Humming the Score

For sidewalk tramps baptized in the changing of the leaves,
Hurled to other dimensions by the rustle of the seasons. 


What Poetry Could Be 

Words adjacent to meaning squished together by music,
And the lemonade of time travel.


Scenic 

A heap of mountains 
And the collateral moon.


Upon Waking

The dream was drawn
By an esoteric cause and effect 
And edited by a bumblebee
In July.

Of the birds that live on the sun
Masquerading as spring.  

Black canvas, blue roads, all night

Drive like a dream from a magic lamp

Or in the belly of a firefly over the pond

The wingspan of the highway

Is the puzzle of the horizon

Every inch of which is an infinity 

Every mile is nothing more than a mile

Small biography: 

I like dark coffee. And apples.

I will tell a very simple lie:

Last Tuesday, around 6pm, I drank a glass of water. 

Small biography: 

Though it is moving the river is absolutely still. 
A stillness that is no different than time. 

On Friday, it was chamomile tea at noon.

The theory of an image
Is imaginary. 

The butterfly of an image
Loots the universe.

The box set of an image
Available while supplies last.

The printout of an image
Is the shoreline of a shadow.

The road of an image
Are never ceasing sole-thoughts. 

And the guesswork of an image
Are images too. 

An existential nap said the philosopher. 
Now to open the windows said the pupa. 

Difference is time said the button to the loop.
Said the city alley to the constellations, like siblings.

A concoction of wit and frivolity
Cooks up its own stature of poetry. 

The moon is a forgery, a reflection of the past.
As it is a breathing monument to the present. 

The dirt road, strictly in the metaphysical sense, 
Said the horizon, said the dragonfly.  

The arrangement of chaos is, of course, 
As little arrangement as possible. 

And, of course, it matters how summer transgresses
In its unremitting largess.

As tall as the looking out across 
The field fiddled with red dusk.

As bounteous and wealthy as the rolling stone.
An hour sitting quietly at the riverside.

Of course, of course, a turning over of all we found.
Even silence sometimes loses its footing

Into a feeling that tingles with vastness
And the net gain of walking in the rain.

Temporary lodging
Is found in
Lilacs in May, the solar system.

Ad lib lodging
Is found in
The poem, creation.

One could house 
With the fiction of a violin,
Or on the slope of the sleeping giant.

At the heart of the universe
The very catastrophe 
Of its beginning.    

Observed and Unobserved 

Someone graffitied
The interference pattern from the double slit 
Experiment on the brick wall behind the bus
Stop. Where would we be without earthworms?


Making it Work

What it lacked in finesse
It made up for in repairs

And though now it slants
“Only slightly” to the side 

A rollicking wonderment
Tumbled into form

Like the misshapen poem
Whose aim is true  

The number of rainy days
When marked on the calendar 
Resembles a fingerprint
Roofed against the world.

These rainy days I am 
Glad of the Criterion
Channel, an afternoon coffee, the poetry
Of Fernando Pessoa.
His poems as large as the solar system.

I’m taking up postcarding, 
Though I’m not going anywhere, 
I’m making them myself, 
Just to send messages to 
My friends.

On Tuesday 
I went to the florist
And asked for a sandwich
And enjoyed a fanzine
On dual star systems
Because the drive-in
Is popular 


The renegade robin
Steals powerlines
Eats electricity on toast


Somehow this all fits like a rain puddle
Early in spring
Like a wingspan
Like daisies and isosceles


At home without nomenclature 
With fins like the cinema
And the gospel of being outside