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?

Monday, December 31, 2012

"New Year's Eve, Even"

New Year's Eve
even seems
this year
a transition
that may matter,
like things to come
to fruition, from seed
to green shoot, to weed
to blooming flower, will be
subtly, substantially
this time. Is it in
the champagne, or
just in the pain
that has aged us
like wine? Into something
quite rare, we are vintage
with hints of white pepper and
pear, and we pair well with cheese,
do we not? Well, I do. You
- I'll take you with a bit of
whatever-you-like. And together
we'll ring
in the the new

"pulling teeth"

wiggle, wiggle
tip of tongue
on hard and bright enamel, push
and fuss and slide
and poke and pry
it's coming loose
- I knew it would!
I taste bright tiny bursts
of blood,

and tips of nerves
deep down say stop!
and go! and oh god
yes right there! Those nerves
are perverts. Call the cops

When I'm with you,
it's pulling teeth -
and pleasurable
as hell, beneath
a thin, bright sheen
of heavenly -
are you the tongue?
or is it me

and when you go,
you've left a hole
more red then wine,
and aching, dull
and nothing ever will
come in to fill
that gaping gap until
you come in wriggling
to push and worry at
my firm resolve, to work
my resoluteness loose
with force
so slow, relentless
solve a puzzle
back and forth

did you feel that?
of course
ah yes
the pain


you can't always get what you want, but
you don't always need what they say you need
like food on the table
or air to breathe
you'll do fine without both, eventually

and I have been always a beast for you,
I've walked so far hurting, I can't complain
and time is on your side, yes it is,
yes it is, and sympathy
- for old what's-his-name

don't tell me! I can guess who,
who are you?
I'm switching the channel
to C.S.I.
(I stole the remote) and I won't be fooled
on my knees
and pray,
oh my.

you scratch mine

how many stabs
can one back take, before
it scratches the itch
for that punishment, oh
yeah, that's it - just
the spot, right there! Oh,
up a bit,
left, yes -
just what I deserve, oh
you always know best
just where it hurts worst,
and how hard, and how perfectly sharp
the point works
its sudden surprise,
running through
and through - no one
knows my weaknesses the way you do,
which is why I take them all, and
I turn them
to you

get me the scissors of damocles

Let us have no more
of this stone-block throne
with its shining blade hung
point fixed over skull
like a pendulum,
only still as your breath
by a fine white hair
depends certain death
with bowed head, ready
to jump, or be still
one movement
is all, it will take
your will

magic hour

I love you like shadows falling under trees
as the sun rises up from its knees
and the bees buzz busily
to the beat of bee's wings
in the dregs of the wine
that you poured for me,
it is drowsily taking each part
of me hold, and I sink down to earth
like the sun
coming home with a cold
as the sky bursts in purples
and pinks, and slow golds settle on us
like mist on ice rinks

"try to get across"

I feel like such a fool
I never can reach anyone
when I want to. In fact,
I've never wanted to. Except a few times,
rotten times
when somebody I love is suffering, and
it's always something terminal,
though maybe life
is not always what's dying.

But I'm always unable to help
when I try. I come clumsily
close, fall clumsily short

though I seem to reach people
spectacularly, when I wasn't even
trying. At random, just saying
random things, off the top of some
cliff, which for some reason go in.

I think we're all in the same boat
of being the only one who
we can even come close
to know.

But each of us has a million chinks
in what passes for fortifications, and we all
catch glimpses, unbidden, from each other, sometimes

and what we see shocks us
as to the bad, as to the good, sometimes
even as to the familiar

I don't know what I'm trying to
say. I don't know even what I am trying
to help. I don't feel you're like me,
or me like you. But I like you, and
I wish I could save you from this.
What you're trying to do. Which

is going to miss.

