The buzzing beliefs of cosmic
Ambling, the beautiful
Preludes of darkness and
Cataclysm, then suddenly
Of atom and charge, spin
And recognition, the endless
Paths and the streetlights
Ever so slightly leaning into
The rain, passingly framed by the sound
Of bicycle tires on the wet
Pavement, and if this concludes
In a diving board sky
Crowned by the harangues
Of cloud and dusk and
The wind in the leaves,
The backyard sermons
Of joint and lawn chair, the
Feral cat staring from what radius
It deems safe, or the smokestack
Of the old dairy now an eyrie
For pigeon and tonight’s moon.
walking
Almost Winter Meditation
The cold swept the roads white.
The stars, strung out
On the hard sky like
Stones or shale or walnut casings.
The eddies of galaxies twined
In super structures of time
And gravity, that they are
Something, just something,
Bristling with difference,
And have stakes in life and death,
In bright clouds and fanning out
Vistas of turning horizons,
And blood in the veins, the sport
Of poetry and fielding
These spurred walks. That land
Me the miles of my untutored
Meanderings. And while some
Count the face of the dice, others
Its turns and hops.
The turns and hops of stars
And seasons, of fields swept
Brown and gray, the eddies of
Frustration, joy, love and the death
Of those lost from us, the mud
And frost, the swirling radiating
Surface of suns, or dark still rain puddles.
A journal of swirling words
On the surface of our diaries.
The difference how a road feels
At night or at dawn
As we foot its length.
A beautiful commotion of nonsense
And brevity. A madcap
Poetry perchance a narrow escape
From meaning.
Short Poems #6
Intoxicating
The wind
Fills the room with
The smell of rain.
The taxi cabs are now fairytales,
Washed ashore by UFOs.
The Music Hall
Everything is as it seems.
Flat tires, balloons, fireflies, gambling,
Fallen leaves. The horn section on LSD.
Philosophy
Every object is as unreal
As it is real.
Bon Voyage
Over large stretches my luggage
Is a sky-grin ascending.
Impounded is improbable.
Shadow Work
Your shadow has no interest in being your mirror.
Your shadow has poems to write
And tall afternoons to stand by.
Pages and pages of poems about afternoons.
Meandering all of them.
Railroad lines for shoelaces.
Short Poems #5
Drummed Up Noisy Wellbeing The circling stars. The deserted railroad yards. The pleading distance. Consciousness humming. Hold onto the sky, the dusk, The flowers in the field. I walk and I walk, like a cast stone, Behind the old factory, Above me the blue sky. Post-Work The clerk alphabetizes Piano concertos by tone. All the while on stilts, With a spyglass. Clouds in the distance Head the ledgers. Field Guide A star Depending on mass May end up a hole In the ground of the universe. The Autumn Rain The autumn rain Is drastically the Idea of a sandwich. We agree. A straight line On a plane Can’t Touch its toes. But A berry From this world Can. The Philosophy of Horizons Specifically, the chapters on distance, Is the zoology of time. You can accompany All the volume of space and time, Always, wherever you go, Because it has stripes Like a tiger.
Okay
Okay lost.
Okay peanut butter and dusk sandwiches.
Okay the faults.
Okay abstract.
The walks I take.
I pitch ideas to the graffiti beneath a viaduct, a stroke of streetlight
In the rain.
I make up books I will read, The Philosophy of Meteorites, by E M Comet.
Okay the sun will one day bloom into a red giant.
Okay the moon grows antlers and stops wearing clothes.
The heart leaps grave canyons neighing stars.
Only the ridiculous will survive.
Okay the universe is homespun, like plaster walls or quantum mechanics.
Okay a wobble must the poet know. Late of home, a globe at the feet.
Short Poems #4 (Pictures and a Video of Low Quality)
Curvature Butterfly wings And gravity wells. Symbolism Before there were stars, before luggage, Before there were poems. Poetry whistles π. Lunch The same bread and poem sandwich. Wager On chance and beauty, rooftop alliterations, naïve symphonies, The words that thread the here and there, To gambol, dangling like a comet over a telekinetic city, On what the poem is to wear and how to seed its fusion, its gravity, To travail profound enthusiasm over the city fields in moon-red footsteps. Up To My Neck in Stars It's wonderful How it fidgets An anticipation especially in the feet That the heart can't fail An anticipation especially in the feet That the heart is full And ready for more
Old grain mills, now abandoned. It’s an interesting place to wander around.
