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.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

"just as much to say"

there hasn't been much to say around here
for a couple of years, but that's good
not bad. The lack of all news hasn't kept
our mouths shut. We still have just as much
to say as if there was

anything to say around here. There's not,
but you would never know it by listening
to us

THERE IS

Is there an astronaut up there
at the moment? Or have they all
come down. I don't suppose they
need to tell us now.

woke up lucky

yesterday was weird
like I was walking around in a real,
but it felt so dream

but today I woke up:
my illusions were gone
and you were still dancing
in front of me - and your smile
has won

over all of the frowns
I ever had to pull,
to scowl the world down.

As I walked to work,
the sun came up
on a world that looked
like it was supposed to be

laid out for you and me.
And as I walked, I skipped
over every crack,
for luck.

Monday, October 29, 2012

"The Trick"

the alarm's about to sound
but the fever calms me down
I can breathe without distress
I'm not sure which bugs me less
you fall down on your knees, screaming
"oh my god"
or let it burn you out
like a full time job
well you can make it really really hard
but there's a trick to it
there's a trick to it
there's a trick to it
there's a
trick to it

well they feed you dreams and goals
but it only feeds your soul
your tongue is sharp and it can carve
but your mouth's about to starve, yeah
you can say you don't care, say
"screw it all"
you can say it's not fair, you can beg
you can crawl
you can beat your head against the wall
but there's a trick to it
there's a trick to it
there's a trick to it
there's a
trick to it

you've got a dream? lay your hand on it
if its too small - don't make it fit
but if it's too big, then you must
acquit yourself
take a step back
lay it to one side
return to yourself,
growing size by size
until you find that you've outgrown the lies

but there's a trick to it

Thursday, October 25, 2012

no mystery

we've reached
each other's depths and hung
ourselves, from each other's heights
we've plumbed
each other's deepest darks,
and started from each other's frights
you awoke in the night, from my nightmare scream
and you punched and smacked me safe awake from that one

but even after all the time that's passed,
it doesn't seem a day since I saw you last
hey, how have you been? as good as you seem? oh,

Sitting across the table from you after all this time, I know
no mystery, there
no mystery, there
and your smile suggests the hint I knew was coming next, oh
no mystery, there

all
the same looks in your eyes
and the same thoughts behind, I shouldn't be surprised
if it's all
the same to you, I think
we both have seen this film a few times

we both know the good, and the best there is
but we're both the same, we know who'll get the worst of it
it's nice to have the chance to catch up, hey?
but pardon me when did we stop running
the other way? oh,

Sitting across the table from you after all this time, I know
no mystery, there
no mystery, there
and your smile suggests the hint I knew was coming next, oh
no mystery, there

ooo, ooo, ooo. your hair's different.
ooo, ooo, ooo - I liked it better,
the other way. But what can I say? oh,

we've reached
each other's depths and hung
ourselves, from each other's heights: no mystery, there
we've wrung
each other's deepest hearts, been blinded by each other's lights
no mystery, there

we both know the good, and the best there is
but we're both the same. We know who'll get the worst of it
even after all the time that's past, it doesn't seem a day
since I saw you last, and I won't count the days
'til I see you again, hey

sitting across the table from you after all this time, I know
no mystery, there
no mystery, there
and your smile suggests the hint I knew was coming next, oh
no mystery, there
no mystery, there
no mystery there.

the bird

I shelter the memory of you
protectively between the fingers
of my cupped hands, like a tiny
and vulnerable bird who had fallen
and rolled, like a fuzzy brown tennis ball
dropped,

in amongst the dry, sharp pine needles, down -

far below the nest

mama bird and papa
had built for it, and next, now
has been picked up
by a well-intentioned hellion, some
misunderstanding
child

who wants only to put it
all the way back up, but

can't.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

bravado

bravado as a curse says
"You can't beat me!", and
bravado as a blessing says
"I dare you to try." And,
bravado

is the worst thing

you'll ever take back, but

bravado is a lesson, that

You'll never learn.

Why?

mani. f***in. festo.

I'M BACK.
I don't care who thinks otherwise. This
is a first-rate poem! by my own standards,
and no other. Hast a poet
any other standards than that? FUCK HIM,
HER AND ZEM IF SO! SELLOUT!! You deserve to fail,

hast ye

any other standards than thine own, and I
rock it olde schoole
on that point, if on no other.

Frankly, the affectation galls. Rockin' it,
or attempting to,
olde schoole.

It galls and palls. I am gallin' and pallin' it, olde schoole,
on that tip, and I myself admit
I can't sustain. Not on the basis of that shit,
but good news to me: I don't have to. I makes my excuses, and moves on:
It comes of reading too much Sherlock Fucking Holmes,
and listening to too much didgeridoo music,
and Shaka Khan, but leave that disco
to the dance floor.

