Unlearned clouds
For a bible
Untethered lines
For verse
A travail song
For the coarse lune
The blue-black
Stocked sky
Several birds in a yellow
Tree intent as the first stars
Abstract
Just a Minute
The pursuit
Of siren-red
Stars
Blue radios
Nowhere
Stationed
A heap of autumn
Comets
Over an orange
Reservoir
A superb distance
To lean into
A superposition
Of poetries
Short Poems #4 (Pictures and a Video of Low Quality)
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
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
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.
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 