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)

What Is It?

Something gathers up the guesses,

Stalks the wild throes and strange fits,

Arrives at probability

We pass as answers.

There is the bumble

In the be all of our lives,

The sorrow and the silence of our

Hearts when they are lightest,

And worst and nothing more,

The crumpled sunlight

Passing for debris,

The rubble of stars,

My bare feet.

Short Poems

Machine Washable-

A button-colored shirt.


Attics for Brains-

The ghost stirs
Like cold soup
On an abandoned stair.


Waking Up-

I just heard it. The train whistle.
Coming in from Canada
Like space invader calligraphy.
But I cannot say it. The new birds in the air.
And suffers from equations.
Concerning the axis of time.
Or how much coffee to have this morning.
There it is again. This time further away.



The old house.
The latch.
The screen door on its hinges
In the wind.

In the wind
The inflatable stars.
In the plastic sky.

A rebellion of

To the cardboard


Stop Here-

I think the dandelions were in on it.

The joke,
Said the moon.