Beauty stuck in the throat, like a throttled moon
Vanguarding over the cut-out cityscape.
Summed in vastness, put to the feet, over and over
On pavement, down alleys, along railroad tracks,
Passing through railway yards, soliciting abandoned fields.
Ringing along the barbwire fences, and seeing graffiti hold its
Breath as the city curls up into dusk, into dark, blinks
Over the edge of stars.
A timelessness between time, a door where there is no proof.
Such beauty could pinch together an event horizon.
These solitary meanderings of star-stuffed pockets.
A lawn chair
On the forearm.
On the shoulder, the
Melody for a toy piano
On the dorsal of the hands.
But the idea of shoes.
A table crowded with empty bowls.
The cosmos on the lips,
I breath it in through nostrils,
Pull its lint out of my belly button.
These poems that are intolerable
Improbable poems in yellow pants
At dusk in a ruined shirt staring at the future.
The rain. The dusk. The lone bassoonist. Sacked by a summer wind.
Brought home a sandwich of lost sidewalks. Out of a job, yet bookishly good looking.
If I was ever to the point, it was not in this poem.
If ever there was a point, it was not me that made it.
All that is left
And love is
Your underwear on backwards. When it’s on at all.
Of the couch.
I spent all morning
A trilogy of daises,
In my ears.
Dusk is a thing
Like a fiction,
More reel than painted lines.
The cat sleeps
Like ordered food,
Final Will and Testament
A backflip, a bowl of apples, a solar flare,
A cape, a rectangle, a box
Of matches enjambed, a traditional dance,
The microns of data of a butterfly,
The moon over the garage.
The rattled poets swing
From jumbled words coarse with uneasy beauty.
Scanning vast unleashed dogged utterances.
Breathe is huge. Everything is true.
A strange exclamation. A brief current of eternity.
That is somehow forever
Like a soul.
That there is no soul
But there is forever.
That is enough of that. And poems for lunch.
This should be absurd and it’s not.
Calamity is a simple game. Mastered
By no one.
And if this ditty sings, biographies of musical chairs.
In the rain.
Though I don’t
You ask of me the words
Which you demand be left unsaid.
A trampoline being trampled.
A yawning angel.
A carpool of nudists
In a traffic jam.
For an imaginary
Ghosts are ambidextrous.
But who can tell.
Childhood, for instance.
It’s ramshackle centeredness,
And hostility to interpretation.
The wind eases out of its typeface.
Henceforward, imaginary birds
Branch on solitary meanderings.
Somehow it matters
Dandelions are real estate geniuses
The quick hands of the moon
Are five-dimensional flowers
Yet poem next door cute
The rain sounds out the road, into the windy streets,
The cosmos of walking.
That’s why there are stars,
Over and over, love is something else.
The last we will hear of each other are the decibels
Of the sun.
Life is the square of moon over tree,
A squint, a DIY cassette,
A messy aim, a stupefied grin, and perfection.
*An older poem I felt needed some tweaking and another look.
The First Two Couplets of the Year-
Gather blankets and circuity
There is no way home.
A well shod vagabondism
Is unable to take your call.
Like some underlying
Notion of transcendence.
Always with Me-
A slight solitude.
An ephemeral knock knock joke.
Distance is simple.
It smells feral and wears the sky on its head.