The irony of turtles
Is jellyfish prose
Like a filibustering moon
Roundabouting a dream
In the driveway the cat
Asleep next to the oil splotch
An alliteration of reptiles
Sings Rocketman
Poetry toasts
The aria of balloons
In the hourglass
Too is infinity
Abstract
Poem
Because eternity has paws
And a wishing well for a creed
The shark cedes to the tulip
All of its armor.
In the Month of May
In the month of May, I stood in the yard, the dark roofs and power lines and one of my cats looking over at me and the gray clouds illuminated by the moon. Maybe I’ll study the numerology of paradoxes. The slanted roofs of this enchanted city. My own heartbeat. In the month of May, because it is a warm night, the universe grows horns like a ballad. A bouquet of fairy tales procured by the wind.
Lines Written in Spring
I prefer the scriptures of the dandelion.
The weight of happenstance.
Imaginary bouquets and
The fatigued folding chairs
At Prometheus’s funerals.
A solemn oath whispered into the large
Hole made by a construction crew.
There is a wild in the unbathed moon.
Said the universe, said the rain.
A light drizzle in a dream.
The streetlights hover without their stems.
The names of each thing have vanished.
Leaving a newfound hunger for stars.
The Sky, Almost Dusk, After Rain
The puddled sidewalks and streets are expert ocularists. And the roofs are ruddy and formal.
What to do with an abandoned car in an overgrown lot. We could toss coins at it to make our wishes?
We have a kind of photosynthesis in our souls, pending celestials at the doorway. The darkness threaded by a spool of angels. The property value of a gust of wind and of the dusk already into the hills.
The mass of the planets helped shape the solar system. And how much of that affects who I am?
4 Short Poems
Authentic:
A twangy guitar like volcano
Flowers.
A sparse harmonica
Like a ghost in the afternoon curtains.
Walking:
How a star
Invented a pulley system
In the arches between
Dreams
In addition to paradoxes
And doorknobs
The Moon:
Slapstick plate
Over the shed roof
And the reason your bicycle
Has a flat tire
Your Shoes:
UFOs in yachts
Even the sidewalks
Curve with spacetime
In Marker
I was buying three paintings a day
I was sponsoring chalk drawings
Anything with scribbles on it
I’d pick up off the street
Walking alongside junkyard walls I
Wrote on the corrugated steel “Do you know
The album, Zen Arcade, by Husker Du?
Out of Step, by Minor
Threat?"
I went to thrift stores, to city fields, church sales
Just to find the pictorial of light of deity of logic of everything that is endless
And terminal of dark of sun and the more popular binary stars
Be certain
To appertain
The havoc and the intention
The intervention of fiction
As Steve Zissou said,
"Nobody knows what's going to happen. And then we film it. That's the whole concept."
Michael (over at https://ravensweald.com/) and I were talking of old bands we listened to. And Hüsker Dü came up. I mentioned, not only did I like their music, but the title of the album, Zen Arcade and the cover art itself, has been influential to me. I brought up I had a poem were I mention the album title, but had taken it down. Deciding I didn’t like the poem. But I’ve given it another shot at editing. Still not sure it’s finished. But I thought I’d give it another try. I hope you enjoy. Thanks.
Poem
I plan on purchasing a crater from the moon when it becomes
Available for sale. I am a motivated buyer.
And I am as broke as an open field on the eve of
Dusk. My socks are garnishes from a leftover dream.
And I know the sea only by its many names.
I court a hectic thing I don’t have the words for.
A simple pretense as it always has been
Defying sameness and concord, edifying
Zigzag and along the lines of a hunch, this forest
In a dream is your soul’s cathedral,
The banister from heart to head.
Walking Poem
A walk is a glad
Unfencing of the
Present. The body
Finds it meditative.
Eventually, though, I stop for lunch.
A peanut butter and jelly
Sandwich and an apple.
I sit on some neglected ledge
Not far from the railroad tracks.
The posture of electric towers
Is impressive as I straighten
By back.
In the fields that run along the
Railroad tracks, that’s where
I often walk, I like the belated
Graffiti and all kinds of flowers
And insects, the corrugated metal
Fencing of the junkyard,
On which is spray painted:
"A spaceship
Like a hiccup
Lost of home"
&
"A passing moment
Not intended as far as I know of anything
At all. The rest I leave to the weather"
At the end of the path I am walking on is a
Clearing, where last year someone burned a car,
Leaving its charred remains.
From here I turn back and head home.
Anywhere
In a dream you are mumbled by a group of incongruous words. You find you have the silhouette of a jet pack for a tattoo. Between your shoulder blades. No memory of how it came about. The only way around this city is by bus. And this bus is possibly only a rumor, a wisp of shadow. The last few piano keys of a beautiful melody is the only currency for fare. You ride the bus for hours. You take it anywhere. Sometimes you close your eyes till you hear the last stop announcement. From there you try to find your way home. The only way home is by hunch. All in a hunch of wind and silence and by the look of deserted shoes dangling on power lines or following footsteps in a dream to disappear into. But all goes astray, and you find yourself at the end of an unfamiliar continent that ends at the sea, and how the waves reach the shore here is like the wishing of coins into a fountain. A strange accent of rain in the tread of your boots and the wind and spring you drag after you after hours along the railroad tracks and city streets. Who will pick this up, the images of birds? And will you find employment in the growing moon?
naïve haircuts 