A green moon, said the June bees. And August
For a soul, agreed September. The obituary read,
It rained all day the first day of summer.
A moth is a solitary word and of the stars. Said July,
This ditty of a cosmos. The obituary read,
On the longest day of the year we say goodbye.
Under the long blue sky, we read out loud
Our futures. And though I have already
Forgotten what was said, October remembers.
And we hope for those who are gone this is true too.
Niagara Falls Bike Ride
Woke up early today and decided to ride by bike over to Canada and up to Niagara Falls. Took some photos when I was up there. And a video. It’s a 2hr ride along the Niagara River to the Falls and mostly bike path…which is nice.
The above photo is on the Peace Bridge, the bridge connecting US and Canada. It’s only about a 10 minute bike ride from my house. This is the boundary line between the US and Canada at the top of the Bridge. Below is me standing in two countries at once.
I thought I’d throw a poem in for those who made it to the bottom of this post. Not sure what to name it yet. Maybe something like: Your bedtime it 9pm, what are you still doing out of bed! Or, It’s almost summer vacation and I get to stay up till 11pm and run out to the ice cream truck at 9:30pm and get a cone at night! Even, I bought a fixer upper in a neighborhood that has ice cream trucks come round till about 10pm. Anyway, here’s the poem:
It’s 9:30 at night and I can hear the ice-cream truck,
Said my 11-year-old. Standing with a glass of water
In hand, just before bed, around the corner he appeared
From the kitchen. Yea, I said, it’s late. You could see it
In his face before he asked, does it always come this
Late? I didn’t answer. In this neighborhood, I thought,
Why not? Because he darted back into the kitchen
With the now empty glass. You could feel the excitement
In his feet as he rain upstairs to bed.
School was almost over for the summer.
Imaginary Tourists
The poet draws maps for imaginary tourists.
With these words
Underlines the galaxy.
The cosmos
Is the footing
We stand on.
The leg-work of the eons.
The universe
Is a wave.
The wind measures the shore.
Unknowing for a mustache. The universe strolls.
Checkout Line
My feet
Are pirates.
My arms
Are pilots.
My head
Is a checkout line
For daffodils.
My lungs
Are fine pastries
Of blue sky.
Me walking
Like a song
Along the railroad
Lines.
My hands
Are roller rinks
Of sunsets.
How can what’s finite
Fill the infinite?
What’s infinite fit
Inside the finite?
Birds Make Up My Hands
Birds make up my hands
My hands are invisible
But not the birds
They have kept their feathers
They have kept their language
But stopped using words
Words are all I have
Now that the birds are gone
Visible only as the outlines of wings
The air-thin bones of sky
And Throw in some Grammar
The sea-soaked philosophers know that logic is a wave function.
And that function, whether a wave or a dream, is as outrageously
Real as the rest of us.
The desert-dry stars are aluminum fairy tales in pop-can verse.
The happenings of what happened are now charged with memories.
And both memories and gravity pull you in.
What can be can only be what we are willing to guess
And what we have become to mean. Handwritten somewhere between
The calligraphy of philosophy
And the probability of a poem.
A Short Spring Poem
Poems are immaterial music.
If laid on the floor become trapdoors.
Each dream is specifically unreal
And every unreal is true too.
The spring sun is a spelling error,
A pantheist without a paycheck.
And it’s pancakes and karate chops
That resurrect the day.
Time Matters
The moon is envelope white
And flat like a pressed flower. Some gas giants are blue against the backdrop
Of eons. Dandelions are the universe too.
Daisies are hydrogen and carbon.
A point has no circumference. Meanderers love the horizon.
Brontosauruses are the universe too.
The wind buoys the lungs.
Time’s whereabouts is the end game of metaphysics. How time arrives
And from where is the universe too.
Poems
Poems are pillows for the unsaid.
The emblems of aught.
The surgery
Separating winter and spring.
Poems are handlebars for the abstract.
The tassels windy of hunches.
The wild arteries of life.
This is a Mess
Time is a messy theology
Ontology is marginalia
All the failed zoning of dreams
The horizon buries treasure
The best grammar drinks hose water
Gravity marks the spot
Chance is the logic of logic
Determinism is a just-so story
Chaos is the directory for the future
Footsteps carry a curt philosophy
The April moon is sparse of ideology
The moments that harbor infinity
Never last and never leave us
The stars are as mortal
As the peacock
naïve haircuts 