My socks
Are damaged
Clouds,

Especially
The more
Ruined end
Of the couch.

~

I spent all morning
With
A trilogy of daises,

The
Galaxy
In my ears.

~

Dusk is a thing
Like a fiction,
More reel than painted lines.

~

The cat sleeps
Like ordered food,

The prettiest
Vandalism,

Unexplained
Quotation marks.

~

Final Will and Testament

A backflip, a bowl of apples, a solar flare,
A cape, a rectangle, a box
Of matches enjambed, a traditional dance,
The microns of data of a butterfly,
The moon over the garage.

The void
Zeroes in

Like footwork
In the rain.

~

The moon
Stirs

My arms
To applause

Though I don’t
Know where
I’m going.

~

You ask of me the words
Which you demand be left unsaid.

~

Fair enough.

A trampoline being trampled.
A yawning angel.

A carpool of nudists
In a traffic jam.

The plans
For an imaginary
Tiger.

Ghosts are ambidextrous.
How absence
Leans
But who can tell.

Childhood, for instance.
It’s ramshackle centeredness,
And hostility to interpretation.

The wind eases out of its typeface.
Henceforward, imaginary birds
Branch on solitary meanderings.

Somehow it matters
The picturesque.

Dandelions are real estate geniuses

The quick hands of the moon
Are five-dimensional flowers
Contractually asymmetrical

Yet poem next door cute

The rain sounds out the road, into the windy streets,
The cosmos of walking.

That’s why there are stars,
Over and over, love is something else.

The last we will hear of each other are the decibels
Of the sun.

Till then,
Life is the square of moon over tree,

A squint, a DIY cassette,

A messy aim, a stupefied grin, and perfection.

 

 

*An older poem I felt needed some tweaking and another look.

The First Two Couplets of the Year-

Gather blankets and circuity
There is no way home.

A well shod vagabondism
Is unable to take your call.

~

Wardrobe-

Chaos socks.
Indefinite buttons.

Like some underlying
Notion of transcendence.

~

Always with Me-

A slight solitude.
An ephemeral knock knock joke.

Distance is simple.
It smells feral and wears the sky on its head.

The moon is a subsidiary
Of poetic cant.

Blank
Rounds out the void.

Radiation alibis
All margin and crater.

The sunlight baffles
In throwaway yellows.

Adding infinities and
Vanishing returns.

Spurious like symmetry
Under a full moon.

In a new light
Loitering in June.

Music box eyeliner
An old garage door for a tee shirt.

It is like the cosmos
At the end of a violin.

~

It’s funny this way, the allotted time
Surfaces, like a movie ticket, years later,
In someone else’s coat.

The moon grows antlers and stops wearing clothes.

All gives way to the vast x of space and time.

The cost, a penniless bird invisible in the veins,

Nudges for wingspan, like standing close to a passing train.

The cities of the Midwest are wild with the loneliness of the cosmos.

A penciled in whereabouts for a heart.

Synapses like the appetite of electric shoelaces…dizzy and untied.

The heart leaps grave canyons neighing stars. Only the ridiculous will survive.

Okay lost. Okay peanut butter and dusk sandwiches. Okay angels stole my socks.