When you were a kid and jumped off a garage roof.
Like thunder without handlebars.
Or the frayed seams of a school yard baseball.
In the uncertain terms of kite strings.
And a gravel road for theology.
How quiet quits the spindle, peels back the print.
Undone by becoming. Traversed by being.
Tipped over. In the end.
Into something so subtlety, and invisibly, forever.
A pear fluctuates,
Touches static.
Yet adds too much
To an empty bowl.
The moon journeys
From sale rack to sale
Rack. A liability. A ghost
Of inaccessible corners.
Regardless, you have eyes
Pretty as a school bus.
And pupils à la kitchen sink.
As for the trampoline stars,
Uncanny of step,
Discarded of stair,
They cheer,
In praise of spilled paint!
Blessed of chaos,
On what’s left of the
Old city brick wall.
Under a steel sun,
We confessed
Antimatter poems.
If only to know
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.
Pinched
By an ecstatic height
Leaving legroom
For the sublimity
Of casting off
Lifted from the sun, the chariot,
As if drawn in pencil,
Revved up, but in the end
Misspelled like the rest of us,
Graffiti ribbons obliged
On the abandoned brick,
The spare parts of a spring rain,
Like the eyes of an android dove
Butterflied into the cosmos.
Patterns leak chaos
As they should.
A sweaty t-shirt is
More religious
Than a pew.
Haha!
A longing, distance-bit, piled
On the heart,
Disappearing
Between the fingertips of the moon,
Like the paint around the hand on a cave wall.
What feet, what stride
Will fit this excess of light?
The universe is a plane
Of four unequal asides
First Aside
The bedraggled charm of
Cut off shorts
And a lead pencil.
Second Aside
The shadows of poems
Are not the same as the shadows
Of poetry.
Say no to verse.
Third Aside
It will have to wait.
The waiting is the realism.
Fourth Aside
Very few clouds. Yet who can point at silence sufficiently,
Beautifully, like bells in the fifth dimension?
Vandalism a priori.
Suddenly, beauty
Predicts the future.
It simply was true.
How random
Could dance.
Abstract scarf
Spooling the neck
Like the void
Curfewed by a nightingale
A dark peppermint splash
Beauty, eyes, glance, thought
Pummeled by a straight edge
Refusing to be intelligent
A non-negotiable beauty
Somethings are meant to be said
In such a way
~
Like the light,
The last of it, in a room otherwise
Devoid of light
And darkness,
Cheery like a young cheek, yearned
for the door to be closed
I couldn’t say whether the anonymous
Kite, loose in the storm, had a name.
And is deserving of one now.
And so, like a child
I turned out the light
With a wish.
~
The field, the wildflowers,
Sniffed out the alone of late summer sun
With a solemn oath.
~
The world is disappearing. Accordingly, the shadows pay less to get into the fair. I have seen the sidewalk cracks, the cracks in the wind, the wind in the void, the cracks in the cracks.
And the ghosts, they too had names, and this would be our poetry.
naïve haircuts 