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, January 31, 2013

"the own"

I want someone of my very own.
I have someone of my very own!
I have myself. Oh - guess what else,
somebody else gives her self, too!
to me, I mean. I am her "you."
She is my "me."
We call ourselves
by these two names,
and we know who
we mean each time.
Who we mean first,
above all things.
She wants someone
her very own - and she
has me. And I am hers,
and she is mine.
And this is free.

We're one in this:
our property.

This gift was once,
and it gives still.
It has occurred perpetually
and still occurs each day,
I am
- a property of hers.
And she,
a property of mine.
This is
no slavery.

We freely give.
And freely take:
our hearts, our love, for life -
our time, we freely give

we gave ourselves
for goodness sake,

and goodness is what we got back.
What we get back, and multiplied
I'm more to her than she herself
she's more to me than I am. Why?

Just honesty, I guess. Each day
I ask myself, the answer's true.
She asks herself - she says the same.
Who wanted this? She did!

I do.

"terms not conditions" Rev#2

"terms not conditions"

A heart can be given - so,
a heart can be owned.
It can be kept, rejected,
it can be declared a loan
and collected - it can be used
to the limit, or locked up
and stowed. But it can
not be owed.

Another brick?

Anyone who uses their poetry
(or their work of any kind!
- from paint to words
to architecture, from songs
sung loud, to wine made
with love, to be drunk
delightfully) as a means
to construct a statement -

a unified statement,

not merely an oeuvre
of poor works and masterpieces,
exploring many techniques and modes
and collected under one - name -
(the artist's) (which hardly matters),
not merely a body of work, but a body
that works to establish some particular
point, or constellation of points
with definite lines drawn between
in some conceived shape, a body that - strikes
a particular attitude, that adopts
or enforces a pose, or aligns all its parts
as into one thing -

to illustrate or embody a theory,
a theme,
a manifesto
something unified.

- anyone who uses each work
as a brick in that wall, towards some
overarching construct

a vision

a purpose

a statement

and every piece of work they ever created,
or cared to make
every piece which they do not now repudiate,
every notion
that crossed their heart or bothered their mind
to get out into the world, as a thing defined
and concrete - every piece of work was
- if not conceived, then executed at least
with intent to do

that very thing

that very important thing

that the arch-artist felt should overrule,
archly, overarchingly, over all other possible
approaches or statements, diametrically opposed or
merely incompatible, merely in contrast to -

Well. Well and good, if they do. Anyone
who can find it within them
to use all their work to that kind of
great, in some sense
purpose -

is a better art theoretical practitioner than I.

And that's saying something.

"reveilles not lullabies"


Sleeping well will carry risks.
Sorry about bad dreams, baby!
But better bad dreams you can sleep through,
and wake up strong to deal with life
- than bad real life to wake up to.

I know you've got your share of that,
as well. But I know you are strong -
as strong as any angel ever spread its wings
to dive through hell, for one good thing.

And you belong.

This world can see the way you shine
and smile, and crab - you bring delight
to all! Mostly. If there's one guy in dark,
don't let him dim your light.

If there's one guy who sees your shine,
and tries to turn the world against -
that guy won't win.

He might fool some!
But all the world sees
- your intent,
sees your good sense,
sees your good heart.
You cannot help it,
cannot hide.
And nothing that he does
will help him hide
how good you are, my bride.
My love - the world sees what I see.

I saw it when I knew you not.
You knocked me on the ass at once.
It's obvious, what good you've got.

It's obvious -
because it's true.
Because you're true.

Not 'cause you're mine.
But I'm so glad that you are mine -
please teach me how to swim your frowns,
and reach wide sparkling smiles

some times,
he might fool some -
he can't fool us. What fools he fools, well
- we must trust
to being true, and stand our ground.
In case they ever come around,
they'll find us, who and what we are.

This truth we've found is founded well,
on higher ground that he can't reach,
but all can see.
His accusations are a sound
- an empty wail of malice, sent
with ill intent, upon a wind
that blows no good to anyone
- but fading, fading, soon will fail.
Soon will be spent.
It can't reach us. We stand here true
on firm, high ground.

Don't let the devil bring you down.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

dwindler

Our attempts to make
life and death
make sense

are laughable, but with good intent
they could at very least make art,
I guess. As we die,
meaning less, and
less, meaning
less.

