Dynamic Simplicity

I carry a paper bag of flowers, the petals are blue, yellow, and orange,

Early flowers, the bag is a sandwich bag, it’s dawn,

I put the flowers in a basket and bike home, the sky is blue, orange, and yellow,

My wild face, in momentum, how is the dawn somehow starry after all the stars are put away?

How is it, just for a second, this wild face among the stars, on a bike, with flowers

For the dining room table, to be with books, and pencils, and to have breakfast with,

Encourage me to open the windows, they are the better part of me, for a few days,

In which time, I’ll write what seems to be stream of consciousness poems, better yet,

I’ll put on my canvas shoes and walk till my stomach growls

For the fire and fever of tasteless stars. 

The Ambition of Dusk

In a simple sweater, a jawline like a lyric, is the ambition of dusk.

Against the aquarium of stars.

A simple ghost, like a pair of bashful feet in the corner.

The high wires of power lines, the moon like a spool with no thread.

Words in a notebook, coil bound, from the drugstore, do angels tattoo humans on their arms?

A jawline like a stampede, an aquarium of ghosts.

Sidewalk Crack

The acorn is a bird of earth.

The sun is a
Domesticated
Sidewalk crack.

The moon is
A feral daffodil.

To grow accustomed
To a gargantuan
Universe

It is better to be tackled
By questions
Than propped up with answers.

Death is a bowl
Room temperature.

The earth is an acorn
Buried by a blue jay.

Finally, the soul is a conspiracy,
And the royalty of chance.

Flying Sidekicks

The shadow of the moon
Is an avalanche of fire
Like hands coming up from the sea.

I can talk to you of flying
Sidekicks in the summer trees, a head
Stand in the evening rain.

When sadness is neither frivolous
Nor misplaced, when it is palpable.

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

It can, said the sea.

Seagulls

I walked to the city limit
And played volleyball
With some seagulls.

It was a no nonsense game
With plenty of intermissions.

I headed west
Up to the river.

In my coat
I stood at the water.

The posture of dusk
Ransacked of belongings
Looking over its shoulder. What if it could
Be squared?

And though the stars
Come looking for alms I have only the cents
Of infinity.

If I knew how to spell lasso
Or pumpernickel. But I don’t.

It is a reluctant light
The hardware of the self.

City Block

Same smeared face

Of the moon faints

Toward Earth

Into the rain that pools in the broken cups.

The kids in the street

Bang their hands against the old

Can lids

Imitating stars.

They rattle with a fierce

Cunning

For transcendence.

It is as simple as that.