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, September 27, 2012

pattern so far

The pattern so far is
I come through scathed,
and eventually what's on the other side
is worth getting over it for.
I kind of like
the pink, shiny streaks
where the scabs fall away. I like
that they last a long while, then fade.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

cellular one

Amoebalike, I sense your light.
Extruding pseudopodia, I squirm
and make my way towards you
it's just the way I've learned
to live. My sustenance is
what you give. I ooze,
engulfing every bit
that you've left floating
in your wake, 'til I am full
and then,
I split

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

old with you

as we forget each others' names
and sink into our mental haze
our feeble limbs will clutch and grasp
remembered strength, in one embrace

our milky eyes will search and scan
our faces, so confused and drawn
and I will wonder who are you
so beautiful, familiar one

and though you cannot place my name
I'll see and know that you are mine
because you'll guess from beyond time
that you once knew: you're meant for me

and you can be the cauliflower, I will be the broccoli
I want to vegetate with you persistently,

persistently.

the future for a walk

I love to walk your dog with you.

I know we're only starting out,
and I am perfectly
comfortable
now, not being the one
to pick up the shit, as we walk along
- that's still your job. And rightfully so!
She is still your dog, and will always be.
But at some point,

I feel like a shift will occur:
it's already in motion inside of me -
every bother and burden that you must bear
every trouble and nuisance that's yours, by right -

I want to put in for a share of my own.
in your fight,
with your grief
as my care

for life

Friday, September 21, 2012

try.

Is it even sense
can a person worthily try, try hard
without purpose
or intent
or end result in mind to achieve? Can a person
just TRY HARD?

In GENERAL?!

And not actually be trying
to create some further end
result by that try?

Well fuck. If not,
then that's why I'm awesome.
Because I do, and
I can.

And the result WORKS. Fuck attempts
at outcomes, fuck
such things, they are beneath me, fuck
far beneath me, if I'm honest. I TRY
WAY
HARDER
THAN THAT. Good luck
if you think your "purpose," so directed and driven
can deliver a better result.

Point is:
I try so hard.
I recommend you
try it for a change,
if you haven't already.

You may be surprised at
what purposes, better than yours, you achieve
by giving the uncharted seas of your unsteered boat
every inch of your back and shoulders, projected
down back and out along every one of your oars. Don't
worry about rocks and reefs, it's a metaphor!

you're not even at sea, buddy!

You should get out there, maybe.

goodbye kiss

a kiss of death -
just luck, I guess
between two friends
the way your fist
just hit
my chin, so
perfect,
just
my legs
went out and knees
went to the side, it was
a fight - my head
fell so far left
and cracked
against the
curb,
and if I had
(but I do not: it's all
gone
black)
one word: a breath,
to say before I float away,
my soul
a paper boat
down river red
to gutter sea -
I'd try to catch
your eye
"it's me!" - and breathe

one word

as clear
and true -

"sorry"

- as I've ever said

or you have ever heard.

oh! how

sorry

you

Thursday, September 20, 2012

that old couple

I used to think
when people talked about wanting to be
that old couple, what they meant was, basically
"we'll have to fake it, but could be fun!"

Could be fun. and
after a while, the hang of it
could get pretty convincing. That's how I thought
that old couple must have always pulled it off. But
suddenly I think I was wrong, 'cause girl

I have only just suddenly met myself
and my future, and you and all
the signs point to us. We are
already that old couple. Right
the fuck now. While we're still
young,

carousing,
discussing baby names objectively,
planning to strike a fairly late 1960's
adulthood chic, our ritual cocktail
and blowjob tradition after whoever's
hard day at work (if such a grisly thing
should continue to be necessary,

it can be bourne, given
sufficient panache). but when

You called me your porch-swing guy. And I
knew exactly what you mean - I saw it, I
have not even had a chance to sit down
with you on an actual porch-swing, yet
in an instant, I knew we were already

in full, gentle swing

in the way
that my shoulders
and your so soft curves
and all our limbs together
settle in, infinitely
new and every combination,
every intertwine perfect as if
each of us could be the other's hammock,

