but aren't they all random?



A Pocketful of Poesy was a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog* up until the great derail of 2013. The impossibly-high standard of quality proved impractical to keep up, without a book deal. But don't take my word for it: click RANDOM and judge for yourself! And feel free to offer your critique.
*based on poem rate for calendar years 2009-2012. Also, kidding about the book deal.

Friday, May 29, 2009

Who's the One that Wants to Love me

Who's the one that wants to love me?
When will her voice be heard?
What's the chance we'll find each other?
and I don't know's on third

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The temptation is

The temptation is
to change entirely
become what it was
you wanted, learn
a lesson
against myself.

Drop the act
of me
take on a new and better face
fit it on over my eyes,
a reverse-image
of what you saw in me
originally
(that I say I never was)

It's such a close fit,
in any case!

it took you
halfway to forever
it seemed -
to note the distance between
what you saw in me
(originally)
and what you saw in me
finally.

Could I flip that equation
and subtract the difference,
leaving only what you
wanted?

Well,
why not?
it sounds easy enough

for a guy like me

communion

being of familiar faith
and usually one mind,
when we disagree it is
terrible
vicious
who can tell the sense of
betrayal
bitterness
the sudden rush of blood
to heart and head: you
who I love, my one thing
the nucleus to my single cell
I surround you; you rebel and
cast me off, shall we not both
die?

Luckily, we never have
disagreed

Monday, May 25, 2009

we are

mutual vampires
each mistaken that
the other is human
sucking each other dry
and wasting away

how
many circuits
have I made of your veins?
then drawn back into me
and into you
again

the unspeakable unspoken
secretly knowing
- how could we not?
but grown to prefer
this emptiness

to blood

Sunday, May 24, 2009

your voice's pull

your voice's pull
carries the song
- and it sweeps,
it is not swept along
by the currents it keeps.
As the guitar dips oars
it pulls taut on the chords,
but your voice is the course
and the shores,
and the deep.

future slips past

my life
has broken in half
there is a future, that I used to see
so clear
my whole future

a crack opened right at my feet, as I
was about to take that fateful step,
and before I had a chance
to do anything but stop,
shocked,
the crack was a chasm.
- and the future
had slid to the side
and gone behind me
the only future I ever really knew
or saw for myself,
or wanted
is gone
into the past.
it's still there
still whole
but gone behind
I can still see it,
so clear

I stand on the edge of a cliff

facing backward

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Why do you hide your hair?

Why do you hide your hair?
Why do you hide your hair,
when its sheen should fly free
a wave of silken diamond onyx
strands, billowing glittering
in the wind,
shining in the glow
of thine admirer's eyes?
Why do you hide your hair?

Why do you hide your eyes?
Why wear such dark and chunky shades
and make as if to avert your gaze?
I know your eyes are limpid pools
of green that I'd fain dive into
and swim your soul, from shallow to deep
forever to drown, and never to weep
why do you hide your eyes?

why do you shut the door?
why, when I stand with an armload
of blue and pink and white, a soft
fireworks burst, scented like spring
and gathered for you by hand? Why
open the door so gaily, wide smiles
that fall from your face - were you
expecting someone else, then? I
suppose I'd better be going, but
why do you shut the door?

why do you knock me down?
when we meet in the street,
- a chance encounter! Fate! my
dear, fate! took a hand, I had nothing
to do with it - but when I saw you
my heart leapt, and I had to say
"hello" - I had to! Oh -
why do you knock me down?

why do you kick me so?
I who have done only kindnesses
so many gifts, small things, really
when ever I'm out and I see some nice thing, I say:
"oh, that's for her!" and I think nothing of myself
but to send you it - hand-wrapped in gleaming pastel greys
and white ribbon gift boxes. Bouquets. Candy hearts. In
the old days, this was the way this was done! So
why do you kick me so?

