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.

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Last in Heaven?

"Last on earth, first in heaven." Hold on, for me
that doesn't work. I am first:

a servant. Seems to me the venue shouldn't make
such a difference. Can't I wear the same
or equivalent livery up there, assuming
I secure the situation, that is? I mean,

There's no guarantee. But I'd rather be last
in both places. I'd feel
kind of awkward, pomping around cloudtown
in shining raiment and a halo of laurels,
talking about some
"How ya like me now?" No.

I want to serve, first last and
always. Assuming there is
such a thing as always.
Can't I just wear my sackcloth
to the afterparty and see
what needs touching up?
Probably very little! But then,
that's what we lastcomers like
to see. We're just there in case,
in the event
of eventuality. Because we love,
first: to serve. Last, too. Why not?
Wherever we are,
we like to be.

Hair shirts, okay -
those don't suit me, but
you should see me rock a sackcloth.
I want to be last in, last out

- my usual mode. Show up on time,
not fashionably but 'umbly attired -
spiritually natty, okay perhaps. But
nothing ostentatious. Stay late
to clean up - thankless, but
task me with whatever's thankless
and guess what? You will see who
is really welcome. You are!

If someone's really welcome,
do they have to thank you? They can,
and welcome to it, but they needn't
thank me. Who needs all these
preliminaries? You can thank me

by taking advantage of the service.

If it's any advantage to you,
to do so, I mean.
So be it.
So let it be.

This is why the meek, I guess
get stuck with the earth.

Don't want to be first up there.
Awkward. Plus,

they've tasted last of every cup,
and found it sweet enough already

So last here, and wishing to be last
there, they get stuck here. In theory,
at least.

They are blessed with it, in theory
for their meekness. It is called
an inheritance. And perhaps it is true
that meekness is
genetic.

I subscribe to the nurture vs. nature
theory, on that issue. Reportedly,
according to God's Will
as reported and recorded
in the most recent edition
of the Testament thereof, I get:

The earth.

Sweet!

But the inheritance tax on that
is assessed perpetually.
On a quarterly basis.
Payable in pennies, so

You know.

I plan to keep busy.

come lie with me down

Come lie with me down
a road we can't tell
anyone else about.

It will end just as well
as deserts should expect,
after so rich a fare.

We have paid dear for this
and we don't even care
for the change that will
come,
We do not even check
any impulse at all.

Still at least 'til we've done
what we needs must do -

or we once must have

- if we didn't, we're
through. We could
not be so bad But once,

we could.

In the sun, come lie
with me down.
We would not be so good. Would
you lie?

Or have I? Come,
down. And the grass
won't complain.

We were made,
here to lie
in the course of each way
we have lain,
until now.

Showboat

I love beating people
at my Own Damn Game.
And they can't even tell! Well,
hey, what's its name? I can't say,
but there are a few rules
you shouldn't know.
It would ruin your enjoyment
how you win so slow.

Originality what a concept

If you can't find a new way to Hell, sometimes
the old ways are best, my friend.
Forget about what you didn't expect.
Expect what you wouldn't intend.

And then on the day,
they will stretch back amazed
on a way none of them thought to use.
And you'll open the tolls,
and surpass all known goals.
They will name that road after you

Retiring, yawning, eyes all aglow,
laurels ablaze on an untroubled brow -
At last you're a trailblazer now, good sir.
For once, you're original now.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

There's a lot you can do to convince me.

There's a lot you could do to convince me.

First of all, try to stop.
Convincing me's easier done
than said. If you care to drop
a hint or two, a word to the wise
means less than the hand to the ass
you'll get instead. I mean, if you say
that again, what you've said three times?
I heard it the first time, pet.

And I'll tell you just where you can put it:

To bed.

Confessionally, an apology to Ms. Sexton

Dear, Anne, you know,
ever since I read that whole, it

was more than a book, compendium
of yours,

I have been lost
in such a rut

of confessional poem. Mine,
of course,
alas don't confess

anywhere near as many things done.
But in religion at least, at least
in mine, what you haven't done, you can burn
just as much over. So I feel
pretty well safe there.

What's missing? In mine,
I mean. Yours

are great.

But of course, unlike you
I cannot write a poem
while I menstruate.

It's not clear whether this

should be considered
privileged.

I can't very well tell,
can I?

