What Next?

I clear my throat
Of everything
But chance 



I walk 

A pit stained poesy
Like a collapsing building

The Sky-

Where oboes
Go to die

A dating game
For unreal lips 


The steps you take are both thunder
And remembering

Each gesture is beyond the mirror

As for the present
If you have not already 

Skip the words
Wait and make shadows in the rain

Jukebox Cinema


A nifty sliver
As a cocoon.

Swift as a stalled
Decades in the making.

Folding and folding
Uncreaseable wings.


In these wrists
Ephemeral soles,
Witches on broomsticks,
And the plumbing I stole
From the drowning poet.


Numbers, undoffed 
Of cardinality, 
Yet stand attention,
This is the road, ever forsaken
Of sequence, forsaken and bright
As the endless dark that never


Before the stars could speak.

The shadows of lost diameters
Measureless now
Like childhood moons.

And what space they dreamed,
Commanded, played,
In the ageless circumference,

Amongst the sleepless paradoxes.


These are my last words. I want to end the sounds of words. 

Just for today.

And walk 
With the tattoos of evolution.

All Sound Rests on No Sound

Fall fall fall fall fall,

Like fathom feathers,

Like Jupiter eyes,

Till at the end of the self,
The alphabet gives up the ghost,

And in this dust
New spectacles 
Breathe in the firsts
Of perception

Again. Again 

The doubling of cells,

The doubling down of wiring,

And at most 
The winning of confusion,
From this
Real steps.


Mischievous infinitesimals
Chide the ego.

All sound rests on no sound.

What is the price of being particular
That can but be halved?

But go on. You must.

Endorse your leg muscles. Your poetic anxiety.

Chide back. 

Messy Beginnings (old poems revisited)

The Blue Feet of the Sun-

The blue feet of the
Sun like
Ethereal wads of
Chewing gum

In this ninja sky
An insomnia of love
Is absolutely possible


A Feral Soup for Wandering-

Up from the ankles
Of messy beginnings

I promise

A feral soup
For wandering

The uncountable knees
Of each star

The troubled fire
That leaves no
Paw prints

Poems raised by roads

A pedigree of precipice

The hijacking of the pantaloons
Of our galaxy

Roads raised by poems


Used Car Lots in the Month of May-

Blue stars with yellow brains of dust of the green of dusk
Like used car lots in the month of May.

And what difference a few birds like a few words are all that’s left
Of blue stars whose laughter is scarlet chopsticks.

It is the brighter darkness that does not need the rhetoric of flames.

How do I Say it Plain, I am Accustomed to Saying it Otherwise?

The Score-

A note in the third measure
Begins to move backward in time.

Would it have been better to begin with
Illegible sonnets?

The Tower-

A subtle maybe 
Of dusk 
On the lips

Has yet to land
And never will.

The self settles in like a pencil
In a toaster,

Tipping between worlds,
Ideas and sounds,

Wearing only the ideas of shoes
Before breakfast.


A ribbon
By ghosts,

Like the taste of an apple
Or the sound of a garbage truck,
Possibly the memory of the sea.


I make
What a ghost

In an empty hallway.

No Answers- 

Can laughter make the trees
Turn white, said the moon?

It can, questioned the sea,

With a cadence only
Moonlight could sustain
While gurgling cannonballs. 

In a Time of Sad-

The sea and the heart
Share one memory,

Clouds hardly notice
The speed of light.

Poorly Written Novels

A dump truck in orbit. 

Will need to be resolved.

Uncertainty as a system allows
Pockets of possibility.   	 

Does not need to be resolved.

This must
Resemble a few lines
Of verse.

What else do we have?


Carrying my metaphysical
Shoes, over my enigmatic
Shoulders, happy as a guitar 

Everything matters: the trees,
The sky, this jalopy of a 

I chew up all my words. 

I am almost afraid
How beautiful it is. 


Going forward, 
There will be lines and metaphors
(in these poems),

But no words.

To write a poem is to regret.
If only I had the words to not have them.   


The universe is being chased 
By distance

On the Strings of Gravity (More Short Poems)

The Blight of Poetry-

Like a pulled tooth

Chapped lips and a hole in 
The sole

A tee shirt 
That reads Add Verse

Double crossing hexameters
(Whatever those are)

And me
Baffled hair
Writing it all down

For Walt- 

The sea
Is all of our names
Without being any of them.

My Favorite Novel-

On the chalk board
Two dimensional windmills

And Quixote 
With a barber’s bowl
For wings 

Film Critic-

Kung Fu Hustle
Is the true spiritual
Sequel of the Matrix 


Electromagnetic fields
To stand in. And then there’s mass. Not to be 
Confused with weight. 

What was said
Spoke of beginnings, 

The cowlick birds
Holler on the strings of gravity. 

A Stone on a Pillow-

You establish it is 

By opening a window

By solving some math problems
In a notebook

Feeding the birds

By the look of the city roofs

And no matter how far you walk

Least Likely to Stick to a Plan (Short Poems)


The scrubbed stars
Took all day
Like a tub in an old room.


Now look, a shipwreck of lights 
Equal to the theater of the universe.


Battered, folded
Into paper planes  

Like the unlikely 
Waist of a green

That’s When I Reach for my Revolver Record-

I am looking for a verse.
I am standing by the sea, whistling a Saturday morning cartoon theme.
I gather a few juxtapositions. Wonder, awe, fear, dissolution, realignment.
I am starting a blog of the photos I collect of sidewalk cracks.    

Don’t Forget-

Along with immense size, 
How infinitesimal the universe is

Would make a haiku blush.

But Not You

What ghosts of what stars did we know?

If you could count all the acres and every plasma swirl of the sun, all the yellow gulls of its every beach,

What then?

Can we lose everything

To the untenable slopes of love?


I haven’t the soonest blue
Or the latest sonnet by Homer. 

Like a last place finish, the lone kite in the sky.
As the moon opens its suitcases.


I’d like to see this through, outlandishly so. I study the effects of gravity on my houseplant. 
I ride my bicycle over to say hello. The rain clouds interrupt, though it never rains. 


Latter at the drive-in neither of us 

Will recognize each other

Or the lengths we sought to not 

Fall in love. 


I specialize in putting words
Just out of reach. 

But not you. 

Cubist Roller Skates/Soundless Space


The velocity of a poem-asteroid 
Is elliptical alliterations.


Locals call the moon, Charlie Knuckles,
Who brought a fork and spoon into the desert. 

(Because of this I jumped into the ocean. 
And took my name from a turn in the road.) 


The dismal diameter
Bleak around

No matter how many megaphones
Without an atmosphere

The moon can't hear what it cannot say


Data is finite.


And yet, 

We crossed
The sea

And found the inaudible
Screams of the moon,

Buds on spring trees.


You were silent all though the movie.

Only once, I heard you say,

"The crimson sky over the city dump, the cosmonauts are a tree line."

You see the wire that holds the celestials, 

The magnetic ghosts in cubist roller skates.