
and rather a bushier tail

than I recall, going into
that nap.

identity ninja

you think you might kinda have that thing
an online test or two or three

the self-reflection and respect
it brings to take up disability
so you can stand in solidarity

with those
who weren't given any choice

when you barged in, in matching clothes

to be their voice.

Friday, June 08, 2018

bye felipe

To broadcast an assumption
that your sexual content is welcome
When You Don't Know it's welcome -

that's an act of passion aggression
with a side of presumption that comes off
as reckless disregard of other, self and both,
or something. Why do that?!

Why destroy so many chances by presuming
what you know you don't know, you know?

Well, guess.

It's an asset test.
Some sorta Pass/Fail wager: she hates,
skate.
She tolerates - green light
for hot tail pursuit,
calling all points she is
in cahoots and
axsing for it!! This!

Is why they will

never

stop.

We think they're coming unclued. They think
this test works.

All it loses
them is the best of times
they could have with the waste of times
#wait4it brigade.

Which in theory, they would rather skip
than delay.

So they theorize,
Keep walking in guns blazing!
This max action tactic has to work

some day


i read it in maxim

Judges

I am
the living sibboleth
Your judgment is to be
pronounced
as soon as you step over me

I'll seize you by the tounge
and mouth the sentence

that will set you free,

if only you repeat it right,
for if you don't,

you'll send to rest
some forty thousand Ephraimites
avenged,

at last!

Who overstepping Jordan
slew themselves by speech defect -

could not appease the sentinels.
Now,
Try
to say this sh** correct.


Mnemantra



soon


You'll be alone with the memory

of all


your sincere regards

And I'll


shuffle off the deck, discretely

this cruise


has been free of charge

so far
But the price of admission is guilt
there's a series of fiction confessions in you
and I'm sensing the scent of a new career,
when you fly off the cliff after it,
could spare just one glance in the rear
view
Mir
ror
you?

RE!

MEM!

BER!

MY!

SHINE
this abyss that i have been
is not the worst fix i've been in RE! MEM! BER! MY!
SHINE
once you've seen the last of me
that's the worst of it you see RE! MEM! BER! MY!
SHINE
if you've let your vision swim
from the too much light that you let in,

re mem ber mine:

mind,

somewhere over the spectrum

and heart

in a cool, dark place

where you

have been trapped in graven image

by the lines

as it dessicates

in an airless space
as heiresses r.s.v.p.
regret to inform you on hands and knees
that you'll be attending the banquet alone
with a change of address, it is now your home
sweet home


just


RE!

MEM!

BER!

MY!

SHINE
this abyss that i have been
is not the worst fix i've been in RE! MEM! BER! MY!
SHINE
once you've seen the last of me
that's the worst of it you see RE! MEM! BER! MY!
SHINE
if you've let your vision drown
from the too much light that you let down,

re mem ber my

time

why

why.

WHY?

WHY are Blood and Sweat saluted and glorified
yet Semen, joyous sweet peace-loving Semen,
Maker of All Babies (until relatively recently
) is treated as a mark of disrespectful, a most

shameful stain upon escutcheons of one and all
men - "not all men," some lie and pretend with each other,
but it's true. All men! Are the target of slingers
seeking to make the shame of our Semen ridiculous

upon us! Shall we let them?

I say thee Nay! Fie upon such foul sports! Time has come

To release fair play from its hidden glens, and let it rush forth

in proud spurts onto the field
and raining down upon the stands
in a tumultuous exultation of excruciating joy
that will by glory holy and innocence baring,

washing away all stain of shame

from the suddenly truth-laden face and eyes

of all who will bare their share of discarded modesty

humbly flaunting their honest nature before us all to see what is
right in public!

And take up the strangled cry of triumph,

a triumph of the human sweetness of joyous, obsessive,

peace-loving Semen. Finally

we will not tolerate the giggling!

Thursday, June 07, 2018

her poem opening

Her poem
was

A visually-pleasing block
of
text!

