Somehow it’s All True

Birds loudly say their names
In spring
The assonance of making a living

Which side of the moon
Is homework

In spring 
Puddles have telekinetic reflections
And walk on their fingers

Furthermore, the séance of computation
Is poetry 

A lone piano
Tuned like a pinecone 


Down the road

Even the sun is dust, even arithmetic is dust

But the dust on this road such fictions 

Sweating with the undreamt dark dreaming

Queried with meanderings


At the rummage sale

I found a copy of Charles Reznikoff, Complete Poems 

And some trading cards of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure

I would never walk the city the same after reading Reznikoff

Hereafter always I would deal with the oddity of time travel with the greatest of ease

This is What I Know

Unknowing can be navigated. Ventured. Crossed. Consulted with.
I start writing poems. Not knowing what they will be.

The rubble of stars
In my boots.


How savage is the immediate.

You stand up to it. You hold your breath.

You even tuck in your shirt. 

But this too weird

Almost infinite

If you had the guts to ask.

The rubble of stars
Retina holding.

This is the bumble

In the be all of our magnificent lives, 

The sorrow and the silence of our 

Hearts when they are lightest.

The worst and everything more.

The crumpled sunlight

Passing for debris.

The rubble of stars
Ankle deep, spring aspiring.

Writer’s Block

If at first, you draft
A poem,

To start, you say:

A yellow couch
Listens to John Cage.

Next, leave it
With the paint cans
In the cellar.

In a year, or two,
Go looking for it.

Without reading it,
Turn it over,
Start something new,

You found me
In the birdbath,

The rainwater 
Is shirtless.

That will never do.
It’s best to be desperate:

The universe 
Was swallowed
By a few words.

Long shadows 
Go to great lengths
In doorways.

For the better part of a decade
Put it with the dry
Beans in the back of 
The cupboard: 

The night arrives first
A pink ribbon
Of steel,
A headache of honey and blood.

Just abruptly end and hope no one

Writing a poem
Is like finishing a knot, 

Or cutting a hole in a net
Before collecting butterflies.

A Knack for Lost Places

A bowl filled with letters or a bowl filled with numbers, which is less 

Some of the frayed universe for pockets.

I was looking forward to the time off. I wasn't going to write.
Or read. I would smoke a joint and watch Buckaroo Bonzai.
I would bathe. 

The light reflected by the earth is less organized. Then when it left
The sun. Same for the moon at night. The boiling pot is order.
I would walk.

You first need to acquire an almost super-awareness of the dusk. Also, 
it will cost you a letter in your name. Henceforth to be omitted, in 
writing and in speech. Do your socks match the awful joy that for some 
brief perspective no matter the foreground includes its end? To get an
idea, watch rain drawn down a pane. It's not chaos. And if we had the 
guts, it would stir us home more than it does.

At the end of the night, at the end of our exploration, you wanted to 
know my name. But it wasn't mine to give.

The paperwork we found, we burned it, it was mostly poetry.

You said we should write down afterwards how we remember it. And the 
ghosts, they too had names. Remember them.

I made a list of all the groceries. But due to long
Lines, instead I found a list of all the unmade beds in the city.
Including a short biography on the pillows.

Send a SASE. Do not include my address.
Put it into a bottle. Fold it into a plane.
I know where to look for it. I have a knack
For lost places. 

Because it’s Spring

The ground is

The same color as a hole

In the ground. 

The first robins 

Are paradigms by default.

Would you know the difference

Between a blue jay and the moon?

My raincoat ate

Wandering and 

Bridges, filled

Its teeth with the velocity

Of the sky. And me, 

Because it’s spring, 

I invented the soles of dusk

Into rucksacks for cosmic


Menaced by haphazard, 

Monopolies of emancipation, 

I remember too

The heckles of eternity

Up from the dirt, 

Of our breathe, 

Of our hearts,

Of our symbols.

I remember,

Because it’s spring,

How to forget

All that is the self

And all that is not.  

Your distant check bones carry

The blue-gray sky before the earth turns away.

What does it mean to leave a part of yourself behind? 

How do you know to miss it?

Misfits are Everywhere

We were as beautiful as planetariums,

On the hems of undressed ghosts,
Like sleeveless butterflies
Accustomed to otherworldly gravity.

We made the poetry to accompany 
The soles of lost swimmers
On the outskirts of deserted rooms.

By the ambush of lifting the sky,
The dark
Forever bursting of inexplicable
Word galaxies.

But now,
You are far away
And move

On two legs
Of falling leaves. 

And there is little going back. If

At all. But for such misfits as us,
From the arches to the hairline,

Into the unnoticed graves of greatness, 
There will be a lasting reaching out. 

The dizziness of daisies setting fire
To our hearts.


You sit
Here and invest in the part of you 
That has no beginning. 

Eyes fixed on the wooden

A deserted city for a headband.

Shoulders like Heisenberg's uncertainty 

The to-do list of dusk in the air. 
Which you have always taken seriously.

And a tattoo
Of wings put on the bottom of the feet.

Void for what it is, the thread count of 

You think, 
Did the universe inflate, superfluous
Of compass, all in one go of it? 

Behind you the sky, 
Not knowing how many
Keys make an accordion, 
Shoulders the long way 

This is clear. 
As it is uneven, and croaked like meaning.
Like a portrait. 

What the words have to do with this,
Is an emergency.

Unknowing Poem

This I will say plain,
I will not
Sabotage distance with
Preoccupation, I will not
Dirty the socks of the moon
With pleading.

Let them be.

That’s why shadows are important,
They tend to adhere to you,
So you are what you are not,

Jumping atop lost pianos
In factory made shoes, singing
The birds are the perfect cents.

Originality is propaganda,
Certain exaggerations
Must precipitate into fairy tales.  

Like November helicopters
Gathering up the body slams of dusk.

Pillows that are fire
For this garden head.

Is There Anywhere for the Universe to Pull Over?

Is there anywhere for the universe to pull over?
To park, to fall in love?

A well-kept bike, a stack of poems in disarray.
What if these poems really did mean something?
How terrifying. 

The menu of poets
Is full of branches.

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. 

A group of dusk is called a vanish. 

The wild arteries of stars
Do they feel it too?

The quiet celebrity of being alone. 



(revised from an earlier post)

The Self

And cosmic

A shoreline
Alien coast,

More fictitious than thunder
Between the fingertips of the moon,

Is utter non
Played without jest,

A box of giggles
Forgotten of hat,

A grave contest drawn in
The dust of stars.

You will not know the self.

The self is not enough.

But you will burn nonetheless.