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.
A crescent coat.
An endless road
That grips you
Like a wrestling hold.
Arms tattooed
With famous operas.
And only these daring doodles
To save our noodles.
I didn’t know all along how it would end.
As such. The trees in late February are skinnier than wind chimes.
The graffiti on the building on a diet of streetlight. Disheveled like a poorly thrown frisbee.
As such. The poem is rigged. Like a large body of water at night with a single light shone on it.
Looking for what it lost.
I learned
At a young age how to stand in the rain and snow properly.
And because this poem
Needed you. The ephemeral enterprise of being.
Implementing secret
Information into
The poem.
~
A pulpit moon
In love
Hanging by a thread.
~
The problem laid out.
Though you hired
A chorus.
Such tragedy.
The late afternoon faints
With the metaphysical.
Reflections in puddles.
Even the universe is a hologram.
~
The wind
Has mass
Of dusk
On road,
Alive
Like a mountain,
A glacier
Pre-industrial.
The night is
The dusk
Out-pooled.
~
The self is a card trick
In the dark
Without hands,
Sweeping sidewalks for
Enlightenment.
Speaking drastically,
The oomph that is not the self.
I made a diorama
Of the Triple Lindy
And left it on a diving
Board.
It all boils down to how the universe stores information. For example: the surface area of a poem, like the chewing gum that comes with trading cards, it is a half-moon. The potholes meditate. Pink dusk.
The Earth is somewhat squished, pinched in orbit by our star. I walk to the window. Suddenly, rain. I read the letter. It said: The barometer of missing socks. Always where we haven’t been, and where we will never be again.
I walk to the door. It thunders. Just afterwards, listen closely. To the reverberations. The rain on the pane.
My reply.
The tattoo of the church bell and the passing train. I hear both, in the fields, just before the rain. The moon has polka dot breath, but I imagine the city lights under my fingernails.
There is a feather on the ground. A lampshade in the sky. I walk up to a lamppost, it is night. I write on the lamppost. In marker: Where are you?
The elopement of city features. The facades of houses, the stature of downtown buildings. The silence of fountains that don’t work. The few pennies for the graffiti flowers, and the inter-dimensional coordinates for solitary meandering.
Light steadies the ankles. Darkness readies the knees.
Darkness is a box of pins. Light the ghosts of future stars.
Light sounds out words, creates space. Darkness kneads.
Darkness is the immanence of distance and the ongoing retrieval of it.
Light stitches bones into the soul. Light is the darkness when you blink.
The wind is cheap poems through barbwire parasols.
But what are the footfalls of electromagnetic touchdowns?
Infinity
Walks on
Tip toes
Sometimes
For now.
~
If you have access to
Another universe
Collect mirrors.
Put each poem in your mouth.
But don’t be a liar.
~
The exact present
Is
Subatomic.
Probability before pattern.
And so,
In winter make ghosts,
In spring play in the mud.
I write poems like a disguise.
I bicycle and I am genius at washing
The dishes.
My favorite science fiction movie
The spider
Out grows the house,
You find out in middle age you have an imaginary friend,
The city
Birds are one big computer.
~
So much of writing
Is conjuring something to do.
Standing aside
Exhaling into a paper bag.
Till it grows like a startled child
In the wind like a crack in the sidewalk.
It’s springtime between the stars.
Into the calligraphy
Of anti-skyscrapers
Called verse.
~
In the city field, headlong on the rails, a few spray painted
Stars on the passing train.
Each finger of the moon rattles like a windy day.
~
Opaque like a
Snap of the fingers
Arranged for guitar
Duo
The ghosts in your hair
Have misplaced their x-rays
Branded by
A bicycle moon
That began as an apple blossom.
naïve haircuts 