Letters to Exes, Part Nuevo

Dear, do
you remember the time you dragged my ass
half-asleep at the wheel
across the continent to, ostensibly,
home? It sure looked nice from here,
back then, and now I've got a sense
it either never fit, or
has since been outgrown. But
it's no fault of yours. We
know. I have you to thank
for that. Dear, do
you know how much it hurt

my tailbone, falling seated vertically
drunk down half your whole staircase,
not spilling a drop (as mentioned
in my previous letter) of the martini
you made me shake? I've gone stir
crazy since you kicked me out of
that cozy-little prison of a house
of yours, and I like 'em dirty,
too. Grey goose, for you
as I recall. But I've gone to gin.
Never
have two such mutually-incipient
alcoholics ever been so well-
fit as friends, so damn raring
to begin, so well done by the end,
burnt through, to a finely-turned
crisp, and so ill-suited all the way
through and not known it, yet never
once, have two such people us that
sobered up so fast.
As a matter of fact,
I believe I'll have another but,
that belief can't last. Dear, you

the only one I ever cheated,

well that sucks. I'm going to start
another one to you and shuffle it
up. It may already be up there, written
out of order. You'll never be any wiser,
anyhow. The worst part is
to feel so violated! Dear, you

, despite the actress that you
so are, were probably the pick
of the bunch. Let's do lunch
again, like we mean it this time.
Scene. Curtain. Call me. Ah,
I'm just kidding. You would
anyhow. You're always there,
on the phone telling me some
new drama unfolding. And I
am always hanging on, you know.
Rapt. So be it. Let it be, so Dear,

anyway, I

knew you
best of all.
You know who I mean.
I mean, you know who

you are. Need I say
more? Thanks

for everything, dear.
You,
I must have left you out
of the last letter. You didn't
count. Still don't.

Ow, that's cold. Dear,
did you know when you left me
so cold? It's okay,
my jacket always looked so much warmer
on you. Keep it. It's

dirty.

Dear, you
must forgive me for all that crap
about the jewelry that time. It was just,
you know. A ring. Dear,

we must go now.
You, go on. Away
from me. I will keep
the ghost of who you never
were anyway

company.

Catharsis!

I have a theory in fact
that a feeling kept in
must explode into act,
but that there is more than one
way to skin, or better yet pet
that cat. Because the kitten's
back, notoriously pissed
at the wrong way you run
your hot hands upon it, is up.
Under better management,
you might have done something else. No,
don't interrupt, let me suggest.
Example: write a letter
to a woman's magazine, and
never send it. See? As long
as you put that feeling into act
somehow, it

has come to be! Intact,
if a bit tawdry.

Pretty easy, right?
Write a song! Learn
to paint still lives.
Life will go on, as
you depict it. Or
better yet, as you wished
you could. You start to realize
things. Next thing you know,
all those feelings have someplace
to go. Isn't that better?

No?

Well, it's fucking practice then innit?

You know what to do. You
don't need me,

or need me to tell you.

Ah. That's,
well. That's just
fine. And never
choose the lesser-meant word,
just to make a rhyme.

Take my advice, I know
what I've done and to whom.
And if you do as
well,

then you wouldn't be the only one, alone
in your room.

Locked up safe

You get me all
out of sorts, though. Fresh
out, of sorts. It's this
embarrassment of truth
that you put me, or push, or
every time, come to think of it - shove
me, into the way of seeing. Not
deliberately of course. Naturally, so
necessarily many things pile up, said
but not out. Not out, not loud, not even
whispered, so much - but proud,
though! I mean, why wouldn't
you be? If you mean it,
why blush?

And why not?
You are just
too much. I can't tell you
enough, but

I've found I ought to try
to let on a little less.

It feels a little too revealing,
I guess, or confess. Perhaps best
to just say: what you've heard
is but a pinch of what I've left
in my heart, all composed and
calm and blest, and ready to serve,
but. Well, that would be
absurd.

You can't let it out,
waggle wiggle around, and
expect to keep up dignity
in that kind of clown outfit.
Whose birthday is it? Surprise!
I guess it's mine, but
, again, that would be too much
to further define or divine
or delve into. It would look
ridiculous.

And I'd prefer not
to be so bold, but I am
and so I guess we have left
to hold: this enormous, bagless
cat. Who let this thing in?
It's been sitting in the room
the whole time! Just in case
of mice. We wouldn't want
to scare the elephant away.
That's why I keep mum,
like Oedipus. Another classic
allusion, from a guy
who has lived some myth.

