I am ready
For the perfect legs I don’t remember
The silence of swim suits in the branches of stars
For the shaman to burn my habits and pull the cosmos out of a sock
The sleeveless sun like an alphabet flying a kite
poem
Heading Home
If I should
Head home
By now.
Back
To the
Strange
Shoelaces
Of angles.
But that’s how you remember
Black holes are timeless.
And
It is in life
You find the words
For words you don’t
Know.
Evolution manages imagination.
Just Any Poem
To perturb the air
The moon
In gallant horseplay
Seems to be as still as a chimney.
Though it has no use for ladders.
The kites on Mars
Are as blue as the sea.
But don’t let depression garble you yet.
There is the melancholy of the heart
To broach this night of shoulders
And elbows.
The poem can be
Black as a match head.
Vigilante as applesauce.
A wink in the thunder.
A thud on the daisies.
An illumination
Flipped
On its side
Kicking at balloons.
Wish me luck.
City Walk
I write of my city walks
The sandwiches I eat
I write of the solitude
And the presence
I think you will laugh
I think your elbows are distant clouds
I walk the rail road lines
I say nothing for days
I plot my take
On the world
In rain puddles
With a November
Leaf
As chief science officer
Love’s Lost Shoes
My tee shirt jumped out the window.
The sunset bellowed like a turning leaf.
Thunder did not wait to ring the doorbell.
This may seem but abandonment, and it is,
But what’s more, it is a new pocket
And the whispery laces of love’s lost shoes,
The derangement made tidy by
The universe, shadows in doorways, April’s
Chill roads and rainy fingers, the blistery rings.
You can hear quiet became aware
Of the silence arriving.
It is a fact that Saturn is a planet.
And to live is to with one
Heart bear the weight of sorrow and summer mornings.
The moon is not insured,
It has always been that way.
Joy Pressing
There is no truth to what I’m saying, no pegs
To hang your coat on.
If you wish for a hat rack, somewhere to lay you head,
You’ll find no sympathy here.
Only an obscure joy
Pressing its fins
Against the sea of yourself
With nothing to lose`
The Prettiest Prose
I can’t complain. Hercules
Was metaphysic. The heart
Of an angel is isosceles. But
Seriously. I’m doing alright.
—
The day shrunk into the
City edges. You know what
I mean. For a second it is
The deep sea. What pinks.
What finery.
—
The graffiti isn’t in a hurry
To go. The house
Is old anyway. And the lawn
Thank goodness is dandelion
Messy.
—
Just the blue and the purple-blue shapes that spin and collect the stuff the pushes down on time.
—
A rake of leaves
Without a handle
Without a lawn
—
The picture you tore and sold as a souvenir
Of a hallow moon
Arms pining for the old gods
