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)

A Symphony for a Fake Piano

The foot is disheveled. 
The armpit is the moon. 
And what lessons have the rain
To letter at night alone without
Legs or thoughts?
What does it mean to be human
When the heart and lungs are a marathon
Of leaves?
You cannot cross out the distance.
Cup sorrow in your hands
But to be abbreviated in this light
Is life.
If death cannot cull these questions
At least the ice cream truck tonight rings
A symphony for a fake piano
In pencil in the night in a sky that cannot be seen. 

The Dents of Highway Laughs

Begin in the knees of the earth. 
Walk the dizziness of  

A poem that breathes in space exhales into the void. 

Remember the
Tomb tipping
Guts of spring,

The sea and the eyelashes
Defying gravity,

The ping pong playing peonies
Of electric yesterdays. 

Remember how
All at once 
The universe put on
Its legs
And walks like 

A fiasco of names
On a checker board.

Will you walk with me?

In the opposite of acquisition? 
Who else can see these widowed months?

Beckoning at the table
Where is the pen and paper that ribs time and space with the dents of
    highway laughs?

I walk and walk, 

In a coat, black, collared, the curve of which almost touches the ear. 
    No hat.
What is it in us that allows us past narrative ghosts?

For this I penciled in the page and erased around the poem

Like an astronaut fills the page

With the memory of a jellyfish. 

I stayed up all night

Playing solitaire
On the PC
With the radio on,

Curating the ramblings.

The soul is a runway for anything
Willing to fly.

What do we know?
It is only afterward

A sense of being. 

Poet’s Style

A lawn chair
On the forearm,
On the shoulder the
Of river birds,
Melody for a toy piano
Near the ankle.
The attire is simple and cut
To fit,
No shoes
But the idea of shoes.
No breath but air.
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.
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.
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.

Squeezing Cosmic Folds into the Joints of Neurons

“Truce,” said the wind.
“Never!” declared a psychological
“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,
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
But I remember most
The seams
Of asteroids
In the darkness.

The Birds Make Up My Hands

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.

Future City

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’m thinking of a hoax
The size of the sun,
But like the size of the wind.
I’m thinking of tenderness
Soaked in starry I-don’t-knows, how
Pretty Emily Dickinson must have been
Staring out her window at
Tarantula stars

Beauty is Jest

Beauty is jest
Is simply gross

Beauty is the long legs of evening
But for an overcoat of dreams

Joy begins to fill in
Where there are no lines

We are left naked
Except for the sea

I carry the clouds and sky
In my beard beneath my