Oh, when you have in you
one million lives
you have never taken one breath
inside, you have to let it out,
get it out, somehow. Some
sing a cheating song, some
break some vow. I,
would love to flatter myself,
could not care less. How
you look in that dress, but
you do. I am not impressed
by your style but my sense
of it is sharp. I must admit
you've taken quite quiet hold
of my heart, in some fantastic
way, in some imaginary
place, where imaginary time
ticks away,
on my watch
you have broken all clocks.
You have caged all song,
And it has to stop.
It has to break something.

But whose?

I have to let it out,
get it out, some how. Since
you won't sing along - so
it's only a song. So
we've seen, and for now,
it is harmless enough. If you've ever
lived one, you would know:

just a song
can't lay anyone low,
until it's sung.

So, yeah, most
of what's in me will
never get out. Please,
you have no idea, as
I'm sure you can imagine, so
forgive what you've seen,
if you would. For my sake,
and to benefit
a doubt.
I know,

It's a risk to take.

skip it!

She gives me such high tea,
he tee he'd, skipping
half
of the rest of unnecessary steps,
for a lark, for a laugh,
we can skip
so much quicker than
a marathon gets. By the time
you hit the wall, you're already
to rest.

When you find a wall between, well
you push til you or it

either give,
or give in, or
give in to it,
or fit,
and with soft slip-snick, as it
- clicks into place,
we shall see
how much was worth, or is left.
The self-image that she'd praise - well,
she's sure seen worse.

And she has seen
the best. So
Let's skip!
For to skip's so much quicker
than to hike. And her skirts
aren't really cut for it, so
let's steal a bike! Or,

contrariwise,
let us whistle in the light,
all the way through the dark
where the fall in your eyes
has found me out.

It's a lovely day for skipping,
Shall we? Oh, don't let's
doubt. So let's don't
start now, shall we?
We know how. As we know

What will come of it. So yes,
let us now. Let us skip along, now. Well,
we know what's come, and
how badly we will slip,
and how badly we will want,
and how badly we will part. So,
let's skip that one
part, by skipping. Let us skip
to that part.

Monday, August 29, 2016

Nostalgia Stories

Remember when we were young? And
you told me I Saw Your Girlfriend's Cunt
was a good band name? What kind of a fool
were we thinking of making,
with that kind of thinking. Now,
yons and yons on
it seems, we have between us
distance and perspective all out of
proportion, and you've grown so cold
where we used to be cool.

I don't mind that now. I mind way
back then a bit,
because it was a little deceptive, but
the truth is better
to learn, whether it proves beautiful or not.

When will we learn?

We still grow up.
When I grow up, the whole world
will know it from down.
And will you be down? I will kick it
with you, anyway or how, if so or if
God so wills, or anyhow: as long as you
do. Don't ask me why, but I never minded
a bit

what happened to us,

or what's happened to us since, or what
happens to be the case - it's what's in it
that counts, and we still have time
and you take up space.

What is the worst
that we could do,
to make you see
what a fool out of me you have made
A clown suit. Sharp
like a lawyer and carrying
a polka dot brief case, walking in
all grin with a grim face
despite certain knowledge
about the judge's taste
that leads one to belief:
the whole thing's dismissed
with prejudice, as a frivolity.
A conclusion we've all gone through,
that in this case, might as well
be foregone. Well, what
are you going to do?

It's his job, as he sees it.
Give a man a gavel and he
just has to bang something. You and me
didn't need to bring this case forward
- we're wasting the court's time
and the public's resources, did you expect
the justice up in this piece to find humor
in that?

It was deliberate, the way we all sat
down to figure all that out. And how
we were sent in as a jury, and we came out
hung. The gallows by the bailiff should have tipped
us off, luckily, it was con job.

For there was always a guy on the wall
with a gun, just itching to shoot us down.
Anyway. Now that that's all done, would it be
insulting? At this point? if I ask you out?

It's a lovely day for that sort of thing! Don't
let's be all boring and stuffy
about the house. We can shake
the leg out, do turns around the block
like a couple of fool kids, telling everyone
about the band they're about to get into next.
With hindsight and wisdom maybe, you could say
we've always been about the wrong business, but
at least only one of us ever minds. Never mind

The End.

gone green

Once the lawn's
mown, you can moan and piss
over what's past
til the cows come home,
smoking grass
to explain your cried
-out
eyes, and lie about what
you can laugh about now, but
if anything, it isn't funny what
happened, but how
you can go about
wearing out rounds
you've long since gone
'round, because of her friends -
always showing up at random,
as if in accusation
like a sudden detective: what
have you done with her?

