I walked to the city limit
And played volleyball
With some seagulls.

It was a no-nonsense game
Without intermissions.

I headed west
To the river.

In my coat
I stood at the water.

The posture of dusk
Ransacked of belongings
Looking over its shoulder.

And though the stars
Come looking for alms I have only the sense
Of infinity.

If I knew how to spell lasso
Or pumpernickel. But I don’t.

It is a reluctant light,
The hardware of the self.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is an old poem I hopefully cleaned up a bit, and decided to give another try.

I would have to add a few lines. And dedicate years to being aimless. But over time

I would become familiar with the ill-fitted dusk on the city. My heart fills with the misplaced.

It does seem unlikely
I will put a handle on this.

Indefinite wonderful.

A crescent coat.

An endless road
That grips you
Like a wrestling hold.

Arms tattooed
With famous operas.

And only these daring doodles
To save our noodles.

Implementing secret
Information into
The poem.

~

A pulpit moon
In love

Hanging by a thread.

~

The problem laid out.
Though you hired
A chorus.

Such tragedy.

The late afternoon faints
With the metaphysical.

Reflections in puddles.

Even the universe is a hologram.

~

The wind
Has mass

Of dusk
On road,

Alive
Like a mountain,

A glacier
Pre-industrial.

The night is

The dusk

Out-pooled.

~

The self is a card trick
In the dark
Without hands,

Sweeping sidewalks for
Enlightenment.

Speaking drastically,
The oomph that is not the self.

I made a diorama
Of the Triple Lindy
And left it on a diving
Board.

Light steadies the ankles. Darkness readies the knees.

Darkness is a box of pins. Light the ghosts of future stars.

Light sounds out words, creates space. Darkness kneads.

Darkness is the immanence of distance and the ongoing retrieval of it.

Light stitches bones into the soul. Light is the darkness when you blink.

The wind is cheap poems through barbwire parasols.

But what are the footfalls of electromagnetic touchdowns?

Infinity
Walks on
Tip toes

Sometimes

For now.

~

If you have access to
Another universe

Collect mirrors.

Put each poem in your mouth.
But don’t be a liar.

~

The exact present
Is

Subatomic.

Probability before pattern.

And so,

In winter make ghosts,
In spring play in the mud.

I write poems like a disguise.
I bicycle and I am genius at washing
The dishes.

My favorite science fiction movie

The spider
Out grows the house,

You find out in middle age you have an imaginary friend,

The city
Birds are one big computer.

~

So much of writing

Is conjuring something to do.

Standing aside

Exhaling into a paper bag.

Till it grows like a startled child

In the wind like a crack in the sidewalk.

It’s springtime between the stars.

Into the calligraphy

Of anti-skyscrapers

Called verse.

~

In the city field, headlong on the rails, a few spray painted
Stars on the passing train.

Each finger of the moon rattles like a windy day.

~

Opaque like a
Snap of the fingers

Arranged for guitar
Duo

The ghosts in your hair
Have misplaced their x-rays

Branded by
A bicycle moon
That began as an apple blossom.

Cells divide, stars turn.

The imprint is

Cosmic.

We are as close to the infinitesimal as we are to the infinite,

Till we are cathedrals of memory, empty when empty, but never gone.