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. 

The Dents of Highway Laughs

Begin in the knees of the earth. 
Walk the dizziness of  

A poem that breathes in space exhales into the void. 


Remember the
Tomb tipping
Guts of spring,

The sea and the eyelashes
Defying gravity,

The ping pong playing peonies
Of electric yesterdays. 

Remember how
All at once 
The universe put on
Its legs
And walks like 

A fiasco of names
On a checker board.


Will you walk with me?


In the opposite of acquisition? 
Who else can see these widowed months?


Beckoning at the table
Where is the pen and paper that ribs time and space with the dents of
    highway laughs?

I walk and walk, 

In a coat, black, collared, the curve of which almost touches the ear. 
    No hat.
What is it in us that allows us past narrative ghosts?


For this I penciled in the page and erased around the poem


Like an astronaut fills the page

With the memory of a jellyfish. 

  
I stayed up all night

Playing solitaire
On the PC
With the radio on,

Curating the ramblings.

The soul is a runway for anything
Willing to fly.

What do we know?
It is only afterward

A sense of being. 

Niagara River

Solitude forgot its wallet

Not bothering with conversation, solitude sees if its diaries float


Each letter of solitude was offered a role in a comic book movie

Solitude of a few shirts, and feet covered in the leather of old shoes

Solitude of waste basket prose… the emptiness of a flame


The noise sweeps the heart

November astronauts are solitude


The universe is a tee shirt looking for a ride home, solitude of a 
    bicycle 

And lonesome like a cartoon coyote

But what of the falling leaves?

It’s impossible to count them all. All the leaves. But what if 
    counting had an out of body experience? Took LSD, and 
    began licking its Zen palms?  

In conclusion
Almost night now 
The hurry of pillows and the dot that is the moon

The gulls are
Mugs restaurant-white
Dropped along the shores of one of the Great Lakes
Across the river from Canada


Garage Sale

A well-kept bike, a stack of poems in disarray.
What if these poems really did mean something?
How terrifying!

~

The books on the fridge, I’ll get to them soon. After a walk and a few more months of procrastinating. I’ll write poems too. Small ones, by an open window. The moon like a dog licking a plate.

~

Mirrors reflect, yes, but they
Don’t know left from right.

~

A tee
Shirt
Upended
By love.

The unsettled
For a nest.

The universe
Makes for funny haircuts.

~

To sit quiet and remember
The shadows of the heart,

A sea above the stars,

Till you are nothing more
Than a memory yourself,

Till you are at sea
And above the stars.

~

Metaphors undone.

Purposely forgot. An amnesia of flowers.

A calligraphy
Of absence.

The pigeons downtown
Are the last of the angels

In rock colored coats.

~

These unknowns!

With blue songs in their feet,
As or husked brains squeal like throbbing beheaded nuts,

And the blue ears of the moon
Tremble with the arson of love.

 

Singularities

I 

Absorb
Via neurons

Approximations
In favor of survival.

But what of the poems that weigh
Less than a few pebbles?

I’d like to tell you more, that there is a counter weight to      
    approximation:

The square root of UFOs,
 
The moon grew antlers and stopped wearing clothes.

What’s left are the scribbles of dreams. 
  
A mouthful of dusk for eyes. Fingers like the appetite of the moon. 
    Penciled whereabouts on the heart.

You 
Pick up the few stones
Of a short poem,

Swim against the stars.
 
The trees in October
Are not the same as the trees in October.
 
The cities of the Midwest
Are wild with the loneliness of the cosmos.

Poet’s Style

Tattoos:
 
A lawn chair
On the forearm,
 
On the shoulder the
Metaphysics
Of river birds,
 
Melody for a toy piano
Near the ankle.
 
Clothes:
 
The attire is simple and cut
To fit,
 
No shoes
But the idea of shoes.
 
Metaphysics:
 
No breath but air.
 
Meaning:
 
The real is put aside
Like a bell on the ground,
 
Like a trampoline at night,
 
Sleeves pulled up at the moon,
Distance for a logo.
 
Appetite:
 
Hunger like a table crowded with empty bowls.
 
Metaphysics II:
 
The cosmos on the lips,
I breath in theology through nostrils,
 
Pull its lint out of my belly button.
 
In conclusion:
 
The idea was to
 
Fly a kite, after hitching a ride,
 
To somewhere, somewhere, somewhere,
 
Sticking around long enough to see
 
Dusk pushing a shopping cart downhill.
 
Coda:
 
it’s getting late              the science fiction of apple blossoms         
--------------------   x    -------------------------------------------------     =   
     tree tops                               cursive shoes
 
How the volume of time
Specializes in words
Out of our reach.

Squeezing Cosmic Folds into the Joints of Neurons

“Truce,” said the wind.
 
“Never!” declared a psychological
Pear,
 
“I am the table and the chair.”
 
But you insist,
 
Do shapes have addresses? 
Can they be reached
By letter?
 
What if there is an emergency
Of lines
 
And geometry is busy
Can’t be reached
By post?
 
What if I am asked by wind
If there is truth in the wind?
 
You say that,
 
The
Wind
Carries a stone fist.
 
And a broken leg
For a tattoo.
 
That darkness has no wires.
No boxes. No caves.
No under the bed.
No above the stars.
It is as shirtless as a penny.
It grows with the grass.
It offers a chance
To look around.
It picks up the rain into the
Ground.
 
But I remember most
 
The seams
Of asteroids
 
In the darkness.

Future City

Even worse. I found pieces
Of the moon under my pillow.
 
In my city you could be arrested
For breaking the moon.
 
There are few of us left.
I draw wings on the old walls.
 
I will never tell them.
I write about pieces of the
 
Moon on paper with lead.
Memorize 864,000. It is
 
The diameter of the sun
In miles. Even worse.
 
The pieces are gone. Rumor
Has it I never found them.
 
That I don’t even know what
Wings are.
 
I’ll never tell them.
 
Silent like a falsetto
In a parking lot of album covers.
 
And if this poem had a sharpie
Spell up the trestles
 
With the forgotten the names of every flower
How they haw and look at the sky
 
And, like me, never tell what they see.