Making it Up as We Go Along

Abstract scarf
Spooling the neck

Like the void
Curfewed by a nightingale

A dark peppermint splash

Beauty, eyes, glance, thought

Pummeled by a straight edge
Refusing to be intelligent

A non-negotiable beauty

Somethings are meant to be said
In such a way


Like the light,
The last of it, in a room otherwise
Devoid of light

And darkness,
Cheery like a young cheek, yearned
for the door to be closed

Late Summer Sun

I couldn’t say whether the anonymous
Kite, loose in the storm, had a name.

And is deserving of one now.
And so, like a child

I turned out the light

With a wish.


The field, the wildflowers,

Sniffed out the alone of late summer sun

With a solemn oath.


The world is disappearing. Accordingly, the shadows pay less to get into the fair. I have seen the sidewalk cracks, the cracks in the wind, the wind in the void, the cracks in the cracks.

And the ghosts, they too had names, and this would be our poetry.


Will this life be too smooth

Or the rough of happiness
Caught in the throat

Till we too are on our feet
Whispering to stars


A few lines
Enjambed on a railroad trestle,
Idle words, spray-painted, like falling leaves
Forgotten by guitar.


Dusk hinged to departure.

Everything ducks for cover, including the moon.
Please consult the paperwork, I have been busy
Doodling stanzas, and chasing verses.

Naive Journals

A cluster of brain cells like analog stars.

Poetically unstable, but what can you do?


Language formally
Known as language.


The apple blossoms.
Just spelling it is pleasurable.

Clouds are dust and hydrogen and oxygen.

Where poems hang their garments and solemn as frogs

Reckon the ripples between the stars.


As a child, I sometimes burned vision-like.

Airplanes are mundane.


In the passing trees the bicycle hesitates.


I can remember the look of the river with my shoes in it.

A little of this poem
Reminds me of a Tuesday


What’s the time signature of the universe…cursive or print?

If I may, this banter is never at a loss to sense.

The lingo between two slices of bread, slapstick for a toothpick.

From kindling to fire, the moon paddles. One immense sea.

As if insignificant is any woe. Let’s be fair, June opens the envelope. Infinity too in how you sit, including gravitational waves.

And to be breathing is enough, as is lunch, dust, twig, and space…according to the topography of poetry.

How the dusk fidgets, if you close your eyes,

How the eons tingle in your synapses, for strings.

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

Nice to Meet You Too

How often you say, we just met.

Or how you pass the salt, because
The cosmos is everything other
Than what isn’t there.

If not that as well.

Your voice, the tone is bare,

If you include
The dusk at the end of the road.

We eventually
Become as tiny as galaxies.

When We are Gone

How the broken plates resembled
The moon. This was no accident.

June asked, may I march
In April puddles before
I am August? If this banter
Is likeable, neither are you.

The sky clear of its misgivings.
The heart shirtless of its understandings.

A vibe of sunshine
Goes without shear.

Who will collect the saw
Dust from the changing gods
When we are gone?

(Another old poem)