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.

Monday, February 22, 2016

"Like Alcohol"

I love you so damn much
that it's eating me inside
and I wake up thinking of your love, it's growing
it's growing on my mind, and it's getting so
I can't function at all
I don't want to, without you
I love you
I love you like alcohol
alcohol
alcohol, oh
I love you like alcohol
alcohol, I love you
alcohol, oh
I love you like

you get into me and seep through my veins
and I can't build up a tolerance, I need you
I need you, again and I need you just
to feel like me at all, I can't feel like
myself now, without you
I love you like alcohol
alcohol
alcohol, oh
I love you like alcohol
alcohol, I love you
alcohol, oh
I love you like

my judgment is impaired, now
I can't think straight at all
you're on my breath, the world can tell
you stagger me
I almost fell

you color everything I see is looking fine, now
just one pull from your sweet lips, relief now
is coming down the line and I need you so
you drive my pain away
I feel bright, now
and beautiful
I wish you'd stay

I love you like alcohol
I love you like alcohol
alcohol
alcohol, oh
I love you like alcohol
alcohol, I love you
alcohol, oh
I love you like

alcohol

gilt

The glow
that suffuses your face
is enough,
the lines and the shapes
of your form catch all rays,
and this light
gilds your graces,
no burnish, no paint,
no embellish,
you see.
You outshine artful ways.

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

nothings lost

in a cloudful of stars,
I was trying to recapture
that flirtatious vibe
we had going before
we just DRIFTED APART
The MAGIC is GONE
from the silvery moon
my stomach is full
of dead butterflies

Thursday, February 11, 2016

the number one

so sick

of whatever this life has left.
and I haven't even seen the best of it yet, but
whatever is left can't touch what we had.
It's an act of good will to see things

so bad.
I am bound
and determined.
Whatever's to come
could never unseat you,
my number one. For as numb
as I am, I can painfully
see, you are greater than anything

meant for me.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

"where you been"

I'll tell you when I can, where I've been,
I will tell - when I can without
crying, or lying, without
feeling like these

are words we could both do without

you hearing, me having to cast
in such definite terms
all that stupid confusion
and doubt. I will tell you
when it helps,
and you'll trust me to know
when it can,
or it must,
or it does
come out.

homework advice

Side note: to anyone who thinks
it's better not for one's life's heart's work
to be assigned, for anyone who thinks
it's better not to set targets, but
rather one should just let flow
whenever you feel like it; to anyone who worries
the quality of art might suffer
because you "forced it,"

proof's in the pudding my friends.
#1 a work done wrong once
can be done right again, once
it's done once at all. And you can take that
gem from the bank, in the rough
- now that it's been found, mined, now
that it exists, it has weight in the hand
- later on, you can return to it again; it
can be polished, refined, recast and re-set -
and perhaps a new and fantastic work
will be the result you get. And yet,
you never would have had the first
raw chance to make a thing of it, if
you hadn't gotten off your ass
and made yourself
make a thing.

You can't argue
with results like those, for
what you do today in no way constrains,
prevents, or uses up

what you can do tomorrow.

Only what you fail to do today constrains.
Prevents, uses up what you will no longer later
be capable of. So,

Not advice, perhaps.

It's a god-damn harangue. Class,

Please open your books
to page one.

shitty, timid art

or for shitty, timid art,
some big intimidating thing -
Well to be perfectly honest,
I don't view poems as anything
consequential myself! I say most art

should be the tossed-off
spawn of an impulsive moment.
But it's cool and important also
to be able to get caught
up in the moment, and suddenly
want to put a ton of work

into something!

I don't think
that can happen, though

- I don't think it's possible TO get caught
up, if one's approach
to art, in general

is that a given work ought to be consequential.

If a person thinks art ought to be,
in practice I think that tends to make
for either no art,
or
for shitty, timid art.

