Sometimes it’s not worth
The tiny prose.
The VHS eyes
Struggling with angels.
Mixed up with
The sun and rain, the volume and the presence,
The pessimism of checker boards.
Don’t be
Terminally comfortable.
What does the sun
Behind power lines in the dusk
Do for a grip?
What else
Rejoice in the calamity
Face down in the cosmos.
At first, it was not silence. Silence compared to what?
It was a string of stones. Older than the sun.
The antics of moving water. H₂O is susceptible to gravity. Aren’t we all?
At first, the eyes of god were darkness. Darkness compared to what?
Walk with me. The insects have snippets of gas giants on their sleeves.
A feral afternoon lost in the hills. Or across from you in the city lot. Looking back at you.
A feeling bereft of soles. And feet like antlers of light. As the angels neigh.
A sandwich guy.
Tee shirt
And pants.
Library card,
Notebook poems.
I flunked calligraphy, and sometimes I think red means go.
They took away my license
To fish.
And if someone asks what poetry is
It’s in the wrist, and every dial in your brain
Is screaming.
Death is a shaking off of light, to rid itself of stars and mirrors, to rid itself of satiety.
Light stands in the dirt, and making circles with its hands.
Death is the number of circles in the apple blossom tree.
Even if, and this is
Stretching it, besides,
Where are wild
Flowers, some as tall
As parking meters?
Sunlight, lost
In the blinds, even so,
Why are all my
Poems so random?
Just as well,
The moon is famished,
Fathom-weary,
Just look at me, it says,
I am dust and stone!
You don’t say? As for me,
A quantum and rye sandwich
In glasses.
A flaneur with the zeal
Of an amateur zine.
Please remember
How November
Left a shadow
In my cereal bowl.
How rage is the shading
On the stars.
So they can exist in 3D.
I know you won’t believe me.
How humor tripped over
Its own scorched soul
Solicit
ing the desert
For wisdom.
The sky
Numbered in crayon,
The birds
Penciled in,
Fetches solitude.
In a city field
A star
Made of metal
About two frisbees long
Stuck in the ground.
What an interesting industrial
Scrap.
He lifted it up.
It took some effort
But he managed to free it from the earth.
Turns out the star
Was hallow.
In the ground the star shape.
Held in the air the hallow star.
He called the relationship
Of the two
The birth of stars.
One must put one’s ear to a stone
To hear the axis of Jupiter,
Or a volleyball game in Canada.
Or be on holiday to string
Oh so elaborately
Lights around a black hole.
Even if black holes lack
The ability to look up
And acknowledge such a feat.
Bravo to every dandelion! I agree, it’s spring.
And there are holiday lights around black holes!
And so what if dandelions end up like gray haired stars
At night on the city lawn.
Are finished with what they have to say.
All the weight is in death’s hands
Under an asparagus moon
If life being little more than
The color of grilled cheese above the sea
To somehow out last
The traffic lights of giraffes
In our pockets
The unsettled
For a nest
A short line
Followed by a longer line
Add fire over
Water
Take seriously
The lack of meaning
And give it hope
Finally
Distance is in the kitchen
Washing the dishes
You are drying them
naïve haircuts 