"Hippocrates, first"

I mean no harm.
I will do no harm,
if I can, I will: be earth
in sum: harmless,
mostly,

I will protect you, even from myself if I have to,

and if I die in the attempt, still
better that

please
do not take harm
from me.

I am truly neither sufficient, nor worthy

"the It."

nobody agrees when you weary them out
going on and on
but you can't get to what

you mean
by explaining what
you meant.

And you can't
get to where they get
who you are,

by explaining it.

Who you are

is an

it,

that you can't explain.

Monday, January 21, 2013

sheep requiem

and in this moment, I trust the cops
to break down my door
and admit they were in
the wrong.

And in this moment, for about the first
time I trust my own judgment,
and I hope I die

in a moment like this,
except maybe
less-elaborately planned,
and saving my love
and family
from the sharks

of a sinking battleship.

in a moment like this

Sunday, January 20, 2013

contemplate

Gorge yourself on delicious juice.
Eat delicious meat.
Explore the infinite
in what you can give,
give to it
what you wish to be,
and take only what you want.
Leave what you need.

pick and peck

eat greedily the pickled ginger,
for it tastes
horrible, and can only be enjoyed
as a vice. Strike
with your chopsticks
at those of those who would dare poke and probe
at your pile of folded,
slimy

pickledness.

"as sweetness fails"

I want to tell you something sweetly, because
maybe mistakenly, maybe not I perceive you
could use a little sweetness right now, and
maybe mistakenly, maybe not, I believe I have
some to give out - but most of all, because
you're pretty much the second-most important
thing a guy could ever want. Look, I know
I kind of fucked it up right there, didn't I?
Already. I should have called you definitely,
not pretty much. And first-most, not second.
And..."thing?" Come on. But who cares?
You and me aren't playing those
kinds of games. Are we? Can we?

No, no, we already squared that away,
or perhaps, straightened it out, but I
still think you're close to the most
together person that I've ever come across.
Destined for great and stupid things!
Without a doubt. Ugh, this just gets
better, huh? How sweet was that supposed
to be? "Stupid things," anyway,
I've never been good at being sweet,
but sometimes I've been good enough.

"These Pep Talks Of Ours"

Eat a dick, pip-squeak! Thank you,
I'll be here all week, my arms
so tired. How's the leg?
You had me at "don't make me
beg," but take my life - please, oh,
please do. I'm using only ten percent
of what my brain thinks of my mind
in time and money, well, unspent -
unsung, unhung, unrung, bells on
with blinkers off, with ill-intent
and hangers-on from stern to prow,
all furrowed brows - unbowed, unbent,
their pink and pretty penises all in a
row, so innocent we row, all row - together, now! -
what floats such boats as these we've seen,
and rigged and sent out oe'r such waves,
though these four score and seven seas? So stormily!
So fierce of mine! O Captain! My Captain! Oh -wait.
That's me up there. I stand and spin, with pink
and idle hand, my paper-plate
halo: all painted gold, cocked rakishly, and well-bestowed
upon one brand-new devil horn - and sneer, with air of cold command
turned warm, like welcome-mats worn out. I'm on a boat.
The boss - as you'll no doubt
observe. Oh, you will pay
your obeisance, or I will know
the reason why not, sir.

A rakish angel, I have been -
and raked over the coals for it.
Was innocence not grand? Not bliss?
Not ignorance? Not Risk? Not sin?
Not Stratego? Not consequence?
Not self-defense? Insanity?
Nor mortal combat - finish him!
Don't copy me on these e-mails
no more - not blind, nor openly,
nor printed out for later. Sure,
okay - one more, then take these either/ors of yours
and row yourself back out to sea.
For we are up a crick, old cock! You take the fifth,
and I'll drink yours
and plead insanity - total.
From teetotal, to two toed tree
complete with sloths, so prideful in
their sinful lusts and gluttonies
and well-turned wraths. And envious
of all the petty jealousies, and covetous
of tiny points of difference that lie between
their pointed toes. The sloth drops off, into abyss
- and you tell me: "Stop sending these!" but hey

I worked real hard on this

"Perv"

I like a woman with muscular buttocks.
They move independently of each other
under a thin cotton covering, skirt
over panties. It's handy that she's
clearly well over eighteen! Otherwise,
it would all seem a little unseemlier
than anything so actively natural
should seem.

"terms not conditions"

A heart can be given -
so a heart can be owned.
It can be accepted, kept,
rejected, left; it can be
declared a loan, and collected.
It can be used to the limit,
or locked up and stowed, but
it can not be owed.

last years manta revised #2.