I mean, I don't know that. Maybe you'll
succeed: where I've always always failed,
to help someone in need when I was trying
to. Or you might help some one, anyway,
just at random.

when it's too late to help you

Sunday, December 30, 2012

the world, pt.2

and may the world lay down its arms and armor,
and surrender to you what it was you wanted
from it. If nothing: then may it part
on either side of your way, and let you pass
on to the next country, unmolested
for as long as you keep to the path

the world: a Welcome to it

Welcome to our little enclave of fools,
geniuses, true loves and fond lookers-on,
big-talkers, good-timers, tough livers
and die-hards, children of all ages and
elderly personages of all youths and persuasions, characters
whether wise, wizened or otherwise;
conspiracy buffs and chaos-theoreticians
(but not theorists) of the highest order,
lowlifes (not "lowlives"?) of the wildest disorder,
gentry of the narrowest deportment,
seers of the deepest discernment, skeptics
of the shallowest razor-fine faith
and logicians of the headiest precision -
orators of the most precise diction
and erudition, doyens of distinction
(half-driven to distraction, alas),
cretins, thieves and minotaurs,
werewolves and cultists in unitards,
cyclopean unicorns and other such fanciful
monsters, eloping with the most bedrock sound
mind-and-body materialists imaginable,
veritable sainted atheists with angel's wings
in a manner of speaking, a match made
in a match factory, too many anarchists
spoiled by their pampered upbringings,
opening up soup kitchens
serving bomb soup with noodles
for $1.99 a bowl, and a peck on the cheek
thrown in from your choice of seabird.

However, having said all that,
completely without bias or prejudice I want
to welcome you

once again to this little patch of bliss,
notwithstanding the nearly complete lack
of innocence among most of the the participants;
we are, right after all is said and done, planning
to keep right on saying and doing until the cows
come marching in and the fat lady singles out
the cream of the cream into individually-wrapped cheese
slices. But all of that's for another day. I'm bushed,
and blushed, and blustered and rapidly dwindling
into lush sheets and pillows, to sleep perchance too late,
and so I must bid you mon dieu.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

the curse

The curse of tribe, of team, of game.
It's "I must win," but I need help! Who
is like me? Who can I draft?
How to exclude who comes in last?
For we must come in first, of course.
If not by good clean fun,
by force.

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

it's okay, it's going

it's okay, it's going
to be okay.

you ask every day if it's better, I'll learn
to give you the honest answer you want, instead
of the lie my mind has wormed into flesh and blood
and convinced me of, because

it's okay, and it's going to be.
I know, I know it is
it's been okay now for decades plus
my worst always gets the better of us,
and I'm sick of it.

Let's throw now away,
and leap to the fact that
it's going to turn out.

it always does.

it's okay, and it's going
to be okay. You knew it was.

with hardly a doubt

which of us to hate

sometimes the worst people die
and the wrong people live on and, the best
you can do is wonder which side you're on
if you find yourself lost in a faith you can't make
baby find your way out, to me - we'll be fate

yeah we make quite a picture and cut
quite a figure you leave me both breathless
and bloodless, I snigger
at what you meant so much, your eyes hurt
mine. your eyes hurt mine
your eyes hurt mine,

and if it was too late last time we met,
last time I said I'm sorry I couldn't quite get
what you meant, then - how late is it now?
It's just in time
it's just in time
your eyes hurt mine
your eyes hurt mine

and if I could sacrifice all that is worst in myself, why
I'd do it so gladly I'd pay you for sessions the rest of my life.
But you're not professional - you lack the distance, and I
am not patient

enough for my health. And I am not
patient enough for this life.

we don't know which of us to hate
worst, which of us to kill
first, each of us needs
help that's still
illegal in this state,
and we aren't even in this
state. but just in time
your eyes hurt mine
your eyes hurt mine
your eyes hurt mine

I'd rather die, than cause you pain
because, because, I'd rather die
anyway, but if you stay
I'll stay with you
I'll stay I'll
I'll stay, I'll stay, I
say I'll stay

the dirty trick.

I didn't just suddenly
not care what people think. I realized.

- that people don't care how I came across,
to them. That they don't care and don't want
me to ask whether they were offended, they didn't
notice. It went right by them, unfazed - surely

they have more important things to notice
then the guy who's trying to figure out what
he did wrong.

Or what he did not, or whether, or how to do
better next time. They don't care, they
don't want.

They don't. Don't need, and I got sick
of asking. Because they got sick
of the asking.

Asking for help. How to help them! Please,
how to help me help them,

they never knew. Never noticed! And never had one
useful answer. It took me several years, to guess, to

It's something I no longer understand.

