Some Dirt in the Eye

a robot of wings, a skateboard ramp of dusk, somehow dirt in eye, a blister ephemeral, a doorway that lacks a sense of direction,

a robot of twigs, a drinking fountain that somewhere in the chapters on sleepless nights, are the outlines of poems, bankrupt in paradise,

robot of final stanza, cordless, lopsided of dreams, in the shoes of long summer walks, a lost summery/summary by the author, a vision of information and how it travels,

a simple word, and a second simple word, and so on, till it is finally simple enough,

according to legend, all such declarations, on the surface of rain puddles, the dandelion grows on an allowance of curb, in the rain…with a brick in one hand

When We are Gone

How the broken plates resembled
The moon. This was no accident.

June asked, may I march
In April puddles before
I am August? If this banter
Is likeable, neither are you.

The sky clear of its misgivings.
The heart shirtless of its understandings.

A vibe of sunshine
Goes without shear.

Who will collect the saw
Dust from the changing gods
When we are gone?

(Another old poem)

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.