Author: Bob

The Digital Pollen of an Abstract Afternoon

Bob, 5 Comments

The way here is through particles of self and to the dust and the sea and that breath.

Distance and the sandwiches.

I forget all my head and I don’t like it where is the weather of himself to wear through the streets and along the train rails.

The broken brick lay in a pile a few yards from what’s left of the industrial structure: the flowers and the plants interceding.

On the rubble mound shoes probably me with them finding the space listening to the nearby fields no sound but in vibrations my self is the song space.

Getting Out of the Fish Bowl

Bob, 6 Comments

Sidewalk puddles

Of the city, the rumor of birds

On the ears of steel rails.

In spring, the robins are first,

In the yards, in the lots,

Even before the worms.

I write

Little poems

Open to interpretation.

Taxi cabs are wisdom.

So are basketball hoops

Screwed to the garage.

And in our glass lives

The outlines

Of light and the sea.

Post-Work

Bob, 5 Comments

Foraging for paperclips
On the moon

The clerk alphabetizes
Piano concertos

By tone.

Enumerates the asteroids, some standing like an upright bass.

Makes a note: a foolish nostalgia for the 1980’s is the hobgoblin for neoliberalism.

All the while on stilts with a telescope, the clerk bird watches.

Clouds in the distance like the blushing of elbow smashes.

And so foolish are these ledgers
Chances are

They’re true.

Emily

Bob, 4 Comments

I’m thinking of a hoax
The size of the sun,
But like the size of the wind.
I’m thinking of tenderness
Soaked in starry I-don’t-knows, how
Pretty Emily Dickinson must have been
Staring out her window at
Tarantula stars

Beauty is Jest

Bob, 2 Comments

Beauty is jest
Is simply gross

Beauty is the long legs of evening
But for an overcoat of dreams

Joy begins to fill in
Where there are no lines

We are left naked
Except for the sea

I carry the clouds and sky
In my beard beneath my
Fingernails

Dynamic Simplicity

Bob, , 11 Comments

I carry a paper bag of flowers, the petals are blue, yellow, and orange,

Early flowers, the bag is a sandwich bag, it’s dawn,

I put the flowers in a basket and bike home, the sky is blue, orange, and yellow,

My wild face, in momentum, how is the dawn somehow starry after all the stars are put away?

How is it, just for a second, this wild face among the stars, on a bike, with flowers

For the dining room table, to be with books, and pencils, and to have breakfast with,

Encourage me to open the windows, they are the better part of me, for a few days,

In which time, I’ll write what seems to be stream of consciousness poems, better yet,

I’ll put on my canvas shoes and walk till my stomach growls

For the fire and fever of tasteless stars. 

The City Limits, by A. R. Ammons

Bob, 2 Comments

The City Limits
A. R. Ammons – 1926-2001

When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider

that birds’ bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue

bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of shit and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider

that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the

leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.

 

You Will Know

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There is a shape
When nothing’s there.

Open it
Or close it.

It’s just as round.

Leave it
Or carry it with you.

You cannot spend
What it does not lack.

There is a shape
When everything is done.

And you will know that.

You will know.

What the wind uses for thread
And needle.