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.
“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.
The birds make up my hands.
You can’t see my hands.
My hands are invisible.
But not the birds.
They have kept their feathers.
They have kept their language.
But stopped using words.
Words are all I have.
Now that the birds are gone.
Escaped into the outlines of wings.
The bone structure of silence.
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.
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 reflection In the rain water. Is The banter of something. In the Sentiment of somewhere else. This is true. A reflection is the sentiment of somewhere else. Pretending to be something near. Gave me your hand. So I can trace the serial numbers of your favorite poems. The umbrella Is a reflection in the rain. Standing there with its hands on its head. Let swim the daft fractals. Tie tight the headbands of angels. A reflection is A four handed polonaise On a two-legged piano. The fire from a star in a spring tree. We Who importune With joy.
At first, it was not silence. Silence compared to what?
It was a string of stones. Older than the sun.
The antics of moving water. H₂O is susceptible to gravity. Aren’t we all?
At first, the eyes of god were darkness. Darkness compared to what?
Walk with me. The insects have snippets of gas giants on their sleeves.
A feral afternoon lost in the hills. Or across from you in the city lot. Looking back at you.
A feeling bereft of soles. And feet like antlers of light. As the angels neigh.
A sandwich guy.
I flunked calligraphy, and sometimes I think red means go.
They took away my license
And if someone asks what poetry is
It’s in the wrist, and every dial in your brain
Death is a shaking off of light, to rid itself of stars and mirrors, to rid itself of satiety.
Light stands in the dirt, and making circles with its hands.
Death is the number of circles in the apple blossom tree.
The philosophy of horizons,
Specifically, the chapters on distance,
Is the zoology of time.
In dreams. Like folded
Paper you have to unfolded.
Except that you are terrified.
And you haven’t learned
It’s pointless to retreat,
Even more so to be eaten.
You can accompany
All the volume of spacetime
Always, where ever you go
Because it has stripes
Like a tiger.
The shoes of the sea have stars up to their knees.