Because eternity has paws
And a wishing well for a creed
The shark cedes to the tulip
All of its armor.
Author: Bob
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?
4 Short Poems
Authentic:
A twangy guitar like volcano
Flowers.
A sparse harmonica
Like a ghost in the afternoon curtains.
Walking:
How a star
Invented a pulley system
In the arches between
Dreams
In addition to paradoxes
And doorknobs
The Moon:
Slapstick plate
Over the shed roof
And the reason your bicycle
Has a flat tire
Your Shoes:
UFOs in yachts
Even the sidewalks
Curve with spacetime
In Marker
I was buying three paintings a day
I was sponsoring chalk drawings
Anything with scribbles on it
I’d pick up off the street
Walking alongside junkyard walls I
Wrote on the corrugated steel “Do you know
The album, Zen Arcade, by Husker Du?
Out of Step, by Minor
Threat?"
I went to thrift stores, to city fields, church sales
Just to find the pictorial of light of deity of logic of everything that is endless
And terminal of dark of sun and the more popular binary stars
Be certain
To appertain
The havoc and the intention
The intervention of fiction
As Steve Zissou said,
"Nobody knows what's going to happen. And then we film it. That's the whole concept."
Michael (over at https://ravensweald.com/) and I were talking of old bands we listened to. And Hüsker Dü came up. I mentioned, not only did I like their music, but the title of the album, Zen Arcade and the cover art itself, has been influential to me. I brought up I had a poem were I mention the album title, but had taken it down. Deciding I didn’t like the poem. But I’ve given it another shot at editing. Still not sure it’s finished. But I thought I’d give it another try. I hope you enjoy. Thanks.
Poem
I plan on purchasing a crater from the moon when it becomes
Available for sale. I am a motivated buyer.
And I am as broke as an open field on the eve of
Dusk. My socks are garnishes from a leftover dream.
And I know the sea only by its many names.
I court a hectic thing I don’t have the words for.
A simple pretense as it always has been
Defying sameness and concord, edifying
Zigzag and along the lines of a hunch, this forest
In a dream is your soul’s cathedral,
The banister from heart to head.
Poem
Cosmic nose hair
And baffled tattoos
A tee shirt showing
Its afternoons
Loose of collar
But fixed of spirit
In this you take
Heed regardless
Of the gray hair.
Pothole Fishing
After the rain, I took my fishing pole over to the large pothole around the corner and stood in the street and sank my line. Someone yelled, they biting? The next person honked. It’s a sport of the mind, puddle fishing, somehow lends one to think cosmically. The puddle as space and the pole as time. Or maybe entropy, which could be time? The uneven sidewalk between my house and my neighbor’s, because of a large tree, pools rainwater, especially in spring. The birds, mostly robins, drop down to drink of it and the kids like to jump in it and dog walkers get annoyed with it, but it’s a token of wild. I plan on purchasing a quality umbrella. I’d like to get rid of my refrigerator too and do without one. I bought a notebook and pen, but I’m refusing to start a journal. What could I say about my days? They rattle, they think like dropped plates? Actually my days are all right, I read a lot, go on long walks on the weekends. And I should probably start a journal. And begin with an entry like: If the laws of physics are the same going in reverse in time as going forward in time, as the physicists say, and if there is a loving god, would god love us both going forward and backward in time? And would the leaves, tiring of green, after the yellow autumnal search, turn astronaut and climb up the cosmic tree?
naïve haircuts 