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.
Abstract
Is Cosmic
The self is cosmically real, And certainly, more fictitious than thunder disappearing Between the fingertips of the moon, A grave and magnificent contest drawn in the dust of stars.
Short Poems #2
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
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
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
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.
naïve haircuts 