puddles, bicycles, the cosmic microwave background, the holidays of stolen shoes barefoot in the spring, summer halos on poet vandals, of black marker epigrams on railroad trestles, of barbwire thistled with dandelions, the biceps of imaginary trees, the forehead of chicory dusk, the trance of knuckled stars, and sidewalks rapt with chalk operas,

the unavoidable cosmic, here in chance and outward in venture, the notes wrung of cascading rivers, the numbers in the pockets of ghosts, the turmoil of stars blistering with joy, the epiphanies that know the difference between one and one,

the waist of the moon summed in countless seconds standing with distant crows, to struggle these steps bright towards the arriving moments, the versified shoulders turning home at last, departing through stellar doors, and on these paths string the words for what the spring wind is good for,

Tattoos-

A lawn chair
On the forearm.

On the shoulder, the
Murmuring
Of birds.

Melody for a toy piano
On the dorsal of the hands.

Clothes-

No shoes
But the idea of shoes.

Appetite-

A table crowded with empty bowls.

Metaphysics-

The cosmos on the lips,
I breath it in through nostrils,
Pull its lint out of my belly button.

In Conclusion-

These poems that are intolerable
Improbable poems in yellow pants
At dusk in a ruined shirt staring at the future.

The rain. The dusk. The lone bassoonist. Sacked by a summer wind.

Brought home a sandwich of lost sidewalks. Out of a job, yet bookishly good looking.

If I was ever to the point, it was not in this poem.

If ever there was a point, it was not me that made it.

All that is left
Is chance,

Impossible
Solemn chance.

And love is

Your underwear on backwards. When it’s on at all.

My socks
Are damaged
Clouds,

Especially
The more
Ruined end
Of the couch.

~

I spent all morning
With
A trilogy of daises,

The
Galaxy
In my ears.

~

Dusk is a thing
Like a fiction,
More reel than painted lines.

~

The cat sleeps
Like ordered food,

The prettiest
Vandalism,

Unexplained
Quotation marks.

~

Final Will and Testament

A backflip, a bowl of apples, a solar flare,
A cape, a rectangle, a box
Of matches enjambed, a traditional dance,
The microns of data of a butterfly,
The moon over the garage.

The void
Zeroes in

Like footwork
In the rain.

~

The moon
Stirs

My arms
To applause

Though I don’t
Know where
I’m going.

~

You ask of me the words
Which you demand be left unsaid.

~

Fair enough.

A trampoline being trampled.
A yawning angel.

A carpool of nudists
In a traffic jam.

The plans
For an imaginary
Tiger.

Ghosts are ambidextrous.
How absence
Leans
But who can tell.

Childhood, for instance.
It’s ramshackle centeredness,
And hostility to interpretation.

The wind eases out of its typeface.
Henceforward, imaginary birds
Branch on solitary meanderings.

Somehow it matters
The picturesque.

Dandelions are real estate geniuses

The quick hands of the moon
Are five-dimensional flowers
Contractually asymmetrical

Yet poem next door cute

The rain sounds out the road, into the windy streets,
The cosmos of walking.

That’s why there are stars,
Over and over, love is something else.

The last we will hear of each other are the decibels
Of the sun.

Till then,
Life is the square of moon over tree,

A squint, a DIY cassette,

A messy aim, a stupefied grin, and perfection.

 

 

*An older poem I felt needed some tweaking and another look.