One must put one’s ear to a stone
To hear the axis of Jupiter,
Or a volleyball game in Canada.
Or be on holiday to string
Oh so elaborately
Lights around a black hole.
Even if black holes lack
The ability to look up
And acknowledge such a feat.
Bravo to every dandelion! I agree, it’s spring.
And there are holiday lights around black holes!
And so what if dandelions end up like gray haired stars
At night on the city lawn.
Are finished with what they have to say.
All the weight is in death’s hands
Under an asparagus moon
If life being little more than
The color of grilled cheese above the sea
To somehow out last
The traffic lights of giraffes
In our pockets
The unsettled
For a nest
A short line
Followed by a longer line
Add fire over
Water
Take seriously
The lack of meaning
And give it hope
Finally
Distance is in the kitchen
Washing the dishes
You are drying them
Who drank the last
Of the halos? Deliberately made it rain?
Stole old purses from graffiti
Elbows?
Who lit fire to the last of the rocks?
Knowing very well that this storm
Is bare feet, verses, earth.
Like fireflies
Opening doors,
The spring wind
Counting knives.
I adhere to berry and branch,
Leaf, sunlight in the arteries,
Theater wire and the stars.
I found my coat
Next to the words
For leaving
I thought for good
Here we are
Spilling gravity
Into the graffiti of
Poetry
Giving chance
Its due
After transcendence you end up standing in the dirt like the rest of us
Time is a red scarf picked up by darkness.
Light is the celebration of that vision.
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.
