Time is a red scarf picked up by darkness.
Light is the celebration of that vision.
writing
The Digital Pollen of an Abstract Afternoon
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.
Getting Out of the Fish Bowl
Sidewalk puddles
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.
I write
Little poems
Open to interpretation.
Taxi cabs are wisdom.
So are basketball hoops
Screwed to the garage.
And in our glass lives
The outlines
Of light and the sea.
Post-Work
Foraging for paperclips
On the moon
The clerk alphabetizes
Piano concertos
By tone.
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
Chances are
They’re true.
You Will Know
There is a shape
When nothing’s there.
Open it
Or close it.
It’s just as round.
Leave it
Or carry it with you.
You cannot spend
What it does not lack.
There is a shape
When everything is done.
And you will know that.
You will know.
What the wind uses for thread
And needle.
The Poem Is
Like a broken guitar,
A mini golf course for
A syllogism.
Why are beginnings so important?
Why is a broken guitar a disaster?
Is the grave coming up short.
And though I think all of this is folly
I am glad of its sometimes kindness.
A poem
Is a belly flop
In handwriting
By an angel doing a handstand
While going backward in time
The Geometry of Calling Off from Work
The geometry
Of calling off
From work:
Proletarian pillowcases,
The waistline of angels,
The two unequal sides
Of the human heart.
The geometry
Of staying home
From home:
The summer night is bigger than you
If done properly,
Eyes dream in graffiti moons,
Heart breathes griffin stars.
The Flowers on Mars
The flowers
On Mars
Are heart shaped applause, wolves of
Silence, bankrupt fractals
On their last poems,
Asteroid belts, summer nights, lava, rocks, stones, leaves, solitary. They ask,
What are the numbers in the fourth dimension? What are the quadrants of solitary meanderings?
This dawn of the stones.
I walk alone.
Some Kind of Employment
The job of a fool
Is to ride the bus
Till the heart becomes a circumference
Suffices the world
The job of the poet
Is to put earnings
In burning buildings
Look look a macho moon in reverse
Parks in the eyes of city gulls
Go ahead and honk for doomsday
I’ve the summer grass
Tattooed on the shoe strings of my brain
Between the toes of my heart
Misspelled Shoes
I joined an ensemble
Of misspelled shoes.
I got a tattoo of an umbrella.
How to make it simple?
I walk. I think. I write.
Even the alligators who live in the stars.
Are simple. Really.
The clouds jumped ov
er the erroneously
Patterned couch.
If there was no gravity, there would be no light.
naïve haircuts 