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.
Author: Bob
A Certain Affair
All fate is disorder.
This works in this way,
In the fourth dimension
A coin would only have one side.
These Afternoons
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.
And Still You Listen
The mountain is bigger than you
You are the mountain
The blue sky
And the moon
Are trees with roots
The mountain is
More than you can count
And yet as it rains
The rubbish of sunset
Is meet with the banter of stars
And still you listen
To the difference
Of who you are
And who you are not
Wish Me Luck
To perturb the air The moon In gallant horseplay Seems to be as still as a chimney. Though it has no use for ladders. The kites on Mars Are as blue as the sea. But don’t let depression garble you yet. There is the melancholy of the heart To broach this night of shoulders And elbows. The poem can be Black as a match head, Vigilante as applesauce, A wink in the thunder, A thud on the daisies, An illumination Flipped On its side Kicking at balloons, Like an aria Penniless in the cinema, Feral in the garage chewing on the rake. Wish me luck.
*This is an older poem, I changed some of the lines and a new title.
Less Than Masterful
Late summer, Soon the sun turns Pensive like an elbow, As faraway As a Diplodocus. And yet, What persistence Walks as open As perchance? I sweep for miles These unlikely roads.
August by the Window
Of August By the window, The wind Fills the room with The smell of rain. And the clever words of the poets Throw knives at the wall. And the taxi cabs are now fairy tales Washed ashore by UFOs. Frivolous fails when It is nothing at all, So, give us something, If only a broken August, when it Speaks at all. Darkness up On its hind legs welcomes you home. Of uncertain hands That hold the earth, Fold dreams into space. In the end, The poet works in lines, Not in what they mean.
So it Seams
The tightrope artist is string theory. It could go either way, That’s what makes it a fact. ~ Even metaphysics gets shin splints. But infinity can never touch its toes. ~ In bed, I move the Curtain with my foot. The cat is on the porch roof, through A tear in the screen. Suddenly reality Surpasses my sense Of being. Blood samples were taken. The sun drank something of the moon. ~ And though it seams, It blisters with gold.
Walking: Industrial Malaise: Yet the Cosmos is Everywhere
In the ankles Of lonely walks, in the upward held collar of coat, In the unpressed trousers Of earth and wind, in the vacuum of chance, in the Defeated, the weary, the plagiarized origami of angels, ~ It started small: The hallucination of gas giants, The dexterous poetry of the late twenty-fourth century, The refusal to retreat into the priority of self. Tangled up with time, void ready, Alive to the heather of electromagnetic fuzz. ~ The city curls in on itself And you with it. Going forward, There will be lines and metaphors, But no words. ~ Like a stack of bricks A few years into Laying on the ground, Like the waffle maker You hate to clean, Speech is playing the odds.
Distraction is the Quickest Way Home
And this philosophy, A slang Of light through the pane, A metaphysical slip Of the noon. The Void Approximately where, Is a belly flop Holding a broken guitar. It won’t stay long. It did not evolve to stay long.
naïve haircuts 