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.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

In Post

My life is going to be way better
in post. Walking around, it's as if I can see
already, where all the special effects
are going to be put in, and I have a sense
as to how neat
all the dialogue is going to be
after all the bad takes,
rough edges and failed improv attempts
are edited out.
And the relationships
are sure to come into focus, and the character arc
of the
Geez
"protagonist"
I guess
is just going to
come together, I can sense it.
I can already sense it.
I can almost see it

what a story.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

The Royal Lords of Swordsmanship

The Royal Lords of Swordsmanship
were out in force upon the moors.
As if by secret summons called,
they coldly strode so boldly forth

from storied hall and castle keep
- while good men sleep, they rise in vain
Conceit in every sinew, limb
- their glint of eye and fierce of mien, obscured

upon a mist-drenched night, as dead day's sun
sends last red rays through red mist falling,
curtained off - a ghastly twilight
sets the stage.

Matched off in pairs, squared off to fight,
they drank the moment, deep in breath
and flesh and blood, and readiness:
defending honor to the death

by deeds alone - no seemly words,
but steely swords sprang forth! And rang,
upon the mist-drenched moors and cliffs -
no witness heard the echo'd clang

of hard, hard steel, sharp blade on blade
- no spectator took in the play!
They strove with form exemplary
each parry, feint, riposte displayed

a high and lordly character
- an honor, unimpeachable!
Their lunges and their thrusts struck home
with puissance unspeakable.

These Royal Lords of Swordsmanship
have all sworn oaths, pledged man to man
to live by credo cruel and hard:
and to the death!

With sword in hand.

"two birds of the same stone"

you and me, darling,
we are two birds of the same stone
flocked a little too close together - we
were laid out in one shot
by a flying rock

here we lie now, dazed
with our feathers splayed,
seeing tiny stars spin
'round our heads
in shock

in our tiny minds
in our little stunned brains,
we're beginning to see
that we won't again
be fine.

As our shallow breaths race
and our dark closes around
after all we believed in - was that rock

our fate?

Monday, March 28, 2011

twelvescore paces

I'm pissed, because
I have no idea what poem this was
that we were discussing back then.

Lost to time. And never now will we know!
And what's worse, perhaps (or arguably:
really not worse) is that
I may never again write another

For alas: the time for writing poetry
is passed. Or even for reading poetry!
The time for that is also: past. Time
for sitting on benches, by gardens,
reading metered words from a dappled page
- or composing,
with pad, pencil, and a long pause
over a thing too hard to say
well.

Well, screw saying it well. Screw
the poetic! Say it not well, then: say it
plain.

Poetry is past.

What's wanted now is business, straight
shooting, language that lays
out where the arrows point,
and sharpens their points
to the point of pain.

Pull,

hold,

aim -

loose!

DIRECT HIT!

Hey -

what sentimental twit
put a red-heart shape
for the bullseye?

Friday, March 25, 2011

my time, wisely

my time, wisely
used
- means nothing,
to me. But the waste of it
pulls, like a blade
coming free

from the skin of my life
- then at night, sinking in
with a plunge, comes the knife

as the new days
begin.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

the wind's mercy

little bird, stand
wherever you land
and the world will come gather you in
and you will be at home
with your friend or two, there
you'll be happy,
with whatever nest
you begin

a season or two
will pass by, by your leave
and you will be at home
'til that change in the air -
till the wind picks you up,
and your place rolls away
far below under you
and behind

you will stay
fixed,

flying forward and high
in your place
in the sky -

keeping pace
with the wind
until you angle down
where it looks like a place to begin
again,
now

and the world will come gather you in.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

let's not not

let's not not and say we did
in fact, let's do the opposite
whatever that works out to be
we'll work it out just fine -
you'll see!

