A well-kept bike, a stack of poems in disarray.
What if these poems really did mean something?
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.
For a nest.
Makes for funny haircuts.
To sit quiet and remember
The shadows of the heart,
A sea above the stars,
Till you are nothing more
Than a memory yourself,
Till you are at sea
And above the stars.
Purposely forgot. An amnesia of flowers.
The pigeons downtown
Are the last of the angels
In rock colored coats.
With blue songs in their feet,
As or husked brains squeal like throbbing beheaded nuts,
And the blue ears of the moon
Tremble with the arson of love.
The abyss is flat
And has no bottom.
It is a vagrant simile
Loitering on two
Legs carrying a bowl
A grocery basket
At the elbow.
Isn’t that nice?
But don’t ask me to look back. There would be too many
Other of me in the way.
I’ve the multiverse blues too.
I know that you are tired of hearing me talk. And you say, I am tired of hearing you talk. I nod and say, the table leans a little. But that’s it.
Poems should lean a little. And cats should cry at the door to come in. Saturn whistles like a dump truck. A poet puts up graffiti in a city less tangible than the threadbare guts of being alive . Our fingers fidget like a can opener in a cloud.
Please don’t take this poem seriously, almost every letter is out of place, it’s a miracle it’s legible, and vastly improbable any of it is true.
Anyway, it’s a love poem
At night, there is a man whistling for his dog. Not even the crickets reply. Which is terrifying.
I open the window and look out. I too don’t hear the man.
A sandwich guy.
I flunked calligraphy, and sometimes I think red means go.
They took away my license
And if someone asks what poetry is
It’s in the wrist, and every dial in your brain
Death is a shaking off of light, to rid itself of stars and mirrors, to rid itself of satiety.
Light stands in the dirt, and making circles with its hands.
Death is the number of circles in the apple blossom tree.
The philosophy of horizons,
Specifically, the chapters on distance,
Is the zoology of time.
In dreams. Like folded
Paper you have to unfolded.
Except that you are terrified.
And you haven’t learned
It’s pointless to retreat,
Even more so to be eaten.
You can accompany
All the volume of spacetime
Always, where ever you go
Because it has stripes
Like a tiger.
The shoes of the sea have stars up to their knees.
Time is a red scarf picked up by darkness.
Light is the celebration of that vision.
The way here is through particles of self and to the dust and the sea and that breath.
Distance and the sandwiches.
I forget all my head and I don’t like it where is the weather of himself to wear through the streets and along the train rails.
The broken brick lay in a pile a few yards from what’s left of the industrial structure: the flowers and the plants interceding.
On the rubble mound shoes probably me with them finding the space listening to the nearby fields no sound but in vibrations my self is the song space.
Of the city, the rumor of birds
On the ears of steel rails.
In spring, the robins are first,
In the yards, in the lots,
Even before the worms.
Open to interpretation.
Taxi cabs are wisdom.
So are basketball hoops
Screwed to the garage.
And in our glass lives
Of light and the sea.
Foraging for paperclips
On the moon
The clerk alphabetizes
Enumerates the asteroids, some standing like an upright bass.
Makes a note: a foolish nostalgia for the 1980’s is the hobgoblin for neoliberalism.
All the while on stilts with a telescope, the clerk bird watches.
Clouds in the distance like the blushing of elbow smashes.
And so foolish are these ledgers