The sky is orange and sad and the leaves are blue.
What’s a comet to do? On one strange leg, wearing
A tiara of ice.
A vagabond sweater left on the lonesome train.
In the rain, the faux pearls feel at home.
Remember the espionage of daisies
And the rattling of apple blossoms,
The paragraphs of dandelions
And the heretic crocuses. All of them, like the peaks
Of mountains in a bleak novel.
The surface of the moon is conscious.
I open the window to let in the smell of the cold rain.
The room is dark, the streetlights are discussing Moby Dick.
Author: Bob
Home
Yes, the velocity of the void
Mimics its explanation.
The void is no different than its explanation.
There is no explaining the void.
When we are young
We’re in a hurry to fathom
What distance
We shall never fully muster.
Facing an unknown. This wind,
Unknown by name, reckons
It once was home.
Stashed Away
Like spray paint on brick, the tulips are favored
By the stars,
For example, the stars dream of tulips,
A sea of tulips with rings around them like a gas giant.
A ghost severed of feet foots the bill
In this dream, though for hiding spots
Dilute some poetry with water and scrub.
The stars are more common
Than restaurant spoons.
But the world has stashed away
Something without measure
We long to get back.
As for a cup, the universe curves about right.
Like Blue
Blue imaginary birds
Know the spells to swim
In the moon.
And all the pretty vows
Know very well the distances
Between stars.
When done ingeniously
A walk is a bout
Of meandering.
There are footprints
Between the powerlines
And amongst the goldenrod.
Dynamic Simplicity
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.
The flowers are 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 seem to be stream of consciousness poems, better yet,
I’ll put on my canvas shoes and walk till my stomach growls.
Stillness
How the sun balances
Yellow and gravity.
A few piano keys and clouds.
Coffee and continents.
How the falling rain rights the
Leaning chimney.
Spring of the rivulet faces.
All the volcanoes on Io.
The stars after all are just as
Unfixed as we are.
Portrait
You sit.
Eyes fixed on the wooden
Fireflies.
A deserted city for a headband.
Shoulders like Heisenberg's uncertainty
Principle.
And a tattoo
Of wings on the bottom of the feet.
(Not visible in the picture.)
You think,
Did the universe inflate, superfluous
Of compass, all in one go of it?
This much is clear.
As it is uneven and croaked like meaning.
It is this ramble of inkling all your
Life, that rattles the frame.
Lived Dream
In these lived dreams your other self gains
Antlers and roams the woods
Steps through streams and through mirrors
And sees its breath
Now that winter is almost here
The treetops brook a telescope heart
I share my steps with the city roofs
Game On
A fire hydrant scrimmaged
With the play calling
Of street poets, a rummage
Of junkyard afternoons,
The distracted Milky Way,
Ripe autumn apples,
A spring rain and its naked toes,
And a comet, cheeks blushed
Like sunlight in June,
Is enough for me.
Hedged by unknowns
I burn my lawnmower in celebration.
Puzzle Pieces
We will puzzle you.
By whatever pieces necessary.
Beauty is a ridiculous number.
It could take years of theorizing
And chalkboards to put a finger
On this.
I think I need an alphabet hat
To count the stars, and forgetfulness
To remember them all. A code name,
Because it would be cool. Just saying.
The universe is acuity, all the way down to and including unawareness.
A rolling pin made of daydreams. Unmade of mountain streams.
Most of it you can’t see. Most of it too small or too far away.
The universe is a merry-go-round in a metaphysical sense.
The universe is homespun, like plaster walls or quantum mechanics.
naïve haircuts 