The buzzing beliefs of cosmic
Ambling, the beautiful
Preludes of darkness and
Cataclysm, then suddenly
Of atom and charge, spin
And recognition, the endless
Paths and the streetlights
Ever so slightly leaning into
The rain, passingly framed by the sound
Of bicycle tires on the wet
Pavement, and if this concludes
In a diving board sky
Crowned by the harangues
Of cloud and dusk and
The wind in the leaves,
The backyard sermons
Of joint and lawn chair, the
Feral cat staring from what radius
It deems safe, or the smokestack
Of the old dairy now an eyrie
For pigeon and tonight’s moon.

The cold swept the roads white.
The stars, strung out
On the hard sky like
Stones or shale or walnut casings.

The eddies of galaxies twined
In super structures of time
And gravity, that they are
Something, just something,
Bristling with difference,
And have stakes in life and death,
In bright clouds and fanning out
Vistas of turning horizons,
And blood in the veins, the sport
Of poetry and fielding
These spurred walks. That land
Me the miles of my untutored
Meanderings. And while some
Count the face of the dice, others
Its turns and hops.

The turns and hops of stars
And seasons, of fields swept
Brown and gray, the eddies of
Frustration, joy, love and the death
Of those lost from us, the mud
And frost, the swirling radiating
Surface of suns, or dark still rain puddles.
A journal of swirling words
On the surface of our diaries.
The difference how a road feels
At night or at dawn
As we foot its length.

A beautiful commotion of nonsense
And brevity. A madcap
Poetry perchance a narrow escape
From meaning.

Intoxicating 

The wind
Fills the room with
The smell of rain.

The taxi cabs are now fairytales,
Washed ashore by UFOs.


The Music Hall

Everything is as it seems.
Flat tires, balloons, fireflies, gambling, 
Fallen leaves. The horn section on LSD.


Philosophy 

Every object is as unreal
As it is real.


Bon Voyage 

Over large stretches my luggage
Is a sky-grin ascending.

Impounded is improbable.


Shadow Work

Your shadow has no interest in being your mirror. 
Your shadow has poems to write
And tall afternoons to stand by.

Pages and pages of poems about afternoons.
Meandering all of them. 
Railroad lines for shoelaces.

Drummed Up Noisy Wellbeing

The circling stars.
The deserted railroad yards.
The pleading distance.
Consciousness humming.

Hold onto the sky, the dusk,
The flowers in the field.
I walk and I walk, like a cast stone,
Behind the old factory,
Above me the blue sky.


Post-Work	
	
The clerk alphabetizes
Piano concertos by tone.

All the while on stilts, 
With a spyglass.

Clouds in the distance
Head the ledgers.


Field Guide	
	
A star 
Depending on mass
May end up a hole
In the ground of the universe.


The Autumn Rain

The autumn rain
Is drastically the 
Idea of a sandwich. 

We agree.

A straight line
On a plane 
Can’t 
Touch its toes.

But
A berry
From this world
Can.


The Philosophy of Horizons

Specifically, the chapters on distance,
Is the zoology of time.

You can accompany
All the volume of space and time,
Always, wherever you go,
Because it has stripes
Like a tiger.

Curvature 

Butterfly wings
And gravity wells.


Symbolism 

Before there were stars, before luggage, 
Before there were poems. Poetry whistles π.


Lunch

The same bread and poem sandwich.


Wager 


On chance and beauty, rooftop alliterations, naïve symphonies,
The words that thread the here and there,

To gambol, dangling like a comet over a telekinetic city, 
On what the poem is to wear and how to seed its fusion, its gravity, 

To travail profound enthusiasm over the city fields in moon-red footsteps.  


Up To My Neck in Stars 

It's wonderful
How it fidgets

An anticipation especially in the feet
That the heart can't fail

An anticipation especially in the feet
That the heart is full
And ready for more

Old grain mills, now abandoned. It’s an interesting place to wander around.

You can walk around inside, though are are not supposed to.

This is the bottom of a storage silo. The grain would pour out of here.

You can climb in from bottom. This is a view from the inside where the grain was stored. It makes for a remarkable echo chamber.

This is a poor quality video. And it sounds so much better in person.

It’s takes a few hours, but it’s a nice bike ride to Niagara Falls from where I live.

Me and my youngest, looking for driftwood along the Niagara River. Across the river is Canada.

Autumn Sublime 

Apples
Are nutritious and
Deciduous.


Today

I walk all day along the railroad lines.
Occasionally I stop to throw rocks at utility poles. Mostly
I miss. I will do this again tomorrow.  


Notes #4

In this ninja sky
An insomnia of love
Is absolutely possible.


The Whirlwind in Your Heart

Make use of what you peruse.
Aim was made to be wrestled.

If not
For the whirlwind in your heart
The sky would not be round.


The Poem

A single note
And prose-proof.


Serious and Not Serious 

Blockheads of poetry, 
Concrete hearts
Enamored of 
Birdbaths and barbwire.

Look!
An oboe jumping from a plane
Imitating an asteroid.


Unzip Space

Darkness doesn’t come from anywhere.
It never did and it never will.