Lord, if I could get one wish, I want to be
your will for me on earth.

Lord, if I could get one more, then please
let me be, right
by her.

Friday, January 18, 2013

"salt sunshine"

As the rough shard stones mingle pebbling in
with the smooth soft beach, we walk hand in hand.
There is hard enough rock beneath some of this path
to stub a toe or two, but the risk is to laugh -
there is buried glass, sometimes, occasionally.
Because some cruel son of a bitch couldn't see
what duty of his it was to leave things clear,
so that others could walk without care or fear.
Well to some people, all that ever matters is theirs.

Aware of these fools, we will take our share
of caution stepping light, in our own bare feet
over this broad clean brown tide-wet strip.
Our feet have grown strong over walks like this,
and I have your arm. Darling, you won't trip.
You are more than strong enough to catch me as well
- and this life is so good, so sweet, so fine!
Like it never was before: because you are mine.
You're the brightest thing to see in this salt sunshine,
and I wish that every moment could be easy like this.
But if I had to choose between "easy" and bliss -
I'd leave things as they are. As they're going, as is,
and I'd save that wish.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Facebook status update

What's Happening, Joseph? Facebook says.

Oh, Facebook. If only you knew!

Folks? Facebook doesn't want
to know. Facebook doesn't need
to know. Facebook is being disingenuous!

Facebook asks that same question of everyone
now, regardless.

I hate
to be the one to break it,

but there it is.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Criticism, schriticism.

Antidisestablishmentarianism, schmantidisestablishmentarianism.

puns: n. plural

puns:
love 'em
"a play on words"
what more beautiful, succinct
mission / vision statement could there be
for a figure of speech?

last year's mantra (revised)

LORD if I could get one wish, I want to BE
your will for me on earth. LORD if I could
get one wish, I want to BE your will for me
on earth. LORD if I could get one wish, I
want to BE
your will
for me

on earth.

Lord, if I could get one more,
I want to be the one
who is right
by her.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

I am

I am the biggest,
strongest,
possible man
starting from the given
of all I am, and
proceeding

to the place that you want
(me, too.)

- you know you do!
You know,
you do.

Friday, January 11, 2013

bravado

I wish all poets
- all of what's left of poets,
at this point and planet -
could take the lesson from it,
though. Yes, in life - in walk,
in drink - belligerence and machismo,
braggadocio,
are ugly, escalatory, and a weak,
pussy-ass excuse

to pick fights with people
on no such good grounds as: pride
in a work one has made. Or
in one's voice
- in craft,
in competence,
in celebration of excellence,
strength, the ability
to cut loose on - - - the universe,
man!
In life,
in general, yeah, damn - pride,
and cutting others down from competitive basis is...
bull shit.

Base, mean stuff.

But I wish
all those cowering today
in the preciousness of their art -
all those secretly mighty, if only cut loose
- could learn the humility,
the simplicity, the truth
of what a joy it is
to run the dozens down on a fellow
master of ceremony! - as part of the form!
The accepted norm. Business!
not personal
- prizefighters be not proud, but
humble, huh? Damn yup! As you give the gift
of a thorough beat-down. And celebrate one's
crosses, straights and uppercuts! as one jabs
with all the celebratory self love, one has.
Love carried out. Multiplied to the power

of every one

in the crowd, in a battle where only one's art
wins - no doubt: no fights, beefs, or similar
irrelevancies allowed, because man - THIS
is the kind of proud we here braves need. Humanity's
poised on the worst warpath ever, if
we can't fill our lungs to shout triumphant
about something more personal than creed,
then we might as well concede the race,
scalp ourselves and plant the blood
and follicles, because nuclear winter
is on the immediate five-day forecast,
geologically speaking, if India and Pakistan can't
nominate some champions
to fight for them
fast - and on the mic.

We need art,
confrontation - not physical domination,
not this pissant substitute
penis-length comparison
- to determine if humanity is in fact
ever going to graduate,
to be capable of culture,
diversity, conflict in mutual benefit
and liberty - not as one race! one
creed, one color, one persuasion - not even
as one species

- FUCK BIOLOGIES !!!! -

one nation.

Can we please?

Because pride.
Loud, brash, arrogant pride
- in art; in one's self, in
the absolute acceptance of
one's status as Creator

co-equal with the universe - this
is the only way to be.

