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,
Fathom-weary,
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
Solicit
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
Scrap.

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.

On Holiday

One must put one’s ear to a stone
To hear the axis of Jupiter,
Or a volleyball game in Canada.

Or be on holiday to string
Oh so elaborately
Lights around a black hole.

Even if black holes lack
The ability to look up
And acknowledge such a feat.

Bravo to every dandelion! I agree, it’s spring.

And there are holiday lights around black holes!

And so what if dandelions end up like gray haired stars
At night on the city lawn.

Are finished with what they have to say.

Bare Feet, Verses, Earth

Who drank the last

Of the halos? Deliberately made it rain?

Stole old purses from graffiti

Elbows?

Who lit fire to the last of the rocks?

Knowing very well that this storm

Is bare feet, verses, earth.

Like fireflies

Opening doors,

The spring wind

Counting knives.

I adhere to berry and branch,

Leaf, sunlight in the arteries,

Theater wire and the stars.

The Digital Pollen of an Abstract Afternoon

The way here is through particles of self and to the dust and the sea and that breath.

Distance and the sandwiches.

I forget all my head and I don’t like it where is the weather of himself to wear through the streets and along the train rails.

The broken brick lay in a pile a few yards from what’s left of the industrial structure: the flowers and the plants interceding.

On the rubble mound shoes probably me with them finding the space listening to the nearby fields no sound but in vibrations my self is the song space.