How it Would End

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.

Walking Home

The late afternoon faints
With the metaphysical.

Reflections in puddles.

Even the universe is a hologram.


The wind
Has mass

Of dusk
On road,

Like a mountain,

A glacier

The night is

The dusk



The self is a card trick
In the dark
Without hands,

Sweeping sidewalks for

Speaking drastically,
The oomph that is not the self.

I made a diorama
Of the Triple Lindy
And left it on a diving


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.

On the Arm

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.

The Ghosts of Future Stars

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?

The Laundromat Laureate

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

The ghosts in your hair
Have misplaced their x-rays

Branded by
A bicycle moon
That began as an apple blossom.