I don't know how
to get there. But if we can get,
that will be the way to be, the only way. To be
free.

It's well worth the sacrifice
of forcing one's self to accept the necessity,
to allow bravado. As distasteful,
as wrong as it - really,
truly is. Bravado. As if
some people are better. At
things. Bravado.

Pardon me,
while I throw
up a bit in my mouth,
just so I have a bit
of fire to spit out
on the principle
of it. Bravado.

Ick.

"Brooke"

way back when
the world so small
then every time I seen you
you've grown more tall
and every time I hear you
you have more say
in and out of woods, you wend your way
now. today.
you've been so gone
busy getting off
or carrying on
suddenly alone in the woods, run through
I turn around lost -
then you
come running like a brook
wash down, little river
you babble like a brook,
your voice, musical like water, like a brook
wading in, wash my fever away
before I can pray,
you baptize me,

like a brook
like a brooke

hey girl
I knew you when
I never had the first idea, back then
now every time my memory plays across
the face I'm seeing now -
what a long way off
from how
I once thought of you.
From trembling and sweet like grass blade dew,
to gushing forth clear, like a spring sprung, damn
to soak me where I stand, when you
come running like a brook
wash down, little river
you babble like a brook,
your voice musical like water, like a brook
wading in, wash my fever away
before I can pray,
you baptize me,

like a brook
like a brooke

Thursday, January 10, 2013

answer track

OW
THAT'S WHAT
I'M TALKINBOUT! Boo yah! Boo yah, in my face, right here

in the place to be
and in the place to feel up fear,
tweak terror's tits, slap dread's ass and call
Calvin's too-cool normalcy
ever-so-slightly queer! RIGHT HERE
is the pride parade, get my freak flag in gear
kick the door through the wall, and walk

- cancel the rave.

This is a RAID!

everybody on the dance floor step this way,
duck yo' head
GETinTHE BACKofTHE VAN! and slam
that shit. I am with
the police.
the police are
here! And I am with
them. I
am a police officer.
no priest, no minister no last
rites,

no.

Your mirandas are these:
We know all about the hoax, the scam -
all we want to know
is who put you up to it? Please,

don't throw your life away, son.

Who put you up to this?

Some of your friends
have already been taken downtown
in the paddy-wagon.

Just come,
along clean.
now

And
we'll give you the same deal
we gave the others - no tricks, no
twists, no M. dark nights
of the shamma-lamma-ding-dong
meanings switched, behind the scene via sleight of
ass, sad songs, endings turned around and played
a little too pat too fast suddenly, supposedly
uplifting, so-called -

come on! Party on, Bruce
and Wayne, and
Garth, you
and your Darth

just got burned, and mauled.

harmless, I swear! Pt.2

In general,
I find

I am forced to disagree
on principle
anytime anyone ever says to me
that the right way to proceed,
the right way to be
is to shy away

from doing with an open heart, and good will
any well-meant thing
based purely on a worry as to how it could be
taken.
As to how, I mean, that it could be perceived.

But

that's just me!

I will disagree
every time on such principle. Probably
vocally, with something unprintable. All
those who

- without cause
(and oh, they are all
without cause),
put insult in
so as to read insult out of any thing

good

that I may kick about,
that I mean to do - will find
their tender tootsies crushed
or, at the very least,
mussed under
the loving tread of my unstoppable,
fun
-sized
miniature
juggernaut.

It beeps as it backs up! Look, cute!

Real juggernauts


never back up.

Wednesday, January 09, 2013

any favors

I was consumed by me, for
which I only could
blame you, my dear.

you asked me to
you asked me to
remember when you asked me to?
I do

it's clear
that we can't be
as true to us
as I am to
the very thought
of leaving you
can shiver me
I'm trembling
right through, and
through and through -
okay
wait, one more tremor -
there

that's it
I'm through
oh wait

I think it's back
it's coming back
you said
come back

you asked me to
you asked me to
remember when you asked me to?
I do
you did
you asked me to
remember when you asked me to?
I do

you fit
in fits and starts
into my life
you hit so hard
it changed the shape
from cratered out
to gathered in
so desperately

you asked me to
you asked me to
remember when you asked me to?
I do
you did
you asked me to
remember when you asked me to?

mediocre: adj.