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

rope hammock

sink back
and take a big pull of iced tea, just
drink in

a moment of calm.

look out on a sunlit world.
With clouds
hanging beams of sun, from themselves
there's nothing those sunbeams have to do now,
but draw out across the tall grass of July -
and there's nothing that you have to do right now
but hang in this moment,

sigh

Monday, March 21, 2011

looking-glass smile

I'm dying without you, or worse:
I want to
how about that for a kettle of fish?
me, the unstoppable idiot grin
like a cheshire man, fading out from within
'til there isn't much left but this.

the balancing act

what you want to save
and you want to destroy, well
the difference between

isn't even a space

you can balance them both
can't you now? If you can't,
you'll get out while you can

but you want to find ways

to make everything fit
nice, according to plan
so that you're not to blame

so that you're not the one

who destroys what you'd say
you've been trying to save

well, isn't this fun?

Saturday, March 19, 2011

the poor neighbors

I want to control you like a saxophone
with my fingers pumping keys,
lips working away
you'd make harsh, skronking noises
in a raucous tone
I would practice you for hours,
never learning to play

no more drinking love poems

that's it
no more,
- I'm swearing off.
I can see where I got carried away
with this particular trick. Gone
too far, but not too far gone to quit. To call
"time, gentleman!" - and ladies too, of course.
But that's it. That's all. That's that - I'm flagged.
Cut off! No more drinking love poems.

No more lines making wine
of your smiles, no more
controlling metaphors
turning your bubbling laugh to streams
of sparkling sunlit champagne, no more
amber waves of your hair, compared
to Anderson Valley's Boont Amber Ale - no more.
No more the clear deep hit of your spirit and wit,
knocked back in one stiff stinging shot! - no more.
No more drinking love poems.

Well,

perhaps I could compare you to tea?
Tea, with honey

- and a spot of cream, ah
the sweet perfumed steam
that rises from your hot, silky, glistening surface

yea, that'll work!

Tea it is, then.

Delicious.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

the distractions by themselves

I want to have you in a room
with no distractions,
one of these days
or nights
or years
or hell,
for decades -
for years and months
and weeks at a time, for days and nights,

forever would be nice
under conditions like that.

Periodically, at least.

Because we'd also like to,
from time to time,
of course
emerge
from the room -
and go out,
amongst the distractions!

the distractions, by themselves
are not bad. To be able

to enjoy the distractions is important

to being together. To be able

to enjoy the absolute absence
of distractions, though -

that's far and away more
to the point.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

stick shift

I love a girl who DRIVES STICK.
No really. I mean
no innuendo or anything! She's
just driving that automobile,
down the road so to speak,
if you know what I mean -
Powering down the road! Easing in
the clutch, shifting crisp
with precision...working it
through those GEARS. Oh baby,
you can drive my car.

Monday, March 07, 2011

"ye gods, girl"

I am thinking of you in ways
more suited to the classical studies group
of a federal penitentiary

all pent up,
some part of me caged like a tiger
waiting
and pacing,
waiting
and pacing,
and in-between sitting, and wasting
time.

classical literature
a diversion at best from these bars
but better than this nothing
to live with, I suppose

those dudes
are in there, reading pieces,
discovering and deciphering allusions,
gods and myths and idols and
oh, those glorious sylphs and nymphs,
minor and major goddesses and other bitches
and it's kind of a revelation
how dirty all that legendary shit is!

one guy: "FUCK Pluto -
big bad god of the underworld, so he gets to be all
below the law - 'Rape of Persephone' my ass
meanwhile I'm in here
5 to 10 for the same damn thing,
substantially"

another guy concurs

a third points out all those damn gods
were rapists. And especially right on up to Zeus. Mr. big
god of lightning, and supernatural nonconsensual bestiality
always turning into bulls, swans -
man, probably any time back in those days
when a girl got fucked by an animal,
people just said, "There goes Zeus again! - but..."
so they modified the story they told against her, "...she was asking for it."

To the side, one guy - "You think that really happened often enough
to explain all these stories? I mean,
bestiality
it's generally instigated by the human. If you think back then,
animals really thought we were all that much more sexy,
I question that."

"What do you know about it, four-eyes?" Bristling from the bald guy
hurt glowers from several others, rained-upon looks. "What
do you know about it? What are you in for?"

