Category: poem

Singularities

I 

Absorb
Via neurons

Approximations
In favor of survival.

But what of the poems that weigh
Less than a few pebbles?

I’d like to tell you more, that there is a counter weight to      
    approximation:

The square root of UFOs,
 
The moon grew antlers and stopped wearing clothes.

What’s left are the scribbles of dreams. 
  
A mouthful of dusk for eyes. Fingers like the appetite of the moon. 
    Penciled whereabouts on the heart.

You 
Pick up the few stones
Of a short poem,

Swim against the stars.
 
The trees in October
Are not the same as the trees in October.
 
The cities of the Midwest
Are wild with the loneliness of the cosmos.

Poet’s Style

Tattoos:
 
A lawn chair
On the forearm,
 
On the shoulder the
Metaphysics
Of river birds,
 
Melody for a toy piano
Near the ankle.
 
Clothes:
 
The attire is simple and cut
To fit,
 
No shoes
But the idea of shoes.
 
Metaphysics:
 
No breath but air.
 
Meaning:
 
The real is put aside
Like a bell on the ground,
 
Like a trampoline at night,
 
Sleeves pulled up at the moon,
Distance for a logo.
 
Appetite:
 
Hunger like a table crowded with empty bowls.
 
Metaphysics II:
 
The cosmos on the lips,
I breath in theology through nostrils,
 
Pull its lint out of my belly button.
 
In conclusion:
 
The idea was to
 
Fly a kite, after hitching a ride,
 
To somewhere, somewhere, somewhere,
 
Sticking around long enough to see
 
Dusk pushing a shopping cart downhill.
 
Coda:
 
it’s getting late              the science fiction of apple blossoms         
--------------------   x    -------------------------------------------------     =   
     tree tops                               cursive shoes
 
How the volume of time
Specializes in words
Out of our reach.

Squeezing Cosmic Folds into the Joints of Neurons

“Truce,” said the wind.
 
“Never!” declared a psychological
Pear,
 
“I am the table and the chair.”
 
But you insist,
 
Do shapes have addresses? 
Can they be reached
By letter?
 
What if there is an emergency
Of lines
 
And geometry is busy
Can’t be reached
By post?
 
What if I am asked by wind
If there is truth in the wind?
 
You say that,
 
The
Wind
Carries a stone fist.
 
And a broken leg
For a tattoo.
 
That darkness has no wires.
No boxes. No caves.
No under the bed.
No above the stars.
It is as shirtless as a penny.
It grows with the grass.
It offers a chance
To look around.
It picks up the rain into the
Ground.
 
But I remember most
 
The seams
Of asteroids
 
In the darkness.

Future City

Even wore. I found pieces 
Of the moon under my pillow.
 
In my city you could be arrested
For breaking the moon.
 
There are few of us left.
I draw wings on the old walls.
 
I will never tell them.
I write about pieces of the
 
Moon on paper with lead.
Memorize 864,000. It is
 
The diameter of the sun
In miles. Even worse.
 
The pieces are gone. Rumor
Has it I never found them.
 
That I don’t even know what
Wings are.
 
I’ll never tell them.
 
Silent like a falsetto
In a parking lot of album covers.
 
And if this poem had a sharpie
Spell up the trestles
 
With the forgotten the names of every flower
How they haw and look at the sky
 
And, like me, never tell what they see.

What is Form but Prompting You to Turn the Page?

I know that you are tired of hearing me talk. And you say, I am tired of hearing you talk. I nod and say, the table leans a little. But that’s it.

Poems should lean a little. And cats should cry at the door to come in. Saturn whistles like a dump truck. A poet puts up graffiti in a city less tangible than the threadbare guts of being alive . Our fingers fidget like a can opener in a cloud.

Please don’t take this poem seriously, almost every letter is out of place, it’s a miracle it’s legible, and vastly improbable any of it is true.

Anyway, it’s a love poem

At night, there is a man whistling for his dog. Not even the crickets reply. Which is terrifying.

I open the window and look out. I too don’t hear the man.

A Little Resolution

Simple like an asteroid,

Arrogant like a few pillows,

Stamps like approval,

Not a funny poem,

Serious eyebrow poem,

Unbuttoned shirt poem,

A poem wearing floods and, in a sweater,

Vagrant with the fingerprints of an ill-played tuba,

Simple like how a carrot looks in the fourth dimension,

Simple poem about sidewalk cracks,

And if not for my complex feet: in the fifth dimension flowers are made of string theory,

I just want to write poems of unwanted words,

The empty bowl that only knows the echoes,

Is there anywhere for the universe to pull over, to park, to fall in love?

I’ll write poems too, small ones, by an open window, the moon like a dog licking a plate,

What’s to be whittled, and what dust, from what moon, did rake the sun?

Current Events

The world is brittle, and incapable of turning inside out.
 
The world is anxious, and who knows if the stars believe in ghosts?
 
The world is dusk, soiled collars, it is in the turn of a leaf.
 
I write about robots, and railroad tracks, flowers, a list of poems 
so scrambled and disjointed and unlikely to be anything 
but scrambled and disjointed.
 
I write that astronauts and apple blossoms have the same haircuts,
even as the little yellow bird in the evergreen sings like the 
diameter of the moon.
 
I write for habit’s sake, to fend off the April morning, to no avail
keeping a firm arm span from the late summer night. I tend to a 
fiery garden, and measure its wingspan.
 
I write the barriers are breached, the temples quacked, the first 
of the first snow breaks apart the air, and nibbles on bright darkness.
 
The world is strident, and misadventure. The approximation of untruth. 
 
And yet I write of poems, how they dig in the dirt and find
comets that have yet to hit the earth.
 
That God is a few lines of chalk on the cement, and everything else.  

The Cursive Guts of Calligraphy Bells






In the dust of nameless flowers, of the cursive guts of calligraphy 
    bells,

What ear can lift silence, from its sleep?
 
The moon, in front of the winter trees, Said,                                                                                                                                                    
All rivers are habits
Swung by gravity,
 
And
Each shadow that lifts a finger
Baffles an integer.
 
Electric footsteps play the guitar, the wind can hear you, science 
    fiction puddles, the tattoos of whodunit, the spacecraft of 
    deserted trees ravenously beatific.
 
In the prance of a quite walk, the city curls in on itself, till it is 
    gone.
 
I leave foot prints ahead of us,
Gaseous clouds
Turning star.
 
And give poetry
To pigeons.