Search me.

Do you have a warrant?

You will find she's all over me
: hints, suggestions,
fingerprints that don't come off,
scraping to get in. I know

she's all over me.
I couldn't get her off if I tried.
She told me, confided
that she did, and oh! how
she lied. And I,
keeping my endless trust
inside,
am all over her
dust, by now. As the grass,
hemmed in and fenced by stained,
bleached limits of once
-implied trust,
exhales the air and grows
and grows
so green and greener
you could get sick in it.

And so you do.

There isn't any sense putting off
what isn't, any more. Nothing
that hasn't been, and gone, and done,

all over

before.

love to be

I'd love to be an empiricist. But I feel like I'd need
a dagger between clenched teeth, and smiling wide
naturally, (necessarily) like a tiger with a bouquet
of roses in each fist, whopping people
left and right, leaping and laying about me
grinning with precision, glittering
at them with my eyes pivoting - can you imagine
the buffed skin, thorn scratches, shouts,
blushes
of shy panic and indecision? Let alone the petals
strewn everywhere! and dangling in air, downward
pirouettes of a process of being strewn.
To be an empiricist, you must be a bit
of an imperialist, an ambassador from the age
of pirates, which was the age of Reason. You must
be of age, and you must consent
to skepticism, risen
to the level
of positive belief. Or anyway at least

I do!

Friday, August 26, 2016

stray home

What if I die like this?
In cowardice, not reaching for
the bliss I have not so richly
earned? Burned
by the worst case of
the one that got away
that anyone's fairy-tale talking fish
could unfairly twist into a wish. Spurned.
Turned, by your eyes,
to go home
owned.

It's you who knows
where that home is now.
It travels around on your
back, like an uncounted bird,
like a pathless track, through
the unconsidered lilies
of my dream's widest fields, and wildest.
Fact. is what you console yourself with
When God isn't calling you back,
and the devil just crosses the
street, chicken that he is,
so as not to meet the fate
in your eyes so deep.
I looked too soon,
too far to be wise,
as I learned too late.
Could I ask you out for drinks
at this late date? Just give me

the time of day,

and I will have and keep
faith. In something great, which
I can't understand, that you taught me
once. Damn.

I'm so ready again. I am! I swear. And,
this time it won't be you
who is left in the air.

certainly worth

You're as amazing as you deserve to be.
It was good that you tried.
Every time
It's always so good to see you try
If you can have hope, hell
Why couldn't I?
Don't answer that.
It's rhetorical, or
it's futile at least. The point is,
it's moot. You don't have to try
to play clever, now
girl. You don't have to try
to be cute.

familiar ring

The attention I pay
to the absence of you
must have worn the earth down,
by now. Just thinking, and
walking around
on how you or it must finally have felt,
found out.
The act wears thin,
after all.
After all you put,
no matter how much, no matter
how good, into it
or all you take out. Do we have
lessons learned?
of faith,
or love,
on trust,
- unearned? or just
frittered away? the attention
I pay

to the absence of you
doesn't have much to say.
that old familiar ring, just
a call away.

showoff

You are gifted
by Nature with artifice,
on a level where workmanlike
craftstmanship couldn't even begin
to tempt mastery into masterpiece.
For the life of me, I have never
been into perfectionists.
But I must say that you
make it work for you, miss.

sarcastic at all

Please don't be so sarcastic
I'm being sarcastic
No really, I'm being
sincere, so please
Don't be so sarcastic,
You don't have to ask it
You know what I think of
you, dear,

so,

please. Stop being sarcastic
about all the acid
you claim tastes so bright on one's
tongue, but

that's
just
being

sarcastic.
You know what? I'm past it.
And I'm not

the only one.

the inquest

false cry
for help arrived
a crocodile suicide
with tears baked in
on salt-streaked cheeks
by deft applique
of autopsy

Quarterly Adultery Industry Accountancy

The price of admission is everyone knows.
The price of kept secrets is not to be tried.
The price of forgiveness is risking your neck -
We both hung our heads rakishly to one side
since we risked broken hearts to possess broken
vows. And which of us promised the world, anyhow?
To have, and to hold up to scrutiny too. Well you can't
eat your heart out and have your cake, boo.

"straight flush bluff"

Oh, lord she was
the jack of one's heart,
the queen in cups, with
a six sense in spades and
I threw my hand up. Her face
showed it all: I had busted her
flush straight with chaser in tow,
all the way to the bluffs, and
fell over laughing. It was
time to show, so we both
said 'I win.'
And we both said:
'I know.'

creation of ours

Nudity is
a human invention. Recipe
apple juice,
enlightenment,
wardrobe oops,
fig leaf and repeat.

