A Quantum and Rye Sandwich

Even if, and this is
Stretching it, besides,
Where are wild
Flowers, some as tall
As parking meters?

Sunlight, lost
In the blinds, even so,
Why are all my
Poems so random?

Just as well,
The moon is famished,
Fathom-weary,
Just look at me, it says,
I am dust and stone!

You don’t say? As for me,
A quantum and rye sandwich
In glasses.

A flaneur with the zeal
Of an amateur zine.

You Won’t Believe Me

Please remember
How November
Left a shadow
In my cereal bowl.

How rage is the shading
On the stars.
So they can exist in 3D.

I know you won’t believe me.

How humor tripped over
Its own scorched soul
Solicit
ing the desert
For wisdom.

The sky
Numbered in crayon,
The birds
Penciled in,

Fetches solitude.

Brown Field Celestial

In a city field
A star
Made of metal
About two frisbees long
Stuck in the ground.

What an interesting industrial
Scrap.

He lifted it up.
It took some effort
But he managed to free it from the earth.

Turns out the star
Was hallow.

In the ground the star shape.
Held in the air the hallow star.

He called the relationship
Of the two

The birth of stars.

On Holiday

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.

Bare Feet, Verses, Earth

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.

Dynamic Simplicity

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.