Monday, February 08, 2016

St. Valentine's Day

There's never been another I'd love like I've loved you for so long
I know I've never made myself clear enough on this.
I was a coward
but nothing could matter to me more than your happiness
and though I've lost myself before, now
I'm ready to accept the risk

if you have ever believed enough that you'd die for it
you'd know that isn't a thing you would want to come out and admit
- like St. Valentine
like St. Valentine's Day
- like St. Valentine
Like Saint Valentine's Day

so what they tell you 'bout love is: you must love yourself about all things
that hasn't made any sense, since I first saw you
I held back
afraid, I guess
I guess I paid the price.
But now I'm ready to meet with lions
I'm ready to be sacrificed

Whatever sacrifice I have to pay to declare my love
I know what I know is right and I'm willing to take what comes
- like St. Valentine
like St. Valentine's Day
- like St. Valentine
Like Saint Valentine's Day

- my heart is read, papered 'round in lace, it's an offering
to you
- I've never been such a tragic type,
until you pierced it right straight through
like St. Sebastian, yeah so can call out the guards and the firing squads,
and give me the chair.
'Cause if there's even a heaven I know that you'll have to be there -

like St. Valentine.

Friday, February 05, 2016

Here's Looking

As Royalties and Kings come
in slumming, in gangs

while the sages
and the doctors have concocted
surprise,

though I stand upon a gallows,
my head Will Not Hang.
Nor Will I

ever, willingly,
be the one

to break contract
that has long been read, said
and done, bled
'til it dries, and signed
in my contact

with you,

bright eyes.

innocence knows

Innocence
knows full well,
I suspect you
knew that, girl
boy! Or will,
shall you? I suspect!
as much as you did. Innocence
knows this: it is innocence
that's bliss. You can live,
of the mind, ignorant
and kiss, flirt
parley with death
'til you part.
Sad. Cruel,
cried
all the way home, boo hoo hoo
hoo hoo hoo, from the deep, dark
heart, of the stormy night
it was, and then
hark!
Be denied.
For in ignorance,
you lose.
Every chance at
bliss you might have had
by not seeing whose
was the benefit. Yours?
Oh no,

you know better. It's fine.
Ignorance has got about the spirit
of the letter, but has lost
(or never had) quite the presence
of mind.
Innocence knows better.
It's struck less than half-blind, and of more
than half a mind to know
best.

And you know,
I think you already knew.
For there isn't any test
to make sure what's true.
You've been innocent of all,
free at last! Yes, declared,
dropped, charges and all:
as you try to see past,
I can see right through,
I guess: you dare,
oh, your little act
of love, does it show?
do you care, that your little
who hoo cuckoo cheek-coup routine
of play, your white flag,
your white dove, oh
- so, innocence
is bliss? Did I hear you
say? Well,
Yes.
Yes, it is.

And you know what else?

Ignorance
isn't.

Not even close, you know. But when you're so
far off the mark, you don't even know
what you hit. Let alone what's
missing.

There isn't any shame, in it
though. Only prison

Innocence knows blest.
Knows best. Knows
bliss, and as to the rest, well
- it isn't what
it thinks
it is

Thursday, February 04, 2016

Roses Are

See, perfect example. The above has all the earmarks (or hallmarks?) of a "modern poem."

* mostly prose
* novelty line breaks
* subtle if any rhyme

This gives your verse
an incredible amount of loose,
groovy freedom - but

WARNING! It does NOT

make poetry writing EASIER! If anything,
the lack
of a safety net, the lack
of an even force of gravity to pull you down, keep you

able to tell up
versus down, even - the lack

of all that
restraint and equipment,
basically - frees you up to FAIL!

, if you're not careful

Most modern poetry is a perfect example.

Mine, just
right up above
us, there - ? Well,
admittedly, less so. Far
short of a perfect example of
that sort

of thing.

That's the risk you take. Free verse is for REALS, yo.

I just wanted to point that out, because

sometimes people

are like
"This museum piece looks like my special needs kindergartener's imaginary BLIND FRIND took a SHIT on a NAPKIN and slapped it up on the refridgerator like the proverbial asshole sittin' in Pie Corner with plumbs on his thumbs." That's pretty much a cliché,
in the red
-blooded just-us
-folks world

of art critique

, in these days, ever since
hey! they finally gave up
on the sort-of progress that had been
captivating snoots for a while, by then.

