Of the couch.
I spent all morning
A trilogy of daises,
In my ears.
Dusk is a thing
Like a fiction,
More reel than painted lines.
The cat sleeps
Like ordered food,
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.
In the rain.
Though I don’t
You ask of me the words
Which you demand be left unsaid.
A trampoline being trampled.
A yawning angel.
A carpool of nudists
In a traffic jam.
For an imaginary
Ghosts are ambidextrous.
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
Dandelions are real estate geniuses
The quick hands of the moon
Are five-dimensional flowers
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.
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.
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.
Rounds out the void.
All margin and crater.
The sunlight baffles
In throwaway yellows.
Adding infinities and
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.
The moon grows antlers and stops wearing clothes.
All gives way to the vast x of space and time.
The cost, a penniless bird invisible in the veins,
Nudges for wingspan, like standing close to a passing train.
The cities of the Midwest are wild with the loneliness of the cosmos.
A penciled in whereabouts for a heart.
Synapses like the appetite of electric shoelaces…dizzy and untied.
The heart leaps grave canyons neighing stars. Only the ridiculous will survive.
Okay lost. Okay peanut butter and dusk sandwiches. Okay angels stole my socks.
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.