Of August By the window, The wind Fills the room with The smell of rain. And the clever words of the poets Throw knives at the wall. And the taxi cabs are now fairy tales Washed ashore by UFOs. Frivolous fails when It is nothing at all, So, give us something, If only a broken August, when it Speaks at all. Darkness up On its hind legs welcomes you home. Of uncertain hands That hold the earth, Fold dreams into space. In the end, The poet works in lines, Not in what they mean.
Uncategorized
So it Seams
The tightrope artist is string theory. It could go either way, That’s what makes it a fact. ~ Even metaphysics gets shin splints. But infinity can never touch its toes. ~ In bed, I move the Curtain with my foot. The cat is on the porch roof, through A tear in the screen. Suddenly reality Surpasses my sense Of being. Blood samples were taken. The sun drank something of the moon. ~ And though it seams, It blisters with gold.
Walking: Industrial Malaise: Yet the Cosmos is Everywhere
In the ankles Of lonely walks, in the upward held collar of coat, In the unpressed trousers Of earth and wind, in the vacuum of chance, in the Defeated, the weary, the plagiarized origami of angels, ~ It started small: The hallucination of gas giants, The dexterous poetry of the late twenty-fourth century, The refusal to retreat into the priority of self. Tangled up with time, void ready, Alive to the heather of electromagnetic fuzz. ~ The city curls in on itself And you with it. Going forward, There will be lines and metaphors, But no words. ~ Like a stack of bricks A few years into Laying on the ground, Like the waffle maker You hate to clean, Speech is playing the odds.
Distraction is the Quickest Way Home
And this philosophy, A slang Of light through the pane, A metaphysical slip Of the noon. The Void Approximately where, Is a belly flop Holding a broken guitar. It won’t stay long. It did not evolve to stay long.
Flaneur
The undetermined Self Is divine vagrancy ~ We had it all wrong, It’s not one counting up to infinity, It’s infinity counting up to one.
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 Light, Yet it was At first Darkness, No hands On the wheel, Yielding The Blueprints. ~ 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 Home-schooled 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 Machines
Saturday
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 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.
naïve haircuts 