mediocre.
just means:
that you judge yourself against your dreams

Mine All Mine

I want you
for my very own
show it to the world
to make it known
for what it's worth
with everything I got
I made a list of things
with you on top

tell the other guys to say away
I'll tell you the words to say
keep you where you're easiest to find

just say you're mine
just say you're mine
just say you're mine, all mine
just say you're mine

and mine alone
for nobody else
spread the word around
whatever helps
you're staying here
keep you in my sight
won't get you disappear
without a fight

because you mean so very much to me
lock you up and hide the key
keep you where you're easiest to find

just say you're mine
just say you're mine
just say you're mine, all mine
just say you're mine

tell the other guys to say away
I'll tell you the words to say
keep you where you're easiest to find
because you mean so very much to me
lock you up and hide the key
if anybody asks, just say you're mine

just say you're mine
just say you're mine
just say you're mine, all mine
just say you're mine

1 Weird Trick

this 1 weird trick
- discovered by a mom
who scientists ALL HATE -
proves if you drive
less than ten miles a day,
you are being ripped off -

robbed blind, by fate
- insurance companies
CAN'T STAND this 1 weird
trick, you'll see
the President
declares how to write off
your student loans for free!
and finance first or second homes

with this historic mortgage rate.
The government does not want you
to know. They know about AND HATE
this 1 weird trick. Act now, until
it is too late.

To use this 1 weird trick -
it works from home!
to fix,
to roll in wealth,
to shine your teeth brand new and white
to make your tits stand up and bounce
or penis, if that's what you've got

this 1 weird trick is just the stunt!

a couple clicks, a small amount
- sign up, we'll tell you what
you want.

this 1 weird trick

works every time:

Delude yourself
that secret magic
fairy dust, and inside tricks
provide the difference between
you, and all the trusting dupes
and fools who seem so happy with
a life whose kisses leave you sick
and feeling stupider, each time, each
sign you
pass
that tells
you you've been tricked.
this 1 weird trick,

works every time.

is the white elephant?

Is the white elephant
the thing
in the room
that everybody
doesn't talk about,
or doesn't want to? or
is it - "doesn't notice."
Do they see it, don't you see?
Do you see it? is it in the room, or

is it just me

the second thickest ice

Ready?
Set?

With a power that belies our deceptive grace,
we vault via breathtaking triple-lutz
into first place - on points,
and for style,
just prior

to a technical disqualification for skating naked.

Well, for goodness and gracious sakes! We have always
been in training, making
for the finals
straining
for some impersonal best world record - maybe,
I say maybe,
we should shoot for something more. Forget
the Games, the record, let's break it

I will steal gold
if you distract China,
we can totally make it.

We have no drugs.
Performance-enhancing or otherwise - the others
can't compete against us, but

how 'bout we let them catch up,
if they will agree to split the score?

Hey what is this stuff?

Thickest. Ice. Ever.

My moral capacity is mortally wounded by the memory
of all the words we used to say, undermined perhaps
not by the words so much, as what was behind them
- the serious with hilarity, the dead-even with
meaning it exactly too much; with what was above them
- the looks, with an underscore, an underline, or
an undress in rehearsal underlying every sidelone glance,
and sneaking along behind every ding!-scored sound-effect
gleam and twinkle as both or neither of us do an excellent job
of not winking, winning yet another epic staring contest
without having officially started one. We cross
the finish, double-cross the end of some other thing,
and with a power that belies our deceptive grace,
vault via breathtaking triple-lutz into first place on points,
for style, just prior to a technical disqualification
for skating naked.

Proposal 2: coda

'til death!
do us play
this to-die-for part

to suffer for art, let's
stay
till the credits roll,
as we sit
and absorb the dark.
The lights will come up

on our hollowed-out soul.

Proposal

Hey
Picture this:
the next six
months of our
life, leading
up to - instead of some scripted, insipid, foregone conclusion
precipitating denoument, tempting anticlimax in a long and
increasingly anticlimactic series of sequels, and sequels,
by popular (or mutual)
demand -
How about this?

