Free Spirit:
Inwardness has distance, too.
And where the spirit turns outward
There is a rolling stone to mark
Its place.
This Can Be Confirmed:
Last night’s dream coughed up
Cliffs and reaffirmed the existence
Of bottomless pits, yet
You become a bird in the air,
The jumping and dancing
Inherent in the stars.
Variables:
It is those who gather lots of room
For lots of meanings
Reeling with all kinds of realities
And who make the most of it
Silhouettes are jigsaw pieces
To one big, puzzling dream
Author: Bob
Youth
A bend in the road
For a bank account
And late with my rent
Because of a bird chirping
I lost what was left
Of the little I had
In the evening rain
Yet on
We drove
In open
Rebellion
With designs
On sublimity
*I released a version of this in February. I trimmed it a little. Gave it some direction. And a better title (hopefully).
The Lot
The uncombed grass and feral
Hatchery of hoodlum plants
Like the crooked chicory
And the golden Solidago
I love a messy lot, a stray pumpernickel-colored cat
Without solution, cricket perfection
Little Heart / Big Heart
A whisper depends upon molecules.
Atoms in search of each other.
What would love be without spiral
Galaxies?
The Whatnot
The irony of turtles
Is jellyfish prose
Like a filibustering moon
Roundabouting a dream
In the driveway the cat
Asleep next to the oil splotch
An alliteration of reptiles
Sings Rocketman
Poetry toasts
The aria of balloons
In the hourglass
Too is infinity
Poem
Because eternity has paws
And a wishing well for a creed
The shark cedes to the tulip
All of its armor.
In the Month of May
In the month of May, I stood in the yard, the dark roofs and power lines and one of my cats looking over at me and the gray clouds illuminated by the moon. Maybe I’ll study the numerology of paradoxes. The slanted roofs of this enchanted city. My own heartbeat. In the month of May, because it is a warm night, the universe grows horns like a ballad. A bouquet of fairy tales procured by the wind.
Walk On
A stutter a gambol enough
Hinge and pry and unease and
In a flutter a fancy a dark brow
Of a March tree promising spring: Oatmeal in a bowl
Flaxseed blueberries almond
Milk that’s my breakfast:
Zero assumptions are like zero gravity
You need a few to walk but if you have too many
You need to put your foot down
No!
Lines Written in Spring
I prefer the scriptures of the dandelion.
The weight of happenstance.
Imaginary bouquets and
The fatigued folding chairs
At Prometheus’s funerals.
A solemn oath whispered into the large
Hole made by a construction crew.
There is a wild in the unbathed moon.
Said the universe, said the rain.
A light drizzle in a dream.
The streetlights hover without their stems.
The names of each thing have vanished.
Leaving a newfound hunger for stars.
The Sky, Almost Dusk, After Rain
The puddled sidewalks and streets are expert ocularists. And the roofs are ruddy and formal.
What to do with an abandoned car in an overgrown lot. We could toss coins at it to make our wishes?
We have a kind of photosynthesis in our souls, pending celestials at the doorway. The darkness threaded by a spool of angels. The property value of a gust of wind and of the dusk already into the hills.
The mass of the planets helped shape the solar system. And how much of that affects who I am?
naïve haircuts 