How I
could have cared,
could have been so dense.
It didn't just suddenly all make sense.

It was beaten into me, in increments.

It didn't just
suddenly hit me
one day, not to care

what people think.

I keep, too

I see you alone
I see you're alone
I have never had much use for people myself
they let you, basically, down
when you don't know what you wanted from them
and they didn't know what you came here for
it's so easy to take your ball
and go

so that's what I keep, too
I could keep two
I keep to myself
that's what I've been keeping, too
been keeping to
myself, as well,

and well, I get this sense of you
I know I haven't seen you once
in my entire hopeless life
but I would like to, once again
and if you ever look my way
I swore I saw you do, just then
the second before you got up
and left, I didn't follow
I couldn't see the sense of it
justifications didn't fit

I couldn't, it was not
it would
be kind of hard

to stop,
and halt
if you were out there by the door
on the sidewalk, explain
why I was too, because

that isn't what I do, I keep
to what I could, within reason
explain, I keep it
to myself,
I keep it to
myself, I think


I caught a glimpse
that that's what you
keep to as well
and I've been keeping, too
been keeping to

it's hell



it could be that it could be justified

but maybe it kind of won't need to be

it could be the kind

of thing that we

simply do without blame, as if naturally

well isn't our right? if not - what is?

that's giving us this: it's just one chance

who cares except us

what we do with it.

we don't need to dance.

Would you care to dance?

an end of one-upmanship

You know what else? I want to get open-heart
with a tattoo artist as the chief operator:
crack the sternum, pull the cage apart with the
and get my sweetie's name tattooed right there

on the clean smooth front muscle surface (just
under the aorta), then

clink it shut, zip me up

and after a few week's
recovery, I'd be like, "hey baby - guess what
I got?"

Well I'd like to see what she'll do
to top that

I guess
I better tell them
take a picture of it.

before they close my chest
back over me, like a bone meat vest.

pity the weak minded

I should have so much more pity on weaker minds,
but they're so hard to find, oh
they're so hard to find.
Since I got to know mine.


I have never once seen a you
when the whole bit you do
and thing you are
wasn't wrapped up flying loose
in a composed fury of
calm, bubbling
vwhoosh -

right past me, but
I have never seen a you
who I didn't want to catch,
wrap back up in something
sticky, such as would hold,
and take you

- I don't know where. Because

between us two, there

is no place like home.

I can't even say things like that now,
now. I'm smashed. All I mean is

I think the world of you.
I thought more than the world, I think

a full parallel universe of you -
if there could have been a switch
where a click of ruby chucks
could have taken both of us

to some place there never was

some place like.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

behind back

there's a guy who talks about people behind their back.
friends of ours, people we both know. End always ends
with "I love him, but" or her, but I know - he loves me,
but, too.

And he talks about me behind my back. I don't know what
I think of him or it. This realizations is too fresh
to fit

into the general high opinion I have or had, on this
flamboyantly heterosexual dad, nattily attired to within
an inch of his deep booming voice, upstandingly loyal
and overall good guy, tolerant and accepting or so I

Before I heard him say that about Kelly. And suddenly
realized I'd heard him give the same sorts
of lowdown scoops on many friends,
many times before.


He talks about me.

Behind my back.

It seems almost beyond question that this means war.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

it's like

it's like

the part of you that wants to stop all war has a plan
that's got nothing to do with peace and love, and
only most of your mind can glimpse some of it
at once - it's too intricate and simple to
take in from the front, you have to go
around back, head tilt, rotate, wait
oh my god it's perfect this is
going to be great - if only
she can keep a secret, if
he can do his part, and
if the others never
notice, well then
nobody can stop
us and it smells
just like fruition
and it's frothy like
cream. I'll take a large
with immune booster, please


tastes like a dream

Ode to sushi

The crazy thing about sushi is -
you don't want to think about it
too much or deeply, but the other
half of you is wondering "This shit's
delicious. Why did people even cook fish
to begin with?" then


you remember. It's to do with the aspects
you didn't want to think about, too much
or too deeply

Ode to wasabi (a haiku)

the crazy thing a
bout wasabi is shit that's
hot! oh my nostrils

Ode to pickled ginger

The crazy thing about pickled
ginger is the taste so strong

It's like somebody figured out
(sans fizz) how to get a whole can
of ginger ale, make the sweetness go
away and fit the whole remaining taste
into a pale, slightly crunchy slightly
slimy folded-over piled-up item. Now

it's sitting there looking at you, or
you it. Are you going to eat that?

