A certain carelessness
In a perfect circle
It is too ripe and crude
A coarse bird
That fits in too well with the broken shore
Unlike the polluting smoke of industry
As it catches the closing beams of the sun
A rosette triumph
A too perfect charade
The sad of it
Is lonesome sky
The heart on a hill
Frost on a barbed wire fence
Where to begin to repair
The midlife heart
In what room to begin to laugh
And when to say
This has passed
And it will be one with us
What hole is deep enough
To make permanent the moonlight
And if the stars
Come looking for alms
I will remind them
I have only the sense
For purse strings
God jumps in first with a belly flop.
But everything God does is beautiful, and this starts all of creation.
Just don’t tell this to the Abyss.
Not that you can. Be certain of this. You can’t.
Next the swimmers, tattoos of birds on their bodies, in search of fish,
Along the roads in the air of October the first frost between their teeth,
As the sky unfurls into handfuls of dusk.
At night, the moon is the butterfly on the city stoop,
Crayon crossed out by crayon.
The wind is the blueprint, said the parachute.
And the Earth is our wind. The sunlight is both even and odd.
I purchase sheet music, and some boxes,
Because my head is cluttered
With the snow
Falling into the street lamps,
With unsighted poems and handfuls of dusk.
What else can I do?
In this city, and this poem like a periscope. And
When beauty hurts, when it is ugly, ferociously so, and it will be,
Try a belly flop in the neighborhood pool.
Mouthing your every adieu to the Abyss.
I have lost my piano hand. The banter on Saturn rings in my ears
(that’s a terrible joke). A few of the handkerchiefs smell like
operas. During the night, the ghosts arrive to try on my socks,
and to read whatever book I am reading backwards to me.
I have found a violin hand. Tonight I will camp out “under the stars”
with Quixote and Pooh Bear.
The vagrant blue in the November fields. I have that. At least I have
that. The lost arms of flowers, though nothing weeps. And the only
color is the electrical structures and the graffiti wire.
There is dire in blue, directly in this wandering. I will work out the
equations at a later date.
At this rate, by the end of the year, the moon will have enough to buy
a helicopter. And have that ankle looked at.
Silence likes to doodle, intentional as clouds.
In a sweater, the handlebars are autumn, even as it rains.
While riding a bike.
Part of it is the dust from stars. Some of it rolls in the ground,
like a season.
Take a bow, ripple with the sea. Each leaf before it catches hold
of the earth
The foot is disheveled.
The armpit is the moon.
And what lessons have the rain
To letter at night alone without
Legs or thoughts?
What does it mean to be human
When the heart and lungs are a marathon
You cannot cross out the distance.
Cup sorrow in your hands
But to be abbreviated in this light
If death cannot cull these questions
At least the ice cream truck tonight rings
A symphony for a fake piano
In pencil in the night in a sky that cannot be seen.
Begin in the knees of the earth.
Walk the dizziness of
A poem that breathes in space exhales into the void.
Guts of spring,
The sea and the eyelashes
The ping pong playing peonies
Of electric yesterdays.
All at once
The universe put on
And walks like
A fiasco of names
On a checker board.
Will you walk with me?
In the opposite of acquisition?
Who else can see these widowed months?
Beckoning at the table
Where is the pen and paper that ribs time and space with the dents of
I walk and walk,
In a coat, black, collared, the curve of which almost touches the ear.
What is it in us that allows us past narrative ghosts?
For this I penciled in the page and erased around the poem
Like an astronaut fills the page
With the memory of a jellyfish.
I stayed up all night
On the PC
With the radio on,
Curating the ramblings.
The soul is a runway for anything
Willing to fly.
What do we know?
It is only afterward
A sense of being.
Solitude forgot its wallet
Not bothering with conversation, solitude sees if its diaries float
Each letter of solitude was offered a role in a comic book movie
Solitude of a few shirts, and feet covered in the leather of old shoes
Solitude of waste basket prose… the emptiness of a flame
The noise sweeps the heart
November astronauts are solitude
The universe is a tee shirt looking for a ride home, solitude of a
And lonesome like a cartoon coyote
But what of the falling leaves?
It’s impossible to count them all. All the leaves. But what if
counting had an out of body experience? Took LSD, and
began licking its Zen palms?
Almost night now
The hurry of pillows and the dot that is the moon
The gulls are
Dropped along the shores of one of the Great Lakes
Across the river from Canada
The abyss is flat
And has no bottom.
It is a vagrant simile
Loitering on two
Legs carrying a bowl
A grocery basket
At the elbow.
Isn’t that nice?
But don’t ask me to look back. There would be too many
Other of me in the way.
I’ve the multiverse blues too.
In favor of survival.
But what of the poems that weigh
Less than a few pebbles?
I’d like to tell you more, that there is a counter weight to
The square root of UFOs,
The moon grew antlers and stopped wearing clothes.
What’s left are the scribbles of dreams.
A mouthful of dusk for eyes. Fingers like the appetite of the moon.
Penciled whereabouts on the heart.
Pick up the few stones
Of a short poem,
Swim against the stars.
The trees in October
Are not the same as the trees in October.
The cities of the Midwest
Are wild with the loneliness of the cosmos.
A lawn chair
On the forearm,
On the shoulder the
Of river birds,
Melody for a toy piano
Near the ankle.
The attire is simple and cut
But the idea of shoes.
No breath but air.
The real is put aside
Like a bell on the ground,
Like a trampoline at night,
Sleeves pulled up at the moon,
Distance for a logo.
Hunger like a table crowded with empty bowls.
The cosmos on the lips,
I breath in theology through nostrils,
Pull its lint out of my belly button.
The idea was to
Fly a kite, after hitching a ride,
To somewhere, somewhere, somewhere,
Sticking around long enough to see
Dusk pushing a shopping cart downhill.
it’s getting late the science fiction of apple blossoms
-------------------- x ------------------------------------------------- =
tree tops cursive shoes
How the volume of time
Specializes in words
Out of our reach.