The moon grows antlers and stops wearing clothes.

The cities of the Great Lakes are wild with the loneliness of the cosmos.

A penciled in whereabouts for identity. Synapses with the appetite of rainy pavement.    

The heart leaps grave canyons neighing stars. Only the ridiculous will survive.

Okay lost. Okay peanut butter and dusk sandwiches. Okay angels stole my socks.

Eyes the moon

For knowledge

It needs to remember

The first quiet steps

Of crossing the stars

The summer wind

Pacing in the August leaves

Always in September

The fleeing arrests

Of late summer blooms

The poets conducting

The toothsome fires

Putting out disasters 

Every flower in every abandoned city lot

Is part of eternity

In the reckless port of truth

With the rest of us. 

Both perpendicular and parallel 

And why not add paradox

Whose argument centers everywhere.

A poem causes data to quit.

Ambivalence is consciousness.

A green moon, said the June bees. And August
For a soul, agreed September. The obituary read,
It rained all day the first day of summer.

A moth is a solitary word and of the stars. Said July,
This ditty of a cosmos. The obituary read, 
On the longest day of the year we say goodbye. 

Under the long blue sky, we read out loud 
Our futures. And though I have already
Forgotten what was said, October remembers. 
And we hope for those who are gone this is true too.

The poet draws maps for imaginary tourists.

With these words
Underlines the galaxy.

The cosmos 
Is the footing
We stand on.

The leg-work of the eons.

The universe
Is a wave.

The wind measures the shore. 

Unknowing for a mustache. The universe strolls.

My feet

Are pirates.
My arms

Are pilots. 

My head

Is a checkout line
For daffodils. 

My lungs 

Are fine pastries

Of blue sky.
Me walking 

Like a song

Along the railroad 

Lines. 
My hands

Are roller rinks

Of sunsets. 

How can what’s finite
Fill the infinite?

What’s infinite fit
Inside the finite?  

Birds make up my hands

My hands are invisible

But not the birds

They have kept their feathers

They have kept their language

But stopped using words

Words are all I have

Now that the birds are gone

Visible only as the outlines of wings

The air-thin bones of sky

The sea-soaked philosophers know that logic is a wave function.
And that function, whether a wave or a dream, is as outrageously
Real as the rest of us. 

The desert-dry stars are aluminum fairy tales in pop-can verse.
The happenings of what happened are now charged with memories.
And both memories and gravity pull you in.

What can be can only be what we are willing to guess
And what we have become to mean. Handwritten somewhere between
The calligraphy of philosophy 
And the probability of a poem.