The sun In crayon In the sky Like a flat tire Of dragonflies. Nowhere left to stand on the moon, Shout all the stick figures Stationed there. Preposterous Its proposed Paradigms, Like thunder in the nose, Or a turn of the corner That gets caught in the throat And never goes away. The hallucinated apples Fall back into the trees To be planted by pirates. The house sits Croaked of window, Horizons for a mouth, Science fiction doves atop robot chimneys With eyes like praying monks. The pollen of geometry everywhere. And there is nothing else to Eat, only the flowers born from volcanoes.
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.
On such a shore, under a steel sun, We confessed Antimatter poems. If only to know, What number is in last place? There is a visage And there are antimatter poems. Raised in nests, On the green wings of a fervent dusk, Raised on how the wind Narrows in on The plume of road Irrevocably. This currency is unable to attend a bank, though it stands by the river, and pays for everything.
Late summer, Soon the sun turns Pensive like an elbow, As faraway As a Diplodocus. And yet, What persistence Walks as open As perchance? I sweep for miles These unlikely roads.
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.
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.
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.
And this philosophy, A slang Of light through the pane, A metaphysical slip Of the noon. The Void Approximately where, Is a belly flop Holding a broken guitar. It won’t stay long. It did not evolve to stay long.
The undetermined Self Is divine vagrancy ~ We had it all wrong, It’s not one counting up to infinity, It’s infinity counting up to one.
What is The policy concerning time travel in this poem? Who knows? Sneezing is no easy matter, Neither are the stars. The wrest is summer rain From summer rain. ~ All this Light, Yet it was At first Darkness, No hands On the wheel, Yielding The Blueprints. ~ Sometimes the ephemeral Almost poses, The dream rattles its antlers, At the curb A puzzled moon In the rainwater.