Like spray paint on brick, the tulips are favored
By the stars,
For example, the stars dream of tulips,
A sea of tulips with rings around them like a gas giant.
A ghost severed of feet foots the bill
In this dream, though for hiding spots
Dilute some poetry with water and scrub.
The stars are more common
Than restaurant spoons.
But the world has stashed away
Something without measure
We long to get back.
As for a cup, the universe curves about right.
poem
Like Blue
Blue imaginary birds
Know the spells to swim
In the moon.
And all the pretty vows
Know very well the distances
Between stars.
When done ingeniously
A walk is a bout
Of meandering.
There are footprints
Between the powerlines
And amongst the goldenrod.
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.
The flowers are 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 seem to be stream of consciousness poems, better yet,
I’ll put on my canvas shoes and walk till my stomach growls.
Stillness
How the sun balances
Yellow and gravity.
A few piano keys and clouds.
Coffee and continents.
How the falling rain rights the
Leaning chimney.
Spring of the rivulet faces.
All the volcanoes on Io.
The stars after all are just as
Unfixed as we are.
Portrait
You sit.
Eyes fixed on the wooden
Fireflies.
A deserted city for a headband.
Shoulders like Heisenberg's uncertainty
Principle.
And a tattoo
Of wings on the bottom of the feet.
(Not visible in the picture.)
You think,
Did the universe inflate, superfluous
Of compass, all in one go of it?
This much is clear.
As it is uneven and croaked like meaning.
It is this ramble of inkling all your
Life, that rattles the frame.
Lived Dream
In these lived dreams your other self gains
Antlers and roams the woods
Steps through streams and through mirrors
And sees its breath
Now that winter is almost here
The treetops brook a telescope heart
I share my steps with the city roofs
Game On
A fire hydrant scrimmaged
With the play calling
Of street poets, a rummage
Of junkyard afternoons,
The distracted Milky Way,
Ripe autumn apples,
A spring rain and its naked toes,
And a comet, cheeks blushed
Like sunlight in June,
Is enough for me.
Hedged by unknowns
I burn my lawnmower in celebration.
Puzzle Pieces
We will puzzle you.
By whatever pieces necessary.
Beauty is a ridiculous number.
It could take years of theorizing
And chalkboards to put a finger
On this.
I think I need an alphabet hat
To count the stars, and forgetfulness
To remember them all. A code name,
Because it would be cool. Just saying.
The universe is acuity, all the way down to and including unawareness.
A rolling pin made of daydreams. Unmade of mountain streams.
Most of it you can’t see. Most of it too small or too far away.
The universe is a merry-go-round in a metaphysical sense.
The universe is homespun, like plaster walls or quantum mechanics.
A Cadence
On the carousel of life’s travail
Sweetly in the circus of falling.
And the roads and all the indecipherable street signs
Bearing the logos of our dreams.
Suits me like the blue final pages
Ending in the night sky.
The Moon
Holds Mercury in its cheeks.
And the red leaves of autumn.
All the roads it has traveled
It has marked with the same
Dust and stone.
Holds Jupiter in the somersaults of daisies.
And almost disinterestedly the exuberant the light on its endless shores
When full.
naïve haircuts 