Where are the dandelions
On the edge of summer’s breath?
The stars are volume and sound
And depending on mass
May end up as holes
In the ground of the universe.
Where are you exiled?
The weight of distance
Is the circle’s geometry.
I published a field study
On the aerodynamics
Of solitude.
And found that it could swim.
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
Are heart shaped applause, wolves of
Silence, bankrupt fractals
On their past 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.
Once a year
All around the moon
Liars set up tents
To tell the truth
A giant threw his knife and fork
Into the sea
Walked home over the dunes
The giant came across
The word strange
The word bellow
A metaphor for a wounded cloud
The giant
Using its girth
Picked up the sun
And took it home
The shadow of the moon
Is an avalanche of fire
Like hands coming up from the sea.
I can talk to you of flying
Sidekicks in the summer trees, a head
Stand in the evening rain.
When sadness is neither frivolous
Nor misplaced, when it is palpable.
Can laughter make the trees
Turn white, said the moon.
It can, said the sea.
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