Serves two, or one, or
more or less, with the best
of intention, and be
discreet.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

feel free


feel free to feel
feel free to feel
feel free to feel that way,
that way

feel free to feel that way,

That way, you'll be able to shift the blame
like a mountain's worth, right over the edge
- the abyss looks up and sees oncrushing death
and you're left, hands clean,
with the freshest breath, or
so you'd expect, and deserve
I guess, so

feel free to feel
feel free to feel
feel free to feel that way,
that way

feel free to feel that way,

That way, you will eat from the cat-bird seat
knowing only the finest seed will be strewn
through the gold-bar cage of your gilden age
which you wouldn't divulge, but I've always known -
clearly too young to grow so wise
so soon, or so you let on
with downswept eyes,
oh,
feel free to feel
feel free to feel
feel free to feel that way,
that way

That way, with a thimble, drinking blue tears
and eating your pie of pine-smoked moon
spiced with woe so sweet, which experience taught
you how to bake, from a recipe
written down by mistake by a friend of mine,
oh you,
feel free
you have all the time
to savor that thought. That certainty,

feel free
feel free
feel free,

truly really,

from me.

That way, we can both be right.
And the grass on each side
will glow in the dark
by comparison, it's invidious,
to get into the dirt that we've had
to dig in. Feel free,

to go,
to know,
to sway, to waver,
come back or around,
to stay, or to watch
and wait, until it occurs
we don't have to have words,
- when we don't have the words,
- and sometimes it hurts,
but feel free,

if you do. I don't, somehow
But by all means, you -

You have earned it now.
Feel free.

ease

My words
are only a temporary surcease
of these:
comprehension,
intention,
plausibility;
a reprieve
from that dreadful sense you get
from those things
that make it.
A stay
of

elocution,
a finding of uncertainty
beyond unreasonable doubt, and

that certain feeling
of having been all too easy
to please,

thank,

and welcome.

stand on ceremony

It would be incredibly
suspicious if we had something
to hide - no more. It is agreed: you
with me, to stand on ceremony. In your
ever-so-slightly off-white dress, soon
-to-be ever-so entirely off
(white dress) before God and everyone
beats me to it I will seize
the whole damn stretch of days
we have left

right away,
straightaway, making
joy and pain and love
of them

just as if it were written,
destined and blest. And
the greatest piece of fortune
I have ever lucked into - you
will smile and sit upon it,
off your aching feet at last,
in lasting peace and certainty; you
with me, and I
with
and in
and all through you,
ceaselessly,
endlessly,
recklessly,
restlessly,
all the way to the end
and begin again, til
we come to rest.

Direct evidence

Direct evidence does weigh heavily with me.
I've never seen a chance
never had luck on my side
if I had, if I'd noticed
I would probably have tried
to rub or buff it out.
What is this shmutz?
What did I brush up against?
Will it come off? I never even
doubled down in Blackjack. Although,
if I ever got a seven and a ten,
I would split.

Blackjack's not my game.

One time, me
and the girl I was with, had to up
and switch seats in disgust (hers,
primarily)
so that I wouldn't keep up my streak
fucking with her draws by means
of my non-conventional
system. Was it wisdom?
Or experience, that made her do that?
Very little of either
went into the decision, I assure you, I suspect
the evidence

was not direct.

Just a guess, but
ever since that day
I'm a skeptic
like you wouldn't believe. I am not one
to settle for less
than a test, lest the proof
come in and pull some bull-shit
move, that
you could not reasonably be
or have expected
to expect. Suspect everything,

trust the impossible
once it has been
compellingly
proved.

That's my sweet move

Number one with a bullet

Number one with a bullet
doesn't mean you're the best,
only that you had a hit.
Killed it.

Next?

Your gun holds six, so
you've got five left.
So ask yourself this: do you feel

lucky, punk?

Oh, yes. Definitely
yes,
drunk

on the basis of a shot.
So take another one,
or reload,

or not.

so, sew, sow

commas, a one
here, and a one
there, and a one
not there, and going
and ongoing, also
going on through sowing
and pruning 'em back,
and putting them back,
and between and in,
is the gardening trick
that can never be done.
that can never be quite
where you're finished with
it. surrender all ye,
the commas have won

the delegates

But yeah. Outside
of stories noir - some of which
were true, of course - none of us has
to dig our own grave.
We put it off.
We delegate.