why do you press charges?
yes, now that I've been shown the letter of the law,
I can see I may have run afoul of it, in one or two places.
But surely you can see - love, Love! is my law! - can't
you see my love wants only you, and what is good for us both?
The police say they can't see it, but you could tell them.
Can't you let me off with a warning? Later we'll laugh about this
together. There's really no need to pursue these extreme measures -
- bitch!

why do you press charges?

made of air and indestructible

made of air and indestructible
glimpsed in the trees
she tumbles and shakes
the limbs and leaves
and leaves

and there is calm

and we who are left look round,
catch eyes, smooth wild hair,
and laugh - well, that
was something else! A
storm in sunlight, sudden
and suddenly

gone

I wish I could follow the gale
and sit
with her
on a cliff
when her fit
has flown, and
her eyes gaze out
on a sea grown calm
as the sun shines warm
does her mouth set grim?
or smile at him? how do they
get along?

how does she get along

What Things Want

I went to bed dreaming and woke up
reading a novel
my guitar was already
playing itself
it had written a song that
I can't take credit for
not a bad song for a first effort!
(that I'm aware of anyway - I did
buy it used)

when I went to the kitchen,
the eggs were ready.
They said "fry us! fry us!"
I said "I don't know, guys.
I kind of want a scramble,"
"but our yolks, so perfect..."
Yeah, okay. Fried it is.
Over medium.

Food wants
to be eaten. A guitar
wants to be played
a book, to be read
a dream, to be
awoken from

and lived.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

(on) Art's purpose

It's well and fine
to bake and glaze
and paint designs
of ancient days
and perfect forms
upon one's vase
but flowers draw
the oohs and ahhs

Expect from life

we are bound to expect
certain things. We are almost sure
to get them:
a certain amount of misery
a certain amount of discomfort
of diarrhea
of fever
a certain amount of piercing earache
of teeth-grinding headache
of stabbing toothache
of uncontrollable nausea
of blinding migraine
of involuntary groans, especially
a certain amount of hearing
improbable numbers of people say:
"I've never been sick a day
in my life."

Monday, May 18, 2009

portrait

her mouth is a wide
cut, her eyes
pierce
you
can't tell
who is being
and who has been
hurt

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Jesus's Champagne Candy

Jesus is in heaven making
champagne candy
for the big after-party
after judgment day

and if you are damned,
and you're very, very good
as you board your bus to hell
he might slip you a taste

well he rolls it up sweet
with a bubble and fizz
that just tickles your nose
as you suck it away

in heaven, hell, or earth
there's no candy like this
Jesus's Champagne Candy!
Jesus's Champagne Candy!

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Love and Chains

This love and chains, take them off of me
I get love letters in the mail, sent to my attention:
"Resident," and I know someone out there loves me,
even if I don't know how to signal her back
And she's flying across the attic at night
scattering stars among the beams of light

These chains and this love, it's bound to some
big bunky ideal in the back of a truck
tied with bungee wire, with a red flag flapping
saying "hey keep back, this thing could snap - "

Yes I have a highway love permit officer
I will show it to you if you show me yours
alright, that's it, out of the car
and we all do the stance, the interpretive dance

always glad to be here at the drunk tank lockup,
always an appreciative crowd, thank you
I'd like to say hey give yourselves a hand now
you know you didn't have to come out and be here, tonight
but I appreciate you taking the trouble, take a bow

So I was looking at a product label the other day,
and I was flying in an airport bar, what is it
with these commercials for brick walls and spotlights?
these little things are funny because they are so not true

and now, a song, I think a
song. Perhaps someone from
the audience has a request?
Ah yes, I know that one.

Mi mi mi mi mi:

"Shut the fuck up, my lover
shut the fuck up, my love
you've wearied my ears from hearing too much
I'll weary your mouth, if you don't shut up"

Thank you thank you, for our next act,
a violence exhibition from Rocco and T-Bone, here,
local boys, they'll be practicing on a dummy,
yes, yours truly you guessed it.

Okay I'm done.

