The shadow of the moon
Is an avalanche of fire
Like hands coming up from the sea.
I can talk to you of flying
Sidekicks in the summer trees, a head
Stand in the evening rain.
When sadness is neither frivolous
Nor misplaced, when it is palpable.
Can laughter make the trees
Turn white, said the moon.
It can, said the sea.
If it had no earlobes, I
Would still hang earrings
From this impossible
Plight, in blatant
Obvious ways resound
With duplicity, fulfill the
Bureaucratic wishes of
Stars.
I would pick up the footprints of
Square white daffodils,
Call out to ships in an upside down harbor
As the sun rises into the sea
The job of a fool
Is to ride the bus
Till the heart becomes a circumference
Suffices the world
The job of the poet
Is to put earnings
In burning buildings
Look look a macho moon in reverse
Parks in the eyes of city gulls
Go ahead and honk for doomsday
I’ve the summer grass
Tattooed on the shoe strings of my brain
Between the toes of my heart
The world is a shell. But now what?
The sun is a quintet. But the drummer was robbed.
You are invisible and move like the moon. On three legs of falling leaves.
.
This is the way to lose.
By the seams of our nativities.
I walked to the city limit
And played volleyball
With some seagulls.
It was a no nonsense game
With plenty of intermissions.
I headed west
Up to the river.
In my coat
I stood at the water.
The posture of dusk
Ransacked of belongings
Looking over its shoulder. What if it could
Be squared?
And though the stars
Come looking for alms I have only the cents
Of infinity.
If I knew how to spell lasso
Or pumpernickel. But I don’t.
It is a reluctant light
The hardware of the self.
As if I could write poems on and on of clouds stars the moon life, alone walking a collection of cells. Flabbergasted as silence: how I have over used you. I walk in each
The ghosts the angels the numerals the maps the unknowing the cheap poems of concrete blinds and windows.
My heart rattles like a few stone foxes in a giant’s purse.
Post-windows in the industrial blank.
And robot militias that percolate.
This is the future, on photograph wings.
Sunlight like a cheap poem through concrete blinds.
Every human will be known by their mask.
Except for a few.
The ghosts of numerals for pocket change
Rattle like a few stone foxes in a giant’s purse.
Except for a few.
