Abstract

Short Poems #4 (Pictures and a Video of Low Quality)

Bob, , , , 16 Comments 
Curvature 

Butterfly wings
And gravity wells.


Symbolism 

Before there were stars, before luggage, 
Before there were poems. Poetry whistles π.


Lunch

The same bread and poem sandwich.


Wager 


On chance and beauty, rooftop alliterations, naïve symphonies,
The words that thread the here and there,

To gambol, dangling like a comet over a telekinetic city, 
On what the poem is to wear and how to seed its fusion, its gravity, 

To travail profound enthusiasm over the city fields in moon-red footsteps.  


Up To My Neck in Stars 

It's wonderful
How it fidgets

An anticipation especially in the feet
That the heart can't fail

An anticipation especially in the feet
That the heart is full
And ready for more

Old grain mills, now abandoned. It’s an interesting place to wander around.

You can walk around inside, though are are not supposed to.

This is the bottom of a storage silo. The grain would pour out of here.

You can climb in from bottom. This is a view from the inside where the grain was stored. It makes for a remarkable echo chamber.

This is a poor quality video. And it sounds so much better in person.

It’s takes a few hours, but it’s a nice bike ride to Niagara Falls from where I live.

Me and my youngest, looking for driftwood along the Niagara River. Across the river is Canada.

Short Poems #3

Bob, , , , 26 Comments 
Autumn Sublime 

Apples
Are nutritious and
Deciduous.


Today

I walk all day along the railroad lines.
Occasionally I stop to throw rocks at utility poles. Mostly
I miss. I will do this again tomorrow.  


Notes #4

In this ninja sky
An insomnia of love
Is absolutely possible.


The Whirlwind in Your Heart

Make use of what you peruse.
Aim was made to be wrestled.

If not
For the whirlwind in your heart
The sky would not be round.


The Poem

A single note
And prose-proof.


Serious and Not Serious 

Blockheads of poetry, 
Concrete hearts
Enamored of 
Birdbaths and barbwire.

Look!
An oboe jumping from a plane
Imitating an asteroid.


Unzip Space

Darkness doesn’t come from anywhere.
It never did and it never will.

The Asphalt Skies and Bright Blue Streets

Bob, , , 15 Comments 
To scribble out this uncanny dictation,
Of futuristic leanings while footing graffiti high-wires,
A steady diet of clouds and dusk ribbons,
The poesy of winged chance presses for uncertainty,
Late summer asters for a steering wheel,
While standing on the handlebars of rocket ships,
Err on the side of poetry, 
Like a full-grown beard on a butterfly,
A pittance of infinity to push off from,
Into the rummage of beauty and farewells,
Swung into a metaphysical orbit
Of awe inducing perspective,
The weight of everything coexists
With everything.

Short Poems #2

Bob, , , 14 Comments 
A Wooden Moon

A trumpet in a time travel movie
Of humans with tigers for brains.



Snippet

Late summer is a constellation, all stars and goldenrod,
A sonorous field, of insects and the nearby highway.
The first red in the leaves. Rocket-blue sky.   



The Void

Plainly, in matchstick ash,
On the asphalt.

At minimum, 
What particles are in play
In the dark.



Of Ethereal Biceps

It’s spring
And the moon is the wick
And I have only matches
For wings.



Observation 


The daft insect
On the pane

Like the photocopy of a verse.



Notes #3

I spent all morning 
With 
A trilogy of daises,

The 
Galaxy
Between my ears.

I spent the afternoon 
Feeding poetry
To pigeons.   

And stars, depending on mass, 
May end up as holes
In the ground of the universe.

Distance is one of poetry’s geometries.

Short Poems

Bob, , , , 19 Comments 
Dusk

The world is dusk and soiled collar, it is in the turn of a leaf.

The world is anxious, and who knows if the stars believe in ghosts?

I walk along the railroad tracks, the scrub, the flowers, across the scribbled trestles over city roads. 

Astronauts and apple blossoms share the same haircut. Yellow birds sing.



The Graffiti at the Rail Yard

Arcade orange and gusto blue,
Even if the letters are indecipherable

Like a haiku in a smoke-filled room, 
A cereal box of summer sky.



DIY

A simple record. Just guitar.
While standing in a pile of leaves.



Existential Crisis at Six Years Old

Like a box
All alone

Of crayons.



Reflection 

The moon, white and moonlike, unearths a quiet evening.



A New Shadow on the Chess Board

The stars parody distance,
Says the universe.

Ice cream,
Says the philosopher.

The cat on the windowsill is aware of it too,
Says the author.



Note #2

How the poet, on a walk, leans into the rain, like a unicyclist in zero gravity.

Abstract

Bob, , , 17 Comments

Simple duets of meaning and unmeaning. Buries us in stars.

The unnerving unbeginning of time. Only to tremble with belief in these lines.

To root for being… and always propelled by becoming.

In a city field, the summer all around me, I begin to recognize

Invisible minuets of insects, as I stand looking down the rail lines.

I send interstellar messages via the paper transistors of an origami radio.

Ephemeral

Bob, , , 17 Comments

Like the specter of tattoos
On the necks of ghosts,

Or the stars that blink telepathy along the curve
Of forever,

All is heeded on this walk,
Here and nowhere and everywhere,

The stars send out thoughts
Of blue birds on red branches or the first snow that
Kindles a city night,

In such poetic nonsense
Numbers give up their quantities,

This golden approach of mishaps.