Distance is the moth wing
That smells like a lunar landing.
Our solar system began as a gaseous
Cloud.
The autumn leaves this year began
As blue typewriters.
A poem is hardly a poem, said
Vortex and valise. Said the sea,
What is the meaning of wind
In the trees?
Homesick for what is unfinished
Like leaving a dream to go to another dream.
Abstract
Marginalia
The graffiti outside the concert hall
Is shabby, but beautiful, like the footwork of downspouts.
The grammatically correct lightbulbs, but for the fingerprints
Of new moons.
Like the notations in a dream, unevenly underlined, then
Soon forgotten.
The calligraphy of the video game Asteroids
Is a favorite study of Aristotle.
Aristotle loves marginalia.
What if you could add up all the circumferences in the galaxy?
As for that total, though I don’t know outright, I hum the tune.
We are all spacewalking.
Fragment
And if I have spent my certainties, I have
Also pooled my uncertainties, a body
Meandered into a wayward dignity.
All time is of a length, and all lengths are relative,
And lacking an absolute foothold, proclaims
Feet everywhere.
Poetry is a Brain Heist
Listening to an old Walkman
At the bus stop.
The darling splendid ruffling up of
Routine. I took the day off
Of work.
A sidewalk dream meandered
All day.
Who knew the stars in our dreams
Are the same stars when we are awake.
Do paradoxes dream?
Poem
If you find me flattering. Take that!
If you find the universe boundless. Take me with you!
If you find me kind. Study disheveledness.
If you find me asleep. Wake me up. What’s the difference?
If the cause is plain. And the outcome complex. Can I ride shotgun?
An almost neurotic need to start over and walk
Away from all these muddled manifestations
So I may join other muddled manifestations
In my washing machine washed socks
Bright as fiction and sturdy as butterflies
At a construction site.
Once ever one billion years the moon
Blows its spout and takes in new air.
Poem
Every satellite is a spy.
Every missing sock is an orchestra.
A bend in the road
For a bank account.
What was left I lost
In the evening rain.
Yet on
We drove
In open
Rebellion
With designs
On sublimity.
Like a treetop in a dream,
The sea washing away
Its own footprints.
Flying Saucers Only Land in the Summer
Summertime flying saucers
And melancholy postcards.
Ice cream cones and
Rain puddles.
However briefly
And in this passing,
I pass too,
Is how I’d like to stay.
One’s stake in the world
Like fire dancing over ice.
Our first love poems
Bulit on breaths of sweet air.
Always and always
The roam of brain,
The investigating moon,
Notes in the seawater.
Exercise
The heart
As flower
Lifting weights.
As moonlight
The heart
Running miles.
Out of breadth
The heart remembering
The years of all the galaxies.
The heart
As sentiment jogging
If the universe is in a major
Or minor key.
Hello Again
Hello again.
The light from the lamppost reflecting off the rims
Of your glasses.
As deep as a well in a fairy tale
The stars burn.
What have you been up to?
I spent the afternoon playing
Mini golf alone.
Sitting quietly listening to the sound of rain on the pavement
Play out its equivalence.
Airing out a bed sheet after calling off work
Turns devotional.
And the waltzes before 6am.
A cloudy cut of afternoon
Along the railroad tracks
And a little rain just started.
If it gets worse, I’ll stand under
The viaduct for a while.
And the lack of meaning or too much meaning in the red leaves
Astonishes even into the cells and nerves
When autumn fetches the hills.
Like a ship
Parting with the night
Of a prowl
Hardly stepping
Of the sea
Till cloud-decked
With purpose.
Primitive loops of wind
And rain and streetlight.
Over the railroad trestles
I walked since a kid
I’ve done this and picked field
For its lonesome.
Heading home at dusk across a parking lot overrun
And left for potholes.
Potholes are nature’s ingrown toenails.
Unless filled with rainwater.
What could a gymnast do on the even bars?
Let’s begin with a mess, shall we?
New Year Poem
Ghosts come in from the sea
Leaving footprints just above the ground
That only the wind remembers.
Frantic the city poet
An orange traffic cone for a wand
Leaps like a librarian through the dewy grass.
The moon an avid documentarian
As solemn as a whimsy spring afternoon
In a landscape of green ideas.
And if I may
Also add
How often
Rivers are
Dreams are
Each other.
naïve haircuts 