You can walk around inside, though are are not supposed to.
This is the bottom of a storage silo. The grain would pour out of here.
You can climb in from bottom. This is a view from the inside where the grain was stored. It makes for a remarkable echo chamber.
This is a poor quality video. And it sounds so much better in person.
It’s takes a few hours, but it’s a nice bike ride to Niagara Falls from where I live.
Me and my youngest, looking for driftwood along the Niagara River. Across the river is Canada.
Short Poems #3
Autumn Sublime Apples Are nutritious and Deciduous. Today I walk all day along the railroad lines. Occasionally I stop to throw rocks at utility poles. Mostly I miss. I will do this again tomorrow. Notes #4 In this ninja sky An insomnia of love Is absolutely possible. The Whirlwind in Your Heart Make use of what you peruse. Aim was made to be wrestled. If not For the whirlwind in your heart The sky would not be round. The Poem A single note And prose-proof. Serious and Not Serious Blockheads of poetry, Concrete hearts Enamored of Birdbaths and barbwire. Look! An oboe jumping from a plane Imitating an asteroid. Unzip Space Darkness doesn’t come from anywhere. It never did and it never will.
The Wayward
Park bench, the library, a light lunch, and coffee,
Of each lay step amounting
Somehow to the heart’s brimming light,
The blue sky, suddenly thinking, “equipped with in each of us that part of us
That turns with the universe,” the afternoon is warm for late
Summer, the library was empty, I may have even
Said this out loud, “on the way home, I walked
To the river, and I stood
There till I couldn’t tell either from another,”
The trees are beginning to lose their leaves,
It’s 225 million years to make it around the galaxy,
I wrote, “Dusk like shadows in magic clothes,”
At some point during my supper,
In a letter and put it in a tree for the birds to look at,
I laid down and waited to feel the continental drift,
To hear the crickets at night in the garden through the kitchen
Window, and as quietly as the ant
Walks, the moon crosses the sky.
Short Poems
Dusk
The world is dusk and soiled collar, it is in the turn of a leaf.
The world is anxious, and who knows if the stars believe in ghosts?
I walk along the railroad tracks, the scrub, the flowers, across the scribbled trestles over city roads.
Astronauts and apple blossoms share the same haircut. Yellow birds sing.
The Graffiti at the Rail Yard
Arcade orange and gusto blue,
Even if the letters are indecipherable
Like a haiku in a smoke-filled room,
A cereal box of summer sky.
DIY
A simple record. Just guitar.
While standing in a pile of leaves.
Existential Crisis at Six Years Old
Like a box
All alone
Of crayons.
Reflection
The moon, white and moonlike, unearths a quiet evening.
A New Shadow on the Chess Board
The stars parody distance,
Says the universe.
Ice cream,
Says the philosopher.
The cat on the windowsill is aware of it too,
Says the author.
Note #2
How the poet, on a walk, leans into the rain, like a unicyclist in zero gravity.
Throughout The Day
A strange moon surfaces,
Braces itself on wooden beams, on trestles of late afternoon bird-song,
Nest of graffiti branches, twigs of quantum fluctuations.
Along the railroad tracks, the summer flowers in their uncountable realness, stemmed and leafed,
Stubborn as celestial bodies, all neck and eyelash.
The world is magnificent and real
In all its handsome revolution, allotted in its terrifying vastness,
Plucked by chance verse, the seasons wobble, the sunlight on garbage day is bright and clear.
A strange translation in the mirror, but I don’t mind, consistency leaves me uneasy.
Between your tattoos and your poems, rustle the late August leaves,
Chime the endless being and becoming,
The last train, the missed bus, the walk home in the rain, solitary, and yet as the rain lifts,
The strides lift, like bloomed flowers in broken pots.
The first note, the second note, the third note, I guess it will be a song, a scaling of fences,
A scribbling of verses, of feral melodies on forgotten walls,
Of throwing wild seeds in the unkempt lots.
You are up early, such light mingles with the skin, lifts the self into a sheer beautiful panic.
Such thoughts jingle at the periphery in lasting meandering akin to a cosmic drifting,
Swallowing mouthfuls of summer afternoons,
Tracing the edge of the moon with finger and one eye closed.
naïve haircuts 