The rain. The dusk. The lone bassoonist. Sacked by a summer wind.
Brought home a sandwich of lost sidewalks. Out of a job, yet bookishly good looking.
If I was ever to the point, it was not in this poem.
If ever there was a point, it was not me that made it.
All that is left
Is chance,
Impossible
Solemn chance.
And love is
Your underwear on backwards. When it’s on at all.
My socks
Are damaged
Clouds,
Especially
The more
Ruined end
Of the couch.
~
I spent all morning
With
A trilogy of daises,
The
Galaxy
In my ears.
~
Dusk is a thing
Like a fiction,
More reel than painted lines.
~
The cat sleeps
Like ordered food,
The prettiest
Vandalism,
Unexplained
Quotation marks.
~
Final Will and Testament
A backflip, a bowl of apples, a solar flare,
A cape, a rectangle, a box
Of matches enjambed, a traditional dance,
The microns of data of a butterfly,
The moon over the garage.
The rattled poets swing
From jumbled words coarse with uneasy beauty.
Scanning vast unleashed dogged utterances.
Breathe is huge. Everything is true.
A strange exclamation. A brief current of eternity.
That is somehow forever
Like a soul.
That there is no soul
But there is forever.
That is enough of that. And poems for lunch.
This should be absurd and it’s not.
Calamity is a simple game. Mastered
By no one.
And if this ditty sings, biographies of musical chairs.
The void
Zeroes in
Like footwork
In the rain.
~
The moon
Stirs
My arms
To applause
Though I don’t
Know where
I’m going.
~
You ask of me the words
Which you demand be left unsaid.
~
Fair enough.
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.
naïve haircuts 