Poorly Written Novels

A dump truck in orbit. 

Will need to be resolved.

Uncertainty as a system allows
Pockets of possibility.   	 

Does not need to be resolved.

This must
Resemble a few lines
Of verse.

What else do we have?


Carrying my metaphysical
Shoes, over my enigmatic
Shoulders, happy as a guitar 

Everything matters: the trees,
The sky, this jalopy of a 

I chew up all my words. 

I am almost afraid
How beautiful it is. 


Going forward, 
There will be lines and metaphors
(in these poems),

But no words.

To write a poem is to regret.
If only I had the words to not have them.   


The universe is being chased 
By distance

On the Strings of Gravity (More Short Poems)

The Blight of Poetry-

Like a pulled tooth

Chapped lips and a hole in 
The sole

A tee shirt 
The reads Add Verse

Double crossing hexameters
(Whatever those are)

And me
Baffled hair
Writing it all down

For Walt- 

The sea
Is all of our names
Without being any of them.

My Favorite Novel-

On the chalk board
Two dimensional windmills

And Quixote 
With a barber’s bowl
For wings 

Film Critic-

Kung Fu Hustle
Is the true spiritual
Sequel of the Matrix 


Electromagnetic fields
To stand in. And then there’s mass. No to be 
Confused with weight. 

What was said
Spoke of beginnings, 

The cowlick birds
Holler on the strings of gravity. 

A Stone on a Pillow-

You establish it is 

By opening a window

By solving some math problems
In a notebook

Feeding the birds

By the look of the city roofs

And no matter how far you walk

Least Likely to Stick to a Plan (Short Poems)


The scrubbed stars
Took all day
Like a tub in an old room.


Now look, a shipwreck of lights 
Equal to the theater of the universe.


Battered, folded
Into paper planes  

Like the unlikely 
Waist of a green

That’s When I Reach for my Revolver Record-

I am looking for a verse.
I am standing by the sea, whistling a Saturday morning cartoon theme.
I gather a few juxtapositions. Wonder, awe, fear, dissolution, realignment.
I am starting a blog of the photos I collect of sidewalk cracks.    

Don’t Forget-

Along with immense size, 
How infinitesimal the universe is

Would make a haiku blush.

But Not You

What ghosts of what stars did we know?

If you could count all the acres and every plasma swirl of the sun, all the yellow gulls of its every beach,

What then?

Can we lose everything

To the untenable slopes of love?


I haven’t the soonest blue
Or the latest sonnet by Homer. 

Like a last place finish, the lone kite in the sky.
As the moon opens its suitcases.


I’d like to see this through, outlandishly so. I study the effects of gravity on my houseplant. 
I ride my bicycle over to say hello. The rain clouds interrupt, though it never rains. 


Latter at the drive-in neither of us 

Will recognize each other

Or the lengths we sought to not 

Fall in love. 


I specialize in putting words
Just out of reach. 

But not you. 

Cubist Roller Skates/Soundless Space


The velocity of a poem-asteroid 
Is elliptical alliterations.


Locals call the moon, Charlie Knuckles,
Who brought a fork and spoon into the desert. 

(Because of this I jumped into the ocean. 
And took my name from a turn in the road.) 


The dismal diameter
Bleak around

No matter how many megaphones
Without an atmosphere

The moon can't hear what it cannot say


Data is finite.


And yet, 

We crossed
The sea

And found the inaudible
Screams of the moon,

Buds on spring trees.


You were silent all though the movie.

Only once, I heard you say,

"The crimson sky over the city dump, the cosmonauts are a tree line."

You see the wire that holds the celestials, 

The magnetic ghosts in cubist roller skates.    

Somehow it’s All True

Birds loudly say their names
In spring
The assonance of making a living

Which side of the moon
Is homework

In spring 
Puddles have telekinetic reflections
And walk on their fingers

Furthermore, the séance of computation
Is poetry 

A lone piano
Tuned like a pinecone 


Down the road

Even the sun is dust, even arithmetic is dust

But the dust on this road such fictions 

Sweating with the undreamt dark dreaming

Queried with meanderings


At the rummage sale

I found a copy of Charles Reznikoff, Complete Poems 

And some trading cards of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure

I would never walk the city the same after reading Reznikoff

Hereafter always I would deal with the oddity of time travel with the greatest of ease

This is What I Know

Unknowing can be navigated. Ventured. Crossed. Consulted with.
I start writing poems. Not knowing what they will be.

The rubble of stars
In my boots.


How savage is the immediate.

You stand up to it. You hold your breath.

You even tuck in your shirt. 

But this too weird

Almost infinite

If you had the guts to ask.

The rubble of stars
Retina holding.

This is the bumble

In the be all of our magnificent lives, 

The sorrow and the silence of our 

Hearts when they are lightest.

The worst and everything more.

The crumpled sunlight

Passing for debris.

The rubble of stars
Ankle deep, spring aspiring.

Writer’s Block

If at first, you draft
A poem,

To start, you say:

A yellow couch
Listens to John Cage.

Next, leave it
With the paint cans
In the cellar.

In a year, or two,
Go looking for it.

Without reading it,
Turn it over,
Start something new,

You found me
In the birdbath,

The rainwater 
Is shirtless.

That will never do.
It’s best to be desperate:

The universe 
Was swallowed
By a few words.

Long shadows 
Go to great lengths
In doorways.

For the better part of a decade
Put it with the dry
Beans in the back of 
The cupboard: 

The night arrives first
A pink ribbon
Of steel,
A headache of honey and blood.

Just abruptly end and hope no one

Writing a poem
Is like finishing a knot, 

Or cutting a hole in a net
Before collecting butterflies.

A Knack for Lost Places

A bowl filled with letters or a bowl filled with numbers, which is less 


Frayed stars

Are in style

The universe for pockets.


I was looking forward to the time off. I wasn't going to write.
Or read. I would smoke a joint and watch Buckaroo Bonzai.


The light reflected by the earth is less organized. Then when it left
The sun. Same for the moon. The boiling pot is order.


Bureaucracy Paperwork We Stole-

The paperwork we found, we burned it, it was mostly poetry.

You said we should write down afterwards how we remember it. And the 
ghosts, they too had names. Remember them.


Send a SASE. Do not include an address.
Put it into a bottle. Fold it into a plane.
I know where to look for it. I have a knack
For lost places.