I write poems like a disguise.
I bicycle and I am genius at washing
The dishes.

My favorite science fiction movie

The spider
Out grows the house,

You find out in middle age you have an imaginary friend,

The city
Birds are one big computer.

~

So much of writing

Is conjuring something to do.

Standing aside

Exhaling into a paper bag.

Till it grows like a startled child

In the wind like a crack in the sidewalk.

It’s springtime between the stars.

Into the calligraphy

Of anti-skyscrapers

Called verse.

~

In the city field, headlong on the rails, a few spray painted
Stars on the passing train.

Each finger of the moon rattles like a windy day.

~

Opaque like a
Snap of the fingers

Arranged for guitar
Duo

The ghosts in your hair
Have misplaced their x-rays

Branded by
A bicycle moon
That began as an apple blossom.

Cells divide, stars turn.

The imprint is

Cosmic.

We are as close to the infinitesimal as we are to the infinite,

Till we are cathedrals of memory, empty when empty, but never gone.

Walking home,

A celestial roughness around

The eyes.

~

If I have bothered to note a bird
Or two on a power line, some flowers
In a vacant lot for flowering, I have
Done so heedlessly and without regard
For the safety of those around me.

The mountain is bigger than you
You are the mountain

The blue sky
And the moon
Are trees with roots

The mountain is
More than you can count

And yet as it rains
The rubbish of sunset
Is meet with the banter of stars

And still you listen

To the difference
Of who you are
And who you are not

To perturb the air
The moon
In gallant horseplay
Seems to be as still as a chimney.
Though it has no use for ladders.

The kites on Mars
Are as blue as the sea.

But don’t let depression garble you yet.
There is the melancholy of the heart
To broach this night of shoulders 
And elbows.

The poem can be
Black as a match head,
Vigilante as applesauce,

A wink in the thunder,
A thud on the daisies,

An illumination
Flipped
On its side
Kicking at balloons,

Like an aria
Penniless in the cinema, 

Feral in the garage chewing on the rake. 

Wish me luck.

*This is an older poem, I changed some of the lines and a new title.

Late summer,

Soon the sun turns

Pensive like an elbow,

As faraway 
As a Diplodocus. 

And yet, 

What persistence
Walks as open
As perchance?

I sweep for miles
These unlikely roads.

Of August 
By the window,
The wind
Fills the room with
The smell of rain.

And the clever words of the poets
Throw knives at the wall.

And the taxi cabs are now fairy tales
Washed ashore by UFOs. 

Frivolous fails when 
It is nothing at all,

So, give us something, 
If only a broken August, when it
Speaks at all. Darkness up 

On its hind legs welcomes you home.

Of uncertain hands
That hold the earth,
Fold dreams into space.

In the end, 
The poet works in lines,
Not in what they mean.