If the canopy of sky
Is too small for your skull
Try a list of hammers
Numbered by the throes
Moon dog starry on a rust belt road
poem
Has Always Been Here In Me
As sophisticated as the rain
This simple commotion
Ample in regards to brevity
Staggers like lightning
Down its short fuse
Quickly but I remember
The walking part of the soul
And the distance it must succeed
Dynamic Simplicity
I carry a paper bag of flowers, the petals are blue, yellow, and orange,
Early flowers, the bag is a sandwich bag, it’s dawn,
I put the flowers in a basket and bike home, the sky is blue, orange, and yellow,
My wild face, in momentum, how is the dawn somehow starry after all the stars are put away?
How is it, just for a second, this wild face among the stars, on a bike, with flowers
For the dining room table, to be with books, and pencils, and to have breakfast with,
Encourage me to open the windows, they are the better part of me, for a few days,
In which time, I’ll write what seems to be stream of consciousness poems, better yet,
I’ll put on my canvas shoes and walk till my stomach growls
For the fire and fever of tasteless stars.
You Will Know
There is a shape
When nothing’s there.
Open it
Or close it.
It’s just as round.
Leave it
Or carry it with you.
You cannot spend
What it does not lack.
There is a shape
When everything is done.
And you will know that.
You will know.
What the wind uses for thread
And needle.
Doing Dishes
The last of the moon’s scribbled light
In the bowl
The Poem Is
Like a broken guitar,
A mini golf course for
A syllogism.
Why are beginnings so important?
Why is a broken guitar a disaster?
Is the grave coming up short.
And though I think all of this is folly
I am glad of its sometimes kindness.
A poem
Is a belly flop
In handwriting
By an angel doing a handstand
While going backward in time
The Ambition of Dusk
In a simple sweater, a jawline like a lyric, is the ambition of dusk.
Against the aquarium of stars.
A simple ghost, like a pair of bashful feet in the corner.
The high wires of power lines, the moon like a spool with no thread.
Words in a notebook, coil bound, from the drugstore, do angels tattoo humans on their arms?
A jawline like a stampede, an aquarium of ghosts.
The Geometry of Calling Off from Work
The geometry
Of calling off
From work:
Proletarian pillowcases,
The waistline of angels,
The two unequal sides
Of the human heart.
The geometry
Of staying home
From home:
The summer night is bigger than you
If done properly,
Eyes dream in graffiti moons,
Heart breathes griffin stars.
The Flowers on Mars
The flowers
On Mars
Are heart shaped applause, wolves of
Silence, bankrupt fractals
On their last poems,
Asteroid belts, summer nights, lava, rocks, stones, leaves, solitary. They ask,
What are the numbers in the fourth dimension? What are the quadrants of solitary meanderings?
This dawn of the stones.
I walk alone.
Some Kind of Employment
The job of a fool
Is to ride the bus
Till the heart becomes a circumference
Suffices the world
The job of the poet
Is to put earnings
In burning buildings
Look look a macho moon in reverse
Parks in the eyes of city gulls
Go ahead and honk for doomsday
I’ve the summer grass
Tattooed on the shoe strings of my brain
Between the toes of my heart
naïve haircuts 