Remembering a Childhood Drawing

The sun
In crayon
In the sky 
Like a flat tire
Of dragonflies.

Nowhere left to stand on the moon,
Shout all the stick figures
Stationed there. 

Its proposed

Like thunder in the nose,

Or a turn of the corner
That gets caught in the throat
And never goes away.
The hallucinated apples 
Fall back into the trees

To be planted by pirates.

The house sits
Croaked of window,
Horizons for a mouth,

Science fiction doves atop robot chimneys
With eyes like praying monks. 

The pollen of geometry everywhere.

And there is nothing else to
Eat, only the flowers born from volcanoes.

Wish Me Luck

To perturb the air
The moon
In gallant horseplay
Seems to be as still as a chimney.
Though it has no use for ladders.

The kites on Mars
Are as blue as the sea.

But don’t let depression garble you yet.
There is the melancholy of the heart
To broach this night of shoulders 
And elbows.

The poem can be
Black as a match head,
Vigilante as applesauce,

A wink in the thunder,
A thud on the daisies,

An illumination
On its side
Kicking at balloons,

Like an aria
Penniless in the cinema, 

Feral in the garage chewing on the rake. 

Wish me luck.

*This is an older poem, I changed some of the lines and a new title.

Not Exactly Science Fiction

On such a shore, under a steel sun,

We confessed 

Antimatter poems.

If only to know, 
What number is in last place?

There is a visage 

And there are antimatter poems.

Raised in nests,

On the green wings of a fervent dusk,

Raised on how the wind
Narrows in on   
The plume of road

This currency is unable to attend a bank, though it stands by the river, and pays for everything.

August by the Window

Of August 
By the window,
The wind
Fills the room with
The smell of rain.

And the clever words of the poets
Throw knives at the wall.

And the taxi cabs are now fairy tales
Washed ashore by UFOs. 

Frivolous fails when 
It is nothing at all,

So, give us something, 
If only a broken August, when it
Speaks at all. Darkness up 

On its hind legs welcomes you home.

Of uncertain hands
That hold the earth,
Fold dreams into space.

In the end, 
The poet works in lines,
Not in what they mean. 

So it Seams

The tightrope artist is string theory.

It could go either way, 

That’s what makes it a fact.


Even metaphysics gets shin splints. 

But infinity can never touch its toes.


In bed, I move the 
Curtain with my foot.

The cat is on the porch roof, through
A tear in the screen. 

Suddenly reality 
Surpasses my sense
Of being.

Blood samples were taken.
The sun drank something of the moon. 


And though it seams, 

It blisters with gold.

Walking: Industrial Malaise: Yet the Cosmos is Everywhere

In the ankles 
Of lonely walks, in the upward held collar of coat,
In the unpressed trousers
Of earth and wind, in the vacuum of chance, in the
Defeated, the weary, the plagiarized origami of angels,


It started small:
The hallucination of gas giants,
The dexterous poetry of the late twenty-fourth century,
The refusal to retreat into the priority of self. 

Tangled up with time, void ready,
Alive to the heather of electromagnetic fuzz.


The city curls in on itself
And you with it.

Going forward, 
There will be lines and metaphors,

But no words.


Like a stack of bricks
A few years into
Laying on the ground,

Like the waffle maker
You hate to clean,

Speech is playing the odds.

Pursued by a Phony Deity

What is 
The policy concerning time travel in this poem?

Who knows? 

Sneezing is no easy matter,

Neither are the stars. 

The wrest is summer rain
From summer rain.  


All this 

Yet it was
At first 

No hands
On the wheel,



Sometimes the ephemeral 
Almost poses,

The dream rattles its antlers,

At the curb
A puzzled moon
In the rainwater.