A walk is a glad
Unfencing of the
Present. The body
Finds it meditative.
Eventually, though, I stop for lunch.
A peanut butter and jelly
Sandwich and an apple.
I sit on some neglected ledge
Not far from the railroad tracks.
The posture of electric towers
Is impressive as I straighten
By back.
In the fields that run along the
Railroad tracks, that’s where
I often walk, I like the belated
Graffiti and all kinds of flowers
And insects, the corrugated metal
Fencing of the junkyard,
On which is spray painted:
"A spaceship
Like a hiccup
Lost of home"
&
"A passing moment
Not intended as far as I know of anything
At all. The rest I leave to the weather"
At the end of the path I am walking on is a
Clearing, where last year someone burned a car,
Leaving its charred remains.
From here I turn back and head home.
Author: Bob
Anywhere
In a dream you are mumbled by a group of incongruous words. You find you have the silhouette of a jet pack for a tattoo. Between your shoulder blades. No memory of how it came about. The only way around this city is by bus. And this bus is possibly only a rumor, a wisp of shadow. The last few piano keys of a beautiful melody is the only currency for fare. You ride the bus for hours. You take it anywhere. Sometimes you close your eyes till you hear the last stop announcement. From there you try to find your way home. The only way home is by hunch. All in a hunch of wind and silence and by the look of deserted shoes dangling on power lines or following footsteps in a dream to disappear into. But all goes astray, and you find yourself at the end of an unfamiliar continent that ends at the sea, and how the waves reach the shore here is like the wishing of coins into a fountain. A strange accent of rain in the tread of your boots and the wind and spring you drag after you after hours along the railroad tracks and city streets. Who will pick this up, the images of birds? And will you find employment in the growing moon?
A Poem is Hardly a Poem
Distance is the moth wing
That smells like a lunar landing.
Our solar system began as a gaseous
Cloud.
The autumn leaves this year began
As blue typewriters.
A poem is hardly a poem, said
Vortex and valise. Said the sea,
What is the meaning of wind
In the trees?
Homesick for what is unfinished
Like leaving a dream to go to another dream.
Marginalia
The graffiti outside the concert hall
Is shabby, but beautiful, like the footwork of downspouts.
The grammatically correct lightbulbs, but for the fingerprints
Of new moons.
Like the notations in a dream, unevenly underlined, then
Soon forgotten.
The calligraphy of the video game Asteroids
Is a favorite study of Aristotle.
Aristotle loves marginalia.
What if you could add up all the circumferences in the galaxy?
As for that total, though I don’t know outright, I hum the tune.
We are all spacewalking.
Fragment
And if I have spent my certainties, I have
Also pooled my uncertainties, a body
Meandered into a wayward dignity.
All time is of a length, and all lengths are relative,
And lacking an absolute foothold, proclaims
Feet everywhere.
Poetry is a Brain Heist
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?
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.
naïve haircuts 