Four-eyes, abashed, looks down
sheepishly

fast or famine

martyrs, we
make a virtue of misery
in the midst of so much
plenty, where virtue comes
so easily - or ought to! - why,
it isn't constructive. This world -
a gift? Yes it is! But we sniff at it,
walk on. Let another take first pick
from what is right there to see, too
good to believe! Really. But
we will pick: to suffer
and offer it up. Why

you'd think our God
was a glutton for our want
for self-deprivation,
to see how we go on
or rather: go without.

On feast days, we'd never know,
never be able to tell between
fast or famine. What
do we mean

Sunday, March 06, 2011

#1 add Sour Cream, Guacamole and Cheese

eggs
potato
chorizo
BURRITO!!

Breakfast is the meal of the day, and its NEAT-O!

to wrap up all you need
in a tortilla skin, then shove
- not shovel - it in
your face is happy as sin!
and no you don't need any setting, plates
or knife or fork or spoon or tool
to get yourself a start-the-day-right bellyful!
don't even need to dig, just to dig in
with two big hands
grabbing
and a big wide mouth,
gnashing, smacking
with a grin
while your tongue is all
"ooooo!
huevos deliciosos"
so good, you want TWO
so good you say "pretty please"
even though it's in your hands
you already have it! Man,
that #1 add Sour Cream,
Guacamole and Cheese
could get to be be a habit.

Friday, March 04, 2011

the tired refrain

we want the good without the bad
we want the right without the wrong
we want the light without the dark
and where's the harm in that, you ask?

we want the true without the false
we want the joy without the pain
we want the sun without the rain
at least today - we want it all

except the parts that we don't want -
with those left out, we won't complain
we swear we won't! Is that so bad?
why can't we have the best? Not both

we want the good without the bad
we want the right without the wrong
we want the light without the dark
with half our brain, and all our heart

with all our hope, we want a pure
unalloyed bliss - is that so bad?
to make a wish? we have to ask

although, we know it is

Thursday, March 03, 2011

The Golden Age is Coming Down

We must end this Golden Age right now.
We've seen with Maxfield Parrish eyes
these clouds like towering columns, gold
supporting tons of azure marble skies, a dome
whose surface curve
is too sublime to see! yet we perceive

that it is lit from below

and we are the light, we two. We see
that we are lime, and burn
too hot and bright - our eyes reflect
that fevered sheen, as we
each out-perform
each word, each single thing
we mean! we out-perform
We lie, sometimes -
it seems, from meaning it
too much.

This theater can't just keep its doors
open for us -

This one show,
ours

is such great, good fun!
oh wasn't it just one magnificent run?
it is going to have to
close.

We knew it, both
at the same moment - faith,
ah love, our act has lost its touch.

And we can take it on the road, bang
it into shape, lose this or that scene, or change
that or this cue -

or make this or that cut, or just
flop, collapse, exhausted, sit - and be excused

We are exhausted, love.

Lock eyes: resist.

You and I have said so much,
too much
and we'll say too much, yet.

But this:

There's nothing more to do. Except
admit

there's nothing more.

Accept.

Shall we try yet again,
to regain our breath?
to cry like a baby, without regrets?
or collapse into sleep
without trying to dream
to wake up the next day
like a criminal
escapes,

to return to the scene?

We'll return to the scene.

And the set that enchanted,
the lines that enthralled, the
choreographed dance that brought gasps
one to all,
and caught all hearts in throats,
and held one single thought
prisoner for hours-long moments
- the whole perfect, elaborate, natural, true
and brilliant artifice,
this one act, a genuine article that we wrought
- is through? No! - the act we set up,
we sat up through nights, discussing,
perfecting -

has burned through its light.

So brilliantly, until it was all
- true.

Until it was all.

Once it became all - from the weight of the sky,
the ceiling fell through

and with it:
the sun came in,
and the air went out.
In a snap
of two figures, the act
was a memory -

doubt

was not even a shadow
not in the cruel, harsh spot
thrown by that hard sun.

what can we do? To follow it now -

The set seems so hollow.

