Pursued by a Phony Deity

What is 
The policy concerning time travel in this poem?

Who knows? 

Sneezing is no easy matter,

Neither are the stars. 

The wrest is summer rain
From summer rain.  


All this 

Yet it was
At first 

No hands
On the wheel,



Sometimes the ephemeral 
Almost poses,

The dream rattles its antlers,

At the curb
A puzzled moon
In the rainwater.

An Allowance of Thistle Moon

What if it was just
The two of us

You by the window

Me across from you

There is nothing man-made 
About the sun


There are angels in
Our blood

On chaos

Without saying 
A word 


One could
Hold one’s breath
Till their hands taste
The moon’s dust
Share between us 
The few bent
Coins of wayward vending


What a mess
Of books and solitude

On the floor
On the shelves
The endless walks


Pockets of asteroids 
And feet like late afternoons 

Would I agree to draw
Up a flight plan?


I buried my whiskers
In the first light
Of the universe 

Railroad lines for shoelaces 


Ready to get a move on
A smile no different from direction

All Sound Rests on No Sound

Fall fall fall fall fall,

Like fathom feathers,

Like Jupiter eyes,

Till at the end of the self,
The alphabet gives up the ghost,

And in this dust
New spectacles 
Breathe in the firsts
Of perception

Again. Again 

The doubling of cells,

The doubling down of wiring,

And at most 
The winning of confusion,
From this
Real steps.


Mischievous infinitesimals
Chide the ego.

All sound rests on no sound.

What is the price of being particular
That can but be halved?

But go on. You must.

Endorse your leg muscles. Your poetic anxiety.

Chide back. 

How do I Say it Plain, I am Accustomed to Saying it Otherwise?

The Score-

A note in the third measure
Begins to move backward in time.

Would it have been better to begin with
Illegible sonnets?

The Tower-

A subtle maybe 
Of dusk 
On the lips

Has yet to land
And never will.

The self settles in like a pencil
In a toaster,

Tipping between worlds,
Ideas and sounds,

Wearing only the ideas of shoes
Before breakfast.


A ribbon
By ghosts,

Like the taste of an apple
Or the sound of a garbage truck,
Possibly the memory of the sea.


I make
What a ghost

In an empty hallway.

No Answers- 

Can laughter make the trees
Turn white, said the moon?

It can, questioned the sea,

With a cadence only
Moonlight could sustain
While gurgling cannonballs. 

In a Time of Sad-

The sea and the heart
Share one memory,

Clouds hardly notice
The speed of light.

On the Strings of Gravity (More Short Poems)

The Blight of Poetry-

Like a pulled tooth

Chapped lips and a hole in 
The sole

A tee shirt 
The reads Add Verse

Double crossing hexameters
(Whatever those are)

And me
Baffled hair
Writing it all down

For Walt- 

The sea
Is all of our names
Without being any of them.

My Favorite Novel-

On the chalk board
Two dimensional windmills

And Quixote 
With a barber’s bowl
For wings 

Film Critic-

Kung Fu Hustle
Is the true spiritual
Sequel of the Matrix 


Electromagnetic fields
To stand in. And then there’s mass. No to be 
Confused with weight. 

What was said
Spoke of beginnings, 

The cowlick birds
Holler on the strings of gravity. 

A Stone on a Pillow-

You establish it is 

By opening a window

By solving some math problems
In a notebook

Feeding the birds

By the look of the city roofs

And no matter how far you walk

A Knack for Lost Places

A bowl filled with letters or a bowl filled with numbers, which is less 


Frayed stars

Are in style

The universe for pockets.


I was looking forward to the time off. I wasn't going to write.
Or read. I would smoke a joint and watch Buckaroo Bonzai.


The light reflected by the earth is less organized. Then when it left
The sun. Same for the moon. The boiling pot is order.


Bureaucracy Paperwork We Stole-

The paperwork we found, we burned it, it was mostly poetry.

You said we should write down afterwards how we remember it. And the 
ghosts, they too had names. Remember them.


Send a SASE. Do not include an address.
Put it into a bottle. Fold it into a plane.
I know where to look for it. I have a knack
For lost places.


You sit
Here and invest in the part of you 
That has no beginning. 

Eyes fixed on the wooden

A deserted city for a headband.

Shoulders like Heisenberg's uncertainty 

The to-do list of dusk in the air. 
Which you have always taken seriously.

And a tattoo
Of wings put on the bottom of the feet.

Void for what it is, the thread count of 

You think, 
Did the universe inflate, superfluous
Of compass, all in one go of it? 

Behind you the sky, 
Not knowing how many
Keys make an accordion, 
Shoulders the long way 

This is clear. 
As it is uneven, and croaked like meaning.
Like a portrait. 

What the words have to do with this,
Is an emergency.