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?
art
Penniless
I found you standing on a chair. The following day, I found
You standing on a table. Your hair unbuttoned,
Except for a few clouds above the curlicues of your thoughts.
Delighted, you built imaginary cities on the horizon.
It was how you closed your eyes
That made the darkness so beautiful.
I found you on the roof branching like a profound fever
Into dreams, into the weather, arabesque in a thrift store cape.
Avidly, in a diving contest with the last of the afternoon.
And how the seasons translate the unsayable.
We go into business selling the open fields to the rain.
Agnostic Evenings
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
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
Some Dirt in the Eye
a robot of wings, a skateboard ramp of dusk, somehow dirt in eye, a blister ephemeral, a doorway that lacks a sense of direction,
a robot of twigs, a drinking fountain that somewhere in the chapters on sleepless nights, are the outlines of poems, bankrupt in paradise,
robot of final stanza, cordless, lopsided of dreams, in the shoes of long summer walks, a lost summery/summary by the author, a vision of information and how it travels,
a simple word, and a second simple word, and so on, till it is finally simple enough,
according to legend, all such declarations, on the surface of rain puddles, the dandelion grows on an allowance of curb, in the rain…with a brick in one hand
No Menu Poetry
In the uneven margins
And over the scribbled lines
Sometimes the sad gallons in the moon
A tattoo of a trash heap
The sleeve of poesy rolled up like a cup
The sky
Was never where it was
The stillness you feel
Is the universe expanding
The measure needed
For new windows
Sooner and later is a just so story
The mystery keeps its gambols
A Certain Affair
All fate is disorder.
This works in this way,
In the fourth dimension
A coin would only have one side.
naïve haircuts 