How does one return. Ankles full of the sky. Throat
Clear of clarity.
To ply whatever theories one hopes to shape
And hang them up like coats and call this
Being or consciousness. The pinprick of dreams.
How does one get back to an open heart and
Feet on the ground full of thoughts and inklings.
The metaphysics of a canyon and anything that
Isn’t a canyon. Even the fire hydrant is a vase
Of ideas.
And furthermore, September is the last
Green house, soon enough, the dried-up roller skates
Of what’s left of the flowers.
Author: Bob
Sometimes In My Dreams
Full of confusion, the chalk poems
Along the highway shoulder are mine.
In a state of superposition, said the would-be observer,
It’s possibility all the way down.
Have you thought about Jupiter as a tattoo idea?
Or how what is written below takes breath?
The gulping moon over the riverbed,
The tangled ribbon of self.
A Poetic Conscience
A chuckle of meandering
On one’s shoulder
Urging one on
Like a cricket
With a couplet
For wings
Late August Poem #4
Along the roads
Even in ditches the goldenrod triumphs.
At night dragonflies
Carry dream cargo.
Without pen and paper
Throughout these lost cities
The grasshopper sings with its legs.
Any day now, they’ll announce
There is other life in the galaxy.
Late August Poem #3
A telescope and daisies and weather reports
And subtitles and because beauty,
And all that you have lost and gained,
You find in everything that part of all of us,
And birds, twigs and space shuttles, trampolines
And bubble wrap, groundwater and dandelion shoots,
And coming home late with the dusk
Still pressed into on your shoulders.
Late August Poem #2
It’s the chatter at the edge of the day,
Tracing its thoughts
Till it forgets its sense in an afternoon field
Lying there, scrimmaging dreams,
And the coneflower on its stalk
Mirrors the void, and the grasshopper
Like a highway with a half-moon
As antenna.
Late August Poem #1
Like a nova spinning, probability
Whistling,
Restless like an arthropod, cosmic as a daisy,
I like to walk and take in the world around
Me.
Somehow It’s All True
The velocity of a poem-asteroid
Is elliptical alliteration.
In earnest, realizing this is a dream, which side of the moon
Is homework?
Puddles have telekinetic reflections
And connect us to other dimensions.
Furthermore, the séance of computation
Is poetry.
Poetry
There is a fire always in the heart,
As bold as apple blossoms
Free of all poetry.
Like a gold toothed traipse artist
With tattoos of all the gas giants
And a haircut that reminds one of a snowdrift.
I followed the cosmonaut to the dead end
Where the milkweed and tickseed and goldenrod
Grow and chase dragonflies.
The Weather is Utterly Cosmic
The moon fills these shoes, spells a simple long look
Over the city, like the poetry of a monocular.
The moon is a forgery and covered in brambles,
But cede it will not to anything but pulse and breath.
An ambush of silliness, a clothesline transcending laundry
From which I hang a self of wobbled walks and bits of rainy wind.
The weather is utterly cosmic,
I prance alone in a towel in the cosmos of spring,
Under the summer sky, without anywhere else good to be.
naïve haircuts 