Intoxicating
The wind
Fills the room with
The smell of rain.
The taxi cabs are now fairytales,
Washed ashore by UFOs.
The Music Hall
Everything is as it seems.
Flat tires, balloons, fireflies, gambling,
Fallen leaves. The horn section on LSD.
Philosophy
Every object is as unreal
As it is real.
Bon Voyage
Over large stretches my luggage
Is a sky-grin ascending.
Impounded is improbable.
Shadow Work
Your shadow has no interest in being your mirror.
Your shadow has poems to write
And tall afternoons to stand by.
Pages and pages of poems about afternoons.
Meandering all of them.
Railroad lines for shoelaces.
Author: Bob
Song
Dithering moon
Chasing
Stones
Downhill
Along the road.
Such lonely
Hard to reach
Places, such
Rickety old poems
For
To get us home.
Short Poems #5
Drummed Up Noisy Wellbeing The circling stars. The deserted railroad yards. The pleading distance. Consciousness humming. Hold onto the sky, the dusk, The flowers in the field. I walk and I walk, like a cast stone, Behind the old factory, Above me the blue sky. Post-Work The clerk alphabetizes Piano concertos by tone. All the while on stilts, With a spyglass. Clouds in the distance Head the ledgers. Field Guide A star Depending on mass May end up a hole In the ground of the universe. The Autumn Rain The autumn rain Is drastically the Idea of a sandwich. We agree. A straight line On a plane Can’t Touch its toes. But A berry From this world Can. The Philosophy of Horizons Specifically, the chapters on distance, Is the zoology of time. You can accompany All the volume of space and time, Always, wherever you go, Because it has stripes Like a tiger.
Okay
Okay lost.
Okay peanut butter and dusk sandwiches.
Okay the faults.
Okay abstract.
The walks I take.
I pitch ideas to the graffiti beneath a viaduct, a stroke of streetlight
In the rain.
I make up books I will read, The Philosophy of Meteorites, by E M Comet.
Okay the sun will one day bloom into a red giant.
Okay the moon grows antlers and stops wearing clothes.
The heart leaps grave canyons neighing stars.
Only the ridiculous will survive.
Okay the universe is homespun, like plaster walls or quantum mechanics.
Okay a wobble must the poet know. Late of home, a globe at the feet.
Agnostic Evenings
Unlearned clouds
For a bible
Untethered lines
For verse
A travail song
For the coarse lune
The blue-black
Stocked sky
Several birds in a yellow
Tree intent as the first stars
Just a Minute
The pursuit
Of siren-red
Stars
Blue radios
Nowhere
Stationed
A heap of autumn
Comets
Over an orange
Reservoir
A superb distance
To lean into
A superposition
Of poetries
Short Poems #4 (Pictures and a Video of Low Quality)
Curvature Butterfly wings And gravity wells. Symbolism Before there were stars, before luggage, Before there were poems. Poetry whistles π. Lunch The same bread and poem sandwich. Wager On chance and beauty, rooftop alliterations, naïve symphonies, The words that thread the here and there, To gambol, dangling like a comet over a telekinetic city, On what the poem is to wear and how to seed its fusion, its gravity, To travail profound enthusiasm over the city fields in moon-red footsteps. Up To My Neck in Stars It's wonderful How it fidgets An anticipation especially in the feet That the heart can't fail An anticipation especially in the feet That the heart is full And ready for more
Old grain mills, now abandoned. It’s an interesting place to wander around.
You can walk around inside, though are are not supposed to.
This is the bottom of a storage silo. The grain would pour out of here.
You can climb in from bottom. This is a view from the inside where the grain was stored. It makes for a remarkable echo chamber.
This is a poor quality video. And it sounds so much better in person.
It’s takes a few hours, but it’s a nice bike ride to Niagara Falls from where I live.
Me and my youngest, looking for driftwood along the Niagara River. Across the river is Canada.
Short Poems #3
Autumn Sublime Apples Are nutritious and Deciduous. Today I walk all day along the railroad lines. Occasionally I stop to throw rocks at utility poles. Mostly I miss. I will do this again tomorrow. Notes #4 In this ninja sky An insomnia of love Is absolutely possible. The Whirlwind in Your Heart Make use of what you peruse. Aim was made to be wrestled. If not For the whirlwind in your heart The sky would not be round. The Poem A single note And prose-proof. Serious and Not Serious Blockheads of poetry, Concrete hearts Enamored of Birdbaths and barbwire. Look! An oboe jumping from a plane Imitating an asteroid. Unzip Space Darkness doesn’t come from anywhere. It never did and it never will.
The Asphalt Skies and Bright Blue Streets
To scribble out this uncanny dictation, Of futuristic leanings while footing graffiti high-wires, A steady diet of clouds and dusk ribbons, The poesy of winged chance presses for uncertainty, Late summer asters for a steering wheel, While standing on the handlebars of rocket ships, Err on the side of poetry, Like a full-grown beard on a butterfly, A pittance of infinity to push off from, Into the rummage of beauty and farewells, Swung into a metaphysical orbit Of awe inducing perspective, The weight of everything coexists With everything.
Is Cosmic
The self is cosmically real, And certainly, more fictitious than thunder disappearing Between the fingertips of the moon, A grave and magnificent contest drawn in the dust of stars.
naïve haircuts 