What Is It?

Something gathers up the guesses,

Stalks the wild throes and strange fits,

Arrives at probability

We pass as answers.

There is the bumble

In the be all of our lives,

The sorrow and the silence of our

Hearts when they are lightest,

And worst and nothing more,

The crumpled sunlight

Passing for debris,

The rubble of stars,

My bare feet.

Short Poems

Machine Washable-

A button-colored shirt.


Attics for Brains-

The ghost stirs
Like cold soup
On an abandoned stair.


Waking Up-

I just heard it. The train whistle.
Coming in from Canada
Like space invader calligraphy.
But I cannot say it. The new birds in the air.
And suffers from equations.
Concerning the axis of time.
Or how much coffee to have this morning.
There it is again. This time further away.



The old house.
The latch.
The screen door on its hinges
In the wind.

In the wind
The inflatable stars.
In the plastic sky.

A rebellion of

To the cardboard


Stop Here-

I think the dandelions were in on it.

The joke,
Said the moon.

It Started Small

Tingling with space,

Corralling chance.

Everywhere this is the cosmos,

Reckless frames and still art.


A rhombus of laundromat poems

In the help wanted section.

Like a scarf around a lamppost.

The stones near the sea are still.

But I imagine the birds on the moon

Are a ruckus.


If I was to reach out to you
It would be with a few indifferent words
Arranged to bear little weight.

I would include the gallop of stars,
The sparrows of feral nights,
Contagious cognition.

But that’s all.

*An old poem I thought I would give another chance.

Early Spring (Writer’s Block)

I walked all day. Hoping it would rub off.

I don’t know

The wind through the budding trees, like the sound of an escalator
On mute. If not for uncertainty, what hope would there be in masks?

Celestial sidewalks. My house number is prime.

On further review, the call on the field stands.

Uneven sidewalks
Make the best puddles.


A pair of lo-fi shears.

The pouring out of self

Into construction paper poems.


Like fog
In a dream,

The night whispers
Its trespasses, its sanity.

There is a style
To a misspelled word,
A crater.

Albeit the silence
Came with fries.

A Reluctant Light

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

It was a no-nonsense game
Without intermissions.

I headed west
To the river.

In my coat
I stood at the water.

The posture of dusk
Ransacked of belongings
Looking over its shoulder.

And though the stars
Come looking for alms I have only the sense
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.







This is an old poem I hopefully cleaned up a bit, and decided to give another try.

Writing a Poem

I would have to add a few lines. And dedicate years to being aimless. But over time

I would become familiar with the ill-fitted dusk on the city. My heart fills with the misplaced.

It does seem unlikely
I will put a handle on this.

Indefinite wonderful.