“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.
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
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.
I need to fool you,
A bikini of sand washed ashore on a tongue of stars, betting against height on a swing set of sky,
This is no different though it looks the same,
I know I know, it’s not the same,
Someday I’ll shake hands with butterflies like sideburns on the dark side of the sun
The liar said
He invented the sky.
I believed him.
He raised the pillars of time and space.
Again I believed.
In return a thief gave me his apple trees.
The blood was dry on the moon.
Clouds filled the sky,
Torches for shampoo.
Till the soul said, these shoes are too tight.
That’s why shadows are important,
They tend to adhere to you,
So you are not what you are not.
all the great hats
eat black stars
all the poetic scarves
drown in bathtubs
attempting to establish
the joy in tears
all the great leaps
are leapt in silence
so don’t bedraggle your noggin
being belated about it
there is no difference
because nothing’s the same
to my friend to whom i love
i haven’t asked your name
excuse us both we are drunk
we have outlasted the revelry
of the others
how strange the morning is before it arrives
thank god i bought $punctuation$
to make cents
of what i write. i soled the
souls of old shoes
for midnight daisies
what will you
think of me, stranded in joy, wearing
only the twilight, i’ve made friends with
sparrows and seagulls, train tracks, the
abandoned streets of a tired city, what would
you know of something this obscure and
of the bitter turns of happiness? sunlight through
the window moves from the top of my bed
to the foot of my bed, so go my afternoons. what
will you think of the shapes of my ink? the books
i haven’t read?
i will surrender nothing
don’t bother to prod
this heart is slowly drowning in a pool of stars
(t)here’s on(ly o ne per
Sun whogot a way wi(th) thIS sty
Le of POETRY that was eecummings
cUZ hE tolddds uch st.