The world is brittle, and incapable of turning inside out. The world is anxious, and who knows if the stars believe in ghosts? The world is dusk, soiled collars, it is in the turn of a leaf. I write about robots, and railroad tracks, flowers, a list of poems so scrambled and disjointed and unlikely to be anything but scrambled and disjointed. I write that astronauts and apple blossoms have the same haircuts, even as the little yellow bird in the evergreen sings like the diameter of the moon. I write for habit’s sake, to fend off the April morning, to no avail keeping a firm arm span from the late summer night. I tend to a fiery garden, and measure its wingspan. I write the barriers are breached, the temples quacked, the first of the first snow breaks apart the air, and nibbles on bright darkness. The world is strident, and misadventure. The approximation of untruth. And yet I write of poems, how they dig in the dirt and find comets that have yet to hit the earth. That God is a few lines of chalk on the cement, and everything else.
poetry
The Cursive Guts of Calligraphy Bells
In the dust of nameless flowers, of the cursive guts of calligraphy
bells,
What ear can lift silence, from its sleep?
The moon, in front of the winter trees, Said,
All rivers are habits
Swung by gravity,
And
Each shadow that lifts a finger
Baffles an integer.
Electric footsteps play the guitar, the wind can hear you, science
fiction puddles, the tattoos of whodunit, the spacecraft of
deserted trees ravenously beatific.
In the prance of a quite walk, the city curls in on itself, till it is
gone.
I leave foot prints ahead of us,
Gaseous clouds
Turning star.
And give poetry
To pigeons.
Rain Water
A reflection In the rain water. Is The banter of something. In the Sentiment of somewhere else. This is true. A reflection is the sentiment of somewhere else. Pretending to be something near. Gave me your hand. So I can trace the serial numbers of your favorite poems. The umbrella Is a reflection in the rain. Standing there with its hands on its head. Let swim the daft fractals. Tie tight the headbands of angels. A reflection is A four handed polonaise On a two-legged piano. The fire from a star in a spring tree. We Who importune With joy.
Always With Us
The rain sounds out the road, into the windy streets,
The cosmos of walking.
In the end we hear the decibels
Of the sun, without the roots
Of dust.
Till then,
I write chance.
Life is the square of tree and moon.
Life is a squint, a DIY cassette,
A messy aim, a stupefied grin, and perfection.
That’s why there are stars,
Though always with us,
Over and over love is something else.
Amateurs of the World Unite and Take Over
Briefly, and loosely, the butterfly mirrors the night. Like an angry river,
If patterns are a process, this visits language.
With painstaking naiveté, under a rotary dial dusk, this existential cowlick
Never burdens folly with precision.
I only write poems to defy paragraphs. Torn shorts and short poems,
An hour of television. In this cosmos inconsistencies are stars.
Ghost is Me
I left immediately.
I didn’t dress.
I stepped out quietly,
A crayon like a violin,
An imposter of gravity.
The ghost
I left behind
I waited till now to name.
I painted lines in the street:
Love is
A bikini red sky in canvas
Shoes.
But the ghost,
The ghost is me
In the flip flops of the moon.
See to it your words are wingspan wrought.
And get us out of here.
Diagnosis
The birds are
A bloody nose,
A bowl of
Crumpled paper
On fire,
Washed ashore
Having dreamed of whales.
A slight asteroid belt
For a fever
Will last a few days.
As the years go by
On some nights
You can see
A subtle scaffolding around the sun.
To catch a
Shadow,
You’ll need duct tape,
A tripwire, and
A mirror.
And like a dream, some of the words- I don’t know which ones.
The Intervention of Fiction
I was buying three paintings a day
I was sponsoring chalk drawings
Walking alongside poems on junkyard walls of
Old school corrugated steel “Do you know
The album Zen Arcade, by Husker Du?”
“Out of Step, by Minor
Threat?”
I went to thrift stores to city fields church sales
Just to find paintings I ate blue collar pizza
As the crows argued about me wanted to know
My business but I didn’t have any
Just the playing cards
Of light of deity of logic of endless
Of dark of sun bursts of binary stars of crows
In the carless trees
Be certain
To appertain
The havoc and the intention
The intervention of fiction
As Steve Zissou said,
“Nobody knows what’s going to happen. And then we film it. That’s the whole concept.”
Evolution Manages Imagination
Sometimes it’s not worth
The tiny prose.
The VHS eyes
Struggling with angels.
Mixed up with
The sun and rain, the volume and the presence,
The pessimism of checker boards.
Don’t be
Terminally comfortable.
What does the sun
Behind power lines in the dusk
Do for a grip?
What else
Rejoice in the calamity
Face down in the cosmos.
Just As
Just as
Meaning
Really is less
Meaning,
The self
Is idea
As real
As self.
