Pocket
--Matthew Zapruder

I like the word pocket. It sounds a little safely
dangerous. Like knowing you once
bought a headlamp in case the lights go out
in a catastrophe. You will put it on your head
and your hands will still be free. Or
standing in a forest and staring at a picture
in a plant book while eating scary looking wild flowers.
Saying pocket makes me feel potentially
but not yet busy. I am getting ready to have
important thoughts. I am thinking about my pocket.
Which has its own particular geology.
Maybe you know what I mean. I mean
I basically know what's in there and can even
list the items but also there are other bits
and pieces made of stuff that might not
even have a name. Only a scientist could figure
it out. And why would a scientist do that?
He or she should be curing brain diseases
or making sure that asteroid doesn't hit us.
Look out scientists! Today the unemployment rate
is 9.4%. I have no idea what that means. I tried
to think about it harder for a while. Then
tried standing in an actual stance of mystery
and not knowing towards the world.
Which is my job. As is staring at the back yard
and for one second believing I am actually
rising away from myself. Which is maybe
what I have in common right now with you.
And now I am placing my hand on this
very dusty table. And brushing away
the dust. And now I am looking away
and thinking for the last time about my pocket.
But this time I am thinking about its darkness.
Like the bottom of the sea. But without
the blind florescent creatures floating
in a circle around the black box which along
with tremendous thunder and huge shards
of metal from the airplane sank down and settled
here where it rests, cheerfully beeping.

Q: All the lonely people, where do they all come from?

A: The fear that they are not enough.

And the people who aren't lonely, even in their solitude? Well, they feel that they are more than enough and that they have so much that they are willing to give.

So they share their lives with other people.

I looked into the mirror and I saw a glimmer breaking through. Now, I'm no shining soul, but give me time to pick the rust off and I'll feel brand new.

I shake the dust from tired limbs. I pull me from my shelf. I'm filled with love, I'm flowing over, and I won't keep this to myself.

Inside a bar inside a place with a language I don't speak, I ask for a light from the man on my right who says that I've taken his seat.

He came for the music, he loves the Doors, he's waiting to light my fire.

He's the perfect vessel to pour out my temper, this love that's too hot to hold.

Now some may call me bold but the best way to change your soul is to throw it the fire and shape yourself to another mold.

This started as a blog post but it turned into a poem. Some things shape themselves; all you need to do is watch them grow.

Most times I'm uncertain, but I'm learning to be less sure. I'm trying, motherfucker. That's all you need to know.