A Knack for Lost Places

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

Some of the frayed 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.
I would bathe. 

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

You first need to acquire an almost super-awareness of the dusk. Also, 
it will cost you a letter in your name. Henceforth to be omitted, in 
writing and in speech. Do your socks match the awful joy that for some 
brief perspective no matter the foreground includes its end? To get an
idea, watch rain drawn down a pane. It's not chaos. And if we had the 
guts, it would stir us home more than it does.

At the end of the night, at the end of our exploration, you wanted to 
know my name. But it wasn't mine to give.

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.

I made a list of all the groceries. But due to long
Lines, instead I found a list of all the unmade beds in the city.
Including a short biography on the pillows.

Send a SASE. Do not include my 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. 

Portrait

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

Eyes fixed on the wooden
Fireflies.

A deserted city for a headband.

Shoulders like Heisenberg's uncertainty 
Principle. 

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.

The
Void for what it is, the thread count of 
Existence. 

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 
Home. 

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.

Unknowing Poem

This I will say plain,
I will not
Sabotage distance with
Preoccupation, I will not
Dirty the socks of the moon
With pleading.

Let them be.

That’s why shadows are important,
They tend to adhere to you,
So you are what you are not,

Jumping atop lost pianos
In factory made shoes, singing
The birds are the perfect cents.

Originality is propaganda,
Certain exaggerations
Must precipitate into fairy tales.  

Like November helicopters
Gathering up the body slams of dusk.

Pillows that are fire
For this garden head.

Is There Anywhere for the Universe to Pull Over?

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

A well-kept bike, a stack of poems in disarray.
What if these poems really did mean something?
How terrifying. 

The menu of poets
Is full of branches.

The books on the fridge. I'll get to them soon. After a walk and a few   
    more months of procrastinating. I’ll write poems too. Small ones, by   
    an open window. The moon like a dog licking a plate. 

Mirrors reflect, yes, but they
Don’t know left from right. 

A group of dusk is called a vanish. 

The wild arteries of stars
Do they feel it too?

The quiet celebrity of being alone. 

 

 

(revised from an earlier post)

Notes in Windows

I would have me emptied, and to remain behind.

A plastic bag gripping a winter tree, in the wind, and the sound it makes is empty.

You hear shoes down the hall, though you don’t live in a house. They sound as if they are approaching. The truth is, they are not getting any nearer. And you remember you have been left behind.

Reflections in a bowl, sometimes city lights, sometimes the stars, for dinner. 

You stop to read the graffiti, and the notes tapped to windows, posted from the inside facing out, written on, leaving no margins: I think this happens more so than it should, in poorer cities. 

I would have me slapstick readied, though I remain on board. I know the captain has burned the charts. I know the city birds are one big computer.

The notes in the windows sometimes include pictures: an angel with the living earth for feet, or burning trees with typeset for flames.

A skirmish of ghosts, folding in on itself, breathes its last. I am at sea. Without a bathing suit in the arms of stars.     

The Self

Is 
Pummeled
Dirt
And cosmic
Spat,

A shoreline
Of
Alien coast,

More fictitious than thunder
Disappearing
Between the fingertips of the moon,

Is utter non
Sense
Played without jest,

A box of giggles
Forgotten of hat,

A grave contest drawn in
The dust of stars.

You will not know the self.

The self is not enough.

But you will burn nonetheless.

Just Saying

 The beginning stands 
 
Like an old shadow
 
Waiting for rags
 
For rain in paper cups.
 
Put the house up for sale. We’re starting over.
 
I stand on an ineffable table.
 
I borrow a folding chair and break the kitchen dishes.
 
I mop the floor as if I was in a movie, even if I was a movie.
 
I botch my words. I am smitten.
 
Beauty wears the seams of transience absolutely, and the seams of the
    absolute transiently.
 
The amble of gravity over the hills and through the voids
 
Bare knees howl.
 
~
 
I will not have words for you
 
I will not do right
 
I will not do ill
 
I will not truth
 
I will not loathe 
 
 
Just Saying

The Opportunity

 There is an oblivion 
Just next door
Recently relocated.
 
Here one visits
If one is willing,
A returning
From the future
 
That’s been with you
Before you were born.
A pumpernickel dawn
Of abandoned hospitals.
 
But some fool
Cut off the wings.
And misplaced
The spelling bee.
 
So, you hold up
The rainy bicycle
With the perfume
Of your arms, and
 
Into this pinch of creation,
And pinched by creation,
 
Till your knuckles have as
Many stars as a galaxy.
 
Laughter is a tree truck
Without a ride home.