The light of day shows it's all painted on.
The lines don't mean what they used to say.
The dance cuts just as thrilling a figure
as ever you could wish, but its heart's not in it,
now is it? - and though we throw ourselves into
the lunge and embrace - and it fits!
with the click of an oiled display case
hinge, but - we no longer care how it plays.

Its heart has gone rote.

And we look up, and out. The audience - once proud,
lively and lovely, and sitting composed
all of glamorous, amorous, potential distinguished
and bright future selves - all who we ever could have
or have been - in a spell. Enrapt! So enrapt
with this charming, elaborate, desperate thing, this act
- as we grinned and we laughed our way through, and into
and through every heart in the place. Yours,
mostly, and mine - there was no gesture wasted
on us! And the show - what a crowning success!

You and I flew too far off the charts to test
So brilliant, so bad - that audience sat
struck down by each scene, entered into,
possessed!

Have they left, wanting more?

The audience, now
has eloped.

you and I
- oh, so sure! We were so sure,
we never had much use at all
for hope.

Well, a parting of ways. May as well
do it right. For so short, oh too short of
the best of all possible times, darling,
accomplice,
oh loved one of mine,

you and I

had one hell of a life.

sophiaphilia

We're all of us hypocrites,
only the solipsists
choose to exclude themselves
(technical grounds)
but do they exist?
how can they say for sure?
if a tree falls and kills one -
am I still around?
If wishes were wisdom
and love was just words,
philosophy's systems
could order this world
fixed - with permanent firmament,
punctured by stars -
in its infinite place.
Not too small.
Not too large.

died

I've died
and I will not rise
again

the salvation I had hoped for
is worse than spent, and
I will never
find myself

and I will never look. All
the people and the places that I trusted
forsook.

All the certain, sure, secure, loved
loves

have flown home.

Home.

Where have they gone?

Someplace I've
never known.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

the burden of breakfast

The burden of breakfast is lifted
from you. Your eggs can go back
in their paper-shell nests. Your eggs
will not need to be beaten and whipped
with water and milk, to sizzle and steam
into hot, fluffy mess
of white-yellow curds.

Your marbled pink meats are not wanted. Not now
- you won't need to peel back each limp,
tender strip to let dangle, then drop
into frying pan, sizzle
and spit juicy grease
like white hot pinpoint darts

- that nip you all over
your oh so exposed
so overexposed
pale skin,
while your smile
strikes gleaming white ad-copy sparks - and
you model your apron, and nothing much else
in your model dream kitchen.

Put your defrosting bran muffins back up
to freeze to organic, home-made vegan blocks,
put up your vacuum-sealed brick of black coffee

- keep your peppercorns whole, with a flourish
- you won't need to twist
that big thing, with
the greatest of ease,
all in the wrist, held
in your firm grip
asking me "Please,"
to say when

When.

whispering distance

if you lived in whispering distance, I'd lean
and tell you good morning with such brevity
you'd swear that my lips were the sweet soul of wit
and we'd pass our good days through good evenings, between

There's nothing wrong with fucking the girl of your dreams.

There's nothing wrong with fucking the girl of your dreams.
just
as long as you're dreaming.
Because in reality,
there's always some fucking obstacle, and
you better not pretend otherwise, because -
Pick One
is it:
distance?
commitment?
lack thereof?
conflicting issues?
"lack thereof" is a motherfucker, man
I feel you on that one.
Is it:
fashion sense
you have to pretend to like NASCAR
teeth that are just wrong?
some kind of shocking hygiene arrangement
is it:
tell me what it is
there's always an obstacle, man
I'm telling you
in this, reality -
she's not into you
you're not into her RELIGION
race problems
- what are you a racist?
how can that even be an issue for you dude?
she's your fuckin -
dream girl right?
go for it

it's no holds bar, here
dream away!

wait

wake up.

You're a fucking pervert, dude

angel, protect

Shepherd watching over me
black and white
and up and down
this long road that I have to walk, now
in the rain
through part of town
from bar to home
this motherfucking cop
will watch
and drive by,
watch
a half a dozen times, at least
to see that I am safe
to walk.