Current Events

The world is brittle, and incapable of turning inside out.
The world is anxious, and who knows if the stars believe in ghosts?
The world is dusk, soiled collars, it is in the turn of a leaf.
I write about robots, and railroad tracks, flowers, a list of poems 
so scrambled and disjointed and unlikely to be anything 
but scrambled and disjointed.
I write that astronauts and apple blossoms have the same haircuts,
even as the little yellow bird in the evergreen sings like the 
diameter of the moon.
I write for habit’s sake, to fend off the April morning, to no avail
keeping a firm arm span from the late summer night. I tend to a 
fiery garden, and measure its wingspan.
I write the barriers are breached, the temples quacked, the first 
of the first snow breaks apart the air, and nibbles on bright darkness.
The world is strident, and misadventure. The approximation of untruth. 
And yet I write of poems, how they dig in the dirt and find
comets that have yet to hit the earth.
That God is a few lines of chalk on the cement, and everything else.  

Rain Water

A reflection
In the rain water.
The banter of something. In the
Sentiment of somewhere else.
This is true.
A reflection is the sentiment of somewhere else.
Pretending to be something near.
Gave me your hand.
So I can trace the serial numbers of your favorite poems.
The umbrella
Is a reflection in the rain.
Standing there with its hands on its head.
Let swim the daft fractals.
Tie tight the headbands of angels.
A reflection is 
A four handed polonaise
On a two-legged piano.
The fire from a star in a spring tree.
Who importune
With joy.

Always With Us

The rain sounds out the road, into the windy streets,
The cosmos of walking.

In the end we hear the decibels
Of the sun, without the roots
Of dust.

Till then,
I write chance.
Life is the square of tree and moon.

Life is a squint, a DIY cassette,

A messy aim, a stupefied grin, and perfection.

That’s why there are stars,
Though always with us,
Over and over love is something else.

Ghost is Me

I left immediately.
I didn’t dress.

I stepped out quietly,
A crayon like a violin,

An imposter of gravity.
The ghost

I left behind
I waited till now to name.

I painted lines in the street:

Love is
A bikini red sky in canvas

But the ghost,
The ghost is me

In the flip flops of the moon.

See to it your words are wingspan wrought.

And get us out of here.


The birds are
A bloody nose,

A bowl of
Crumpled paper
On fire,

Washed ashore
Having dreamed of whales.

A slight asteroid belt
For a fever
Will last a few days.

As the years go by
On some nights
You can see
A subtle scaffolding around the sun.

To catch a

You’ll need duct tape,
A tripwire, and
A mirror.

And like a dream, some of the words- I don’t know which ones.

The Intervention of Fiction

I was buying three paintings a day

I was sponsoring chalk drawings

Walking alongside poems on junkyard walls of

Old school corrugated steel “Do you know

The album Zen Arcade, by Husker Du?”

“Out of Step, by Minor


I went to thrift stores to city fields church sales

Just to find paintings I ate blue collar pizza

As the crows argued about me wanted to know

My business but I didn’t have any

Just the playing cards

Of light of deity of logic of endless

Of dark of sun bursts of binary stars of crows

In the carless trees

Be certain

To appertain

The havoc and the intention

The intervention of fiction

As Steve Zissou said,

“Nobody knows what’s going to happen. And then we film it. That’s the whole concept.”

Snippets of Gas Giants on Their Sleeves

At first, it was not silence. Silence compared to what?

It was a string of stones. Older than the sun.

The antics of moving water. H₂O is susceptible to gravity. Aren’t we all?

At first, the eyes of god were darkness. Darkness compared to what?

Walk with me. The insects have snippets of gas giants on their sleeves.

A feral afternoon lost in the hills. Or across from you in the city lot. Looking back at you.

A feeling bereft of soles. And feet like antlers of light. As the angels neigh.