Hi
My name is pockets
and
I don't write poetry

I write soup kitchen fortune cookies
I write narcotic fueled nocturnes
I write speeches for the speechless
pornographic lamentations
questionable quotations
And a bunch of filthy words

But I don’t write poetry
Cause nothing I’ve ever said
has been that beautiful

there are so many
types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,”
that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a
“watch” pocket,
supposedly
a cowboy designation
for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.

who ya kidding?

anyway, a second naming
more to my liking:

seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.

so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to
carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of
every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.

I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain,
but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked
in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
Bo jingling jangling movement

Just don’t you dare ask me
what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men
in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried
for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men
are indeed as dumb
as women think they are...

show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all

I remember the taste of your lips.
I searched in panic
Trying to remember the last place
I put you.
Turning my pockets inside out
Conscious of the last time you were here
on my lips
Consciously knowing that I need you now.
It's been twenty-five minutes already
& I am craving the way you lick my lips.
I am in awe, your body pressed between my fingers.
My lips swallowed by your tongue.
I stand in silence.
Punished yet unpunished
The taste of your lips swirling against my lips
Patting my pockets then looking up
To see you've been in front of me the whole time.
Whether several seconds or several lifetimes
I am in constant protest.
If I were to lose you, consciously knowing that I need you now
Unconsciously knowing how much is left in you.
I stand in silence punished yet unpunished
Giving my lips to you
Until one of us parts

“Are you cold?”
“Yes”
“Put your hands in my pockets, it’s not weird.”

How is it that you can turn something so ordinary into something so intimate?

I may have put my hands in your pockets that night but you put your hands on my heart.

From that day on I gave you permission to put your hands in my pockets as well.  

It’s not weird.

“Come here”
“That’s my pocket”
“Yeah, we are kind of known for those aren’t we?”

Have you ever noticed how no matter where you go that you can always find a pocket?

You may think that pockets were special to us but let me tell you, everyone has them.

From that day on pockets became my new favorite thing, especially when they were yours.

It’s not weird.

“Is everything okay?”
“I think we need a break.”
“Stop playing with your pockets and talk to me!”

How come everything that’s good in the world always has to come to such a bitter end?

I may not have been as important to you, but you and your stupid pockets became everything to me!

From that day on I looked for you and your pockets everywhere.

It’s not weird.

“Do you always skate with your hands in your pockets?”
“Just when you’re around.”
“Of course you would say that.”

Have you ever even noticed that I don’t wear jeans anymore, or that my jacket pockets stay zipped?

You may have seen that if you weren’t so focused on entertaining other girls.

From that day on pockets and everything related became the bane of my existence.

It’ not weird.

“Are you cold?”
“Don’t you remember? I’m always cold.”
“Put your hands in your pockets, it won’t hurt.”

How come people always try to simplify and eliminate the pain they’ve never felt?

I may not be the only girl you will ever be with but I promise, nobody will ever appreciate something as little as your pockets like me.

From that day on I ignored you and your pockets to the best of my broken ability.

“You didn’t come to my game.”
“Just put your hands in your pockets and go.”
“I’m sorry.”

Have you ever noticed how you only feel bad about the way you make others feel after you experience the hurt as well?

You may not think you did anything to hurt me but my heart breaks every time I look from your blue eyes to your blue jeans and their stupid pockets.  

From this day on I refuse to let you and your pockets cloud up my mind and life.

It was always weird.

I put my hands in my pockets,
                                   protecting
Whatever can be found inside

I found it!
It was a child in a small red house,  and then an apartment, and then in a lamp...

3, 2, 1,
I Am the Genie.
You wished for my health,
You wished for me to stay,
And the last wish
             You gave it to me!
But I am not your genie...
I belong to the child,
To the past, to the future... But most importantly,
To the wonderland.

Take your hands out of your pockets!