Poems are pillows for the unsaid.
The emblems of aught.
The surgery
Separating winter and spring.
Poems are handlebars for the abstract.
The tassels windy of hunches.
The wild arteries of life.
Abstract
This is a Mess
Time is a messy theology
Ontology is marginalia
All the failed zoning of dreams
The horizon buries treasure
The best grammar drinks hose water
Gravity marks the spot
Chance is the logic of logic
Determinism is a just-so story
Chaos is the directory for the future
Footsteps carry a curt philosophy
The April moon is sparse of ideology
The moments that harbor infinity
Never last and never leave us
The stars are as mortal
As the peacock
Walking is a Reflection of the Inverse of a Dream
Trains and electrical towers buzzed in his head. The locomotive is a moth that drinks only from puddles that harbor the reflection of the moon.
And the moth, now a locomotive again, falls into the reflection of the moon.
Later that night, neither the rain nor the rain against the windowpane make a sound. It is the tree roots drinking, it is the roots of stars drinking. That resonate.
As Beautiful as a Planetarium (In Couplets)
Abstract sandwiches
Are baloney.
The ping pong playing peonies
Of electric yesterdays.
Distance is simple.
It smells feral and wears the sky on its head.
Rayguns and eyebrows
Volcanoes and arrows.
Apple unicycle bird
Barbarian heyday song.
A silly sleep of fire
Turning over like a dream.
The sun is a handkerchief
And badly in need of some tattoos.
This isn’t funny
But almost hilarious.
Writing love themes
For the galaxy.
Or Whatever Fuel UFOs Run On
The afternoon smells like a waltz. With hints of a
Mosh pit.
Tuesdays are for études. And classic rock
Tee shirts.
Let’s meet at the bodega and buy cans of beer and a bag of peanuts.
Feed the crows and make a day of it at the park.
Your eyebrows are infinite. Don’t laugh. I’m serious.
I want to open a gas station for UFOs.
Offbeat
Atonal butterflies
Like crackers breaking in half
In midair
Harmonious as a leak
Legible as a cold draft
Atonal daffodils
Are allergic to nihilism
And gardens
Use pointless random parades as currency
Robins are the first proletarians of spring
Even in Spring
The moon is a drought
Like a harpsichord in a vacuum
Overflowing with rivers
That are dreams
The dusk is scarlet like autumn
Even in the spring
Can a river ever find footing
Asked the lighted match
Ice is bottomless
Said the crows
From the bare winter boughs
But never absolute
The Odds Are Against Me
I make a nest.
I buy a hang glider.
I bring home a pulsar.
I borrow a sweater.
Lean against the strain
An ingenious ladder of stars
For an alphabet.
Its own stillness terrifies
The moon.
It’s true, imaginatively tested,
Autumn’s red leaves
Are capable of falling in and out of black holes.
A Dream
Preferably the dreams
Arriving from the blue sea
To the pentameters of oars
What it means
To have instead of coins
These spirited verses
Ashore the ghosts set fire
To their own ships
To bar the way back
Here they trace the portents
On the incoming tide
And make their final stand
The Invisible Violin
An abstract verse brings out the eyes, said the florist.
How one cradles a thunderstorm is philosophy. As is counting your lover’s footsteps on the untuned floor as the footsteps turn into motes in the afternoon light.
Every dream is a superstition that has a lot to say about you.
Do you hear, as well, the climbing notes in the setting sun? The bird-like departure of psychology into the horizon?
A psychology that has the structure of an invisible violin and an imaginary amulet. That with the changing of the seasons will find its way back to you.
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