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 Of leaves? You cannot cross out the distance. Cup sorrow in your hands But to be abbreviated in this light Is life. 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.
poem
The Cosmic Microwave Background Blues
The abyss is flat
And has no bottom.
It is a vagrant simile
Loitering on two
Legs carrying a bowl
Of wishes,
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.
Squeezing Cosmic Folds into the Joints of Neurons
“Truce,” said the wind. “Never!” declared a psychological Pear, “I am the table and the chair.” But you insist, Do shapes have addresses? Can they be reached By letter? What if there is an emergency Of lines And geometry is busy Can’t be reached By post? What if I am asked by wind If there is truth in the wind? You say that, The Wind Carries a stone fist. And a broken leg For a tattoo. That darkness has no wires. No boxes. No caves. No under the bed. No above the stars. It is as shirtless as a penny. It grows with the grass. It offers a chance To look around. It picks up the rain into the Ground. But I remember most The seams Of asteroids In the darkness.
The Birds Make Up My Hands
The birds make up my hands.
You can’t see my hands.
My hands are invisible.
But not the birds.
They have kept their feathers.
They have kept their language.
But stopped using words.
Words are all I have.
Now that the birds are gone.
Escaped into the outlines of wings.
The bone structure of silence.
Future City
Even worse. I found pieces Of the moon under my pillow. In my city you could be arrested For breaking the moon. There are few of us left. I draw wings on the old walls. I will never tell them. I write about pieces of the Moon on paper with lead. Memorize 864,000. It is The diameter of the sun In miles. Even worse. The pieces are gone. Rumor Has it I never found them. That I don’t even know what Wings are. I’ll never tell them. Silent like a falsetto In a parking lot of album covers. And if this poem had a sharpie Spell up the trestles With the forgotten the names of every flower How they haw and look at the sky And, like me, never tell what they see.
Rain Water
A reflection In the rain water. Is The banter of something. In the Sentiment of somewhere else. This is true. A reflection is the sentiment of somewhere else. Pretending to be something near. Gave me your hand. So I can trace the serial numbers of your favorite poems. The umbrella Is a reflection in the rain. Standing there with its hands on its head. Let swim the daft fractals. Tie tight the headbands of angels. A reflection is A four handed polonaise On a two-legged piano. The fire from a star in a spring tree. We Who importune With joy.
Always With Us
The rain sounds out the road, into the windy streets, The cosmos of walking. In the end we hear the decibels Of the sun, without the roots Of dust. Till then, Life is the square of tree and moon, A squint, a DIY cassette, A messy aim, a stupefied grin, and perfection. That’s why there are stars, Over and over love is something else.
Ghost is Me
I left immediately.
I didn’t dress.
I stepped out quietly,
A crayon like a violin,
An imposter of gravity.
The ghost
I left behind
I waited till now to name.
I painted lines in the street:
Love is
A bikini red sky in canvas
Shoes.
But the ghost,
The ghost is me
In the flip flops of the moon.
See to it your words are wingspan wrought.
And get us out of here.
Evolution Manages Imagination
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.
Snippets of Gas Giants on Their Sleeves
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.
naïve haircuts 