Poet’s Style

A lawn chair
On the forearm,
On the shoulder the
Of river birds,
Melody for a toy piano
Near the ankle.
The attire is simple and cut
To fit,
No shoes
But the idea of shoes.
No breath but air.
The real is put aside
Like a bell on the ground,
Like a trampoline at night,
Sleeves pulled up at the moon,
Distance for a logo.
Hunger like a table crowded with empty bowls.
Metaphysics II:
The cosmos on the lips,
I breath in theology through nostrils,
Pull its lint out of my belly button.
In conclusion:
The idea was to
Fly a kite, after hitching a ride,
To somewhere, somewhere, somewhere,
Sticking around long enough to see
Dusk pushing a shopping cart downhill.
it’s getting late              the science fiction of apple blossoms         
--------------------   x    -------------------------------------------------     =   
     tree tops                               cursive shoes
How the volume of time
Specializes in words
Out of our reach.

What is Form but Prompting You to Turn the Page?

I know that you are tired of hearing me talk. And you say, I am tired of hearing you talk. I nod and say, the table leans a little. But that’s it.

Poems should lean a little. And cats should cry at the door to come in. Saturn whistles like a dump truck. A poet puts up graffiti in a city less tangible than the threadbare guts of being alive . Our fingers fidget like a can opener in a cloud.

Please don’t take this poem seriously, almost every letter is out of place, it’s a miracle it’s legible, and vastly improbable any of it is true.

Anyway, it’s a love poem

At night, there is a man whistling for his dog. Not even the crickets reply. Which is terrifying.

I open the window and look out. I too don’t hear the man.

A Little Resolution

Simple like an asteroid,

Arrogant like a few pillows,

Stamps like approval,

Not a funny poem,

Serious eyebrow poem,

Unbuttoned shirt poem,

A poem wearing floods and, in a sweater,

Vagrant with the fingerprints of an ill-played tuba,

Simple like how a carrot looks in the fourth dimension,

Simple poem about sidewalk cracks,

And if not for my complex feet: in the fifth dimension flowers are made of string theory,

I just want to write poems of unwanted words,

The empty bowl that only knows the echoes,

Is there anywhere for the universe to pull over, to park, to fall in love?

I’ll write poems too, small ones, by an open window, the moon like a dog licking a plate,

What’s to be whittled, and what dust, from what moon, did rake the sun?

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.