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.
poem
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.
Sandwich Guy
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.
Light Stands in the Dirt
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.
A Quantum and Rye Sandwich
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.
You Won’t Believe Me
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.
naïve haircuts 