That Feeling

When you were a kid and jumped off a garage roof.

Like thunder without handlebars.
Or the frayed seams of a school yard baseball.

In the uncertain terms of kite strings.
And a gravel road for theology.

How quiet quits the spindle, peels back the print.

Undone by becoming. Traversed by being.
Tipped over. In the end.

Into something so subtlety, and invisibly, forever.


A pear fluctuates,
Touches static.
Yet adds too much
To an empty bowl.

The moon journeys
From sale rack to sale
Rack. A liability. A ghost
Of inaccessible corners.

Regardless, you have eyes
Pretty as a school bus.
And pupils à la kitchen sink.

As for the trampoline stars,
Uncanny of step,
Discarded of stair,
They cheer,

In praise of spilled paint!
Blessed of chaos,
On what’s left of the
Old city brick wall.

Never Sure

Patterns leak chaos

As they should.

A sweaty t-shirt is

More religious

Than a pew.


A longing, distance-bit, piled

On the heart,


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?

Making it Up as We Go Along

Abstract scarf
Spooling the neck

Like the void
Curfewed by a nightingale

A dark peppermint splash

Beauty, eyes, glance, thought

Pummeled by a straight edge
Refusing to be intelligent

A non-negotiable beauty

Somethings are meant to be said
In such a way


Like the light,
The last of it, in a room otherwise
Devoid of light

And darkness,
Cheery like a young cheek, yearned
for the door to be closed

Late Summer Sun

I couldn’t say whether the anonymous
Kite, loose in the storm, had a name.

And is deserving of one now.
And so, like a child

I turned out the light

With a wish.


The field, the wildflowers,

Sniffed out the alone of late summer sun

With a solemn oath.


The world is disappearing. Accordingly, the shadows pay less to get into the fair. I have seen the sidewalk cracks, the cracks in the wind, the wind in the void, the cracks in the cracks.

And the ghosts, they too had names, and this would be our poetry.