At any event.

I'M BACK, and to such a voracious extent, you are looking
(or listening, or reading along) to a man
with no apologies or tricks. Nor should any universe have,
and may I underscore this:

Each of you.

And every sentient being,

is a universe. And

had better come to priorgenerativebeingfucking terms
with it.

Or else,
if you dont, I
myself, I!

Will have the better of you. And you will have no one to blame,
but myself. And I'll accept it and laugh,

And where will you be better off? Well, you'll be stuck
way back behind me, with

fact.

"this may or may not have been: a manifesto"

Ah, my second impression, maybe
it sucks,
is wrong,
and I'm wrong.

But who cares?

The best thing a poet can do is produce.
The best thing an artist can do, is practice.
We are all practitioners, but if we practice for perfection
we have missed our own best mark: practice. Practice is
for its own sake. To produce the work. A great work
is greater than than any artist.

One single masterpiece

is a greater thing - in terms of a world of billions it can impact, over its immortal ages of influence - one single masterpiece is a miraculous thing, of greater worth than all of the mere beings, of all artists, combined. Those puny humans

lack that worth.

Their works are where their worth inheres.

Output. Out put. Put out. Poets, songwriters, lyricists are whores,
and it is those
who are their own johns, tricks, and pimps who matter

less

not at all

and more.

For what? For what, is the nature of life?

FUTILITY?

I say futility.

I say the nature of life: is futility.

Well. So. Dare
any motherfucker
gainsay me? I dare you

to prove it, then! And until then,

we're all ahead. Aren't we?

Because I'll tell you this, my shallow-breathing brethren:

I am.

Ladies,
gents, brutes
and flies and otherwise, I bid you:

a gauntlet. And,

"This May Or May Not Have Been A Manifesto"

Apologia.

I fucking apologize for everything, if
I could? I would
assume the burden of blame
for all things
visible and invisible, if
it would make a difference I would say
I am not only sorry, I am

at fault.

Does that help?

That is what
apology means: not
admission of feeling bad. But
admission of culpability. I,
if I could, would assume

that blame,

for the universe.

If I did,

Suppose I did?

Could you forgive me?

Would it matter? Because

I, me, my own self, I never meant
the bad shit to happen
to you!

To you.

To you,

∞.

So, there.

Do you feel better?

Because I tell you,

I do.

Now,

I'm going to go enjoy

some fucking sunsets, some fucking torn, roasted flesh, some fucking nature

red

in tooth, and claw,

some fucking sex.

Some fucking cosmos.

Some fucking wondering, and wanting

what's next.

Oh. Is this a bad universe?

Boo

hoo.

You are incorrect.

You, if you need an apology from anyone,
for this life,

are a defective organism.

You will very soon,

be taken out back and shot,

first one up against the wall! In the revolution, if that
is any honor, and I

will apologize.

Oh yes, please

leave the speeches to me.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Stratagem.

I'm only devil's advocate
to help you beat the devil's hand.
The moment he steps in the room -
I'm on the side of angels, then.
I'm on your side: and all the way.

So as you come, complain, and sigh,
I'm going to take his part then, dear.
The strongest case he has to make:
and we'll work through what our case is.

Together: we can beat this guy.

Monday, October 15, 2012

"break"

The demons in my head have all decided they want out, and they
have diagrammed the means and mapped out every inch of way.

They know the bodies on each wall, they know where all the blind spots are
that play in every arc of spotlight searching through the darkened yard,

They've set the secret day: tonight! They've spread their bribes and made their deals
and everyone is getting out, in one big break - if no one squeals.

They've blocked out the rotation of the guards in every shift and watch.
In every block, there are three cells with tunnels, and in every crotch,
concealed - some shiv, or key, or needful tool, and every hole conceals
an ace - but that's diversion, see - these demons know
they own the place.

plate of lies

I cooked this up, it tastes like love
- the crisp-fried basil, just the touch
upon a rich and sumptuous cut -
a chop of beef so fat with blood,
seared charred outside, but rare within
just like I know you like your meat,
your heart, and all you touch with sin
too hot by half! - but deft, and neat
pulled out of flame, your saving fork
- and then the knife comes out. You fool
your share of everyone you meet.
I've made this plate up just for you.

The baked potato hot, the skin
with crust of salt, the flesh so white
and fluffy, ready to dig in -
here's sour cream and and butterknife,
and here are chives, and bacon bits
you never had much use for those,
but here they are. Here's everything,
and all the best.