It was nice, how it all di
vided up into positive neg
ative space alternating -

Almost as if
You could tell what's

coming, next

just by looking at it! Interpreting shapes,and I told her
what I thought of it, and
she thought that was o.k.
She was very polite and in
terested. Neither of us

had to be nice. We were two

completely free

grownups, discussing and
relating as we chose. I
work in a daycare, so -

breath of fresh air, you know?

We stood there, at her poem opening,
At the Marja Tijot McRose-Divott
Immortal Soul Memorial Coffee Gallery

talking, I with a smooth and huge elan,
she,
listening animatedly, chiming in assent,
suspension of judgment, or question using

a singular, singularly bell-like demisyllable: "Hmmm,"

interspersed with the sharp, clanged brass
of her laughter,
When I blew it.

Asked her

how she thought I could go about getting in,
a booking. An exhibit. "Oh,"

Her face fell, or maybe
ten years fell from it

and I was facing this
child's guarded and sensitive
self, all the ambitions poets are prey
to, the moods - the competitiveness - "You're a poet?"

You hear it? The hesitance?

If she finds out how good I am, I'm screwed.

But I will not lie. Betray my self, my work - besides

She already knows I asked about how
to get an "in," a poem exhibit! Why

is she

asking,

if I'm a poet, then?

Who does she think even
goes to these things?

Non-poets?

No. No, not statistically. No. It's poets
Just looking for their opening, and assorted
significant or interested others some poet
dragged into bed
to get them to come - but honestly not me! I wasn't

looking for an opening

I has happy just to be at hers. I was curious,
is all. That's all, so I asked. And a poet

should always be

curious.

the least bit peculiar

sorry

"Yes! I am." I said. "Sorry I drifted off, just then!"

"Composing a poem...?" The wisdom and years returned
in a beautifully turned smirk.

"Ah,"

I hesitate, shift to the present tense
and deliberately

blush, that plus a touch

of the flutter of a bird

in my voice as I answer,

"Yes," - as if abashed!! Terrible, but I can't
help myself, really. It's just to put her back

at ease, intead of up. It's

her poetry opening

and we were getting on well, and all.
I'd like to keep it pleasant this evening.

"Tell,"

she says,

"Me the poem you're composing."

Sorry guys gotta go

the Wizard of Low Moane

Tall, stooped
supported by a crooked staff
of accountants, ranks of filing
clerks, research assistants,
a tenured professor of absolute
ignorance and other bookkeepers
and custodians of the unmentionable,

the Wizard of Low Moane stood lonely vigil
in the high gabled picture window
of his lone tower,
where he was wrongly understood
to be not disturbed,
and gazed down from quite the height
well over the bordering gothic
picket-fence-reinforced briar hedge,
into the neighboring grounds, where he saw

grounds

for disgruntlement. Clear signs, from which
he interpreted with a shrewd indignation,
they were not keeping up their share
of the required landscaping maintenance
commitments, spelled out clearly and insistently

in the deed-restricted community agreements
everyone had to sign! "If I have to, so should all!"

he all but bawled, ignoring conveniently what one
and all politely ignored: his considerable booming,
flashing and smoking unprofitable business,
which he had been running out his residence (often
with his hair on fire!) in antiheroic defiance

of not just community agreements, but zoning codes
ever since his workshop lease had been terminated -
the result of a disgusting wizard-hunt, a campaign
engineered by the JayCees, and in particular,
Barbara.

"I'll give you a disgusting wizard, you witch!"
he shouted, more than usually aloud.

Then straightened, belatedly shaking his fist
at the signed and framed photo of Walter Payton
which he'd won at pot-luck charity auction - a ridiculous
alternate prize! A farce! Not at all what he'd bid on,
which really, was only to be nice in the first place!
He'd been caught by Barbara's eye a time or two many,
was sick of feeling so guilty about a woman who could look
like that - he only attended to placate her, catch her
attentions perhaps, give her an idea of who she'd
ignorantly refused to dicker with, perhaps
over dinner? He was being charitable! It was a
charity potluck auction! But by the ways the rules
were written - Barbara again, no doubt - he'd ended up
with just a picture of sweetness, instead of the
Lovecraftian collectable desk set towards which
He'd done his bidding. His high, lordly, keening
and vainglorious protests, and the grotesque
banality of the whole episode, sealed the rift
between Barbara and he,
but good.
Her loss.
Weird, vindictive, Librarian
-CEO-looking trust fund aquarium docent bitch!