In case of yours,
I will be first
to line up solemnly
in black. A shovel
laid across my back,
and I will dig six deep
so fast, and just at the tipping point
of things, as the timing hits right,
I'll be ninja slick so nobody sees
where I disappear to, as I've slipped
in right under

it.

A sort of horizontal bearer
of pall. I'm prone
to nontraditional steps,
I know. But when you gone,
you gone. You got to go
how you got to go. No right,
no wrong, no chance, no use, just

somebody had to take this on.

For you, I hereby nominate me.
For me? You can name

whoever you choose

you rank arrant unmitigated TWIT

yeah I'm talking to you
you, the one writing this
what do you mean, could you
possibly be more explanatory
of things less in need
of clarity? Such as
every other train of thought through
the prairie desert wasteland
your rusted rails rattle and hem
and haw over, as cars like carts
before the horse drag the engine roaring
backwards screeching in, only slightly on-course
to arrive, on time, nowhere.
Nowhere near. Nowhere
near the station,
at least There's a switch
that could have been pulled
some ways back, that could
have changed all that. But

seems like a dirty trick
to pull a switch.

Somehow, when you've always been running it
the same way. honestly - cracked,
vibrating rails, nails (spikes,
really shimmying towards loose, and ties
- not required, apparently,
for grand and expansive stretches of track.
You rank, arrant
unmitigated twit
Might you please,
once, just
take a look!
at your self, for example.

Fix that shit.

isn't a thing

isn't a thing we
isn't a place for
how do you get
that feeling you want? More
than anything else,
you don't get it
At all, at last
and at least: it
is coming to fall.
it is coming to dawn.
it is coming to earth.
to visit, to stay, and
to leave
in the lurch. And
to live
in the first
place, to better
or worst ourselves
in our lives. For real
and for true, and
it isn't a lie. it isn't
a thing
we can do.
we can try

but it isn't a thing we
can do.
we could die

of a piece

Now why are her buttcheeks so
eloquent? How
is an ass such perfect advertisement
of all that's up and under, and
slightly before? Can you compare
that to anything in love or war? All I know
is her ass
is documentary
Of all of how human history came
to want
to be. And the ongoing story
of why we want more.
Is it fair? Mirror,
mirror, oui. You,
je t'adore

decided to be cool

you saw them all together, and
the way they turned from you
doing things you wouldn't want to think that
you could ever do
you tried so hard to fly
beneath their notice all the time
that you fell

see no it isn't really bad as all of that
look at it this way until you don't know what
you're looking at
every time they turn their bright attention
on your life, to make it
hell

til finally you
decided to be cool
yeah, finally you
decided to be cool

maybe there's a reason for how everything turns out
hard to see what's wrong with it,
now looking at you shining, now
isn't it what everybody wants
to see the best one
win out?

when finally you
decided to be cool
yeah finally, you
decided to be cool
finally you
decided to be cool. you're
finally you

you hated all these people.
now they're your friends.
they tried so hard to crush you out, and
now they
respect you
one day down the road,
you'll share a laugh about it all.
with your friends.

'cause finally you
decided to be cool
yeah finally, you
decided to be cool
finally you
decided to be cool. you're
finally you

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

akimbo

The game is afoot. The glance
is askance. The limbs
are akimbo as we do the limbo
the bar is athwart, so we knock it
askew. Our chance is at hand.
It's tickling you!

Friday, August 19, 2016

curiosities

Idle hands and idle dreams and curiosities have shown
our idols up for what they are: a centerpiece
of bones and tar and bits of hair preserved
in lights, tacked up for all to own and see.
And we without dreams shall cast first stones
And they without souls shall flee

way to die

There are many ways to die.
You could die a different way each day,
if you were a cat, and the accountants
were not paying attention - but you're not,
and they are.
You could die three hundred sixty-five ways
this year, a different one each day, I assure you.
Death is unique as life is commonplace. Now wait,
you say - it's more than three six five. In one day
you might have a chance to die three times.
But you won't, though. You'll only die once: the rules.
Only once: today, stepping off the curb the wrong way,
your ankle twisted, your head way smack out in the road.
You won't even need a passing car. Swung by your body and neck:
crack! The back of your head,
and from out of the theatre
in stately, bored procession,
on a red carpet life
is leaving the building
while you lie there,
painfully mourning:
my ankle!
My poor ankle