If you know what's good for you.

sign this

there's a clipboard standing, staring, held firm
a well-dressed, clean-cut youngish person
who knows you're not compassionless, apathetic!
Reaching out to you, a chance: hey here come get it

So what are we signing our names to today?
Can you explain what this is, I mean - generally,
I know all the major issues in the world at large,
and all the threads hanging all their dangling lives by,
all the outrages, problems, horrors and flaws
and all of the causes set up, at least one for each cause
of each problem. (hell, sometimes
up to dozens for each!)

and victory, always plausibly within reach
if only we'll all throw ourselves into the breach
- since every single one has reached the crisis point,
and every single one cries out for action now!
And every single one of these is life and death
- so many threatened people who you've never met,
and never will. Sign this: to show that we care,

To show that we are fed up to here
with what we just heard about, now

from the earnest missionary in the heather colored hat.

Well thank you for explaining. Here you go.

That's that.

Raw Apple Pie

Raw Apple Pie
* apples, five - skinned and cut in chunks
* pie shell, graham cracker
* special caramel-apple sauce (see recipe in episode 2)
* pie crust dough (for top)

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place raw
apple slices artfully

in the waiting shell,
drizzling liberally as you go

with special caramel-apple sauce
so that all pieces are unevenly coated,
but well-carameled.

Put the pie dough on top - strip
method if you wish, but I prefer
plunk it on, and a few slits in the top.

Place in oven - only just long
enough to cook the top to a golden brown. Remove
and serve immediately. Sticky,
crunch-apple-y, caramelly
goodness! When I say "smelly"

I mean the fresh, crisp scent and snap
of a raw, autumn ripe caramel apple!
They totally smell. It's subtler
than the hot, softened baked apple
full aroma, but it's a distinct
and delicious smell.

Serving suggestion: with a tall cold glass
of milk. After each pie bite, take a big cold swig, look
at the other person and say "APPLE MILK!! EW!!!!!"
take turns, repeat, until dissolve
into giggles.

End of recipe.


I walk around
excluded in crowds
people with bad memory shut me out
even though I remember
their face,
and name.
and there's no way out
except in again

postscript to shitty mood Christmas Poem 2012


I'm having a lovely rainy day,
and though I am sad I did not
get to get away to family this
year (I usually do) I will have
friends and loves to come in amongst
and get doppy on punch and nog and such
and there will be carols sung, and Carols kissed
(oh that slut doesn't care where the mistletoe is)
and by the end of the lists, as we review the list,
much merry making will be checked off. If
not innocence, there will at least
be bliss. Mixed in with some misty eyes
and chased, perhaps, with gin. We don't mind
a melancholy tinge, come Christmas time. There always,

Where does the critic get off?

Where does the critic get off?

putting himself above, making judgments

taking others' art and push, shoving it into

boxes where he (pronoun yours) so

eloquently, ignorantly knows

it goes?

you ask

a challenge. I

Well, first:

do not put myself above. A critic

does not look down from above
on art. A critic looks not down,
not up,

but at.

And for some reason thinks what
he (pronoun mine, in my case) sees

allows him
to have an opinion
on this. And that. And
everything else. Which he does,
which he is - allowed. To express,
and not just to have. What makes critics
so special? What makes them have say? Well, they say

and that's that.

There's no badges or hats
or helmets or guns required,
and you won't be sworn in (but
be prepared to be sworn at!). People

don't like a person with an opinion. Well,
people afraid of their own opinion, don't.

So. There's that. But - you're perfectly
allowed to dismiss criticism as a form of literature!