I can't wait to go hunting
for the house with a big front and wraparound
side porch, and begin
to sit and swing. You
get the sun tea started, you

are the one

with whom I already fully intend
to putter around.

big believer

I'm a big believer in blowing your nose
in UFOs
when you can't identify what just flew by,
what does that let you know?
I'm a big believer in hunkering down
when the time has come to remove your clothes,
burn yourself brown,
scrub yourself down,
or to close the show and get out of town,
I'm a big believer in letting the curtains close
before letting the water flow too full blast
before taking too deep a bow,
especially when any audience
has long since last scene been filing out,
in a standing and ambulatory ovation,
now - maybe
ask yourself: is there far too much
in this world to believe in?
and pick one thing
where you can't say just how
or why it works for you. Take that,
and let it be your gut feeling. Tell me:
"I don't know. It just feels
right. True," and we then
will share a healing smile, and
nod, and knowingly, full well
will we sleep together
in the fullness of time,
in this blessed guiltless guileless
blameless and inexplicably pillowless
restless dreamless sleep, so typical and deep
of we big believers

how much of a second chance

How important did you want me to be to you, again?
because I don't know if there's enough meaning left over
from the time it first meant anything
for us to be able to consider this a "chance,"
second or otherwise

how much of a shot does a chance have to have?
if one of those
star-crossed
one-in-a-million
against-all-odds shots
is what you're after,
well

ok. I guess

you got it.

beginner's luck

you just bested me
at my own damn game, you cheat!

I mean,
I didn't even teach you the rules, yet
or school you on the little tricks,
or tell you the object

it's just as if you were born to it,
you took to it like a thief, but let's
call it a win, ante up again, double
or nothing, darling

and let's see who's in.

casual friday

he's hung himself
by the neck until dead
incrementally,
using a different neck tie
of impeccable width
every day, drawn tight
the only thing to mark himself out
in the fight
by muted hues striped
over vibrant tones
his complexion flushed rose
over flawless knot
the peripheral black's closing in
fullscreen
he had choice last words
for one last-gasp scene,
mordant and dry - cut and framed
for effect, but he's seen
suddenly

they're no good - not yet
the scene's not set
and the humor feels false
out-of-place, no fun
but like everything in life
he just pulls it off




apologia

I talk so much shit
that I mean way too hard
and I can't tell the difference
between light and God
except I can't read the word
written on this page. Well,
the sun must have set then.
Let's call it
today.

Thursday, September 06, 2012

"When I freestyle, I tend to disrespect the indefinite you."

I DEMONSTRATE MY METHOD
AS I
FIND A WAY TO GET IT
I CAN
TRY TO SHOW YOU HOW I FLOW
BUT YOU
WOULD JUST FORGET IT I AM
WAY
BEYOND THE KEN OF MOST, I MEAN
YOU KENS ARE WAY TOO SMOOTH
IN FRONT,
YOU KNOW (JUST WHAT I MEAN)
THERE'S NOTHING GOING ON BELOW,
AND NOTHING GOING ON ABOVE,
YOUR HEAD'S AN EMPTY RUBBER BULB.

YOUR EYES (THE WINDOWS OF THE SOUL)
ARE PAINTED ON.
YOU'RE ALL FOR SHOW,
AND NOTHING IN THE BOX OFFICE
- NO GATE RECEIPTS,
NO BUTTS IN SEATS,
YOU'RE PLAYING TO AN EMPTY HOUSE. WELL
SCRIPT YOURSELF AN END,

MY FRIEND: THE RENT IS UP.

YOU'VE BEEN RELEASED.

Wednesday, September 05, 2012

white cat

that cat's fluffy hackles are up
on her back
but that's just a little warning
to the declassé
since anyone could see she's quite unconcerned
with insouciant slink
in every step of her way