The Intervention of Fiction

I was buying three paintings a day

I was sponsoring chalk drawings

Walking alongside poems on junkyard walls of

Old school corrugated steel “Do you know

The album Zen Arcade, by Husker Du?”

“Out of Step, by Minor


I went to thrift stores to city fields church sales

Just to find paintings I ate blue collar pizza

As the crows argued about me wanted to know

My business but I didn’t have any

Just the playing cards

Of light of deity of logic of endless

Of dark of sun bursts of binary stars of crows

In the carless trees

Be certain

To appertain

The havoc and the intention

The intervention of fiction

As Steve Zissou said,

“Nobody knows what’s going to happen. And then we film it. That’s the whole concept.”

Snippets of Gas Giants on Their Sleeves

At first, it was not silence. Silence compared to what?

It was a string of stones. Older than the sun.

The antics of moving water. H₂O is susceptible to gravity. Aren’t we all?

At first, the eyes of god were darkness. Darkness compared to what?

Walk with me. The insects have snippets of gas giants on their sleeves.

A feral afternoon lost in the hills. Or across from you in the city lot. Looking back at you.

A feeling bereft of soles. And feet like antlers of light. As the angels neigh.

Home Schooling


The philosophy of horizons,
Specifically, the chapters on distance,

Is the zoology of time.


The Minotaur
Are obstacles

In dreams. Like folded
Paper you have to unfolded.

Except that you are terrified.
And you haven’t learned

It’s pointless to retreat,
Even more so to be eaten.


You can accompany
All the volume of spacetime

Always, where ever you go

Because it has stripes
Like a tiger.


The shoes of the sea have stars up to their knees.

A Quantum and Rye Sandwich

Even if, and this is
Stretching it, besides,
Where are wild
Flowers, some as tall
As parking meters?

Sunlight, lost
In the blinds, even so,
Why are all my
Poems so random?

Just as well,
The moon is famished,
Just look at me, it says,
I am dust and stone!

You don’t say? As for me,
A quantum and rye sandwich
In glasses.

A flaneur with the zeal
Of an amateur zine.

You Won’t Believe Me

Please remember
How November
Left a shadow
In my cereal bowl.

How rage is the shading
On the stars.
So they can exist in 3D.

I know you won’t believe me.

How humor tripped over
Its own scorched soul
ing the desert
For wisdom.

The sky
Numbered in crayon,
The birds
Penciled in,

Fetches solitude.

Brown Field Celestial

In a city field
A star
Made of metal
About two frisbees long
Stuck in the ground.

What an interesting industrial

He lifted it up.
It took some effort
But he managed to free it from the earth.

Turns out the star
Was hallow.

In the ground the star shape.
Held in the air the hallow star.

He called the relationship
Of the two

The birth of stars.