Abstract scarf
Spooling the neck
Like the void
Curfewed by a nightingale
A dark peppermint splash
Beauty, eyes, glance, thought
Pummeled by a straight edge
Refusing to be intelligent
A non-negotiable beauty
Somethings are meant to be said
In such a way
~
Like the light,
The last of it, in a room otherwise
Devoid of light
And darkness,
Cheery like a young cheek, yearned
for the door to be closed
I couldn’t say whether the anonymous
Kite, loose in the storm, had a name.
And is deserving of one now.
And so, like a child
I turned out the light
With a wish.
~
The field, the wildflowers,
Sniffed out the alone of late summer sun
With a solemn oath.
~
The world is disappearing. Accordingly, the shadows pay less to get into the fair. I have seen the sidewalk cracks, the cracks in the wind, the wind in the void, the cracks in the cracks.
And the ghosts, they too had names, and this would be our poetry.
Will this life be too smooth
Or the rough of happiness
Caught in the throat
Till we too are on our feet
Whispering to stars
~
A few lines
Enjambed on a railroad trestle,
Idle words, spray-painted, like falling leaves
Forgotten by guitar.
~
Dusk hinged to departure.
Everything ducks for cover, including the moon.
Please consult the paperwork, I have been busy
Doodling stanzas, and chasing verses.
A cluster of brain cells like analog stars.
Poetically unstable, but what can you do?
POETRY
Language formally
Known as language.
STOP HERE
The apple blossoms.
Just spelling it is pleasurable.
Clouds are dust and hydrogen and oxygen.
Where poems hang their garments and solemn as frogs
Reckon the ripples between the stars.
ALL DAY POETRY BLOW OUT SALE!!!
As a child, I sometimes burned vision-like.
Airplanes are mundane.
MOTION
In the passing trees the bicycle hesitates.
LOGIC
I can remember the look of the river with my shoes in it.
A little of this poem
Reminds me of a Tuesday
Afternoon.
What’s the time signature of the universe…cursive or print?
If I may, this banter is never at a loss to sense.
The lingo between two slices of bread, slapstick for a toothpick.
From kindling to fire, the moon paddles. One immense sea.
As if insignificant is any woe. Let’s be fair, June opens the envelope. Infinity too in how you sit, including gravitational waves.
And to be breathing is enough, as is lunch, dust, twig, and space…according to the topography of poetry.
How the dusk fidgets, if you close your eyes,
How the eons tingle in your synapses, for strings.
a robot of wings, a skateboard ramp of dusk, somehow dirt in eye, a blister ephemeral, a doorway that lacks a sense of direction,
a robot of twigs, a drinking fountain that somewhere in the chapters on sleepless nights, are the outlines of poems, bankrupt in paradise,
robot of final stanza, cordless, lopsided of dreams, in the shoes of long summer walks, a lost summery/summary by the author, a vision of information and how it travels,
a simple word, and a second simple word, and so on, till it is finally simple enough,
according to legend, all such declarations, on the surface of rain puddles, the dandelion grows on an allowance of curb, in the rain…with a brick in one hand
In the uneven margins
And over the scribbled lines
Sometimes the sad gallons in the moon
A tattoo of a trash heap
The sleeve of poesy rolled up like a cup
The sky
Was never where it was
The stillness you feel
Is the universe expanding
The measure needed
For new windows
Sooner and later is a just so story
The mystery keeps its gambols
Just as
Meaning
Really is less
Meaning,
The self
Is idea
As real
As self.
*Older poem
How often you say, we just met.
Or how you pass the salt, because
The cosmos is everything other
Than what isn’t there.
If not that as well.
Your voice, the tone is bare,
Unbuttoned.
If you include
The dusk at the end of the road.
We eventually
Become as tiny as galaxies.
How the broken plates resembled
The moon. This was no accident.
June asked, may I march
In April puddles before
I am August? If this banter
Is likeable, neither are you.
The sky clear of its misgivings.
The heart shirtless of its understandings.
A vibe of sunshine
Goes without shear.
Who will collect the saw
Dust from the changing gods
When we are gone?
(Another old poem)
naïve haircuts 