Curvature
Butterfly wings
And gravity wells.
Symbolism
Before there were stars, before luggage,
Before there were poems. Poetry whistles π.
Lunch
The same bread and poem sandwich.
Wager
On chance and beauty, rooftop alliterations, naïve symphonies,
The words that thread the here and there,
To gambol, dangling like a comet over a telekinetic city,
On what the poem is to wear and how to seed its fusion, its gravity,
To travail profound enthusiasm over the city fields in moon-red footsteps.
Up To My Neck in Stars
It's wonderful
How it fidgets
An anticipation especially in the feet
That the heart can't fail
An anticipation especially in the feet
That the heart is full
And ready for more
Old grain mills, now abandoned. It’s an interesting place to wander around.
You can walk around inside, though are are not supposed to.
This is the bottom of a storage silo. The grain would pour out of here.
You can climb in from bottom. This is a view from the inside where the grain was stored. It makes for a remarkable echo chamber.
This is a poor quality video. And it sounds so much better in person.
It’s takes a few hours, but it’s a nice bike ride to Niagara Falls from where I live.
Me and my youngest, looking for driftwood along the Niagara River. Across the river is Canada.
Autumn Sublime
Apples
Are nutritious and
Deciduous.
Today
I walk all day along the railroad lines.
Occasionally I stop to throw rocks at utility poles. Mostly
I miss. I will do this again tomorrow.
Notes #4
In this ninja sky
An insomnia of love
Is absolutely possible.
The Whirlwind in Your Heart
Make use of what you peruse.
Aim was made to be wrestled.
If not
For the whirlwind in your heart
The sky would not be round.
The Poem
A single note
And prose-proof.
Serious and Not Serious
Blockheads of poetry,
Concrete hearts
Enamored of
Birdbaths and barbwire.
Look!
An oboe jumping from a plane
Imitating an asteroid.
Unzip Space
Darkness doesn’t come from anywhere.
It never did and it never will.
To scribble out this uncanny dictation,
Of futuristic leanings while footing graffiti high-wires,
A steady diet of clouds and dusk ribbons,
The poesy of winged chance presses for uncertainty,
Late summer asters for a steering wheel,
While standing on the handlebars of rocket ships,
Err on the side of poetry,
Like a full-grown beard on a butterfly,
A pittance of infinity to push off from,
Into the rummage of beauty and farewells,
Swung into a metaphysical orbit
Of awe inducing perspective,
The weight of everything coexists
With everything.
The self is cosmically real,
And certainly, more fictitious than thunder disappearing
Between the fingertips of the moon,
A grave and magnificent contest drawn in the dust of stars.
Park bench, the library, a light lunch, and coffee,
Of each lay step amounting
Somehow to the heart’s brimming light,
The blue sky, suddenly thinking, “equipped with in each of us that part of us
That turns with the universe,” the afternoon is warm for late
Summer, the library was empty, I may have even
Said this out loud, “on the way home, I walked
To the river, and I stood
There till I couldn’t tell either from another,”
The trees are beginning to lose their leaves,
It’s 225 million years to make it around the galaxy,
I wrote, “Dusk like shadows in magic clothes,”
At some point during my supper,
In a letter and put it in a tree for the birds to look at,
I laid down and waited to feel the continental drift,
To hear the crickets at night in the garden through the kitchen
Window, and as quietly as the ant
Walks, the moon crosses the sky.
A Wooden Moon
A trumpet in a time travel movie
Of humans with tigers for brains.
Snippet
Late summer is a constellation, all stars and goldenrod,
A sonorous field, of insects and the nearby highway.
The first red in the leaves. Rocket-blue sky.
The Void
Plainly, in matchstick ash,
On the asphalt.
At minimum,
What particles are in play
In the dark.
Of Ethereal Biceps
It’s spring
And the moon is the wick
And I have only matches
For wings.
Observation
The daft insect
On the pane
Like the photocopy of a verse.
Notes #3
I spent all morning
With
A trilogy of daises,
The
Galaxy
Between my ears.
I spent the afternoon
Feeding poetry
To pigeons.
And stars, depending on mass,
May end up as holes
In the ground of the universe.
Distance is one of poetry’s geometries.
naïve haircuts 