Crooked
More or less
Is everything.
Look out the window.
How beautiful.
The first frost
In last year’s potholes.
writing
What is It?
Should it have feathers and gain
Alongside a dogged
Sunrise, should it holler out, grate
The beloved subtleties of first light,
Should it go to how dusk
Leans in with a graffiti shoulder,
Purposely, as if rattled
By poetic symptoms?
Alone, and in the fields, stands attention,
For a moment, a home of such wonder, it is frightening.
The Savage Good-Looking Stars
The strain all afternoon whipping up ghosts, concerning itself,
As I am walking, if I will go on just because
I’ve yet to go this way.
The night sky prefers Euclidean simplicity,
Trestles of endless rust-colored dusk, and the savage good looking stars.
As for beginnings, as for setting out, what is there to speak of?
That frost knows more about fractals then I do,
Echoes are nests for sound?
I think we are all philosophers, and poor ones at that.
I think we are all arm wrestlers and tobogganists and of the future.
Always the strain late into the afternoon, as the moon wiggles out of itself, and is the first to
Thrust its hands into the sea.
That Feeling
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.
Dandelions
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.
Not Exactly Science Fiction
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.
As Is So Often
Pinched
By an ecstatic height
Leaving legroom
For the sublimity
Of casting off
The Scribbled Myths
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.
Never Sure
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?
Unequal Asides
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?
naïve haircuts 