The cloud-work for a tune. Cloud-work as formal
Attire. In a way, autumn moves away from
One, notice the red shift in the leaves. We
Talk galaxies and the cosmos. Of the hourglass.
The dance of masks.
And how the dance strips away the mask.
Infinity is pretty. The sofa is
From a garage sale. A soul is a crew of words.
Abstract
Poem
The area of a cold autumn
Wind in addition to
A crescent-colored inkling
Equals some kind of infinity.
It’s squares and circles minus
Any parachutes,
And flighty parallelograms,
The wealth of a clown, the diameter
Of a déjà vu,
A rain puddle of kisses
On the pavement’s cheeks and ears,
And between the stars
The gossamer of the cosmos.
Three Poems
Ditty
Poetry unpauses
What can’t be paused.
If successful, implausibly.
For an Hour
Just wavelengths.
Just a covenant of daydreams.
No words.
Fingers pinching the wind.
Poem
A cratered pendant
The moon
Has a mass equivalent to all
The windows open
In the world.
Here and there
A forlorn afternoon
The heart
But it’s present nonetheless
The ache of genius
Autumn.
As Is Poem
Because it’s like a vintage
Washing machine, a poetic-o-matic.
A coin operated
Hieroglyphic.
A wandering in cahoots
With soil and sun.
A trouble that follows
Me, sewn right into the ambulation.
The running of the planets
Into fate and life and a cup of coffee.
Short Poems
1.
The syllogisms that hold up silence
Are understandably invisible and
Full of oranges and greens and yellows,
That aren’t colors at all, but the fullness
Of a late afternoon.
2.
The wind in the trees
Picks up the wishes that will one day become a new cosmos.
3.
A bit of blown leaves holler at the chimney.
Afterward, now below, the blown leaves caught in the chain link.
On the abandoned apartment building
Someone spray painted gothic arches.
4.
Forever is a verb
With clouds for hair
And coat buttons
Of highways
Germinating into the
Sky
An eclipse
Is the mailing address
Of dark matter
Forever is the typeface
Of letting go
5.
The rain sounds out the road, into the windy streets,
The cosmos of walking.
That’s why there are stars,
Over and over, love is something new.
End of Summer Poem
The pigeons wing a faraway blue.
And the singsong crickets are the color of fields.
And so, by analogy, we are not robots.
And so, by the many horizons theory, the sky is forever.
With the shoreline on the tip of your tongue, the clouds head out to sea.
Our Shadows are Complexity
Like the tall grass fielded
By an inkling of eternity.
Shaped by wind and sun
And rain and a poet’s pen.
A charisma, of sorts.
Like a darted valentine
Bolted to the breast.
As a meteorite to a flame
Upon atmosphere,
The cosmic act of self.
3 Short Poems
I’ve written a hundred poems underneath
The blue post office collection boxes, scribbled
On telephone booths these tribes of words.
Counted paint peels on weathered lampposts.
Till it came down to a coin toss in a dream.
~
I know I can be disjointed, and ramblingly
Quiet. Fragments of fragments.
And what is the point of these iterations?
If I haven’t said my ghosts outright, fair enough,
Yet I give them the haunt of these pages.
~
Where does it go? Is a rainy question.
Why does it tumble? Out of the pure summer air.
Your leaving is like the gospel of parting.
And cocoons are the opposite of mummies.
Meteorites
On the railroad trestles all over the city is all kinds of graffiti, which inspired me to write a poem: “On a railroad trestle, / Idle words, spray-painted, like falling leaves / Forgotten by guitar.”
Rain puddles make excellent calculators. Indeed, the square root of blue equals eleven triangles. This fact has weight, like the atmosphere. Which we hardly notice. And we should.
On my walks, I am glad to see someone I know. I ask, “How you doing? Everything well? I add, “Glad to see you.” And I mean it. But more often than not, when I am out walking, I’m alone. I like the mornings best. I like Walt Whitman and Federico Fellini. I also like to walk along the Niagara River and to stop and sit and pay attention to the birds. I like to nose around the old industrial sites and look up at the old factory panes or what’s left of them. They look like they haven’t brushed their teeth in four decades and have been chewing on bolts. I enjoy it when the orchestra brings out the percussionist.
A Certain Fancy
The mind loiters, the labor
Of which, like the dew on the
Spider’s web. Clandestinely we egg
Ourselves on. Or in outright
Ambush of all reservations.
And now that the rain has passed,
Brought to benediction
By a chicory crowded moon
Harboring an albatross neck tattoo.
naïve haircuts 