You

look at some free-form MASTERPIECE
, and go "SHIT!
I could do that without even WANTING to
."

But it's just as important to note
-
the same thing applies in poetry
! It's
just poetry

never had a chance
to get bastardized by the Modernist
Hijack so bad, because poetry

wasn't in competition with photography
in quite the same way.
(That painting was.) Fine

Arts Painting basically felt itself

threatened,
grew desperate,
freaked out like a SPAZZ
into a corner and
DIED there, trying
to find even one
decent
plump

remnant

wedged into a beveled aluminum crease of a by-then-
long-since way
-too-picked
-over PIE PLATE. And let me tell you!

There is nothing inspirational about the wafting aroma
of the curdles and scrapes and streaks of remains
of purple-pulped pie juice that looks and smells
like it has been sitting out

, in a room-temperature room
, since the beginnings of the ends of days. Bacteria,
mold - you name it.

And yeast
- trying trying to eat
what's left of the sugar, but
there's not even enough moisture for poor little mister
yeast to shit out a proper alcohol molecule
as a by-product! Art,

basically,

became spoiled

and so I just wanted to make sure you're aware of the pitfalls
- the same thing hasn't QUITE

happened to poetry yet, so!

be careful, but have fun.
Just
make
sure you're not the one,

to fuck up poetry for EVERY ONE TO
COME

GENERATIONS

AFTER

OKAY??

There's no

Nobel Prize

for that.

"pass a note"

I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, I'm
so

sick a me
hit in on
you
take the shot
Take! the Shot!!
no! you don't even seem to
move. You don't seem to feel no,
impact no pain no
gain
no distortion
catch spark - no flame,
I'm so sick of my poor battered
battering ram
of the skull
to the wall
papered all in vain, not - say,
what am I,
sane?

I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, and for you
- not a scratch, not a dent
not a crack! not
a vent, this volcano's blowing over
all the smoke's been spent, but yet

oh, here it goes again. No,

here it comes again. No,
here it comes again and will you even notice
when?

There appears to be some rule
of the universe, here. We are Force Equals
mass times whatever, it's clear
where the object irresistible
hits immovable force - "hey man, do you like,
like me?" Who me? Well,

Sure!

Of course.

What are you trying to SAY?

Speak more plain, please.

(drum solo)

I'm so sick of me hittin on you!
Like a fist
to the heart pound, thump
skip, beaten and through, I'm so sick of me
hitting on you, this is not, really my kinda style of
strict kung fu, and I'm sick of me
hitting on you.
Knock it off!
Cut it out,
man. Even Bruce Lee can't outbox
a rock statue of Muhammad Ali.

Two particularly quite sexy men, by the way, but don't kid
yourself Ali's statue
isn't even going to notice that dead Chinese guy
all...

flailin' at him.

He's just that stoic. Take
a lesson from a poet, or - if you must!
remain in school, and maybe pass a note! Man up,
Grow up, and
pass a fucking note up the row,
or something

Huh?

Cause man? That's childish man. Childish

Tuesday, February 02, 2016

"Cross your fingers"

If the refrigerator light
stays on in the dark, and if
just through the door,
there's a national park, and if
deep in the center, there's a sacred grove -

if a tree falls by chance on a crock of gold,

Will a rainbow break out, arc and hold in the sky
as a kind of alarm?
Will there be an outcry
to shock us from our beds?

So we rush to the door
- throw it open, grab hold
of the bottle we know
is the coldest and best
for emergencies, now
- and pour.

We have found

that in trouble and doubt,
we have had to learn how.
And at least, we have tried.
Who can sleep anymore?
Since the luck has run out.
Since we looked out, and saw
we've let every tree
fall.

Did the first make a sound?

But how could it? It had already died
after all, after all,
after all.

"It was not meant to be
after all,"

she lied;
closed the book

by its cover,
her eyes on the world,
her heart on the end of the story,

and sighed.