Pinched
By an ecstatic height
Leaving legroom
For the sublimity
Of casting off
writing
The Scribbled Myths
Lifted from the sun, the chariot,
As if drawn in pencil,
Revved up, but in the end
Misspelled like the rest of us,
Graffiti ribbons obliged
On the abandoned brick,
The spare parts of a spring rain,
Like the eyes of an android dove
Butterflied into the cosmos.
Never Sure
Patterns leak chaos
As they should.
A sweaty t-shirt is
More religious
Than a pew.
Haha!
A longing, distance-bit, piled
On the heart,
Disappearing
Between the fingertips of the moon,
Like the paint around the hand on a cave wall.
What feet, what stride
Will fit this excess of light?
Unequal Asides
The universe is a plane
Of four unequal asides
First Aside
The bedraggled charm of
Cut off shorts
And a lead pencil.
Second Aside
The shadows of poems
Are not the same as the shadows
Of poetry.
Say no to verse.
Third Aside
It will have to wait.
The waiting is the realism.
Fourth Aside
Very few clouds. Yet who can point at silence sufficiently,
Beautifully, like bells in the fifth dimension?
Fragments
Will this life be too smooth
Or the rough of happiness
Caught in the throat
Till we too are on our feet
Whispering to stars
~
A few lines
Enjambed on a railroad trestle,
Idle words, spray-painted, like falling leaves
Forgotten by guitar.
~
Dusk hinged to departure.
Everything ducks for cover, including the moon.
Please consult the paperwork, I have been busy
Doodling stanzas, and chasing verses.
Meter
What’s the time signature of the universe…cursive or print?
If I may, this banter is never at a loss to sense.
The lingo between two slices of bread, slapstick for a toothpick.
From kindling to fire, the moon paddles. One immense sea.
As if insignificant is any woe. Let’s be fair, June opens the envelope. Infinity too in how you sit, including gravitational waves.
And to be breathing is enough, as is lunch, dust, twig, and space…according to the topography of poetry.
How the dusk fidgets, if you close your eyes,
How the eons tingle in your synapses, for strings.
Some Dirt in the Eye
a robot of wings, a skateboard ramp of dusk, somehow dirt in eye, a blister ephemeral, a doorway that lacks a sense of direction,
a robot of twigs, a drinking fountain that somewhere in the chapters on sleepless nights, are the outlines of poems, bankrupt in paradise,
robot of final stanza, cordless, lopsided of dreams, in the shoes of long summer walks, a lost summery/summary by the author, a vision of information and how it travels,
a simple word, and a second simple word, and so on, till it is finally simple enough,
according to legend, all such declarations, on the surface of rain puddles, the dandelion grows on an allowance of curb, in the rain…with a brick in one hand
Just As
Just as
Meaning
Really is less
Meaning,
The self
Is idea
As real
As self.
*Older poem
Nice to Meet You Too
How often you say, we just met.
Or how you pass the salt, because
The cosmos is everything other
Than what isn’t there.
If not that as well.
Your voice, the tone is bare,
Unbuttoned.
If you include
The dusk at the end of the road.
We eventually
Become as tiny as galaxies.
When We are Gone
How the broken plates resembled
The moon. This was no accident.
June asked, may I march
In April puddles before
I am August? If this banter
Is likeable, neither are you.
The sky clear of its misgivings.
The heart shirtless of its understandings.
A vibe of sunshine
Goes without shear.
Who will collect the saw
Dust from the changing gods
When we are gone?
(Another old poem)
naïve haircuts 