Squeezing Cosmic Folds into the Joints of Neurons

“Truce,” said the wind.
“Never!” declared a psychological
“I am the table and the chair.”
But you insist,
Do shapes have addresses? 
Can they be reached
By letter?
What if there is an emergency
Of lines
And geometry is busy
Can’t be reached
By post?
What if I am asked by wind
If there is truth in the wind?
You say that,
Carries a stone fist.
And a broken leg
For a tattoo.
That darkness has no wires.
No boxes. No caves.
No under the bed.
No above the stars.
It is as shirtless as a penny.
It grows with the grass.
It offers a chance
To look around.
It picks up the rain into the
But I remember most
The seams
Of asteroids
In the darkness.

Future City

Even wore. I found pieces 
Of the moon under my pillow.
In my city you could be arrested
For breaking the moon.
There are few of us left.
I draw wings on the old walls.
I will never tell them.
I write about pieces of the
Moon on paper with lead.
Memorize 864,000. It is
The diameter of the sun
In miles. Even worse.
The pieces are gone. Rumor
Has it I never found them.
That I don’t even know what
Wings are.
I’ll never tell them.
Silent like a falsetto
In a parking lot of album covers.
And if this poem had a sharpie
Spell up the trestles
With the forgotten the names of every flower
How they haw and look at the sky
And, like me, never tell what they see.

What is Form but Prompting You to Turn the Page?

I know that you are tired of hearing me talk. And you say, I am tired of hearing you talk. I nod and say, the table leans a little. But that’s it.

Poems should lean a little. And cats should cry at the door to come in. Saturn whistles like a dump truck. A poet puts up graffiti in a city less tangible than the threadbare guts of being alive . Our fingers fidget like a can opener in a cloud.

Please don’t take this poem seriously, almost every letter is out of place, it’s a miracle it’s legible, and vastly improbable any of it is true.

Anyway, it’s a love poem

At night, there is a man whistling for his dog. Not even the crickets reply. Which is terrifying.

I open the window and look out. I too don’t hear the man.

A Little Resolution

Simple like an asteroid,

Arrogant like a few pillows,

Stamps like approval,

Not a funny poem,

Serious eyebrow poem,

Unbuttoned shirt poem,

A poem wearing floods and, in a sweater,

Vagrant with the fingerprints of an ill-played tuba,

Simple like how a carrot looks in the fourth dimension,

Simple poem about sidewalk cracks,

And if not for my complex feet: in the fifth dimension flowers are made of string theory,

I just want to write poems of unwanted words,

The empty bowl that only knows the echoes,

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

I’ll write poems too, small ones, by an open window, the moon like a dog licking a plate,

What’s to be whittled, and what dust, from what moon, did rake the sun?

Current Events

The world is brittle, and incapable of turning inside out.
The world is anxious, and who knows if the stars believe in ghosts?
The world is dusk, soiled collars, it is in the turn of a leaf.
I write about robots, and railroad tracks, flowers, a list of poems 
so scrambled and disjointed and unlikely to be anything 
but scrambled and disjointed.
I write that astronauts and apple blossoms have the same haircuts,
even as the little yellow bird in the evergreen sings like the 
diameter of the moon.
I write for habit’s sake, to fend off the April morning, to no avail
keeping a firm arm span from the late summer night. I tend to a 
fiery garden, and measure its wingspan.
I write the barriers are breached, the temples quacked, the first 
of the first snow breaks apart the air, and nibbles on bright darkness.
The world is strident, and misadventure. The approximation of untruth. 
And yet I write of poems, how they dig in the dirt and find
comets that have yet to hit the earth.
That God is a few lines of chalk on the cement, and everything else.  

The Cursive Guts of Calligraphy Bells

In the dust of nameless flowers, of the cursive guts of calligraphy 

What ear can lift silence, from its sleep?
The moon, in front of the winter trees, Said,                                                                                                                                                    
All rivers are habits
Swung by gravity,
Each shadow that lifts a finger
Baffles an integer.
Electric footsteps play the guitar, the wind can hear you, science 
    fiction puddles, the tattoos of whodunit, the spacecraft of 
    deserted trees ravenously beatific.
In the prance of a quite walk, the city curls in on itself, till it is 
I leave foot prints ahead of us,
Gaseous clouds
Turning star.
And give poetry
To pigeons.

Rain Water

A reflection
In the rain water.
The banter of something. In the
Sentiment of somewhere else.
This is true.
A reflection is the sentiment of somewhere else.
Pretending to be something near.
Gave me your hand.
So I can trace the serial numbers of your favorite poems.
The umbrella
Is a reflection in the rain.
Standing there with its hands on its head.
Let swim the daft fractals.
Tie tight the headbands of angels.
A reflection is 
A four handed polonaise
On a two-legged piano.
The fire from a star in a spring tree.
Who importune
With joy.

Always With Us

The rain sounds out the road, into the windy streets,
The cosmos of walking.

In the end we hear the decibels
Of the sun, without the roots
Of dust.

Till then,
I write chance.
Life is the square of tree and moon.

Life is a squint, a DIY cassette,

A messy aim, a stupefied grin, and perfection.

That’s why there are stars,
Though always with us,
Over and over love is something else.

Amateurs of the World Unite and Take Over

Briefly, and loosely, the butterfly mirrors the night. Like an angry river,

If patterns are a process, this visits language.

With painstaking naiveté, under a rotary dial dusk, this existential cowlick
Never burdens folly with precision.

I only write poems to defy paragraphs. Torn shorts and short poems,
An hour of television. In this cosmos inconsistencies are stars.