Which it is - quite equal in rank
to novels,
and scripts,
and poems,
and epic ancient classic dialectics,
and drama,
and tragic or comic romances,

Criticism, the form - is
Art. And it stands

to reason that you can like, or
dislike the form, and say so. You are
quite entitled to your own accounting for tastes. And you do
dismiss, with distaste,

- and say so.


what does that make you? Well,
a critic. For one. And

a hypocrite (two). To
answer the original question:

in your face.

"last stand"

storm / hill

I hold my umbrella
like a jedi, kinda
waiting for the Darth
to strike me down

in a parka so brown
it's like old Obi Wan
stands ready to win

first light

then sound

Christmas Poem 2012: Christmas Eve, Even

well the tiding of comfort and joy
has gone out, it has ebbed
and who knows when it's coming back in
there is no decoration, not one string
of bulbs, every room is quite bare
not one tinsel bit strewn
I was planning on nothing much special today
maybe bow my head, hold still and celebrate.
I can't believe the day and date.

I can't believe
it can really still be christmas eve
even though
nothing is
- no one's on
the way

Santa knows which list I'm on
I won't hold my breath
'til midnight, though
I may still be awake
at dawn. There's the chimney
all swept clean,
no one's coming
down but me.

ooo. gingerbread

Saturday, December 22, 2012

a brief defense of the purpose and use of legalese

The purpose of legalese
is at the very least,
to see that these
ambiguities, creepin'in
from conflicting accepted senses
of regular words don't do you in. When
you write the contract, and you leave it
interpretable, before it even dries
the other side's ink overrides, in
whatever interpretable interpretation
the other side finds (and can justify)
that you left open to them. So: bang!
Jargon. Make up a word, or Capitalize.
Define it - either in-document, or by
reference to an external tradition, such as
statute, citation of case law or other
precedent, the Uniform Commercial Code
of the United States (for example) of America, and

the term

is no longer interpretable.

This is the legitimate purpose of legalese.

The other purpose is of course, the one
we all decry: to pack a document chock
with as many of these weaponized, jargonized terms
as can be conveniently fit in, in an attempt
to burn, confound, buffalo or confuse those dupes
who either fear or don't get English, or can't
read, or don't have the use of a dictionary, or
are too stupid, or trusting, or unwilling, unable
to look up a reference, or for whatever who the fuck
knows excuse - don't want to go through to make sense
and fill in (for themselves), what each unknown thing -
in the document they are about to put their name to
- is.

These cases are sweet! Since the morons who write such
legalese - jamming so many in like jelly beans, candy!

- always, always leave several key terms defined
badly, or wrongly used, which then renders the language:


Which it ought to have been the whole point to avoid.


To the benefit of the one who did not write the shitty,
vague, interpretable language. To the benefit of the party
of the second part: me, generally.

But very easily you too! Consult your attorney!

arrogances, No.2

I know! something

to know something,
I know,

is arrogance.

I want to take
each flaw, and make
it all my own

to tailor it

cut off the bit that fits
by sticking out, and leave
in everything that leaves
a doubt
implied. remove
the lie, excise
the hint
intent, and
make explicit
and unbent
in this content,
which is all
I meant.

in discontent
mistakes are made,
left in, if seem
becomes what's meant, becomingly -

So what's implied
is worth working out,
worth bearing in mind
worth noting,
worth saying,
worth repeating again
- well, it's not implied anymore

But then: subtlety's a whore
with a stuck-up pimp
too timid to collect,

I'm short. again



three three three
the number of the beast
when it was but half-grown
hey, c'mere pipsqueak
give us cuddle-bites
have a scratch, get a treat, then -
back in the pit!
Chained up forever again. Oh,
be a good boy -
it's only for a bit.
I'll sneak down
and give you scratches
now and then,

perspective, belated

Haha i just saw
i'm 8 hrs late.
Hope your
morning is as
beautiful and
bright as the
eyes of the
world, when
you are in view


there's a fine shade of doubt
between murder and
whatever else

it may be that you get away with
so easily

invisibility, it seems
is more your style
your fashion,

for you it all depends
on standing where the light
flatters ugly people. And you


shadow, and call it transparency
because you are invisible,
and no one can see

only your workings
laid bare.

how did we get here
how did we get here


invention is a mother, but
inventiveness is a son
of a bitch, and necessity sees
non-necessities, and cries
I want that! Can I have one?

that's how we all got here,
in a nut. But we're all going out
the exact same way. What we want
overrules everything that we need
- always has, but necessity wants

to play.

