Pursued by a Phony Deity

What is 
The policy concerning time travel in this poem?

Who knows? 

Sneezing is no easy matter,

Neither are the stars. 

The wrest is summer rain
From summer rain.  


All this 

Yet it was
At first 

No hands
On the wheel,



Sometimes the ephemeral 
Almost poses,

The dream rattles its antlers,

At the curb
A puzzled moon
In the rainwater.

An Allowance of Thistle Moon

What if it was just
The two of us

You by the window

Me across from you

There is nothing man-made 
About the sun


There are angels in
Our blood

On chaos

Without saying 
A word 


One could
Hold one’s breath
Till their hands taste
The moon’s dust
Share between us 
The few bent
Coins of wayward vending


What a mess
Of books and solitude

On the floor
On the shelves
The endless walks


Pockets of asteroids 
And feet like late afternoons 

Would I agree to draw
Up a flight plan?


I buried my whiskers
In the first light
Of the universe 

Railroad lines for shoelaces 


Ready to get a move on
A smile no different from direction

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