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.
Abstract
Checkout Line
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
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
And Throw in some Grammar
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.
A Short Spring Poem
Poems are immaterial music.
If laid on the floor become trapdoors.
Each dream is specifically unreal
And every unreal is true too.
The spring sun is a spelling error,
A pantheist without a paycheck.
And it’s pancakes and karate chops
That resurrect the day.
Time Matters
The moon is envelope white
And flat like a pressed flower. Some gas giants are blue against the backdrop
Of eons. Dandelions are the universe too.
Daisies are hydrogen and carbon.
A point has no circumference. Meanderers love the horizon.
Brontosauruses are the universe too.
The wind buoys the lungs.
Time’s whereabouts is the end game of metaphysics. How time arrives
And from where is the universe too.
Poems
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.
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.
naïve haircuts 