The late afternoon faints
With the metaphysical.
Reflections in puddles.
Even the universe is a hologram.
~
The wind
Has mass
Of dusk
On road,
Alive
Like a mountain,
A glacier
Pre-industrial.
The night is
The dusk
Out-pooled.
~
The self is a card trick
In the dark
Without hands,
Sweeping sidewalks for
Enlightenment.
Speaking drastically,
The oomph that is not the self.
I made a diorama
Of the Triple Lindy
And left it on a diving
Board.
It all boils down to how the universe stores information. For example: the surface area of a poem, like the chewing gum that comes with trading cards, it is a half-moon. The potholes meditate. Pink dusk.
The Earth is somewhat squished, pinched in orbit by our star. I walk to the window. Suddenly, rain. I read the letter. It said: The barometer of missing socks. Always where we haven’t been, and where we will never be again.
I walk to the door. It thunders. Just afterwards, listen closely. To the reverberations. The rain on the pane.
My reply.
The tattoo of the church bell and the passing train. I hear both, in the fields, just before the rain. The moon has polka dot breath, but I imagine the city lights under my fingernails.
There is a feather on the ground. A lampshade in the sky. I walk up to a lamppost, it is night. I write on the lamppost. In marker: Where are you?
The elopement of city features. The facades of houses, the stature of downtown buildings. The silence of fountains that don’t work. The few pennies for the graffiti flowers, and the inter-dimensional coordinates for solitary meandering.
Light steadies the ankles. Darkness readies the knees.
Darkness is a box of pins. Light the ghosts of future stars.
Light sounds out words, creates space. Darkness kneads.
Darkness is the immanence of distance and the ongoing retrieval of it.
Light stitches bones into the soul. Light is the darkness when you blink.
The wind is cheap poems through barbwire parasols.
But what are the footfalls of electromagnetic touchdowns?
Infinity
Walks on
Tip toes
Sometimes
For now.
~
If you have access to
Another universe
Collect mirrors.
Put each poem in your mouth.
But don’t be a liar.
~
The exact present
Is
Subatomic.
Probability before pattern.
And so,
In winter make ghosts,
In spring play in the mud.
I write poems like a disguise.
I bicycle and I am genius at washing
The dishes.
My favorite science fiction movie
The spider
Out grows the house,
You find out in middle age you have an imaginary friend,
The city
Birds are one big computer.
~
So much of writing
Is conjuring something to do.
Standing aside
Exhaling into a paper bag.
Till it grows like a startled child
In the wind like a crack in the sidewalk.
It’s springtime between the stars.
Into the calligraphy
Of anti-skyscrapers
Called verse.
~
In the city field, headlong on the rails, a few spray painted
Stars on the passing train.
Each finger of the moon rattles like a windy day.
~
Opaque like a
Snap of the fingers
Arranged for guitar
Duo
The ghosts in your hair
Have misplaced their x-rays
Branded by
A bicycle moon
That began as an apple blossom.
Cells divide, stars turn.
The imprint is
Cosmic.
We are as close to the infinitesimal as we are to the infinite,
Till we are cathedrals of memory, empty when empty, but never gone.
Walking home,
A celestial roughness around
The eyes.
~
If I have bothered to note a bird
Or two on a power line, some flowers
In a vacant lot for flowering, I have
Done so heedlessly and without regard
For the safety of those around me.
All fate is disorder.
This works in this way,
In the fourth dimension
A coin would only have one side.
Science fiction puddles
Whodunit tattoos
Old pants
Pathos
Coffee grinder
~
To sit quietly
And remember
The shadows of the heart.
A sea above the stars.
Till you are nothing more
Than a memory yourself.
You are at sea
And above
The stars.
naïve haircuts 