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
Somehow
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.


Blue-

A ribbon
Prized
By ghosts,

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


Salary- 

I make
What a ghost
Makes

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 


Lollygagging- 

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 
Windy

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 
    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)

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