If it wasn't for her inquisitiveness, her open
and cheerfully vicious wit and that time he had let
her share his (enormous) cup of coffee, that time
Corner Joe's was closed for the fire and she
was desperately fighting her caffeine fits with
nicotine patches she didn't even need, but
had borrowed from a fellow docent who had no
longer smoked for ten years, despite a callowness
that put him no further than twenty in anyone's
generous estimation.

She saw that trademark enormous mug

of his, and knew exactly what it contained,

or thought she did. It was why

he had come in to the aquarium all that day.
He knew full and well about the unfortunate blaze
that had deprived precious Barbara of her all-day fix.

He was in there all the time in those days! God,
how he loathed aquariums. If it wasn't for Barbara's
hard-to-describe cerebral and symbolic qualities,
and ok, her mere physical appearance as well

- which as a wizard,
he knew full well, better than most might know
how these could prove merely a trap! A deception
to fool wiser, mightier wizards than he,
more fully and well than he'd ever be,
he vowed. But he was honest enough to admit,
they helped. Those mere, physical appearances
of hers. Unexpected, out of a corridor - bump!
Hey! "Hi, Barbara!" "Hi Zoarander!" Such insolence!

And when paired with her mere, but hardly slight
physical form, so bumptiously asserting rambunctiousness
and rollicking possibility, without so much as an aside
from her in those directions, she'd taught him
a charm or two.

He didn't even like coffee! Well,

With the discipline honed by many a long spell
of personal and professional disappointment,
he recalled his surroundings to mind
and banished the memory of her to a spiked,
blazing pedestal that he carried in a far-off
but always visible hill on a corner in his mind,

where it served

As a torch. To light his way the hell away,
and so he straightened again,

nodded curtly to Walter Payton.
Head high, looking smart (as he thought)
reflected in the picture glass in his recently
-adopted custom wizard fedora (which did him
no good at all with guess fucking who,
apart from being gouged by that hipster toad
of a milliner!), brow lowering under
like a hesitant storm,
with eyes flashing threats of lightning
at themselves from safely behind glass,

He steeled his leaden mind, and slid
out the concealed French doors
onto the widow's walk, whose picturesque view
and melancholy name led him not for the first time

to review all the ways he should have been a widower
himself by now, instead of what he was: proud, powerful,
locally held in diquieted awe, and really, an excellent
manager of people, if clearly not the best at seeing
and planning around the huge details of business.
Really, morale among the crew was always surprisingly
high! As to his deficiency on the business end, well,
here's where he'd seen Barbara come in.

What a mind!
She'd given him
really such excellent advice,
all those times, in the process of which
absently gathering all the details that would
come in so handy later, screwing
him over. But you know what? Somehow, it didn't matter
now.

It really was too bad.

He shook his head, looked out and around and then -
down, high over the hedge at the neighbor's yard,
and scowled, hard

composing his mind

for the call that he knew

he had to make now,
before his resolve
could fall through

this time.

bone dry

finally! My dry humor
has come into its own. Leaving
no mess whatsoever,
and barely a guess
or two to suggest

why I'm smiling, and why
it took me so long.

Everyone's always known
"his humor's so dry,"
but my heart and my brain
had such seas and fens.

No more.

I am cleansed.
I am hollowed and pure, and now
I can see what was funny for them.

Holmes 1999

In some far-flung future,
Immortal and beloved exsanguinator of crime
Sherlock Holmes! Assisted by his unimaginable
mechanical devices, stalks languidly,
relentlessly on the scent, now and then
mourning the absence of his prodigiously
bated rapier foil, the good doctor, loyal
and constant companion, late
and lamented these many years.
For reflections like these,
We have no time.
Holmes, bent on the job already,
locked in a neverending battle against
his unyielding foe: boredom, and idleness
contemplating the courses of coquettishly
unsolved cases of crime. Bouncing sigma
beams at transponder dots, he traces arrays
of A.I. algorithms replicating all the
innermost thoughts
of all history's worst
most predictable criminal minds,

to contend with them. "Moriarty,"
he sang at the hologram, in a peevish
and discontented tone. "Is it me,

or are things too much
the same as they've always been?"

