A turning over of self,
By season and tract, it can’t be helped,
Like a whack of verse on the head seizing capillary
And shoe size.

And in the margins too, this is forever,
All of it, all of us, the dandelion, the tower,
Silence resting beneath a stone,
Along these roads, onto galaxies of
Coming home, the beautiful trouble of stars.

Of these afternoons, I am
Wildly in love with the wind
And alighted by its hurried
Poems.

The buzzing beliefs of cosmic
Ambling, the beautiful
Preludes of darkness and
Cataclysm, then suddenly
Of atom and charge, spin
And recognition, the endless
Paths and the streetlights
Ever so slightly leaning into
The rain, passingly framed by the sound
Of bicycle tires on the wet
Pavement, and if this concludes
In a diving board sky
Crowned by the harangues
Of cloud and dusk and
The wind in the leaves,
The backyard sermons
Of joint and lawn chair, the
Feral cat staring from what radius
It deems safe, or the smokestack
Of the old dairy now an eyrie
For pigeon and tonight’s moon.

The cold swept the roads white.
The stars, strung out
On the hard sky like
Stones or shale or walnut casings.

The eddies of galaxies twined
In super structures of time
And gravity, that they are
Something, just something,
Bristling with difference,
And have stakes in life and death,
In bright clouds and fanning out
Vistas of turning horizons,
And blood in the veins, the sport
Of poetry and fielding
These spurred walks. That land
Me the miles of my untutored
Meanderings. And while some
Count the face of the dice, others
Its turns and hops.

The turns and hops of stars
And seasons, of fields swept
Brown and gray, the eddies of
Frustration, joy, love and the death
Of those lost from us, the mud
And frost, the swirling radiating
Surface of suns, or dark still rain puddles.
A journal of swirling words
On the surface of our diaries.
The difference how a road feels
At night or at dawn
As we foot its length.

A beautiful commotion of nonsense
And brevity. A madcap
Poetry perchance a narrow escape
From meaning.

Intoxicating 

The wind
Fills the room with
The smell of rain.

The taxi cabs are now fairytales,
Washed ashore by UFOs.


The Music Hall

Everything is as it seems.
Flat tires, balloons, fireflies, gambling, 
Fallen leaves. The horn section on LSD.


Philosophy 

Every object is as unreal
As it is real.


Bon Voyage 

Over large stretches my luggage
Is a sky-grin ascending.

Impounded is improbable.


Shadow Work

Your shadow has no interest in being your mirror. 
Your shadow has poems to write
And tall afternoons to stand by.

Pages and pages of poems about afternoons.
Meandering all of them. 
Railroad lines for shoelaces.

Drummed Up Noisy Wellbeing

The circling stars.
The deserted railroad yards.
The pleading distance.
Consciousness humming.

Hold onto the sky, the dusk,
The flowers in the field.
I walk and I walk, like a cast stone,
Behind the old factory,
Above me the blue sky.


Post-Work	
	
The clerk alphabetizes
Piano concertos by tone.

All the while on stilts, 
With a spyglass.

Clouds in the distance
Head the ledgers.


Field Guide	
	
A star 
Depending on mass
May end up a hole
In the ground of the universe.


The Autumn Rain

The autumn rain
Is drastically the 
Idea of a sandwich. 

We agree.

A straight line
On a plane 
Can’t 
Touch its toes.

But
A berry
From this world
Can.


The Philosophy of Horizons

Specifically, the chapters on distance,
Is the zoology of time.

You can accompany
All the volume of space and time,
Always, wherever you go,
Because it has stripes
Like a tiger.