Opus

Cello moon,
For broken piano.

If every raincoat was a time machine,

Apparitions of
Deja-vu.

Look!

An oboe jumping from a plane

Imitating an asteroid.

~

Explain this to me,
Why daisies have tusks
For a heart, and are ruthless
And yellow.

How the ground is green with loneliness,

Spilling over
With the joy of breathing its own song.

Explain the spring in footsteps,

How in the distance of your heart
You feel your heart
Take pause of the earth.

I hear the sidewalks rustle
In the still trees.

Living tigers for neckties. Under a penniless sky worth its weight in bold.

I’ve Know You for Hours, I’ve Never Heard You Say that Before

A Poem-

Like a road in a dream.

Almost no gas left, and the universe is old.

Above the seasick brick houses

The moon bends without making a sound.

Everywhere the universe begins.

~

Autumn-

Simple like a comb
Or some bricks in the bathtub.

~

Of Spring (now faraway)-

I miss

Your sense
Of gravity.

~

Unfinished-

To personify subtle
Peel off the paint,

Find work that doesn’t pay,
Give your cash to beakers,

Light a torch,
Steal pollen from a bee.

Whatever you do
Don’t tell the truth.

There are no reasons,
But here are mine anyway.

If it should be the guts
Of October stars,
The not yet healed…

~

Just Saying-

A plasma giant 93 million miles from here

In some billions of years will engulf us

On its way to later phases of its life.

~

Last Lines-

Tonight’s sky is as subtle as changing a tire.

We are born of storms, not calm. And are as handsome as a thrown stone.

Conspiracies lack negative capability.

How to explain there is no end. And there never was a beginning.

Wish Me Luck

To perturb the air
The moon
In gallant horseplay
Seems to be as still as a chimney.
Though it has no use for ladders.

The kites on Mars
Are as blue as the sea.

But don’t let depression garble you yet.
There is the melancholy of the heart
To broach this night of shoulders 
And elbows.

The poem can be
Black as a match head,
Vigilante as applesauce,

A wink in the thunder,
A thud on the daisies,

An illumination
Flipped
On its side
Kicking at balloons,

Like an aria
Penniless in the cinema, 

Feral in the garage chewing on the rake. 

Wish me luck.

*This is an older poem, I changed some of the lines and a new title.

August by the Window

Of August 
By the window,
The wind
Fills the room with
The smell of rain.

And the clever words of the poets
Throw knives at the wall.

And the taxi cabs are now fairy tales
Washed ashore by UFOs. 

Frivolous fails when 
It is nothing at all,

So, give us something, 
If only a broken August, when it
Speaks at all. Darkness up 

On its hind legs welcomes you home.

Of uncertain hands
That hold the earth,
Fold dreams into space.

In the end, 
The poet works in lines,
Not in what they mean. 

So it Seams

The tightrope artist is string theory.

It could go either way, 

That’s what makes it a fact.

~

Even metaphysics gets shin splints. 

But infinity can never touch its toes.

~

In bed, I move the 
Curtain with my foot.

The cat is on the porch roof, through
A tear in the screen. 

Suddenly reality 
Surpasses my sense
Of being.

Blood samples were taken.
The sun drank something of the moon. 

~

And though it seams, 

It blisters with gold.

Walking: Industrial Malaise: Yet the Cosmos is Everywhere

In the ankles 
Of lonely walks, in the upward held collar of coat,
In the unpressed trousers
Of earth and wind, in the vacuum of chance, in the
Defeated, the weary, the plagiarized origami of angels,

~

It started small:
The hallucination of gas giants,
The dexterous poetry of the late twenty-fourth century,
The refusal to retreat into the priority of self. 

Tangled up with time, void ready,
Alive to the heather of electromagnetic fuzz.

~

The city curls in on itself
And you with it.

Going forward, 
There will be lines and metaphors,

But no words.

~

Like a stack of bricks
A few years into
Laying on the ground,

Like the waffle maker
You hate to clean,

Speech is playing the odds.