Listening to an old Walkman
At the bus stop.
The darling splendid ruffling up of
Routine. I took the day off
Of work.
A sidewalk dream meandered
All day.
Who knew the stars in our dreams
Are the same stars when we are awake.
Do paradoxes dream?
Author: Bob
Poem
If you find me flattering. Take that!
If you find the universe boundless. Take me with you!
If you find me kind. Study disheveledness.
If you find me asleep. Wake me up. What’s the difference?
If the cause is plain. And the outcome complex. Can I ride shotgun?
An almost neurotic need to start over and walk
Away from all these muddled manifestations
So I may join other muddled manifestations
In my washing machine washed socks
Bright as fiction and sturdy as butterflies
At a construction site.
Once ever one billion years the moon
Blows its spout and takes in new air.
Poem
Every satellite is a spy.
Every missing sock is an orchestra.
A bend in the road
For a bank account.
What was left I lost
In the evening rain.
Yet on
We drove
In open
Rebellion
With designs
On sublimity.
Like a treetop in a dream,
The sea washing away
Its own footprints.
Flying Saucers Only Land in the Summer
Summertime flying saucers
And melancholy postcards.
Ice cream cones and
Rain puddles.
However briefly
And in this passing,
I pass too,
Is how I’d like to stay.
One’s stake in the world
Like fire dancing over ice.
Our first love poems
Bulit on breaths of sweet air.
Always and always
The roam of brain,
The investigating moon,
Notes in the seawater.
Exercise
The heart
As flower
Lifting weights.
As moonlight
The heart
Running miles.
Out of breadth
The heart remembering
The years of all the galaxies.
The heart
As sentiment jogging
If the universe is in a major
Or minor key.
Hello Again
Hello again.
The light from the lamppost reflecting off the rims
Of your glasses.
As deep as a well in a fairy tale
The stars burn.
What have you been up to?
I spent the afternoon playing
Mini golf alone.
Sitting quietly listening to the sound of rain on the pavement
Play out its equivalence.
Airing out a bed sheet after calling off work
Turns devotional.
And the waltzes before 6am.
A cloudy cut of afternoon
Along the railroad tracks
And a little rain just started.
If it gets worse, I’ll stand under
The viaduct for a while.
And the lack of meaning or too much meaning in the red leaves
Astonishes even into the cells and nerves
When autumn fetches the hills.
Like a ship
Parting with the night
Of a prowl
Hardly stepping
Of the sea
Till cloud-decked
With purpose.
Primitive loops of wind
And rain and streetlight.
Over the railroad trestles
I walked since a kid
I’ve done this and picked field
For its lonesome.
Heading home at dusk across a parking lot overrun
And left for potholes.
Potholes are nature’s ingrown toenails.
Unless filled with rainwater.
What could a gymnast do on the even bars?
Let’s begin with a mess, shall we?
New Year Poem
Ghosts come in from the sea
Leaving footprints just above the ground
That only the wind remembers.
Frantic the city poet
An orange traffic cone for a wand
Leaps like a librarian through the dewy grass.
The moon an avid documentarian
As solemn as a whimsy spring afternoon
In a landscape of green ideas.
And if I may
Also add
How often
Rivers are
Dreams are
Each other.
Get It Together
With these words
Loose of meaning,
Charmed incoherence
Fast to the rising moon,
Ensconced with the grainy
Intelligence of shells,
The nitty gritty of being and
Believing.
Surreal Summertime Remembering
A summer wind
Short-cuts
Through the rip
In the screen door
Has eyebrows
Like sacred groves.
*
A chance of rain puddle
For dinner.
Our guests are nonlinear
Outcomes.
Moustache handlebars
Of cumulus nativity.
*
A sense of collaborating
With the sea spray
Parries everything but
The rocks below.
*
In the midst of a field
A meandering salute.
All alone yet guided
By an inward proclivity.
A Signature is Required
I will need to see identification.
What could
I say?
A turning aside
Of convenience for an untenable reaching out
Into strange terrain, poetically without a parachute.
naïve haircuts 