A trampoline being trampled.
A yawning angel.
A carpool of nudists
In a traffic jam.
The plans
For an imaginary
Tiger.
Ghosts are ambidextrous.
How absence
Leans
But who can tell.
Childhood, for instance.
It’s ramshackle centeredness,
And hostility to interpretation.
The wind eases out of its typeface.
Henceforward, imaginary birds
Branch on solitary meanderings.
Somehow it matters
The picturesque.
Dandelions are real estate geniuses
The quick hands of the moon
Are five-dimensional flowers
Contractually asymmetrical
Yet poem next door cute
The rain sounds out the road, into the windy streets,
The cosmos of walking.
That’s why there are stars,
Over and over, love is something else.
The last we will hear of each other are the decibels
Of the sun.
Till then,
Life is the square of moon over tree,
A squint, a DIY cassette,
A messy aim, a stupefied grin, and perfection.
*An older poem I felt needed some tweaking and another look.
The First Two Couplets of the Year-
Gather blankets and circuity
There is no way home.
A well shod vagabondism
Is unable to take your call.
~
Wardrobe-
Chaos socks.
Indefinite buttons.
Like some underlying
Notion of transcendence.
~
Always with Me-
A slight solitude.
An ephemeral knock knock joke.
Distance is simple.
It smells feral and wears the sky on its head.
The moon is a subsidiary
Of poetic cant.
Blank
Rounds out the void.
Radiation alibis
All margin and crater.
The sunlight baffles
In throwaway yellows.
Adding infinities and
Vanishing returns.
Spurious like symmetry
Under a full moon.
In a new light
Loitering in June.
Music box eyeliner
An old garage door for a tee shirt.
It is like the cosmos
At the end of a violin.
~
It’s funny this way, the allotted time
Surfaces, like a movie ticket, years later,
In someone else’s coat.
Simple duets of meaning and unmeaning. Buries us in stars.
The unnerving unbeginning of time. Only to tremble with belief in these lines.
To root for being… and always propelled by becoming.
In a city field, the summer all around me, I begin to recognize
Invisible minuets of insects, as I stand looking down the rail lines.
I send interstellar messages via the paper transistors of an origami radio.
Like the specter of tattoos
On the necks of ghosts,
Or the stars that blink telepathy along the curve
Of forever,
All is heeded on this walk,
Here and nowhere and everywhere,
The stars send out thoughts
Of blue birds on red branches or the first snow that
Kindles a city night,
In such poetic nonsense
Numbers give up their quantities,
This golden approach of mishaps.
The philosophy of horizons,
Specifically, the chapters on distance,
Is the zoology of time.
~
The degree of these walks
Like cloud-work in the falling leaves.
Along the seams of the city, taking to the edges,
In that loosely held tone
Of a meandered afternoon.
~
You can accompany
All the volume of space and time,
Always, wherever you go,
Because it has stripes
Like a tiger.
Most of the universe is invisible
And sufficiently implausible.
Which makes it all the more real.
A handprint in a cave,
A neutron star,
A scar from a fistfight
When you were a kid.
Even now, in November,
Half of the leaves are gone
And it is raining.
To each fathom of being migrates
A becoming, till readiness shores,
Structure bursts without burning,
Now wobbly and starry
With outstretched letting go
Into the evening trees, and of this dusk
Torches and butterflies.
~
Have you found
How it will be measured
By raindrops in spring trees?
That there is no volume
Other than space and time?
Do you ask what can be made of the heart
That is simple and brave?
The dimensions of the universe
That do not know fear or love?
naïve haircuts 