Under a steel sun,
We confessed
Antimatter poems.
If only to know
How the wind
Narrows in on
The plume of road
Irrevocably.
This currency is unable to attend a bank,
Though it stands by the river
And pays for everything.
Author: Bob
As Is So Often
Pinched
By an ecstatic height
Leaving legroom
For the sublimity
Of casting off
The Scribbled Myths
Lifted from the sun, the chariot,
As if drawn in pencil,
Revved up, but in the end
Misspelled like the rest of us,
Graffiti ribbons obliged
On the abandoned brick,
The spare parts of a spring rain,
Like the eyes of an android dove
Butterflied into the cosmos.
Never Sure
Patterns leak chaos
As they should.
A sweaty t-shirt is
More religious
Than a pew.
Haha!
A longing, distance-bit, piled
On the heart,
Disappearing
Between the fingertips of the moon,
Like the paint around the hand on a cave wall.
What feet, what stride
Will fit this excess of light?
Unequal Asides
The universe is a plane
Of four unequal asides
First Aside
The bedraggled charm of
Cut off shorts
And a lead pencil.
Second Aside
The shadows of poems
Are not the same as the shadows
Of poetry.
Say no to verse.
Third Aside
It will have to wait.
The waiting is the realism.
Fourth Aside
Very few clouds. Yet who can point at silence sufficiently,
Beautifully, like bells in the fifth dimension?
Outskirts of Poetry
Vandalism a priori.
Suddenly, beauty
Predicts the future.
It simply was true.
How random
Could dance.
Making it Up as We Go Along
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
Late Summer Sun
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.
Fragments
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.
Naive Journals
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.
naïve haircuts 