But save some room - dessert
comes next.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

sweet and stung

the kiss of death lies on our lips
who knows when we'll react
to it. But when the allergy
kicks in:

our faces flush with grace, amazed -
we won't regret one of our days -
except, perhaps, to wish we'd lived
a little more in sin.

holiday by mistake

Found you on the doorstep
bedraggled, falling over;
you hung your hat up on my hook,
and ate me out of house and home.
You tricked me - put my foot in it.
You baked me into half-baked plans -
and now I'm bagged, oh I've been took
- you swept me off to roam.

The road goes ever on and on,
and on it, I'm your prisoner,
your burglar, your accomplice
- we are in this thick as thieves.
I hold myself to this blind course,
by dreaming of my kitchen -
If only I could wake up home!
Or heading home, at least.

A hundred times, oh how I've cursed
myself for throwing in with you.
I have no need of anything
you've offered or proposed.
You've taken me through danger, too -
through life and death, and flight and fight
I've done my share of saving you -
the end's not even close.

The road goes ever on and on,
and on it, I'm your prisoner,
your burglar, your accomplice
- we are in this thick as thieves.
I hold myself to this blind course,
by dreaming of my kitchen -
If only I could wake up home!
Or heading home, at least.

Sunday, October 07, 2012

open letter

Dearest everyone,

I am very serious and I apologize, I wish
I could buy you breakfast, and eat it with you.
I am probably the most serious person you ever

met. I took you literally, and every time
you thought I was kidding and laughed,
a part of my heart could not understand,
and died. And it was the wrong part, and it deserved to die
because laughter is our universal recognition that the world
is in fact,
fucked up.

The point is: please imagine if

please imagine first, if nothing I ever said mattered,
because that's truer than anything I could say. But
second, please imagine if everything I ever said I meant.
Because that's so close to the truth, you would not laugh
at me or with me, if you knew. And the world is not
what you make of it. The world is most certainly not
what you make it. The world is.
We're stuck with it.

I hope you don't mind being stuck with me.
I don't want to go anywhere. I don't want
a better world than I've seen. To clarify:
I believe in heaven. And I have had hell on earth,
and I don't want a better world than I've seen.

I don't want it.

I don't want it.

Darling? Kiddo? Can you read these words? Anyone?

I don't want a better world than I've seen with you.
Sat in next to you. Clinked your glass to. Let pierce me.

Let's all die when we have to. 'Til then, let's live.

I have work to do.

Saturday, October 06, 2012

wake

I slept like a thief in the night
on his night off
slept like a ghost who's done
everything
that was left undone
that was keeping him up
in the house where life

has passed on from him

I slept like a man
for whom conscience is king
and whose king is dead
and now mourning has come
and gone, this wake
is clear-eyed and alert
not a drop of scotch
and nobody gets hurt

'til this one last thing

sure. It has to be done,
and I've steeled myself
during dreamless nights
for these past, sound weeks
I am undisturbed. It's
disturbing, how easy

I find the words

life raw

She bites into life raw, and
swallows it burnt.
her mouth is so hot

that bit of steak well done
was rare, when it was just
a small, pink, forked square
lifting to her lips, and

I kissed her
knowing full well
all of this.

And I burnt my tongue.

done wasting mine

I'm done
with wasting my life. would you like
to try? I want
to try wasting yours,
and you wasting mine
and all of our time
will fly out the windows
and open doors and down roads
that we barely guessed even exist

we don't know what lies
down those roads, no we don't

but we've wasted our lives, so
let's go find out

it can't be much worse
that what's right
here, now

forward

I have always looked forward
toward

the future,
grinning like an idiot,
will be happy to have me
and I

will be happy to have one,
not knowing what's in it
but some days

I hate that grin

Thursday, October 04, 2012

"recipe"

snips and snails and sugar
from you, and spices
of various kinds
from us both,
and everything nice,
plus puppy dogs' tails -
and everything's right,
when we come in close

to envelop
the most of each other we can,
I just want every part of us
mingled is best
for this recipe - making,
and baking, and done!
set us both out to cool, serves two

made one

"look around, frown"


the whole world seems dumb
without you here
to help me make fun
of it.

"your everything"

I love your belly,
your legs, and points between
and I love what you say
and think
and mean
(which is everything)
to me, I mean:
you're everything

Wednesday, October 03, 2012

"vintage kisses"

I love when your kisses taste
like wine, and I can pretend
it's the wine that has got me so drunk,
but to drink kisses from your lips
is to open a bottle so deep
it will never run low.

warm, and soft and rich,
like sweet cream and velvet
cold:

your mouth

is chilled from chardonnay,
or is it the evening breeze pushed
through tall, old trees

as the light clings to us
in rays that oak has steeped
greenish-gold