Sat back, and awaiting response,
he already knows will be sullen
silence, drawn out and broken

eventually

by sepulchral groan.

The scene from a scenic and overlooked view of the falls

The mighty detective, twice
his own size at least, struggled
thoughtfully, effortlessly at the brink

of a precipice, a trap cunning-laid
and only awaiting assailant's soon-to-be
cue, to spring his deceptively iron
thews, and pause

in slaying the beloved beast,

To bid it adieu.

Looking back, looking down,
from abyssmal heights

of the rarest air, he was struck
by the shape and tone of the
rainbows made, in the vertical
maelstrom mist of spray. As he always did,
he observed the rocks upon which

they played. "I believe,"
he let slip, uncharacteristically aloud,
"I forsee a rather excellent quarry
down there, one day."

This was all many years before
the moment of fatal test. He could visit,
revisit, previsit the place every chance

he gets, knowing inevitably,
there will come the curtainfall,
the close of the act. After which,

he will never come back.
One never much needs
to return to the scene

of resolved and accomplished fact.

Nobody's Holmes

"Holmes," Watson correctly observed,
"The people begin to think we're Gay."

"Well, I am a wizard," he drily replied.
"And an Ace detective to boot! What business
of theirs is all this to bring

to one such as I? Not much

of a case." He mused. "I must have clay
to make bricks to lay! Data! Watson. To theorize
without it is criminal! Why, I would catch myself
in an instant red-handed, laying about in a funk

on a stack of unmade bricks erecting such
unsupported structures as these. Such buildings

should be condemned!"

"And you are," John soothed, seeing his master's
unvoiced guess. "No one begins to find fault
with your elaborate stretch of conscientiousness,
but," he hesitated savoring a bit lip, "is this
your answer?"

"YES!" the detective roared. And Watson subsided,

reflecting mysterious ways

We all are blessed.

a Moving Ode to Sherlock Holmes

I really have a good handle on this
"Sherlock Holmes" character. It should be played

as broad comedy, He,
he: the only one in on the joke.
In reality, that's exactly

what's always been going on. For
the sake of the play,

Watson should bellow "HOLLLLLLLLMES!"
at each distinctive display
of our consummate anti-antagonist's

(well that's what he really is, you know)
obsessive tics, each flowering outbreak
of habits perversely tossed in fits.

And as the deduction begins,
a canned fanfare of whacky, zany
Benny Hill style music only maybe
with a little more Goodman swing
kicks in - like a Popeye the Sailor theme,

where all he needs to do is even
*think*
about spinach. That's how we, the audience
begin to catch on: Holmes

is about to get his shit off,
by the end of this song.

useful employ

I am full of my powers
like Sherlock Holmes
with way too much foot in the game
and no need in the veins
for illicit stimuli

with a case at hand to crack
with my mind. The best damn consulting
Detective you'll ever find.

I am that guy.

What's this!
Who's that at the door?
By the heft of a step
in inevitable chains
to cause, from effect
and the hesitant knock,
I deduce a whore, or
rebellious priest at the very least.
Or a ghost.

Perhaps, of a stevedore.

Oh, let them come in! Omit
thank you, please. What need
you must have of my services
in times like these.

Advantage you

I am well aware, yes
of your flaws by now. If I haven't left
if you haven't yet guessed,
it's because they're wow

Part and parcel of what
you attracted me to in the first place,
there. Back when we first met,
I could already see

it would be unfair.

You can have the advantage of me,
which you freely won and took.

You can add it to all the advantage
you have, every place

I look.

the very spot

Threat lessons pay off
in caution that lasts us the rest
of our lives. Refusing the risk
to be victimized, by what
we were spared our chance

by sheer dumb luck. We were there,

on that very spot,

untouched in a happier time, now stuck

in a prayer, where everywhere there

but for the grace of a God gone by,

we have gone, you and I,

we don't have to fly