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.
A cluster of brain cells like analog stars.
Poetically unstable, but what can you do?
POETRY
Language formally
Known as language.
STOP HERE
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.
ALL DAY POETRY BLOW OUT SALE!!!
As a child, I sometimes burned vision-like.
Airplanes are mundane.
MOTION
In the passing trees the bicycle hesitates.
LOGIC
I can remember the look of the river with my shoes in it.
A little of this poem
Reminds me of a Tuesday
Afternoon.
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.
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
Just as
Meaning
Really is less
Meaning,
The self
Is idea
As real
As self.
*Older poem
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,
Unbuttoned.
If you include
The dusk at the end of the road.
We eventually
Become as tiny as galaxies.
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)
The green stalks, the tails of comets,
This is what grows.
The banter of universes, the eons in the spring flowers,
This is what fails.
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.
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.
~
Diorama-
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
Rockets
Pinned
To the cardboard
Cosmos.
~
Stop Here-
I think the dandelions were in on it.
The joke,
Said the moon.
naïve haircuts 