Starting to Rain

 I suggest we hurtle ourselves out
Beyond the horizon, into the silence
Of cucumber stars, I suggest we return to the depths of dust, the
Ramble, the sumptuous briar of our lentil dreams, pepper
These unknowns with soaring white
Stars, with blue songs in our feet,
As our husked brains squeal like throbbing beheaded nuts.
The blue ears of the moon
Whistle away the afternoon
And tremble with the arson of love.
And me, I head out for a walk,
Without a mind to busy my brain,
Without a leash for my dogged happiness.

Just Saying

 The beginning stands 
Like an old shadow
Waiting for rags
For rain in paper cups.
Put the house up for sale. We’re starting over.
I stand on an ineffable table.
I borrow a folding chair and break the kitchen dishes.
I mop the floor as if I was in a movie, even if I was a movie.
I botch my words. I am smitten.
Beauty wears the seams of transience absolutely, and the seams of the
    absolute transiently.
The amble of gravity over the hills and through the voids
Bare knees howl.
I will not have words for you
I will not do right
I will not do ill
I will not truth
I will not loathe 
Just Saying

The Opportunity

 There is an oblivion 
Just next door
Recently relocated.
Here one visits
If one is willing,
A returning
From the future
That’s been with you
Before you were born.
A pumpernickel dawn
Of abandoned hospitals.
But some fool
Cut off the wings.
And misplaced
The spelling bee.
So, you hold up
The rainy bicycle
With the perfume
Of your arms, and
Into this pinch of creation,
And pinched by creation,
Till your knuckles have as
Many stars as a galaxy.
Laughter is a tree truck
Without a ride home.

Shapes of Self

 I know how the clouds fall into place.
And it matters now most of all because it is over.
Put all your tears back into the pockets of your brain, put back
The shadows and fevers, put away the stubborn impossible
Flowers, the trembling,
The not yet beaten-
The sudden is spent
Without preparation,
Like a crescent of light that holds the moon
in place.
And it matters now most of all.
We haul the ingenuity of our lives,
In shapes of self that cannot keep pace.
The pain is such that we will have to wobble home
Uncanny with bliss.
And we are better for it.
This sorrow is ample
And bright as it is blue,
This sorrow is simple,
Hardly here and hardly true.
And it matters now most of all.
Against this city smothered in machines
That pretends it’s not a ghost.

Frost on a Barbed Wire Fence

 The sad of it
 Is lonesome sky
 The heart on a hill
 Frost on a barbed wire fence
 Where to begin to repair
 The midlife heart
 In what room to begin to laugh
 And when to say 
 This has passed
 And it will be one with us
 What hole is deep enough
 To make permanent the moonlight
 And if the stars 
 Come looking for alms 
 I will remind them
 I have only the sense
 Of infinity
 For purse strings  

Neighborhood Pool

 God jumps in first with a belly flop.
 But everything God does is beautiful, and this starts all of creation.
 Just don’t tell this to the Abyss.
 Not that you can. Be certain of this. You can’t. 
 Next the swimmers, tattoos of birds on their bodies, in search of fish,
 Along the roads in the air of October the first frost between their teeth,
 As the sky unfurls into handfuls of dusk. 
 At night, the moon is the butterfly on the city stoop,
 Crayon crossed out by crayon.
 The wind is the blueprint, said the parachute.
 And the Earth is our wind. The sunlight is both even and odd. 
 I purchase sheet music, and some boxes,    
 Because my head is cluttered
 With the snow 
 Falling into the street lamps,
 With unsighted poems and handfuls of dusk.
 What else can I do?
 In this city, and this poem like a periscope. And
 When beauty hurts, when it is ugly, ferociously so, and it will be, 
 Try a belly flop in the neighborhood pool. 
 Mouthing your every adieu to the Abyss.  

A November Manifesto

I have lost my piano hand. The banter on Saturn rings in my ears
    (that’s a terrible joke). A few of the handkerchiefs smell like 
    operas. During the night, the ghosts arrive to try on my socks, 
    and to read whatever book I am reading backwards to me. 

I have found a violin hand. Tonight I will camp out “under the stars”
    with Quixote and Pooh Bear. 

The vagrant blue in the November fields. I have that. At least I have
    that. The lost arms of flowers, though nothing weeps. And the only
    color is the electrical structures and the graffiti wire. 

There is dire in blue, directly in this wandering. I will work out the
    equations at a later date. 

At this rate, by the end of the year, the moon will have enough to buy 
    a helicopter. And have that ankle looked at. 

Silence likes to doodle, intentional as clouds.

In a sweater, the handlebars are autumn, even as it rains. 

While riding a bike.

Part of it is the dust from stars. Some of it rolls in the ground, 
    like a season. 

Take a bow, ripple with the sea. Each leaf before it catches hold 
    of the earth

Says hello. 

A Symphony for a Fake Piano

The foot is disheveled. 
The armpit is the moon. 
And what lessons have the rain
To letter at night alone without
Legs or thoughts?
What does it mean to be human
When the heart and lungs are a marathon
Of leaves?
You cannot cross out the distance.
Cup sorrow in your hands
But to be abbreviated in this light
Is life.
If death cannot cull these questions
At least the ice cream truck tonight rings
A symphony for a fake piano
In pencil in the night in a sky that cannot be seen.