"cheating from memory" Or: "extra credit essay question #2, on fate's mechanisms"

cheating from memory
taking the test
as best as you can
on a foolproof plan
that even a fool could understand

so it does! so it goes
compare notes as you both
go through page after page
and the fool fills in blanks
from blank mind, yes and no
chooses other than you
on each carefully worked
out multiple choice. true
is false, false is true -
yes, you knew that, thanks!


But a sickening doubt,
in a sniggering voice, says

the fool will do better than you.


Arrogance is
not attractive, y'all.
It's such a lovely-sounding word,
though! You know what?

Sometimes truth
flows beautifully
through ugly words,
and sometimes it's quite the

reverse -

My curse is this, and
thus: to say
it any way,
and anyway
and still not know
why it still works,
without me knowing which
is which.

The shoe, for me,
fits only if it hurts,
or walks away
untenanted. The fuck's
that mean?

I know! something

Arrogance is
not attractive, y'all.
It's such a lovely-sounding word,
though! You know what?

Sometimes truth
flows beautifully
through ugly words,
and sometimes it's quite the

reverse -

My curse is this, and
thus: to say
it any way,
and anyway
and still not know
why it still works,
without me knowing which
is which.

The shoe, for me,
fits only if it hurts,
or walks away
untenanted. The fuck's
that mean?

I know! something

next chef

deliciousness is in short supply
you, my food network chef, put on
quite a show - spread a platter

and spread patter thick as you go
cutting mixing and sifting, slather
batter in pans, you put raw trays away

in cold ovens, then pull out
- ta-da! as if
by sleight of both hands -
perfect hot finished food! from
behind door #2. It is a dance
you perform quite according to plans,
but the recipe doesn't quite scan,
pan out
or add up
anyway it slices,
dices, and juliennes

science can't save us from what life is like

the lightning actually
throws itself
from down here up
and into the cloud,
and the lava
is magma, underground -
and the human heart
isn't shaped like that

you battered and carved
and compressed mine, I guess
into the shape that you think
is best.

And my blood
is replaced with candied sweets:
soft centers, nuts, nougats

in every beat

and you always know what
you'll get

with me

Friday, December 21, 2012

so what if the abyss blinks first

Deep breaths.
steps outside,
and staring contests
into skies.

If life's like this -

no ifs.
it is.

- and I don't need these answers fast,
but it has come the time to ask -
and something out there better
have some very good,

love, to English #2

The English language is like...
metaphor, a metaphor
except it would then be a simile, Still,
The English language is like
a window, with hot sweet pie all laid
out on the sill
to cool, or The English Language
is like a winsome, wanting
slut just waiting to be filled
with hot hard meaning!!!!!!


to put it better, arguably, better,

Okay. Leave
comparisons aside.
Such poetic device,
bootless, contrived.
Leave aside what The
English Language might be
or is like. I should like, instead,
to dwell on what The English Language is:

The English Language

a system
of audible and graphic markers
that people use to covey hot, hard meaning
to each other, over and
over and
over again until
they can't stand it and finally
cry out OH GOD
DON'T EVER STOP - or similar
messages of import and urgency, using The English Language.

like most languages,
The English Language can be used
to convey more casual or whimsical messages
as well (or even better). It is really very versatile,
strong and powerful, and while there exists some danger of abuse,


what can you say about that? The English Language

Let's be adults about it, please.
The reward is more than the risk, the slip
is worth its poor excuse, and
the illusion you take to bed each night
is worth the transparent ruse
that we work
upon each other by use
of The English Language.

love, to English

What I love most about English is
its complicity. It wants you
to use it, to the limit, it will
tumble and turn
somersaults willingly,
and sometimes I just want so much
to put something I see, or really feel,
or think very strongly, or mean

- into words.

and English lets me.

one brief flash

two scoops of moonlight,
tinged upon their upper verge with rose,
bounded in by deep borders of velvet darkness
as by a starless night sky. Their glow
suffuses the room, and our eyes
- with a light
that shines

as bright
in presence
as in memory.