Friday, May 08, 2009

Runaway Parade

I told you keep a tight rein on your parade
you don't want to let it go careening around
keep a tight rein on your parade
you don't want to see it all come crashing down
down the street, the wrong way,
paved with colored balloons
see the helpful barricades
see it run straight through
with a boom and a snap
the sawhorses giddyap
they go flying to the sides,
tumble under and crack

it's a runaway parade
and the people line the way
as they panic back, they're sorry
they showed up so very early

and they staked the choicest spots
now they're wishing they had not
they have far too close a view
as the runaway parade
comes through

Monday, May 04, 2009

Ghost of a Dog

yard's haunted
nobody knows whose dog
people lived here before say
they never had a dog

or maybe they never played with it

poor thing
you can hear it
out there, nights
you throw a tennis ball out
come the morning, it's all chewed

won't come near you though
scared, I think
sometimes, you hear a whimper
sometimes, a whine

you know she just wants love

you throw a treat out there
come the morning, it's untouched
that's how I knew - it's not raccoons
plenty of 'coons out here, but
they don't go near our yard

scared, I think

it's too late for a treat

yard's haunted
poor thing out there,
whining and rustling at night
never barks

called the church, exorcist says
they don't do dogs
goddamn papists
bunch of bureaucrats, I swear

you know she just wants love

I want to love you honey!
but how can I do it? If you
were corporeal, I could find some way
coax you out where I could see you
love on your matted and smelly fur until
you knew you could trust me. Let me
give you a bath, feed you up
strong

you won't come near me, though
can't keep keeping me up like this
honey, what's wrong? who was it
chained you in this yard?

I know you just want love

Saturday, May 02, 2009

Welcome to Apocalytropolis

we live in blown-out hulks, scrabbling
for the last of the canned goods
and making up art and poetry
to describe the modern human condition

the normals call us mutes
they live over there
see that gleaming dome?
inside they say are trees

they fly over, drop
care packages
but we won't eat that
it's pre-packaged
some kind of nutrient dough
probably loaded with pacifizole
forget it

we grow our own
from what's left of the loam
and we roam in packs through
burnt-out zones, metal detectors
searching for a secret cache

last week I was out with a click, I
found a shelter! Cracked it, pulled
four people out - still alive! and one dead
kid (embalmed - crazy to see) They were
hysterical, insane to be pulled out
but you know they had the mother load
of canned goods in there

got me a promotion. Sheila
thinks I'm going places and she's
a great girl and all, but I think
I'm staying right here.

Yes Yes Yall More Dope Ass Rhymes #2

I want to drive a Porsche!
to my yacht and eat borscht!
on board with the Lord,
as we sets a new course
straight forward! halfway
from starboard to port
I batten hatches and bitches
no wait that just slipped out.
when I rap sometimes I blame
my influences for it
a little bit sometimes, misogynistic creeps toward
on the conscious flow,
as we see, so we go,
in for example the word "bitches"
- which I'd know not to throw, not to use
to describe women. Whom I all value deeply
and stuff! just got all hype from the beat, there
for a minute.

Sorry.

Where was I.

Oh yeah.

On the yacht!

Friday, May 01, 2009

I speak a hundred languages

I speak a hundred languages
not well
not as a cultured native, and
not even as a well-studied visitor, no
but more like a thug
Like one who spoke
his own language,
but with contempt
with a twist in his face
at home with it, yes
- but like one at home
with squalor. To whom bitterness
made truths of lies
I know not why.
The words come to me
like strangers,
and I use them. Full-knowing
how to use them, but not knowing
what they should have meant
if better used.

my gift is a curse,
not as in some great cosmic burden, no
I mean simply that profanity
has a peculiar
fluency.
From my tongue,
spring tongues of others
as if I - a medium, by they possessed
- am entered into, by spirits
not foul, but certainly uncouth
I know not why, or who, all
they leave me is their tongues
and the words to swear by
they died, perhaps,
without cursing the world enough