A Scorcese flick,
called The Intended
with you and I cursing like we never meant it,
like irritated cops and avuncular criminals
trading quips in brilliantly
written staccato bullet points,
trading shots
in a hollow-point, steel-jacketed barrage,
a heart-hardened world-burdened fusillade
of cynicism,

One of us, surely
is working undercover.

we aren't both sure who it is,
or it isn't, but
we commit:
to bring the world
to its feet - twist,
by twist, by
twist, and
end up
dead

together
in the final shot.

finale of will

Stop! making proclamations,
statements of intent.
Embody them!
Embody them, unless -
Of course.
That was not what
you meant

Tuesday, January 08, 2013

Starlarking.

to crush dull glass
upon dark night skies
we will lie on backs laughing,

and shining lights
making beautiful lies
that flash bright, like truths -

for anyone to see, who wanted to -
for anyone with two eyes
and
some battery
juice

indie bass player?

you've got the haircut
and the haunted look
- ghosts don't have
to be goth. Really.
But yours is, inside.
You can see it
pretending to hide -
overkill with cyanide,
a side of sliced almonds
dyed fluorescent orange
garnishing a largish green
sugar-skull marzipan. And I am
wrong in my condescending guess

of what it is you do, love,
or do best

- or you say I am.


dis.

all you sucka poets.
out there on them internets,
your rhymes are not as dope as these.

These rhymes are free. They pirouette
through indeterminate degrees. Get next
to me, and study it. Achieve
a mastery,

publish
a thesis - nail

that doctorate, go straight through
- graduate that shit.

the world knows now: you're good at school.

You still have your whole life to learn
what we knew to begin with, fool.

You're good; I'm better.

chill. and,
burn. And,
thaw.

oh well.
it could be worse.

You never had a chance, at best.

Don't let it make you cynical

at least you proved that you can ace a test.

fortune favors the lucky, again; karma's blaming victims. zen won't testify


Karma
gets all the headlines, grabs
the credit for touchdowns, nabs all the praise
for raising the dead, bringing down fire
on bad neighborhoods, striking disobedient children
with leukemia, seeing to it that every young woman
asking for it gets hers. That jerk you hate,
for what he did: a car accident, maybe. It's
in the mail, oh for sure it is. Cancer of the heart.
Karma rarely misses, and never, ever swerves.
Victims get theirs for what they did. Every part
of the whole picture is in focus, karma
is always zeroing in on a long, curved orbit
at double light speed towards ground zero with impact
projected at ninety degrees from cosmic, transcendent
distances, a trajectory to ruin some bad human being
but good. Karma sees to, and is doing it
all for you - don't you worry about this.

It's out of your hands, the verdict is
guilty as hell and you can't resist, twist free,
wriggle or squeeze out from under its spell. Every worst
last thing on the slate, coming true - is all because
of some other bad thing that you did,
or will do.

Karma gets it. The credit,
and the necessity for there to be any credit.
The desperate necessity of a mechanism
to make us sure, of everything
pinned in its fixed balance, where it all makes sense:

A playing with fire, for every one burned.
One lie from a liar, for every scorched pair
of pants. A circle around every circumstance,
with the date it comes due scrawled on thin air,
in permanent black, and a card with some poor shmuck's name
on a line filled in, for every dance.

And you know, sure, we know
That we never deserved all that. Our one chance -

And what just happened to it!
Well, shit! For that to happen to us -
when we cared and deserved
so much - !

what a sad
and impossible run of bad luck

"wisdom ages"

At work,

I just fell
down.

I fell down
in a big hurry, took
a corner too hard on a wide open
floor, sole worn too smooth slipped
well past my side-leaning center
of gravity (well
- to be honest,
I've never been very self-centered.
But then, but still somehow,
I always maintained that my feet would remain,
for the most part, right under me, in balance
until) now,

Until
suddenly. I fell, down. Hard,
fairly.

- Dad used to say,
"it's tough when you get old."

I fell, fairly hard, and for the first time ever
didn't bounce.

I crashed like a sack, flat
and half-full of something heavy,
but rigid along set lines and angles
like a corpse. I hit, with small cloth rips
and jacket flaps, slacks and shirt spread
like an impact wave, one ripple out
and then back,
down,

and settling. Coming in, coming to some
semblance of my senses, I realize I am unhurt,
and faintly ridiculous, but with no one there
to apologize to for it.

I'm not sorry.

- Dad used to say,
"sorry is a sorry word."

Tuesday, January 01, 2013

drunk is a poor excuse

drunk is a poor excuse
to be the person you already are
and will always be,
when you're drunk,
and shake the strong inhibition you make
for the sake of the ones who you want
to keep close

and not see the worst.
until it's too late
or too much, when the person
you already are means
to have a say, come out
after all this time and play,
or maybe it's just

another day. But
either way,
it's a poor excuse.