I write of my city walks
The sandwiches I eat
I write of the solitude
And the presence
I think you will laugh
I think your elbows are distant clouds
I walk the rail road lines
I say nothing for days
I plot my take
On the world
In rain puddles
With a November
Leaf
As chief science officer
If birth has no ending
And death has no beginning
Can we
The better revolt of joy and reverence
Between us
the billboard light
is a broken nose
and the pessimism
of pigeons
almost-
silly silly silly silly
mo
on
on stilts tightrope
lollygagging
we are almost home
Turn it over
Read it backwards
Summarize till
You are left with
The infinite
Cut it short and
Call it eternity
Skip words
Edit punctuation
Subtract
Alter
If you have access to
Another universe
Collect mirrors
Put each piece in your mouth
But don’t be a liar
The worn sole of the moon.
The haggle of the afternoon leftovers in
The ears.
A slapstick of terror = graffiti umbrellas.
A giggle of blood reaches out for the
Morning,
Unbuttons its curfew elevators.
Between nonsense and fury,
Joy draws straws.
Daises ring ring ring the
Stretching bells of our assumptions,
Like death and the color of sails.
I asked the
Bouncing ball
What time
The light bulbs
Go out?
A washtub of ghosts, said the ball
It’s just
A squeeze of light, the darling blink of darkness,
Came the second reply
The sleeping cat is a fat chance
The dollar amount is traffic
The atoms are a taste test
Genes are the mocking call
In cursive, beware
Baffled like the parchment sun
And if hell is a hula-hoop
This evening has the hips for you
It’s better this way
A heart of almost
Keeps one steady
Crumpled up like a basement door
The seasons are the friction of motion
And if I had to guess
Life is red lips
The nomination of significance
before something is real
it looks up into the sky
the weather report from 11 years ago
tattooed on my leg
is 20 years old
before something is real
it leaks god
our sun is a star of
1,000
000,000
000,000
000,000 stars
religion is a mosh pit
a deliberate humanism
at the diner, the waiter asked,
does the sea on stern knees
catch its fish by hand?
Mine are the boots of incorrect
Math.
I begin in puddles. The rings of sky. The graph paper of spring walks. The footfalls of ghosts.
Don’t close
The windows, the draft
Is my fault.
Pull up your sleeves.
Or don’t bother.
This year April will be
A composer.
Heaps
Of long legs belong to
The afternoon
I can’t get enough of early mornings
Or swearing at the moon
I eat the whispers of birds
Cough fire but do not disturb the cobwebs
naïve haircuts 