paddling out

If your words were a babbling brook,
I'd want to dabble my toes in the swirls and eddies of your cool,
clear reason, and if

a river, I'd want to dive in and float, on the current
to wherever the flow will be going, and if

an ocean,


I'd want to drown. Skin gone green and golden scaled,
as the siren spell of your words going on
weaves gills on my neck, and an anchor chain
snaps clank around my ankle


we talk again.

ill of the dead

We should have funerals
for the living

starting oh,
age thirty or so, every 10 years
and then when you get to 67 maybe go
to every five. People will come, dressed
up somber, and with you in attendance (sitting
in a nice, red, velvet upholstered teak throne
-like chair where the casket would be)
(will be) and they
can fucking eulogize you now!
before it's too late. Everybody get up and say
all the nice things they won't ever say to your face

Cry and get it out of our system, vent such things
upon the living. Then when you actually do die,
and it's too late to hurt your feelings -

we can all speak more frankly.

the definite you

I need another word for 'you'

to apply to other people.
Because the meaning is
completely different then,
versus when it is used
to apply to you, and
it can't be accurate
or useful to use the
same word!

For such different things.

when I say 'you'
to you,
all these associations
rise up, come in, put heart
in throat and other places,
various related responses,
emotional and circulatory consequences,
involuntary, prompting
relish and anticipation,

but then

I'll say 'you'
(meaning somebody else),
and it is wrong. It's just
plain wrong. They don't live up
to your pronoun, and you

Only you
can be you.
I never want to share you

with anyone else

the sales job

Too many people

think persuasion is an art
of creating appeal
around a set of points, and selling them
to the other side.

True, lasting agreement doesn't come
from a sales job. In my mind: persuasion
is rooted in taking the truth down
to its hardest core, not side
vs. side, but seeing the circle
within which both sets of feet
are already planted. Stand


and realize where within that wide
and shared property, the common interest lies.
And just put it


If you're right
about the truth, and not lying
- and if
you've done a good job
stripping it, people on sides
(any, every)
will have a very hard time to gainsay it. And it
will not be your voice,
or your reasons
that compel,

but the truth itself.


this is crisp,
distinct, definite
without being offensive (or
defensive). I like it.
I can't even think
of a thing to suggest -
there are things
I myself would have put


but I like your voice. Keep it

perfect as is.

ring cycle

I don't understand what
happens to all the old beautiful jewelry
in the world.

It's like it is chosen, purchased,
paid for, given,
worn, stored,
and then

people pass away
or it is stolen, pawned,
and at that point
it is transformed
into fake.

a future in greeting cards

so you have made it through, almost
such times and tribulations, you have
gotten well, or will soon, and I
just want to say, I want to spend

the rest of my life with you

making the rest of your life a place
where the unrealistic seems likely again
where the day-to-day

becomes something you wish would go on forever

fugue you

here's another thing
I was wondering about (and
it's okay not to tell anyone,
if they ask), but

the pages of the book, did
time turn back? How did
mind go black, as
the missing hours

spent themselves out

of sight
and out of
memory, to drop
us both back

in time to wake up?


That's my POLICY.

That's my POLICY.

It's a policy of mine!

To sling dope rhymes that go over
flowing rivers of beats, and through woods
just like we're going to grandmother's house,
and I'm the horse!
I know the way
to carry the sleigh on-course
so of course when we get there, the big bad wolf
had better step off, behave
or I'll have no recourse
but to

cite my policy.

That's my policy.

That's my POLICY

"just a candle"

it was just a candle,
maybe it gave
only a little light
but those near enough to see
were cheered, and they
could see how the glow
made them beautiful

oh we all looked good
by candelight
but who saw the candle?
as it lit our night

it was just a candle,
and when that tiny flame
died, well maybe
in the big scheme
of things,
the world
did not lose
so much light

but I noticed,
and cried

it was just a candle,
and when it vanished,
it gave out without notice
or noticeable cause
- a gust - or maybe
- it just guttered.

and nobody wondered

it was
just a candle.

No really. It was
just a candle.

It's not a metaphor
for anybody, or

Nobody died.
A candle went out,
and I cried. Then
I wrote a poem about it.

