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
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
Really is less
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,
If you include
The dusk at the end of the road.
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)
The green stalks, the tails of comets,
This is what grows.
The banter of universes, the eons in the spring flowers,
This is what fails.
Something gathers up the guesses,
Stalks the wild throes and strange fits,
Arrives at probability
We pass as answers.
There is the bumble
In the be all of our lives,
The sorrow and the silence of our
Hearts when they are lightest,
And worst and nothing more,
The crumpled sunlight
Passing for debris,
The rubble of stars,
My bare feet.
A button-colored shirt.
Attics for Brains-
The ghost stirs
Like cold soup
On an abandoned stair.
I just heard it. The train whistle.
Coming in from Canada
Like space invader calligraphy.
But I cannot say it. The new birds in the air.
And suffers from equations.
Concerning the axis of time.
Or how much coffee to have this morning.
There it is again. This time further away.
The old house.
The screen door on its hinges
In the wind.
In the wind
The inflatable stars.
In the plastic sky.
A rebellion of
To the cardboard
I think the dandelions were in on it.
Said the moon.
Tingling with space,
Everywhere this is the cosmos,
Reckless frames and still art.
A rhombus of laundromat poems
In the help wanted section.
Like a scarf around a lamppost.
The stones near the sea are still.
But I imagine the birds on the moon
Are a ruckus.