Don't read into


Fizz is great as metaphor,
but I like literal fizz more
I love the bubbles of champagne,
the bite of pop,
the fwoosh of carbonated rain -
except that never happens, though.
I guess it could be done, somehow
with pipes and tanks above the clouds
and we, below, with closed eyes,
wide smiles

and open mouths

warning a crisis may never occur

in a moment of weakness,
I may ask you for everything
and you must give it all, love - or
you must give nothing


my soul is crying migraines
all over the universe, a wheel
has slipped, fallen, come loose - out
and now nothing works.

my heart - hurt, oh hurt
by myself
and others
and I can't believe
in any part
of this process anymore.

Since all has gone askew
I could ask you privately,
in confidence
- do you have any?

in me,
I mean
I think you do.

But I don't have any
confidence in you
you are made of dreams

and I thought things
were so sweet here
that I was furious about it
certain aspects, frankly


if only I could go back
in time and do one thing differently -
that time I bent over so far
when I kissed your ass

I'd have drawn blood

taught with tension

teach me how to tie knots,
and how not to. I want to be taught
how to take the ends of ropes apart,
splice and fasten, make two lines one
strong, to bind, or swing from, drawn
and taut, made suddenly fast

Now lay hold, pull and hope

- no, not hope

but trust: it holds. Because
I did it just like you showed
me. Just like you taught me, just
like you: strong
and fast,
and taut,
and drawn.

"do, do, do"

Got up
same old shit

stepped out
the house
in to it

I woke up
half way 'round

the spiral
my perfect straight street
goes down, and

I knew it
some thing wrong

the exact thing
we've seen all along

every single day
right at your feet
or your back
at your side
in your eyes
- there's a piece,
I'm gonna do
a little good
can't do all the good
got to leave a little good for you to do
a little good
just a little good,
every day
just between us two there'll still be

way too much good
in this world
to do

met up
with my friend
so damn sad

we're talking
and getting mad

there's too much
to take

it's too intense
then she says let's try to
cut it into bite-sized thousands
of pieces, and deal with the eaches
at least, that's what she says
she'll do
a little good
can't do all the good
got to leave a little good for you to do
a little good
just a little good,
every day
just between us two there'll still be

way too much good
in this world
to do

aww, there's another one
hey look at how wrong, and where are the people whose
job this is? and
oh, there's too many to

but it matters to this one. and it matters
to this one. And it matters
to this one. So it matters,
it matters! If it matters
to this one, and it matters
to this one, and it matters
to this one, then it matters
to this
a little good

can't do all the good
got to leave a little good for you to do
a little good
just a little good,
every day
just between us two there'll still be

way too much good
in this world
to do

advice in a fatalist universe

Fate is immutable,
plan accordingly.
You can't change whatever
you don't know
you'll do, but
fortune favors
what destiny tells it to.

So just make sure you mean it -
whatever you happen
to be meant

to do.

wait for it

I burrow into
a world where I don't fit
and wait for this moment
to pass. When I can feel safe
again, I'll exist.
For now I am sure
that it won't last,
but I'll wait for it.
wait for it

Wednesday, December 12, 2012


I'm having a hard time with this poem. It's
a bit on the rigid side. Inflexible, the rhyme
schemes against me, and wins. Wins, if I'm not
mistaken. I don't know how to make it looser,
make it work, work in my favor. Hell, it's in its
own favor I want to make it work! But me

and this poem

do not see eye to eye on what its own
best interest is. I, however, am author. Therefore
I will crush its little petulancies and insubordinations
down, I will pull the splinterlike wires of infelicitousness
out from its skin (where they somehow got stuck, running along
just under like a horror movie) and daub its pinprick wounds
with fizzy antiseptic, which is called I forget what, applied
with cotton balls. Daub, daub. Pink and white in sharp scent
of wet alcohol, or peroxide. One of those two will do
the trick. Then,

Smack my hands together, rubbing up heat and warmth from
friction, fire my inner eye and apply firm, kneading
pressure to the points and joints of this poem, moving
muscle masses and reshaping fat, slapping and twisting,
cracking chiropractorily, bones askew then re-skewed
and there you are: feel like a new man, don't you?